Is there anything more curious or remarkable in fiction than the simple fact expressed by Thucydides, that ignorance is bold and knowledge reserved? or that by Thomas Fuller, that learning has gained most by those books by which the printers have lost? or that by Pascal, that it is wonderful a thing so obvious as the vanity of the world is so little known, and that it is a strange and surprising thing to say that seeking its honors is a folly? or that by John Selden, that of all actions of a man's life his marriage does least concern other people, yet of all actions of his life 'tis most meddled with by other people? or that by Goldsmith, that the most delicate friendships are always most sensible of the slightest invasion, and the strongest jealousy is ever attendant on the warmest regard? or that by Hazlitt, that every man, in his own opinion, forms an exception to the ordinary rules of humanity? or that by Emerson, that the astonishment of life is the absence of any appearance of reconciliation between the theory and practice of life? or that by Foster, that millions of human beings are at this very hour acting in violation of the laws of goodness, while those laws are clearly admitted, not only as impositions of moral authority but as the vital principles of their own true self-interest? or that by Prescott, that in every country the most fiendish passions of the human heart are those kindled in the name of religion? Strange! that labor is so scarce in China that vast tracts of land lie waste because there are no laborers to reclaim them. That in the pontifical army, not long before Victor Emanuel, Spain—"the bones of whose children for centuries had whitened every battle-field where she found it necessary to defend her religion"—was represented by but thirty-eight soldiers, while Holland—"which protected the Reformation by its Princes of Orange, and introduced liberty of religious opinion into the modern world"—was represented by hundreds and hundreds of volunteers. That the best building in Iceland is the jail at Reikiavik, which, during the many years since its erection, has never contained a prisoner. That in the Arctic region a smaller proportion of fuel is consumed than in any other habitable part of the globe. That the next use of the Mayflower, after carrying the Pilgrims, was to transport a cargo of slaves to the West Indies. That the plant papyrus, which gave its name to our word paper—first used for writing between three and four thousand years ago—of more importance in history than cotton and silver and gold—once so common in Egypt—has become so scarce there that Emerson in his late visit searched in vain for it. That house-building, which ought to be among the most perfect of the arts, after the experience and efforts of myriads in every generation, has produced no stereotyped models of taste and convenience. That the founder and editor of one of the great London periodicals never wrote a line for his journal; and when he died, the review which he had built up by his individual ability made not the slightest mention of the event. That the three books which have been so widely read, and which have exercised incalculable influence upon morals and politics,—The Imitation of Christ, The Whole Duty of Man, and the Letters of Junius,—are of unknown or disputed authorship. That the Bible,—incomparably the wisest and best book, the Book of books, the guide of life, the solace in death, the way to heaven,—is so little read by the many and so little understood by the few. That the one subject (religion) which is "by general consent proscribed in general society is that which by general consent is allowed to be the most important, and which one might therefore suppose to be the most interesting." That the brain, in subordination to the mind, the physical centre of all sensation, is insensible to the wounds which are torture to the skin, and which wounds the brain alone enables us to feel. ("It is as insensible," says Sir Charles Bell, "as the leather of our shoe, and a piece may be cut off without interrupting the patient in the sentence that he is uttering.") That the heart, to which we refer our joys, our sorrows, and our affections, when grasped with the fingers, gives no information of the fact to the possessor, unmistakably responding at the same time to the varied emotions of his mind. (The famous Dr. Harvey examined, at the request of Charles I., a nobleman of the Montgomery family, who, in consequence of an abscess, had a fistulous opening into the chest, through which the heart could be seen and handled. The great physiologist was astonished to find it insensible. "I then brought him," he says, "to the king that he might behold and touch so extraordinary a thing, and that he might perceive, as I did, that when he touched the outer skin, or when he saw our fingers in the cavity, this young nobleman knew not that we touched the heart.") That one of our modern English poets, who has written lyrics so passionate as to be hounded down for their immorality, has so lived, according to a fellow-poet, as never to have kissed any one but his mother. That the one man who can read the Eliot Bible is getting tired of his distinction, just as a veteran poet, it is declared, hated to hear praised one of the productions of his youth, at eighty not having surpassed, in popular estimation, a school-boy poem, written at eighteen. That the man whom Walter consulted in the management of the Times newspaper, and who in Walter's absence, according to Robinson, decided in the dernier resort, was at the time, and until the end of his life, an inhabitant of the King's Bench Prison, and when he frequented Printing House Square it was only by virtue of a day rule. (Combe was his name: Old Combe, as he was familiarly called. He was the author of the famous Letters of a Nobleman to his Son, generally ascribed to Lord Lyttelton. He was a man of fortune when young, and traveled in Europe, and even made a journey with Sterne. Walter offered to release him from prison by paying his debts. This he would not permit, as he did not acknowledge the equity of the claim for which he suffered imprisonment. He preferred living on an allowance from Walter, and was, he said, perfectly happy.) How difficult it is to realize that Dr. Johnson, the great Cham of English literature, spent more than one half of his days in penury; that the "moral, pious Johnson," and the "gay, dissipated Beauclerc," were companions; that they ever spent a whole day together, "half-seas over," strolling through the markets, cracking jokes with the fruit and fish women, on their way to Billingsgate. It is hard to believe that that great moralist ever wandered whole nights through the streets of London, with the unfortunate, gifted Savage, too miserably poor to hire lodgings. And it is still harder to believe that the best biography of that great man, and the best biography in our language, was written by a gossiping, literary bore—the "bear-leader to the Ursa Major," as Irving calls him—whom Johnson pretended to despise, and of whom he once said, "if he thought Boswell intended to write his (Johnson's) life he would take Boswell's." We wonder that the great, strong-minded Luther ever flung an inkstand at the devil's head. We cannot conceive that Wesley and Johnson and Addison believed in ghosts. It looks strange