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assortment of the court cards?the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a procession-the gay triumph-assuring scarlets-the contrasting deadlykilling sables-the 'hoary majesty of spades' Pam in all his glory!—

"All these might be dispensed with; and, with their naked names upon the drab paste-board, the game might go on very well, pictureless. But the beauty of cards would be extinguished for ever. Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they must degenerate into mere gambling. Imagine a dull deal-board, or drum-head, to spread them on, instead of that nice verdant carpet, (next to nature's,) fittest arena for those courtly combatants to play their gallant jousts and turneys in!-Exchange those delicately-turned ivory markers(work of Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol, or as profanely slighting their true application as the arrantest Ephesian journeyman that turned out those little shrines for the goddess) exchange them for little bits of leather (our ancestors' money) or chalk and a slate!"

The old lady, with a smile, confessed the soundness of my logic; and to her approbation of my arguments on her favourite topic that evening, I have always fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, made of the finest Sienna marble, which her maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him from Florence;-this, and a trifle of five hundred pounds, came to me at her death.

The former bequest (which I do not least value) I have kept with religious care; though she herself, to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essentially vulgar game, I have heard her say,-disputing with her uncle, who was very partial to it. She could never heartily bring her mouth to pronounce "go"—or "that's a go." She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber, (a five dollar stake,) because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the disgraceful tenure of declaring "two for his heels." There is something extremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman born.

Piquet she held the best game at cards for two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms-such as pique-repique-the capot-they savoured (she thought) of affectation. But games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared for. She loved the quadrate, or square. She would argue thus:-Cards are warfare; the ends are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a sport: when single adversaries encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it is too close a fight; with spectators, it is not much bettered. No looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere affair of

or for your play. Three are still worse; a mere naked war of every man against every man, as in cribbage, without league or alliance; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succession of heartless leagues, and not much more hearty infractions of them, as in tradrille. But in square games (she meant whist) all that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accomplished. There are the incentives of profit with honour, common to every species-though the latter can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in those other games, where the spectator is only feebly a participator. But the parties in whist are spectators and principals too. They are a theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an impertinence. Whist abhors neutrality, or interests beyond its sphere. You glory in some surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not because a cold—or even an interested-by-stander witnesses it, but because your partner sympathises in the contingency. You win for two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are mortified; which divides their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are better reconciled, than one to one in that close butchery. The hostile feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. War becomes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady was accustomed to defend her favourite pastime.

No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any game, where chance entered into the | composition, for nothing. Chance, she would argue -and here again, admire the subtlety of her conclusion!-chance is nothing, but where something else depends upon it. It is obvious, that cannot be glory. What rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size-ace a hundred times together by himself; or before spectators, where no stake was depending?—Make a lottery of a hundred thousand tickets with but one fortunate number-and what possible principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that number as many times successively, without a prize?—therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in backgammon, where it was not played for money. She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who were taken with a lucky hit under such circumstances. Games of pure skill were as little to her fancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system of overreaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one man's wit,-his memory, or combination-faculty rather-against another's; like a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless and profitless. She could not conceive a game wanting the spritely infusion of chance,-the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui. Those wellcut similitudes of Castles, and Knights, the imag

posite (Silence her sacred self) is multiplied and of the insolent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent rendered more intense by numbers, and by sym- to molest you—for ye sat betwixt the fires of two pathy. She too hath her deeps, that call unto persecutions, the outcast and offscouring of church deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more and and presbytery.-I have seen the reeling sealess; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the ruffian, who had wandered into your receptacle, great obscurity of midnight.

with the avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, There are wounds, which an imperfect solitude from the very spirit of the place receive in a mocannot heal. By imperfect I mean that which a ment a new heart, and presently sit among ye as a man enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that lamb amidst lambs. And I remembered Penn bewhich he can sometimes attain in crowds, but no- fore his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where where so absolutely as in a Quaker's Meeting. he was lifted up in spirit, as he tells us, and “the Those first hermits did certainly understand this judge and the jury became as dead men under principle, when they retired into Egyptian soli- his feet.” tudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy one an- Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I other's want of conversation. The Carthusian is would recommend to you, above all church narrabound to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of in- tives, to read Sewel's History of the Quakers. It communicativeness. In secular occasions, what is in folio, and is the abstract of the journals of 80 pleasant as to be reading a book through a long Fox, and the primitive Friends. It is far more winter evening, with a friend sitting by-say, a edifying and affecting than any thing you will wife-he, or she, too, (if that be probable,) read- read of Wesley and his colleagues. Here is nothing another, without interruption, or oral commu- ing to stagger you, nothing to make you misnication ?--can there be no sympathy without the trust, no suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the gabble of words ?-away with this inhuman, shy, worldly or ambitious spirit. You will here read single, shade-and-cavern haunting solitariness. the true story of that much injured, ridiculed man Give me, Master Zimmerman, a sympathetic soli- (who perhaps hath been a by-word in your mouth) tude.

