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Homer in his Greek, or Pindar-while the walls
graded. "He shall serve his brethren." There is something in the air of one of this cast, lean and suspicious; contrasting with the open, trusting, generous manner of the other.
Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages-Alcibiades, Falstaff, Sir Richard Steele, our late incomparable Brinsley-what a familylikeness in all four!
Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly forgotten, Allen, with a cordial smile, and still more cordial laugh, with which thou wert wont to make the old cloisters shake, in thy cognition of some poignant jest of theirs; or the anticipation of some more material, and, peradventure, practical one, of thine own. Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful countenance, with which, (for thou wert the Nireus formosus of the school,) in the days of thy maturer waggery, thou didst disarm the wrath of infuriated town-damsel, who, incensed by provoking pinch, turning tigress-like round, suddenly converted by thy angel-look, exchanged the halfformed terrible "bl- -," for a gentler greeting "bless thy handsome face!"
He is the truc taxer who "calleth all the world up to be taxed;" and the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as subsisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty and the poorest obolary Jew that paid tribute-pittance at Jerusalem! His exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air! so far removed from your sour parochial or state gatherers,—those ink-horn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in their faces! He cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his feast of Holy Michael. He applieth the lene tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse,-which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun and wind
What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower! what rosy gills! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manifest,-taking no more thought than lilies! What contempt for money,— accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of meum and tuum! or rather what a noble simplification of language, (beyond Tooke,) resolving these supposed opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! What near approaches doth he make to the primitive community!-to the extent of one half of the principle at least!
tive of insult, warm-hearted, with something of the old Roman height about him.
Fine, frank-hearted Fr, the present master of Hertford, with Marmaduke T- mildest of Missionaries-and both my good friends still close the catalogue of Grecians in my time.
Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, and the friends of Elia-the junior Le G- - and F-; who impelled, the former by a roving temper, the latter by too quick a sense of neglect -ill capable of enduring the slights poor Sizars are sometimes subject to in our seats of learning -exchanged their Alma Mater for the camp; perishing, one by climate, and one on the plains of Salamanca:-Le G- sanguine, volatile, sweet-natured; F-dogged, faithful, anticipa-contended! He is the true Propontic which never
cbbeth!-The sea which taketh handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, Oh man ordained to lend-that thou lose not in the end, with thy wordly penny, the reversion promised. Combine not preposterously in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives!-but, when thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were halfway." Come, a handsome sacrifice! See how light he makes of it! Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy.
THE TWO RACES OF MEN.
THE human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced all those impertinent classifications of the Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, "Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither and do naturally fall in with one or the other of these primary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain
Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., who departed this life on Wednesday evening; dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample revenues; which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have noticed as
immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing; for there is something revolting in the idea of a king holding a private purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished, by the very act of disfurnishment; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt (as one sings)
"To slacken virtue and abate her edge,
Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise," he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, "borrowing and to borrow!"
In his penegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tithe part of the inhabitants under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated:but having had the honour of accompanying my friend, divers times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was one day so obliging as to explain the nomenon. It seems, these were his tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good friends, (as he was pleased to express himself,) to whom he had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering them; and with Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a herd."
that he expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality so much less shock in the refusal.
To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators more formidable than that which I have touched upon; I mean your borrowers of books-those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Comberbatch, matchless in his depredations!
That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out—(you are now with me in my little back study in Bloomsbury, phe-reader!)-with the huge Switzer-like tomes on each side, (like the Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of nothing,) once held the tallest of my folios, Opera Bonaventura, choice and massy divinity, to which its two supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre,Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas,) showed but as dwarfs,-itself an Ascapart!—that Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, that "the title to property in a book, (my Bonaventure, for instance,) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and appreciating the same." Should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves
With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, which he had often in his mouth, that "money kept longer than three days, stinks." So he made use of it while it was fresh. A good part he drunk away, (for he was an excellent toss-pot,) some he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurling it violently from him-as boys do burrs, or as if it had been infectious,-into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes,-inscrutable cavities of the earth; or he would bury it (where he would never seek it again) by a river's side under some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid no interest --but out away from him it must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams were perennial which fed his fisc. When new supplies became necessary, the first person that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an undeniable way with him. He had a cheerful open exterior, a quiet jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with gray (cana fides.) He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiv- | ing for awhile my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the most untheorising reader, who may at times have disposable coin in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindness of his nature to refuse such an one as I am describing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue, (your bastard bor
When I think of this man; his fiery glow of heart; his swell of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he was; how great at the midnight hour; and when I compare with him the companions with whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of lenders and little men.