to us that Socrates, who taught the doctrines of the one Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul, bowed down to a multiplicity of idols; and after he had swallowed the fatal hemlock, directed the sacrifice of a cock to Æsculapius. We cannot credit the fact that Marlborough, at the moment he was the terror of France and the glory of Germany, was held under the finger of his wife by the meanest of passions, avarice. We utterly refuse to believe the complaint of Burns, the greatest of lyric poets, that he "could never get the art of commanding respect." It seems incredible that Goldsmith ever "talked like poor Poll," when he "wrote like an angel." It appears strange enough that Sir George Mackenzie wrote an elegant and eloquent treatise in favor of solitude, while living a most active life; and still more strange that his arguments were triumphantly answered by Evelyn, who passed his days in tranquillity and solitude. We only believe when we are compelled by authority, that Tycho Brahe changed color, and his legs shook under him, on meeting with a hare or a fox. That Dr. Johnson would never enter a room with his left foot foremost. That Cæsar Augustus was almost convulsed by the sound of thunder, and always wanted to get into a cellar, or under-ground, to escape the dreadful noise. That Talleyrand trembled when the word death was pronounced. That Marshal Saxe ever screamed in terror at the sight of a cat. That the smell of fish sent Erasmus into a fever. That Scaliger shivered at the sight of water-cress. That Boyle was convulsed at the falling of water from a tap. That Peter the Great could never be persuaded to cross a bridge; and though he tried to master the terror, he failed to do so. That Byron would never help any one to salt at the table, nor be helped himself. That an air that was beneficial to Schiller acted upon Goethe like poison. ("I called on him one day," said Goethe to Soret, "and as I did not find him at home, and his wife told me that he would soon return, I seated myself at his work-table to note down various matters. I had not been seated long before I felt a strange indisposition steal over me, which gradually increased, until at last I nearly fainted. At first I did not know to what cause I should ascribe this wretched and, to me, unusual state, until I discovered that a dreadful odor issued from a drawer near me. When I opened it, I found to my astonishment that it was full of rotten apples. I immediately went to the window and inhaled the fresh air, by which I felt myself instantly restored. In the meantime his wife had reëntered, and told me that the drawer was always filled with rotten apples, because the scent was beneficial to Schiller, and he could not live or work without it.") That Queen Elizabeth issued proclamations against excessive apparel, leaving three thousand changes of dress in the royal wardrobe. That Bayle, the faithful compiler of impurities, "resisted the corruption of the senses as much as Newton." That Smollett, who has so grossly offended decency in his novels, had an immaculate private character. That Cowley, who boasts with so much gayety of the versatility of his passion amongst so many sweethearts, wanted the confidence even to address one. That Seneca philosophized so wisely and eloquently upon the blessings of poverty and moderate desires, while usuriously lending his seven millions, and writing his homilies on a table of solid gold. That Sir Thomas More, who, in his Utopia, declares that no man should be punished for his religion, was a fierce persecutor, racking and burning men at the stake for heresy. That Young, the author of the sombre Night Thoughts, was known as the gayest of his circle of acquaintance. That Molière, the famous French humorist and writer of comedies, bore himself with habitual seriousness and melancholy. That he married an actress, who made him experience all those bitter disgusts and embarrassments which he himself played off at the theatre. That the cynicism and bitterness exhibited in the writings of Rousseau were in consequence of an unfortunate marriage to an ill-bred, illiterate woman, who ruled him as with a rod of iron. That Addison's fine taste in morals and in life could suffer the ambition of a courtier to prevail with himself to seek a countess, who drove him contemptuously into solitude and shortened his days. That the impulsive and genial Steele married a cold, precise Miss Prue, as he called her, from whom he never parted without bickerings. That Shenstone, while surrounding himself with the floral beauties of Paradise, exciting the envy and admiration and imitation of persons of taste throughout England, lived in utter wretchedness and misery. That Swift, with all his resources of wit and wisdom, died, to use his own language, "in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole." That the thoughtful, cast-iron essays of John Foster were originally written as love epistles to the lady who became his wife. That the only person who could make George Washington laugh was an officer in the army so obscure in rank and character as not to be even mentioned in popular history. That the man whom Daniel Webster pronounced the best conversationalist he ever knew, is now unknown or forgotten outside of his neighborhood. That the pious Cowper attempted suicide; and had as intimate associate the swearing Lord Chancellor Thurlow,—with whom, he confesses, he spent three years, "giggling and making giggle." That Lord Chancellor Eldon, who, while simple John Scott, son of a Newcastle coal-fitter, ran away with Bessy Surtees, daughter of a prosperous banker of the same town, and who was so proud of the exploit that he never tired of referring to it, when his eldest daughter, Lady Elizabeth, gave her hand, without his consent, to an ardent lover of respectable character and good education, but not of much wealth, permitted years to roll away before he would forgive her. That not long after the elopement referred to, while a law student at Oxford, having been appointed to read to the class at a small salary, the lectures of one of the professors who was then absent in the East Indies, it happened that the first lecture he had to read was upon the statute (4 & 5 P. & M. c. 8) "Of young men running away with maidens." ("Fancy me," he said, "reading, with a hundred and forty boys and young men all giggling.") That Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who was never married at all, was so outraged at the love marriage, against his consent, of his third and favorite daughter, that though he became reconciled to her, he never would consent to see her husband. That, according to John Lord Campbell, so many of the most important points in the law of real property have been settled in suits upon the construction of the wills of eminent judges. That "the religious, the moral, the immaculate" Sir Matthew Hale, when chief justice of the king's bench, allowed the infamous Jeffreys, who "was not redeemed from his vices by one single solid virtue," to gain, in the opinion of Roger North, "as great an ascendant over him as ever counsel had over a judge." That the gentle Charles and Mary Lamb were confined in a mad-house, and that the latter cut the throat of her mother at the dinner-table. That Tasso lamented the publication of Jerusalem Delivered, and that its publication