-James Naylor: what dreadful sufferings, with To pace alone in the cloisters, or side-aisles of what patience he endured, even to the boring some cathedral, time-stricken:

through of his tongue with red-hot irons without “Or under hanging mountains,

a murmur; and with what strength of mind, when Or by the fall of fountains :"

the delusion he had fallen into, which they stig. is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which

matised for blasphemy, had given way to clearer those enjoy, who come together for the purposes

thoughts, he could renounce his error, in a strain of more complete, abstracted solitude. This is of the beautifulest humility, yet keep his first the loneliness “to be felt.” The Abbey Church grounds, and be a Quaker still !—so different from of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit- the practice of your common converts from enthusisoothing, as the naked walls and benches of a asm, who, when they apostatize, apostatize all, and Quaker's Meeting. Here are no tombs, no in

think they can never get far enough from the sa scriptions,

ciety of their former errors, even to the renuncia- sands, ignoble things

tion of some saving truths, with which they had Dropt from the ruined sides of kings~" been mingled, not implicated. but here is something, which throws Antiquity and love the early Quakers.

Get the writings of John Woolman by heart; herself into the fore-ground—SILENCE-eldest of

How far the followers of these good men in our things-language of old Night-primitive Discourser—to which the insolent decays of moul-days have kept to the primitive spirit, or in what dering grandeur have but arrived by a violent, the Judge of Spirits can alone determine. I have

proportion they have substituted formality for it, and, as we may say, unnatural progression.

seen faces in their assemblies, upon which the “How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, dove sat visibly brooding. Others again I have Looking tranquillity!"

watchod, when my thoughts should have been Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmischie- better engaged, in which I could possibly detect vous synod! convocation without intrigue! par- nothing but a blank inanity. But quiet was in liament without debate! what a lesson dost thou all, and the disposition to unanimity, and the abread to council, and to consistory!-if my pen sence of the fierce controversial workings. If the treat of you lightly

y-as haply it will wander---yet spiritual pretensions of the Quakers have abated, my spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your at least they make few pretences. Hypocrites custom, when sitting among you in deepest peace, they certainly are not, in their preaching. It is which some out-welling tears would rather con- seldom indeed that you shall see one get up firm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of amongst them to hold forth. Only now and then your beginnings, and the sowings of the seed by a trembling, female, generally ancient, voice is Fox and Dewsbury. I have witnessed that, which heard—you cannot guess from what part of the brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, meeting it proceeds—with a low, buzzing, mu

soprano from a tenor. Only sometimes the tho- | honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness; to rough bass I contrive to guess at, from its being supereminently harsh and disagreeable. I tremble, however, for my misapplication of the simplest terms of that which I disclaim. While I profess my ignorance, I scarce know what to say I am ignorant of. I hate, perhaps, by misnomers. Sostenuto and adagio stand in the like relation of obscurity to me; and Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, is as conjuring as Baralipton.

It is hard to stand alone-in an age like this,(constituted to the quick and critical perception of all harmonious combinations, I verily believe, beyond all preceding ages, since Jubal stumbled upon the gamut)—to remain, as it were, singly unimpressible to the magic influences of an art, which is said to have such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating, and refining the passions. Yet rather than break the candid current of my confessions, I must avow to you, that I have received a great deal more pain than pleasure from this so cried-up faculty.

I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. A carpenter's hammer, in a warm summer noon, will fret me into more than midsummer madness. But those unconnected, unset sounds, are nothing to the measured malice of music. The ear is passive to those single strokes; willingly enduring stripes, while it hath no task to con. To music it cannot be passive. It will strive-mine at least will— 'spite of its inaptitude, to thrid the maze; like an unskilled eye painfully poring upon hieroglyphics. I have sat through an Italian Opera, till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded streets, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow, and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention! I take refuge in the unpretending assemblage of honest commonlife sounds;--and the purgatory of the Enraged Musician becomes my paradise.


I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation of the purposes of the cheerful playhouse) watching the faces of the auditory in the pit, (what a contrast to Hogarth's Laughing Audience,) immoveable, or affecting some faint emotion,-till (as some have said, that our occupations in the next world will be but a shadow of what delighted us in this) I have imagined myself in some cold Theatre in Hades, where some of the forms of the earthly one should be kept up, with none of the enjoyment; or like that

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fill up sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep pace with it; to gaze on empty frames, and be forced to make the pictures for yourself; to read a book, all stops, and be obliged to supply the verbal matter; to invent extempore tragedies to answer to the vague gestures of an inexplicable rambling mime these are faint shadows of what I have undergone from a series of the ablest executed pieces of this empty instrumental music.