The slight vacuum in the left-hand case-two shelves from the ceiling-scarcely distinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser-was whilom the commodious resting-place of Brown on Urn Burial. C. will hardly allege that he knows more about that treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was indeed the first (of the moderns) to discover its beauties-but so have I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than himself.-Just below, Dodsley's Dramas want their fourth volume, where Vittoria Corombona is! The remainder nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of Melancholy, in sober state. —There loitered the Complete Angler; quiet as in life, by some stream side.-In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower-volume, with " eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate.
One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small undercollection of this nature, (my friend's gatherings in
what odd places, and deposited with as little memory as mine. I take in these orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes of the gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. There they stand in conjunction; natives, and naturalized. The latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true lineage as I am.-I charge no ware-houseroom for these deodands, nor shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses.
To lose a volume to C., carries some sense and meaning in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the platter after it. But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be so importunate to carry off with thee, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Margaret Newcastle? knowing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio:-what but the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish love of getting the better of thy friend ?-Then, worst cut of all! to transport it with thee to the Gallican land
"Unworthy land to harbor such a sweetness, A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder!"
-hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fancies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thou keepest all companies with thy quips and mirthful tales ?-Child of the Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part French, better part Englishwoman!--that she could fix upon no other treatise to bear away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook-of which no Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle! Was there not Zimmerman on Solitude?
Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to such an one as S. T. C.-he will return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) with usury; enriched with annotations, tripling their value. I have had experience. Many are these precious MSS. of his―(in matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity not unfrequently, vying with the originals)-in no very clerkly handlegible in my Daniel; in old Burton; in Sir Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, now, alas! wandering in Pagan lands. I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C.
EVERY man hath two birth-days: two days, at
the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. The one is that which in an especial manner he termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birth-day hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand any thing in it beyond cake and orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an interest too wide to be pretermitted by king or cobbler. No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.
Of all sound of all bells-(bells, the music nighest bordering upon heaven)—most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year. I never hear it without a gathering-up of my mind to a concentration of all the images that have been diffused over the past twelvemonth; all I have done or suffered, performed or neglected-in that regretted time. I begin to know its worth, as when a person dies. It takes a personal colour; nor was it a poetical flight in a contemporary, when he exclaimed,
"I saw the skirts of the departing year." It is no more than what in -sober sadness every one of us seems to be conscious of, in that awful leave-taking. I am sure I felt it, and all felt it with me, last night; though some of my companions affected rather to manifest an exhilaration at the birth of the coming year, than any very tender regrets for the decease of its predecessor. But I am none of those who
"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest."
I am naturally, beforehand, shy of novelties, new books, new faces, new years,-from some mental twist which makes it difficult in me to face the prospective. I have almost ceased to hope; and am sanguine only in the prospects of other (former) years. I plunge into foregone visions and conclusions. I encounter pell-mell with past disappointments. I am armour-proof against old discouragements. I forgive, or overcome in fancy, old adversaries. I play over again for love, as the gamesters phrase it, games, for which I once paid so dear. I would scarce now have any of those I would no more alter them than the incidents of untoward accidents and events of my life reversed. some well-contrived novel. Methinks, it is better that I should have pined away seven of my goldenest years, when I was thrall to the fair hair, and fairer eyes, of Alice Wn, than that so passionate a love adventure should be lost. It was better
that our family should have missed that legacy,
which old Dorrell cheated us of, than that I should have at this moment two thousand pounds in banco, and be without the idea of that specious old rogue.