was the one great cause of his insanity. That Thomson, the poet of the Seasons, composed so much of his classic and vigorous verse in bed; or was seen in Lord Burlington's garden, with his hands in his waistcoat pockets, biting off the sunny sides of the peaches. That King Solomon, who wrote so wisely of training children, had so wicked a son as Rehoboam. That the good stoic, Marcus Aurelius, of proverbial purity, had so doubtful a wife as Faustina, and so vicious a son as Commodus. That that good old Roman emperor, whose Meditations rank with the best works of the greatest moralists, breathing and inculcating the spirit of Christianity, was the bitter persecutor of the Christians in Gaul. That his graceless heir, Commodus, left the Christians wholly untroubled, through the influence of his mistress Marcia. That the English-reading world is directly indebted to the Reign of Terror—the horrors of Robespierre's tyranny—for the most popular translation of St. Pierre's sweet story of Paul and Virginia. That the author of the Marseillaise first heard of the great fame of his piece in the mountains of Piedmont, when fleeing from France as a political refugee; and upon the return of the Bourbons to power wrote an anthem which is characterized as the most anti-republican ever penned. That that ode to temperance, The Old Oaken Bucket, was written by Woodworth, a journeyman printer, under the inspiration of brandy. That so many of the exquisite letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu were destroyed by her mother, who "did not approve that she should disgrace her family by adding to it literary honors." That the famous speech of Pitt, in reply to Walpole's taunt of being "a young man," was composed by Dr. Johnson. That Johnson, looking at Dilly's edition of Lord Chesterfield's miscellaneous works, laughed and said, "Here are now two speeches ascribed to him, both of which were written by me: and the best of it is, they have found out that one is like Demosthenes, and the other like Cicero." That many of the sermons of famous contemporaneous clergymen were the productions of the same laborious Grub Street drudge, forty or more of which have been reclaimed and published, and conceded to have been written by the inexhaustible Johnson. That the only paper of The Rambler which had a prosperous sale, and may be said to have been popular, was one which Johnson did not write—No. 97, written by Richardson. That the essays of The Rambler, elaborate as they appear, were written rapidly, seldom undergoing revision, whilst the simple language of Rousseau, which seems to come flowing from the heart, was the slow production of painful toil, pausing on every word, and balancing every sentence. That Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France, which has the free and easy flow of extemporaneous eloquence, was polished with extraordinary care,—more than a dozen proofs being worked off and destroyed, according to Dodsley's account, before he could please himself. That the winged passages in Curran's speeches, which seem born of the moment, were the results of painstaking, protracted labor. ("My dear fellow," said he to Phillips, "the day of inspiration has gone by. Everything I ever said which was worth remembering, my de bene esses, my white horses, as I call them, were all carefully prepared.") That the Essay on Man, according to Lord Bathurst, "was originally composed by Lord Bolingbroke, in prose, and Pope did no more than to put it into verse." That those brilliant wits and prolific dramatists, Peele, Greene, and Marlowe, the associates of Shakespeare, to whom the great dramatist was so much indebted, were all wretched and unsuccessful,—the first dying in utter want, the second of excessive pickled herring, at the point nearly of starvation, the third being stabbed in the head in a drunken brawl at a tavern by his own dagger in his own hand. That Shakespeare married at eighteen, had three children at twenty, removed to London at twenty-three, begun writing plays at twenty-seven, and, a little more than twenty years after, returned to his native town, rich and immortal. That but a few signatures—differently spelled—is all of his handwriting that has been preserved. That so many critics should believe, and some ingenious books have been printed to prove, that the authorship of the plays of Shakespeare belongs to Bacon—the only man then living, they claim, who knew enough to write them. That the great Bacon was unable to grasp the great discoveries of his time—rejecting the Copernican system to the last, and treating not only with incredulity, but with the most arrogant contempt, the important discoveries of Gilbert about the magnet. That Apuleius, author of the Metamorphosis of the Golden Ass (a paraphrase, according to Bayle, of what he had taken from Lucian, as Lucian had taken it from Lucius, one of the episodes of which—Psyche—furnished Molière with matter for one of his dramas, and La Fontaine materials for a romance), who did not, to use his own language, "make the least scruple of expending his whole fortune in acquiring what he believed to be more valuable, a contempt of it," married a woman more than twice his own age, thirteen years a widow, to procure for himself, as he acknowledged, "a large settlement, and an easy condition of life." That Pythagoras, the first of the ancient sages who took the name of philosopher; who made himself so illustrious by his learning and virtue; who proved so useful in reforming and instructing the world; whose eloquence moved the inhabitants of a great city, plunged in debauchery, to avoid luxury and good cheer, and to live according to the rules of virtue; who prevailed upon the ladies to part with their fine clothes, and all their ornaments, and to make a sacrifice of them to the chief deity of the place; who engaged his disciples to practice the most difficult things, making them undergo a novitiate of silence for at least two years, and extending it to five years for those whom he knew to be more inclined to speak,—peremptorily ordered his disciples to abstain from eating beans, choosing himself rather, as some authorities have it, to be killed by those that pursued him, than to make his escape through a field of beans, so great was his respect for or abhorrence of that plant. That Luther, the greatest of the reformers, and Baxter, the greatest of the Puritans, and Wesley, the greatest religious leader of the last century, believed in witchcraft. That Dr. Johnson, who thought Swift's reputation greater than he deserved, questioning his humor, and denying him the authorship of the Tale of a Tub, could take into his confidence, and reverence for his piety, George Psalmanazar, who deceived the world for some time by pretending to be a native of the island of Formosa, to support which he invented an alphabet and a grammar. ("I should," said Johnson, "as soon think of contradicting a bishop.") That Coleridge was able to depict Mont Blanc and the Vale of Chamouni at sunrise in such an overpowering manner, when he had never seen the Alps; while half-oriental Malta and classical Italy, both of which he had seen, gave him no fruits of poetry. That Schiller wrote his William Tell without ever seeing any of the glories of Lake Lucerne. That Scott, who told how to see "fair Melrose aright," never saw the famous Abbey by moonlight. (Talking of Scott at a dinner-party, Moore said, "He was the soul of honesty. When I was on a visit to him, we were coming up from Kelso at sunset, and as there was to be a fine moon, I quoted to him his own rule for seeing 'fair Melrose aright,' and proposed to stay an hour and enjoy it. 