indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; | are both called by the collective name of but then it demands numbers, or something like numbers; whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves; and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such. Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so cautiously avoid the term Romance; a name with which we might otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good authority for all our characters, no less indeed than Doomsday-book, or the vast authentic book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or indeed rather from a looseness of the brain. But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason to apprehend that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much dishonour of another kind; I mean, to the characters of many good and valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of language to be indecent and abusive. And surely, if the opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others go. To prevent, therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of historians. The first is genius, without a rich vein of which no study, says Horace, can avail us. By genius, I would understand that power, or rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment; and they genius, as they are of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world. Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great errors, for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a creative faculty; which would indeed prove most romance writers to have the highest pretensions to it; whereas, by invention, is really meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment, for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now this last is the undisputed province of judgment; and yet some men of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of one and the same person. But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning, for nature can only furnish us with capacity, or, as I have chose to illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit them for use, must direct them in it; and lastly, must contribute, part at least, of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our order, were masters of all the learning of their times. Again, there is another sort of knowledge beyond the power of learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants, whose lives have becn entirely consumed in colleges and among books, for however exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true practical system can only be learned in the world. HUMAN GREATNESS. Indeed, the like happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the gardener must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr. Miller may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest strokes of a Shakspeare or a Johnson, of a Wycherley or an Otway, some touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,' can convey to him; so on the real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself takes his lines not from nature but from books! Such characters are only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor spirit of an original. Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is, with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called high life will not instruct him in low, nor, e converso, will his being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him describe at least that in which he hath been conversant; yet he will even here fall greatly short of perfection, for the follies of either rank do in reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter strikes with much stronger ideas of absurdity when contrasted with, and opposed to, the politeness which controls the former. Besides, to say the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other, of refinement, elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education. Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto 1 There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor and these two most justly celebrated actresses in this place; as they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at. | 66 249 given my historian avail him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be capable of feeling. "The author who will make me weep," says Horace, must first weep himself." In reality, no man can paint a distress well which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt but that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him, unless it should happen at any time, that, instead of laughing with me, he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will here put an end to it. HUMAN GREATNESS. [Thomas Blacklock, D.D., born at Annan, Dum. friesshire, 10th November, 1721; died at Edinburgh, sight from the effects of smallpox, he studied at the 7th July, 1791. Although when a child he lost his eyeEdinburgh University, and obtained high degrees in classics and divinity. He spent most of his life as a teacher in the northern capital, where he wrote: The Graham, a heroic poem; A Panegyric on Great Britain; and various hymns, songs, and translations.] 46 One night I dream'd, and dreams may oft prove true, Begone, gross lump," I cry'd in high disdain, THE GYPSY'S STORY. [George Borrow, born at East Dereham, Norfolk, 1803. Philologist and miscellaneous writer. Under the auspices of the British and Foreign Bible Society he has issued translations of portions of the Scriptures in several languages. He gave much attention to the gypsy language in England and Spain. His best known works are: The Bible in Spain; Wild Wales, its people, language, and scenery; Lavengro (from which quote); and The Romany Kye. The last two works represent his experiences amongst the gypsies, John Murray, publisher. He died in 1881.] we rest whom she was going to impeach; perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself; and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said, "It was my death was sought for; I know the man; and I'll be revenged." And then the Pokenees spoke to her and said, "Where can we find him?" and she said, "I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man." "Well," said I, "and what did the Pokenees do?" "Do, brother! sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and, in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Georgios, being much shaded by trees. So the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen; and the plastramengro waited behind the tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down; and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a It happened about six years ago, a few months after she [Mrs. Hearne, a gypsy] had quitted us-she had gone first amongst her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in . . . Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, "If she does, I am nashkado." Mrs. Hearne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said, "But I suppose you know what to do?" "I do not," said he. "Then hir mi devlis," said she, "you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion." Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition--she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble-she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt-drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let the fellow for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in . . . Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and "Ate of it," said I; "exactly like my case!" "Quite different," brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite, as you might have done, she put it before the pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary; just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through TRUE BEAUTY.. the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall big fellow, the very man he was in quest of; the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hak, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, 'You are my prisoner,' said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow." "I am entirely of your opinion," said I, "but what happened then?" Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon, seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping, by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down; but it would not do-the plastramengro held on like a bull-dog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two-the chal and the runner as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow Street engro and the Rommany chal." "I never heard of it till now." "All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two-all these engroes are strong fellows -and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people-he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro brother in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Beny 251 gant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher's handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt; 'It's of no use,' said he; 'you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you.' "And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?" said I. "I sat still on my horse, brother." "And why did you not help your comrade?" "I have fought in the ring, brother." "And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?" "You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t'other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal, the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone." TRUE BEAUTY. The diamond's and the ruby's blaze Now, Disputes the palm with Beauty's queen: Not Beauty's queen commands such praise, Devoid of virtue if she's seen. But the soft tear in Pity's eye Outshines the diamond's brightest beams; But the sweet blush of Modesty More beauteous than the ruby seems, Dr. JAMES FORDYCE (1720-1796). 252 THE BAVIAD. THE ENCHANTMENT. [William Gifford, born in Ashburton, Devon, April, 1757; died 31st December, 1826. He lost his parents when in his thirteenth year. He then obtained employment in a coasting vessel, and was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. His craving for knowledge obtained for him the substantial regard of Mr. Cookesley, a surgeon, who sent him to school and Exeter College, Oxford. In 1791 he produced The Baviad, a powerful satire upon the absurd Della Cruscan poetry then in vogue; and in 1795, The Mæviad, a satire chiefly upon the drama of that period. He edited the Quarterly Review from its commencement in 1809 till 1824. As the literature of the early part of this century is full of references to the Della Cruscan versifiers, we quote a brief extract from the satire which extinguished them.] LO, DELLA CRUSCA! In his closet pent, The BARD steps forth, in birth day splendour dressed, O wretched man! And dost thou toil to please, In an amusing letter. Lord Byron says of Gifford : "I always considered him as my literary father, and myself as his 'prodigal' son; and if I have allowed his 'fatted calf' to grow to an ox before he kills it on my return, it is only because I prefer beef to veal." 2 "GENIUS OR MUSE, whoe'er thou art, whose thrill Bee the commencement of the Wreath of Liberty, where Art forced at length to check the idiot roar, F. And is it nothing, then, to hear our name, P. Nay, it were everything, did THAT dispense THE ENCHANTMENT. I did but look and love a while, "Twas but for one half hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power. To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs, which do heat impart, Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart. O, would your pity give my heart THOMAS OTWAY. our great poet, with a dexterity peculiar to himself, has contrived to fill several quarto pages without a single idea. 3 At this late hour-I learned from Della Crusca's lamentations, that he is declined into the vale of years; that the women say to him, as they formerly said to Anacreon, Tigav u and that Love, about two years since, "tore his name from his bright page, |