In a degree beneath manhood, it is my infirmity to look back upon those early days. Do I ad
the intervention of forty years, a man may have leave to love himself, without the imputation of self-love?
If I know aught of myself, no one whose mind is introspective, and mine is painfully so, can have a less respect for his present identity, than I have for the man Elia. I know him to be light, and vain, and humoursome; a notorious ; addicted to ; averse from counsel, neither taking it nor offering it; besides; a stammering buffoon; what you will; lay it on, and spare not; I subscribe to it all, and much more than thou canst be willing to lay at his doorbut for the child Elia-that "other me," there, in the back-ground-I must take leave to cherish the remembrance of that young master, with as little reference, I protest, to this stupid changeling of five-and-forty, as if it had been a child of some other house, and not of my parents. I can cry over its patient small-pox at five, and rougher medicaments. I can lay its poor fevered head upon the sick pillow at Christ's, and wake with it in surprise at the gentle posture of maternal tenderness hanging over it, that unknown had watched its sleep. I know how it shrank from any the least colour of falsehood. God help thee, Elia, how art thou changed! Thou art sophisticated. I know how honest, how courageous (for a weakling) it was; how religious, how imaginative, how hopeful! From what have I not fallen, if the child I remember was indeed myself, and not some dissembling guardian, presenting a false identity, to give the rule to my unpractised steps, and regulate the tone of my moral being!
That I am fond of indulging, beyond a hope of sympathy, in such retrospection, may be the symptom of some sickly idiosyncrasy. Or is it owing to another cause; simply, that being without wife or family, I have not learned to project myself enough out of myself; and having no offspring of my own to dally with, I turn back upon memory, and adopt my own early idea, as my heir and favourite? If these speculations seem fantastical to thee, reader, (a busy man perchance,) if I tread out of the way of thy sympathy, and am singularly conceited only, I retire, impenetrable to ridicule, under the phantom cloud of Elia.
The elders, with whom I was brought up, were of a character not likely to let slip the sacred observance of any old institution, and the ringing out of the old year was kept by them with circumstances of peculiar ceremony. In those days the sound of those midnight chimes, though it seemed to raise hilarity in all around me, never failed to bring a train of pensive imagery into my fancy. Yet I then scarce conceived what it meant, or thought of it as a reckoning that concerned me. Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal. He knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could preach a homily on the fragility of life; but he brings it not
can appropriate to our imagination the freezing days of December. But now, shall I confess a truth? I feel these audits but too powerfully. I begin to count the probabilities of my duration, and to grudge at the expenditure of moments and shortest periods, like misers' farthings. In proportion as the years both lessen and shorten, I set more count upon their periods, and would fain lay my ineffectual finger upon the spoke of the great wheel. I am not content to pass away “like a weaver's shuttle." Those metaphors solace me not, nor sweeten the unpalatable draught of mortality. I care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here. I am content to stand still at the age to which I am arrived; I, and my friends: to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not want to be weaned by age; or drop, like mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave. Any alteration, on this earth of mine, in diet or in lodging, puzzles and discomposes me. My household-gods plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up without blood. They do not willingly seek Lavinian shores. A new state of being staggers me.
Sun, and sky, and breeze, and solitary walks, and summer-holydays, and the greenness of fields, and the delicious juices of meats and fishes, and society, and the cheerful glass, and candle-light, and fireside conversations, and innocent vanities, and jests, and irony itself—do these things go out with life?
In winter, this intolerable disinclination to dying, to give it its mildest name, does more especially haunt and beset me. In a genial August noon, beneath a sweltering sky, death is almost problematic. At those times do such poor snakes as myself enjoy an immortality. Then we expand and burgeon. Then are we as strong again, as valiant again, as wise again, and a great deal taller. The blast that nips and shrinks me, puts me in thoughts of death. All things allied to the insubstantial, wait upon that master feeling; cold, numbness, dreams, perplexity; moonlight itself, with its shadowy and spectral appearances, that cold ghost of the sun, or Phoebus' sickly sister,
ticles : I am none of her minions; I hold with the But that which this way looks is clear, Persian.