'Bah!' said Scott, 'I never saw it by moonlight.'" "The truth was," says Sir David Brewster, "Scott would not go there for fear of bogles.") That Lalla Rookh, rich, melodious, and glowing with a wealth of imagery which wearies by its very excess, is the production of one who never visited the people or scenes he therein describes. (So true, nevertheless, were its pictures of Eastern life that Colonel Wilks, the historian of British India, could not believe that Moore had never traveled in the East; and the compliment which Luttrell paid him, when he told him that his "lays are sung... by moonlight in the Persian tongue along the streets of Ispahan," is literally true, the work having been translated into Persian, and read with avidity among many Oriental nations.) That Kant, who startled an Englishman with a description of Westminster Bridge, so minutely detailed that his listener in amazement asked him how many years he had lived in London, was never out of Prussia—scarcely out of Königsberg. That Barry Cornwall, although the author of one of the most stirring and popular sea songs in the language—The sea, the sea, the open sea!—was very rarely upon the tossing element, having a great fear of being made ill by it. ("I think he told me," said a visitor, "that he had never dared to cross the Channel even, and so had never seen Paris. He said, like many others, he delighted to gaze upon the waters from a safe place on land, but had a horror of living on it even for a few hours. I recalled to his recollection his own lines—'I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be;' and he shook his head, and laughingly declared I must have misquoted his words, or that Dibdin had written the piece and put Barry Cornwall's signature to it.") That Michelet, who wrote a book on The Sea, had a like horror of it. ("I love the sea," he said, "but as in the case of a crowd, I love it at a distance.") That Vathek, that splendid Oriental tale, was written by a young man of twenty-two who had never visited the countries whose manners he so vividly described; and that of all the glories and prodigalities of the English Sardanapalus, his slender romance, the work of three days, is the only durable memorial. That Beckford's father, while Lord Mayor of London, became especially famous for a speech that was never delivered—the speech in reply to the king, written after the event by Horne Tooke, and engraved on the pedestal of a statue of Beckford erected in Guildhall. That Michel Angelo, unconsciously, laid the first stone of the Reformation. ("History tells us that Julius II. gave him an unlimited commission to make a mausoleum, in which their mutual interests should be combined. The artist's plan was a parallelogram, and the superstructure was to consist of forty statues, many of which were to be colossal, and interspersed with ornamental figures and bronze basso-rilievos, besides the necessary architecture, with appropriate decorations to unite the composition into one stupendous whole. To make a fitting place for it, the pope determined to rebuild St. Peter's itself; and this is the origin of that edifice, which took one hundred and fifty years to complete, and is now the grandest display of architectural splendor that ornaments the Christian world. To prosecute the undertaking, money was wanted, and indulgences were sold to supply the deficiency of the treasury; and a monk of Saxony, opposing the authority of the church, produced this singular event, that whilst the most splendid edifice which the world had ever seen was building for the Catholic faith, the religion to which it was consecrated was shaken to its foundation.") That the erection of one of the pyramids has been ascribed to a Pharaonic princess, of great beauty, who, like Aspasia and Thargelia, became ambitious in her intimacies. (The story is that she was one day taunted by her father with the inutility of the admiration that she excited. Pyramid-building was then the fashion in the family, and she vowed that she would leave behind her a monument of the power of her charms as durable as her august relations did of the power of their armies. The number of her lovers was increased by all those who were content to sacrifice their fortunes for her smiles. The pyramid rose rapidly; with the frailty of its foundress, the massive monument increased; her lovers were ruined, but the fair architect became immortal, and found celebrity long afterward in Sappho's song.) That Gulliver's Travels, the severest lampoon upon humanity, is the favorite fairy tale of the nursery. That the distinction of the wreath of poet's laurel which crowned the heads of Petrarch and Tasso, in both cases was obtained by inferior productions: Scipio Africanus and Gerusalemme Conquistata. That Napoleon, with "a million armed men under his command, and half Europe at his feet, sat down in rage and affright to order Fouché to send a little woman over the frontiers lest she should say something about him for the drawing-rooms of Paris to laugh at." That Faraday, who at first begged for the meanest place in a scientific workshop, at last declined the highest honor which British science was capable of granting. That the Jews of Amsterdam, exiles from Spain and Portugal, who owed their existence to flight from repeated persecutions, persecuted Spinoza, excommunicating him with "the anathema wherewith Joshua cursed Jericho, with the curse which Elisha laid upon the children, and with all the curses which are written in the law." That the son of Charles Wesley, born and bred in Methodism, and bound to it by all the strongest ties of pride and prejudice, became a Papist. That Cowper was mad so great a part of his life, when he is the sanest of English poets: of "fine frenzy" in his writings there is little or none. That Burke, who, in his youth, "wrote on the emotions produced by mountains and cascades; by the masterpieces of painting and sculpture; by the faces and necks of beautiful women, in the style of a parliamentary report," in his old age, "discussed treaties and tariffs in the most fervid and brilliant language of romance." That Lord Brougham, when chancellor, on the bench, hearing cases, wrote to Sir David Brewster several letters on light, one of them fourteen pages long. That a fourth part of Chalmers's Astronomical Discourses, which rivaled the Waverley novels in popularity, were penned in a small pocket-book, in a strange apartment, where he was liable every moment to interruptions; for it was, we are told, at the manse of Balmerino, disappointed in not finding the minister at home, and having a couple of hours to spare—and in a drawing-room at the manse of Kilmany, with all the excitement of meeting for the first time, after a year's absence, many of his former friends and parishioners—that he penned paragraph after paragraph of a composition which, as his son-in-law and biographer, Dr. Hanna, says, bears upon it the aspect of high and continuous elaboration. That the author of Auld Robin Gray kept the authorship of her immortal ballad