I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, I have experienced something vastly lulling and agreeable:-afterwards followeth the languor, and the oppression. Like that disappointing book in Patmos; or, like the comings on of melancholy described by Burton, doth music make her first insinuating approaches :-"Most pleasant it is to such as are melancholy given, to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by some brook side, and to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect him most, amabilis insania and mentis gratissimus error. A most incomparable delight to build castles in the air, to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose and strongly imagine, they act, or that they see done. So delightsome these toys at first, they could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even whole years in such contemplations, and fantastical meditations, which are like so many dreams, and will hardly be drawn from them-winding and unwinding themselves as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at last the SCENE TURNS UPON A SUDDEN, and they being now habited to such meditations and solitary places, can en dure no company, can think of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, subrusticus pudor, discontent, cares, and weariness of life, surprise them on a sudden, and they can think of nothing else: continually suspecting, no sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dismal object to their minds which now, by no means, no labour, no persuasions they can avoid, they cannot be rid of it, they cannot resist."

Something like this "SCENE-TURNING" I have experienced at the evening parties at the house of my good Catholic friend Nov; who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself the most finished of players, converts his drawing-room into a chapel, his week days into Sundays, and these latter into minor heavens.*

When my friend commences upon one of those solemn anthems, which peradventure struck upon my heedless ear rambling in the side aisles of the dim abbey, some five-and-thirty years since, waking a new sense, and putting a soul of old religion into my young apprehension-(whether it be

Above all, those insufferable concertos and pieces of music, as they are called, do plague and imbitter my apprehension. Words are something; but to be exposed to an endless battery of mere sounds; to be long a dying; to lie stretched upon a rack of roses; to keep up languor by unintermitted

* I have been there, and still would go;

that, in which the psalmist, weary of the persecutions of bad men, wisheth to himself doves' wings -or that other, which, with a like measure of sobriety and pathos, inquireth by what means the young man shall best cleanse his mind)—a holy calm pervadeth me. I am for the time


rapt above earth,

And possess joys not promised at my birth."

But when this master of the spell, not content to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her capacity to receive,-impatient to overcome her "earthly" with his "heavenly,”—still pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that inexhausted German ocean, above which, in triumphant progress, dolphinseated, ride those Arions, Haydn and Mozart, with their attendant Tritons, Bach, Beethoven, and a countless tribe, whom to attempt to reckon up would but plunge me again in the deeps,-I stagger under the weight of harmony, reeling to and fro at my wit's end;-clouds, as of frankincense, oppress me priests, altars, censers, dazzle before me-the genius of his religion hath me in her toils -a shadowy triple tiara invests the brow of my friend, late so naked, so ingenuous-he is Pope, -and by him sits, like as in the anomaly of dreams, a she-Pope too,-tri-coroneted like himself! I am converted, and yet a Protestant;-at once malleus hereticorum, and myself grand heresiarch: or three heresies centre in my person:-I am Marcion, Ebion, and Cerinthus-Gog and Magog-what not?-till the coming in of the friendly supper-tray dissipates the figment, and a draught of true Lutheran beer (in which chiefly my friend shows himself no bigot) at once reconciles me to the rationalties of a purer faith: and restores to me the genuine unterrifying aspects of my pleasant-countenanced host and hostess.


THE Compliments of the season to my worthy masters, and a merry first of April to us all!

Many happy returns of this day to you-and you-and you, Sir-nay, never frown man, nor put a long face upon the matter. Do not we know one another? what need of ceremony among friends? we have all a touch of that same -you understand me-a speck of the motley. Beshrew the man who on such a day as this, the general festival, should affect to stand aloof. I am none of those sneakers. I am free of the corporation, and care not who knows it. He that meets me in the forest to-day, shall meet with no wiseacre, I can tell him. Stultus sum. Translate me that, and take the meaning of it to yourself for your pains. What, man, we have four quarters

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Good master Empedocles, you are welcome. It is long since you went a salamander-gathering down Etna. Worse than samphire-picking by some odds. 'Tis a mercy your worship did not singe your mustachios.

Ha! Cleombrotus! and what salads in faith did you light upon at the bottom of the Mediterranean? You were founder, I take it, of the disinterested sect of the Calenturists.

Gebir, my old free-mason, and prince of plasterers at Babel, bring in your trowel, most Ancient Grand! You have claim to a seat here at my right hand, as patron of the stammerers. You left your work, if I remember Herodotus correctly, at eight hundred million toises, or thereabout, above the level of the sea. Bless us, wnat a long bell you must have pulled, to call your top workmen to their nuncheon on the low grounds of Sennaar. Or did you send up your garlic and onions by a rocket? I am a rogue if I am not ashamed to show you our Monument on Fishstreet Hill, after your altitudes. Yet we think it


What, the magnanimous Alexander in tears?— cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall have another globe, round as orange, pretty moppet!