And smiles upon the New-born Year. Whatsoever thwarts, or puts me out of my way,
He looks too from a place so high,
The Year lies open to his eye; brings death into my mind. All partial evils, like
And all the moments open are humours, run into that capital plague-sore. I have
To the exact discoverer. heard some profess an indifference to life. Such
Yet more and more he smiles upon hail the end of their existence as a port of refuge;
The happy revolution. and speak of the grave as of some soft arms, in Why should we then suspect or fear which they may slumber as on a pillow. Some The influences of a year, have wooed death—but out upon thee, I say, So smiles upon us the first morn, thou foul, ugly phantom! I detest, abhor, exe- And speaks us good so soon as born? crate, and (with Friar John) give thee to six score
Plague on't! the last was ill enough, thousand devils, as in no instance to be excused
This cannot but make better proof; or tolerated, but shunned as an universal viper; to
Or, at the worst, as we brush'd through
The last, why so we may this too; be branded, proscribed, and spoken evil of! In
And then the next in reason should no way can I be brought to digest thee, thou thin,
Be super-excellently good : melancholy Privation, or more frightful and con- For the worst ills (we daily sec) founding Positive !
Have no more perpetuity, Those antidotes, prescribed against the fear of Than the best fortunes that do fall; thee, are altogether frigid and insulting, like thy- Which also bring us wherewithal self. For what satisfaction hath a man, that he
Longer their being to support shall “lie down with kings and emperors in death,”
Than those do of the other sort: who in his lifetime never greatly coveted the so
And who has one good year in three,
And yet repines at destiny, ciety of such bed-fellows? or, forsooth, that “so
Appears ungrateful in the case, shall the fairest face appear?"--why, to comfort
And merits not the good he has. me, must Alice W- -n be a goblin? More than
Then let us welcome the New Guest all, I conceive disgust at those impertinent and With lusty brimmers of the best ; misbecoming familiarities, inscribed upon your or- Mirth always should good fortune meet, dinary tomb-stones. Every dead man must take And renders e'en disaster sweet : upon himself to be lecturing me with his odious And though the princess turn her back, truism, that “such as he now is, I must shortly
Let us but line ourselves with sack, be.” Not so shortly, friend, perhaps, as thou im
We better shall by far hold out, aginest. In the meantime I am alive. I move
Till the next year she face about. about. I am worth twenty of thee. Know thy How say you, reader,--do not these verses betters! Thy New Year's Days are past. I sur- smack of the rough magnanimity of the old Engvive, a jolly candidate for 1821. Another cup of lish vein? Do they not fortify like a cordial ; enwine; and while that turn-coat bell, that just now larging the heart, and productive of sweet blood, mournfully chanted the obsequies of 1820 depart- and generous spirits, in the concoction? Where ed, with changed notes lustily rings in a successor, be those puling fears of death, just now expressed let us attune to its peal the song made on a like or affected ? Passed like a cloud--absorbed in occasion, by hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton.-- the purging sun-light of clear poetry-clean
washed away by a wave of genuine Helicon, your only Spa for these hypochondries. And now
another cup of the generous! and a merry New Hark, the cock crows, and yon bright star
Year, and many of them, to you all, my masters ! Tells us the day himself's not far; And see where, breaking from the night, He gilds the western hills with light, With him old Janus doth appear, Peeping into the future year,
MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. With such a look, as seems to say, The prospect is not good that way.
“A CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of Thus do we rise ill sights to see,
the game.” This was the celebrated wish of old And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy;
Sarah Battle, (now with God,) who, next to her When the prophetic fear of things
devotions, loved a good game at whist. She was A more tormenting mischief brings,
none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half and More full of soul-tormenting gall,
half players, who have no objection to take a hand, Than direst mischiefs can befall. But stay! but stay! methinks my sight,
if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm Better inform’d by clearer light,
that they have no pleasure in winning; that they Discerns sereneness in that brow,
like to win one game, and lose another; that they That all contracted seem'd but now.
can while away an hour very agreeably at a cardHis revers'd face may show distaste,
table, but are indifferent whether they play or no;
THE NEW YEAR.