a secret for fifty years. That the title of The Man of Feeling adhered to Mackenzie ever after the publication of that novel; the public fancying him a pensive, sentimental Harley, whereas he was, according to Cockburn, a hard-headed, practical man, as full of worldly wisdom as most of his fictitious characters are devoid of it. That Dryden, who was personally more moral than any of the reigning wits at the commencement of the Restoration, was, in the beginning of his career, the most deliberately and unnaturally coarse as a writer—absolutely toiling and laboring against the grain of his genius, to be sufficiently obscene to please the town. That three great wits—Gay, Pope, and Arbuthnot—joined in the production of a play which was condemned the first night it was acted. That Abernethy, who was so bold in the practice of his profession, suffered for so many years from extreme diffidence in the lecture-room—"an unconquerable shyness, a difficulty in commanding at pleasure that self-possession which was necessary to open his lecture;" and that much as he sometimes forgot the courtesy due to his private patients, he was never unkind to those whom charity had confided to his care. (Leaving home one morning for the hospital when some one was desirous of detaining him, he said, "Private patients, if they do not like me, can go elsewhere; but the poor devils in the hospital I am bound to take care of.") That Godwin, who wrote against matrimony, was twice married; and while he scouted all commonplace duties, was a good husband and kind father. That Mrs. Radcliffe had never been in Italy when she wrote The Mysteries of Udolpho, yet her paintings of Italian scenery, and of the mountains of Switzerland, for truth and richness of coloring, have never been surpassed by poet or painter—not even by Byron. That Professor Wilson, whose fame in great part rests upon Noctes Ambrosianæ, was indebted to Lockhart for the idea, who wrote the first of those famous papers, and gave them their name. ("I have known Lockhart long," said Wilson to a visitor; "we used to sup together with Blackwood, and that was the real origin of the Noctes. 'At Ambrose's?' 'At Ambrose's.' 'But is there such a tavern really?' 'Oh, certainly. Anybody will show it to you. It is a small house, kept in an out-of-the-way corner of the town, by Ambrose, who is an excellent fellow in his way, and has had a great influx of custom in consequence of his celebrity in the Noctes. We were there one night very late, and had all been remarkably gay and agreeable. 'What a pity,' said Lockhart, 'that some short-hand writer had not been here to take down the good things that have been said at this supper.' The next day he produced a paper called Noctes Ambrosianæ, and that was the first. I continued them afterward.") That in Robespierre's desk, after his death, were found David's plans of academies for infancy and asylums for age: "being just about to inaugurate the Reign of Love when the conspiracy against him swept him down the closing abyss of the Reign of Terror." That Lamartine, the French orator, poet, and political leader, when at the zenith of his popularity, was rejected as a witness in court where he had offered himself, the reason of the rejection being that in his youth he had been convicted of a theft. That Mallet, although pensioned for the purpose, never, according to Dr. Johnson, wrote a single line of his projected life of Marlborough,—groping for materials, and thinking of it, till he exhausted his mind. That Robert Morris, the superintendent of finance during the American Revolution, who, on his personal responsibility, borrowed large sums of money for the use of the government, which, on account of the known state of the treasury, could not have been procured in any other way; who refused the post of secretary of the treasury offered to him by Washington—naming Alexander Hamilton for the station—in his old age, having lost his fortune, was confined in a Philadelphia prison, for debt. That in America, in the Province of Pennsylvania, it was enacted by the Council, William Penn presiding, that the laws should "not be printed;" and William Bradford was summoned before the Governor and Council for printing the Charter or Frame of Government of the Province; and Joseph Growden, who caused the printing of the same, with some remarks thereon, was censured by Governor Blackwell, "not only for that it was false, but for that the Proprietor (William Penn) had declared himself against the use of the printing-press." That Beau Brummell, who was for many years the associate of royalty and leader of fashion in England, died, poverty-stricken and miserable, in a French hospital for lunatic mendicants. That the great and good Dr. Johnson, "that majestic teacher of moral and religious wisdom," when he was in Edinburgh, although personally acquainted with the celebrated Dr. Robertson, declined going to hear him preach, because he "would not be seen in a Presbyterian church;" and upon being asked by Boswell where John Knox was buried, burst out, "I hope in the highway." That Wordsworth earnestly defended the Church Establishment, saying he would shed his blood for it, when he had confessed that he knew not when he had been in a church in his own country. ("All our ministers," he said, "are so vile.") That the vanity of Sir Philip Francis, in the opinion of Moore, led him to think that it was no great addition to his fame to have the credit of Junius, having done, according to his own notion, much better things. ("This," said the poet, "gets over one of the great difficulties in accounting for the concealment; and it must have been, at all events, either some very celebrated man who could dispense with such fame, or some very vain man who thought he could.") That August von Kotzebue, "the idol of the mob," was despised if not hated by the great poets of his country. ("One of his plays, The Stranger," said an eminent Englishman, "I have seen acted in German, English, Spanish, French, and, I believe, also in Italian.") That Lavater, with all his real and pretended knowledge of human nature, was duped by Cagliostro. That Hogarth had the impression, which his reputation as a satirist could never disturb, that historical painting was his true vocation. That the mild Melancthon approved of the burning of Servetus. That Joseph Scaliger, who perfectly understood thirteen languages, was deeply versed in almost every branch of literature—perhaps one of the greatest scholars that any age has produced—found so much perplexity, not in acquiring, but in communicating his knowledge, that sometimes, like Nero, he wished he had never known his letters. That Chillingworth, the constant study of whose works was recommended by Locke, "for attaining the way of right reasoning," and of whom it was affirmed that he had "such extraordinary clear reason, that if the great Turk or devil could be converted, he was able to do it," contracted, according to Lord Clarendon, "such an irresolution and habit of doubting, that at last he was confident of nothing." That Gray's Elegy, taking the author's own word for it, was not intended for the public; the poet's sole ambition being to gratify a few of his friends; his own family, even, were not made a party to his writings, and his fond mother lived and died in ignorance of his immortal verse. That