Mister Adams-'odso, I honour your coatpray do us the favour to read us that sermon, which you lent to Mistress Slipsop-the twenty and second in your portmanteau there-on Female Incontinence-the same-it will come in most irrelevantly and impertinently seasonable to the time of the day.

Good Master Raymund Lully, you look wise. Pray correct that error.—

Duns, spare your definitions. I must fine you a bumper, or a paradox. We will have nothing said or done syllogistically this day. Remove those logical forms, waiter, that no gentleman break the tender shins of his apprehension stumbling across them.

Master Stephen, you are late. Ha! Cokes, is it you?-Aguecheek, my dear knight, let me pay

poor servant to command. Master Silence, I will use few words with you. Slender, it shall go hard if I edge not you in somewhere. You six will engross all the poor wit of the company to-day. I know it, I know it. Ha! honest R-, my fine old Librarian of Ludgate, time out of mind, art thou here again? Bless thy doublet, it is not over new, threadbare as thy stories: what dost thou flitting about the world at this rate?-Thy customers are extinct, defunct, bed-rid, have ceased to read long ago. Thou goest still among them, seeing if, peradventure, thou canst hawk a volume or two. Good Granville S, thy last patron, is flown.

"King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapt in lead."

Nevertheless, noble R, come in, and take your seat here, between Armado and Quisada; for in true courtesy, in gravity, in fantastic smiling to thyself, in courteous smiling upon others, in the goodly ornature of well-appareled speech, and the commendation of wise sentences, thou art nothing inferior to those accomplished Dons of Spain. The spirit of chivalry forsake me for ever, when I forget thy singing the song of Macheath, which declares that he might be happy with either, situated between those two ancient spinsters-when I forget the inimitable formal love which thou didst make, turning now to the one, and now to the other, with that Malvolian smile-as if Cervantes, not Gay, had written it for his hero; and as if thousands of periods must revolve, before the mirror of courtesy could have given his invidious preference between a pair of so goodly-propertied and meritoriousequal damsels.






To descend from these altitudes, and not to protract our Fools' Banquet beyond its appropriate day, for I fear the second of April is not many hours distant-in sober verity I will confess a truth to thee, reader. I love a Fool-as naturally as if I were of kith and kin to him. When a child, with child-like apprehensions, that dived not below the surface of the matter, I read those Parables -not guessing at their involved wisdom-I had more yearnings towards that simple architect, that built his house upon the sand, than I entertained for his more cautious neighbour; I grudged at the hard censure pronounced upon the quiet soul that kept his talent; and-prizing their simplicity beyond the more provident, and, to my apprehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their competitors--I felt a kindliness, that almost amounted to a tendre, for those five thoughtless virgins. I have never made an acquaintance since that lasted; or a friendship, that answered; with any that had not some tincture of the absurd in their characters.

the safety, which a palpable hallucination warrants; the security, which a word out of season ratifies. And take my word for this, reader, and say a fool told it you, if you please, that he who hath not a dram of folly in his mixture, hath pounds of much worse matter in his composition. It is observed, “that the foolisher the fowl or fish,— woodcocks, dotterels,-cods'-heads, &c. the finer the flesh thereof," and what are commonly the world's received fools, but such whereof the world is not worthy? and what have been some of the kindliest patterns of our species, but so many darlings of absurdity, minions of the goddess, and her white boys?-Reader, if you wrest my words beyond their fair construction, it is you, and not I, that are the April Fool.

1 venerate an honest obliquity of understanding. The more laughable blunders a man shall commit in your company, the more tests he giveth you,


Still-born Silence! thou that art
Flood-gate of the deeper heart!
Offspring of a heavenly kind!
Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind'
Secrecy's confidant, and he
Who makes religion mystery!
Admiration's speaking'st tongue!
Leave, thy desert shades among,
Reverend hermit's hallowed cells,
Where retired devotion dwells!
With thy enthusiasms come,
Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!*

READER, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet mean; wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamours of the multitude; wouldst thou enjoy at once solitude and society; wouldst thou possess the depth of thy own spirit in stillness, without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy species; wouldst thou be alone, and yet accompanied; solitary, yet not desolate; sin. gular, yet not without some to keep thee in coun tenance; an unit in aggregate; a simple in com. posite :-come with me into a Quaker's Meeting.

Dost thou love silence deep as that "before the winds were made?" go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the profundities of the earth, shut not up thy casements; nor pour wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faith'd self-mistrusting Ulysses.-Retire with me into a Quaker's Meeting.

For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold his peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude, it is great mastery.

What is the stillness of the desert, compared with this place? what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes?-here the goddess reigns and revels. "Boreas, and Cecias, and Argestes loud,” do not with their inter-confounding uproars more augment the brawl-nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds-than their op

*From "Poems of all sorts," by Richard Fleckno,

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