Playfair, when racked on his death-bed with pain, and a relation wishing to amuse him by reading one of Scott's novels, of which he was very fond, dissuaded it, saying, he would rather try the Principia. That Horace Walpole, who was greedy to excess of praise, and keenly sensitive to criticism, professed a strong aversion to being considered a man of letters; and that with all his avowed contempt for literary fame, left fair copies of his private correspondence, with copious notes, to be published after his decease. That Mirabeau, who came into the world with "a huge head, a pair of grinders, one foot twisted, and tongue-tied, disfigured when three years old by confluent small-pox," called, as he grew up, a "monster," a "disheveled bully," "as ugly as the nephew of Satan," turned out to be the Demosthenes of France, and the idol of beautiful Parisian women. That Sanson, the hereditary French executioner, who officiated at the decapitation of Louis XVI., founded, before he died, a perpetual anniversary mass for the repose of the monarch's soul; and wrote his Memoirs in the style of a philanthropist, whom fate had condemned to officiate at the guillotine. That Rousseau, the chief article of whose rather hazy creed was the duty of universal philanthropy, fancied himself the object of all men's hatred. That Cowper, who held that the first duty of man was the love of God, fancied himself the object of the irrevocable hatred of his Creator. That the very name of the Cross was forbidden by the French Republic at the very time when it had proclaimed unbounded religious freedom. That the charge of plagiarism against Sterne rests in great part upon his plagiarizing an invective against plagiarism. That George Crabbe gave the leisure of more than twenty of his ripest years to writing three novels, which he afterward burned. That François Huber, who wrote the extraordinary Treatise on the Economy of Bees, which for general information on the subject has never been superseded, was from the sixteenth year of his age totally blind,—all the curious remarks and inferences involved in his observations being founded on fifty years of careful researches which he directed others, and particularly a favorite servant, to make. That eighteen years elapsed after the time that Columbus conceived his enterprise before he was enabled to carry it into effect,—most of that time being passed in almost hopeless solicitation, amidst poverty, neglect, and taunting ridicule; when "Amerigo Vespucci, the pickle-dealer at Seville, who went out, in 1499, a subaltern with Hojeda, and whose highest naval rank was boatswain's mate in an expedition that never sailed, managed in this lying world to supplant Columbus, and baptize half the earth with his dishonest name." That Montaigne, who considered cruelty "the extreme of all vices," was a friend of the Guises and of the blood-stained Mont-luc: he was also for many years a member of a parliament which had much innocent blood on its head, and always spoke with reverence and affection of those who carried out the St. Bartholomew. That La Fontaine, who in his Fables "makes animals, trees, and stones talk," was in his conversation proverbially dull and stupid. That Corneille, whom La Bruyère describes as "plain, timorous, and tiresome in his conversation," "taking one word for another, and judging not of the goodness of his own writings but by the money they brought him," in his books is "as great as Augustus, Pompey, Nicomedes, and Heraclius; he talks like a king; is a politician and a philosopher; he undertakes to make heroes speak and act; he describes the Romans, and they are greater and more Romans in his verse than in their history." That John Howard, "the philanthropist" and prison reformer, introduced the system of solitary confinement, and recommended its application to refractory boys. ("For which," said the gentle Charles Lamb, "I could spit on his statue.") That Bruce, the traveler, after all his perils by flood and by field, from wars, from wild beasts, from deserts, from savage natives, broke his neck down his own staircase at home, owing to a slip of the foot, while seeing some visitors out whom he had been entertaining. That Diogenes, who was so fond of expressing his contempt for money, in his younger days was driven out of the kingdom of Pontus for counterfeiting the coin. That the mighty Dr. Johnson was at times so languid as not to be able to distinguish the hour upon the clock. That the ready and voluminous De Quincey, during the four years he was "under the Circean spells of opium," seldom could prevail on himself to write even a letter; an answer of a few words to any that he received was the utmost that he could accomplish; and that, often, not until the letter had lain weeks, or even months, on his writing-desk. That out of the name of Epicurus was coined a synonym for indulgence and sensuality, when that virtuous philosopher "placed his felicity not in the pleasures of the body, but the mind, and tranquillity thereof;" who "was contented with bread and water;" and when he would feast with Jove, "desired no other addition than a piece of Cytheridian cheese." That Phidias made his sitting statue of Jupiter so large "that if he had risen up he had borne up the top of the temple." That Canova, whenever the conversation turned upon sculpture, exhibited "a freshly-bedaubed tablet," "with a smile of paternal pride." That Goethe undervalued himself as a poet, claiming only superiority over his "century" in "the difficult science of colors." That Jerrold was ambitious to write a treatise on natural philosophy. That Paul Jones, the "hero of desperate sea-fights," was enamored of Thomson's Seasons. That Bonaparte, who "overran Europe with his armies," "recreated himself with the wild rhapsodies of Ossian." That John Wesley, who "set all in motion," was himself (as described by Robert Hall) "perfectly calm and phlegmatic"—"the quiescence of turbulence." That Persius, whose satires are most licentious, sharp, and full of bitterness, is described as "very chaste, though a beautiful young man: sober, as meek as a lamb, and as modest as a young virgin." That Luis de Camoëns, the greatest of the Portuguese poets, for a long time was supported by a devoted Javanese servant, Antonio, who collected alms for him during the night, and nursed him during the day. That Paulo Borghese, pronounced almost as good a poet as Tasso, was master of fourteen trades, and died because he could get employment in none. That Bentivoglio, "whose comedies will last with the Italian language," having dissipated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevolence, and fallen into misery in his old age, was refused admittance into a hospital which he himself had erected. That Demosthenes "threw down his arms when he came within sight of the enemy, and lost that credit in the camp which he gained in the pulpit." That Socrates, by the oracle adjudged to be the wisest of mortals, "when he appeared in the attempt of some public performance before the people," "faltered in the first onset;" and "did not recover himself, but was hooted and hissed home again." That Plato, the philosopher, was "so dashed out of countenance by an illiterate rabble as to demur, and hawk, and hesitate, before he could get to the end of one short sentence." That Theophrastus was "such another coward, who, beginning to make an oration, was presently struck down with fear, as if he had seen some ghost or hobgoblin." That Isocrates was so bashful and timorous, that though he taught rhetoric, yet he could never have the confidence to speak in public. That Cicero, that master of Roman eloquence, "begun his speeches with a low, quivering voice, just like a school-boy afraid of not saying his lesson perfect enough to escape whipping." That Pope, who had the courage in his Dunciad to attack a whole generation of scholars and wits, acknowledged his inability to face a half-dozen persons to make a statement or relate an incident of considerable length. That Plutarch, the greatest of biographers, is without a biography,—none of the eminent Roman writers who were his contemporaries even mention his name. That of Correggio, who delineated the features of others so well, there exists no authentic portrait. That of Romanianus, whom Augustine speaks of as the greatest genius that ever lived, there is nothing known but his name. That the epitaph of Gordianus, though written in five languages, proved insufficient to save him from oblivion. That Domitian, after he had possessed himself of the Roman Empire, turned his desires upon catching flies. That Hazlitt, "because his face was as pale and clear as marble," was "pointed at as the 'pimpled Hazlitt;'" and "because he never tasted anything but water," was "held up as an habitual gin-drinker and a sot." That Robert Burns in early life was thought to be insensible to music. (Murdock, the teacher of Burns and his brother Gilbert, says that he "tried to teach them a little sacred music, but found this impracticable, there being no music in either of their souls. As for Robert, his ear was so completely dull that he could not distinguish one tune from another, and his voice was so untunable that he could not frame a note, and was left behind by all the boys and girls of the school.") That Sir Isaac Newton, though so deep in algebra and fluxions, could not, according to Spence, readily make up a common account, and whilst he was master of the mint, used to get somebody to make up the account for him. That Socrates, according to Plato, gave occasion of laughter, at the expense of his own reputation, to the Athenians, for having never been able to sum up the votes of his tribe to deliver it to the council. That Prime Minister Gladstone, upon being asked how he employed his mind when duty compelled him to sit on the bench of the ministers while a tory was delivering himself of a dull three hours' harangue, made answer, "Last evening, when Mr. —— was speaking, I turned Rock of Ages into the Greek, and had half an hour to spare." That the great and wise and pious Chalmers so far adopted and became impressed with the views of Malthus as to urge the expediency of a restraint upon marriage, and that the same be "inculcated upon the people as the very essence of morality and religion by every pastor and instructor throughout England." That The Admirable Crichton, master of a dozen languages, after disputing for six hours with eminent doctors of Padua on topics of science, delighting the assembly as much by his modesty as by his wonderful learning and judgment, at the conclusion, gave an extemporaneous oration in praise of ignorance with so much ingenuity that he reconciled his audience to their inferiority. That the Duke of Marlborough, who, while an ensign of guards, received from the Duchess of Cleveland, then favorite mistress of Charles II., five thousand pounds, with which he bought an annuity for his life of five hundred pounds,—the foundation of his subsequent fortune,—afterward, when he was famous as well as rich, and the Duchess was wretched and necessitous, "refused the common civility of lending her twenty guineas." That although Sir Isaac Newton was of opinion that he "excelled particularly in making verses," no authentic specimen of his poetry has been preserved. That the first public speech of John Randolph, three hours in length, and which established his reputation as an orator, was made in reply to the last ever delivered by the venerable Patrick Henry,—the former in his twenty-sixth year, a self-announced candidate for Congress, and the latter in his sixty-third year, the candidate of George Washington for a place in the Virginia legislature. That but a few years after John Brown's defeat and execution in Virginia, Congress enacted a law and the president approved it, by which a portion of the Harper's Ferry buildings, including the famous engine-house, so nobly defended by the old hero, and to capture which from his little garrison Robert E. Lee and the United States marines had to be sent for, was presented by the government as a free gift to the Storer College, an institution expressly designed for the education of colored men. That Henry A. Wise, who, as governor of Virginia, hung John Brown, a few years afterward, fled Richmond, the capital of Virginia, at the head of a Confederate division of white troops, closely followed by a division of loyal black troops, singing, "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave, but his soul is marching on." That a daughter of John Brown taught a free school of emancipated slave children in the deserted drawing-room of Henry A. Wise. That about the same time, at Lumpkin's Jail, which was the slave-market, there was established a theological seminary for colored young men. That Richard Realf, one of John Brown's trusted men, was appointed assessor of internal revenue for the district of Edgefield, South Carolina. That the first Confederate officer in South Carolina who officially met an officer of colored troops under a flag of truce was Captain John C. Calhoun. That one of Jefferson Davis's old slaves became a lessee of Jefferson Davis's old plantation. That Foote, the celebrated actor, died with the dropsy, never in his life, as he said, having drank a drop of water. That the great Neander, sometimes called the "second John,"—"the son of thunder and the son of love,"—had his mind first turned in the direction in which he afterward found truth and peace, by a passage in Plutarch's Pedagogue. That Plutarch, who wrote so voluminously and excellently upon morals, great personages, and great influences, made no mention in any of his books of Christ or Christianity. ("If we place his birth," says Archbishop Trench, "at about the year a. d. 50, then long before he began to write, St. Peter and St. Paul must have finished their course. All around him—at Rome, where he dwelt so long; in that Greece where the best part of his life was spent; in Asia Minor, with which Greece was in constant communication; in Macedonia—there were flourishing churches. Christianity was everywhere in the air, so that men unconsciously inhaled some of its influences, even where they did not submit themselves to its positive teaching. But for all this, no word, no allusion of Plutarch's, testifies to his knowledge of the existence of these churches, or to the slightest acquaintance on his part with the Christian books." Suetonius, a contemporary of Plutarch, calls the Christians "a sort of people who held a new and impious superstition." Pliny, another contemporary, pronounces the Christian religion "a depraved, wicked, and outrageous superstition;" Tacitus, "a foreign and deadly superstition.") That John Stuart Mill, who found time and space in his autobiography to make careful lists of the incredible number of books he read between the ages of three and fourteen, to note the languages and sciences he acquired in the same time, as well as his associations and relations with his father, his brothers, and his sisters; who accepted his wife, during her life-time, as his divinity, and, after her death, confessed her memory to have been his religion,—omitted to say one word about his mother. That Jonathan Edwards, the great theologian and thinker,—in the opinion of Robert Hall, "the greatest of the sons of men,"—never had the degree of doctor of divinity or doctor of laws conferred on him, while they were showered on scores of his commonplace contemporaries. That Sir John Suckling and Richard Lovelace, so famous as courtiers and poet cavaliers, the pets of the king and the people, the much admired and adored by the female sex, died in wretchedness and despair,—the former taking poison, and the latter dying in rags in a miserable alley in London. That Milton, advanced in years, blind, and in misfortune, entered upon the composition of his immortal epic, achieving it in six years. That Scott, also advanced in years, his private affairs in ruin, undertook to liquidate, by intellectual labors alone, a debt of more than half a million of dollars, nearly accomplishing it in the same time. That Dr. Lardner published a treatise to prove that a steamboat could never cross the Atlantic (the steamship Sirius, which crossed soon after, carrying over his pamphlet), and staked his reputation as a man of science to a committee of the House of Commons that no railway train could ever be propelled faster than ten miles in an hour, as the slightest curve would infallibly throw it off the rails. That Babinet, the French calculator, also risked his reputation upon the declaration that no telegram would ever be transmitted through the Atlantic to America. That Renous, a German collector in natural history, having left in a house in San Fernandino, Chili, some caterpillars under charge of a girl to feed that they might turn into butterflies, was arrested upon returning to the house, his extraordinary conduct having been rumored through the town till it reached the padres and governor, who consulted together and determined to punish the pernicious heresy. That Socrates learned music, Cato the Greek language, Plutarch Latin, and Dr. Johnson Dutch, after they were seventy years old. That Robert Hall sought relief in Dante from the racking pains of spinal disease; and Sydney Smith resorted to the same poet for comfort and solace in his old age. That De Foe, the author of two hundred and ten books and pamphlets—some of them immortal—died insolvent. That Sheridan got Woodfall to insert in his paper a calumnious article, and neglected to answer it afterward, as he intended—expending, according to Moore, all his activity in assisting the circulation of the poison, and not having industry enough left to supply the antidote. That Hugh Miller, who had such healthy views of life, as shown in his autobiography, voluntarily left it by means of a pistol. That Lloyd, one of the early friends and literary associates of Lamb and Coleridge, took lodgings at a working brazier's shop in Fetter Lane, to distract his mind from melancholy and postpone his madness. That Hazlitt said that Mary Lamb was the wisest and most rational woman he had ever known. That Professor Wilson, soon after he was selected to fill the moral philosophy chair at Edinburgh, and the poet Campbell, were seen one morning leaving a tavern in that city, both "haggard and red-eyed, hoarse and exhausted, having sat tête-à-tête for twenty-four hours discussing poetry and wine to the top of their bent." That Richard Baxter, the stern Calvinist, and author of one hundred and sixty-eight works upon theology, wrote at the end of his long life, "I now see more good and more evil in all men than heretofore I did. I see that good men are not so good as I once thought they were, and I find that few are so bad as either malicious enemies or censorious separating professors do imagine." That Theodore de Beza, the apostle of John Calvin, put to press at the same time his coarse amorous poems (Juvenilia) and his intolerant apology for the trial and execution of Servetus. That the "mighty Dr. Hill, who was not a very delicate feeder, could not make a dinner out of the press till by a happy transformation into Hannah Glass he turned himself into a cook, and sold receipts for made dishes to all the savory readers in the kingdom—the press then acknowledging him second in favor only to John Bunyan; his feasts kept pace in sale with Nelson's fasts, and when his own name was fairly written out of credit, he wrote himself into immortality under an alias." That Madame de Montespan, who found it for her interest and vanity to live in habitual violation of the seventh commandment, was so rigorous in her devotions as to weigh her bread in Lent. That Cardinal Bernis, the most worthless of abbés, who owed his advancement in the church to Madame de Pompadour, the most worthless of women, refused to communicate in the dignity of the purple with a woman of so unsanctimonious a character. That Rousseau, whose preaching made it fashionable for women of rank to nurse their own children, sent his own, as soon as born, to the foundling hospital. That Coleridge and Goldsmith wrote The House that Jack Built and Goody Two Shoes: more than all it is curious, and wonderful, that these two simple trifles seem destined to outlive their more elaborate productions—The Ancient Mariner and The Vicar of Wakefield. Christabel and The Deserted Village may hardly be preserved amongst the curiosities of literature, when the famous nursery rhymes—joyously ringing upon the tongues of silver-voiced children—will be immortally fresh and new.

X.

CONTRASTS.

The world will never be tired reading and talking of the peculiarities and struggles of some of its literary worthies, they seem so incredible. Poor Goldsmith, for example: every incident relating to him is interesting, even if colored by envy—as most of the contemporaneous gossip about him was. "I first met Goldsmith," says Cumberland, "at the British Coffee House. He dined with us as a visitor, introduced by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and we held a consultation upon the naming of his comedy, which some of the company had read, and which he detailed to the rest after his manner with a great deal of good-humor. Somebody suggested She Stoops to Conquer, and that title was agreed upon.... 'You and I,' said he, 'have very different motives for resorting to the stage. I write for money, and care little about fame.'... The whole company pledged themselves to the support of the poet, and faithfully kept their promise to him. In fact, he needed all that could be done for him, as Mr. Colman, then manager of Covent Garden Theatre, protested against the comedy, when as yet he had not struck upon a name for it. Johnson at length stood forth in all his terror, as champion for the piece, and backed by us, his clients and retainers, demanded a fair trial. Colman again protested, but, with that salvo for his own reputation, liberally lent his stage to one of the most eccentric productions that ever found its way to it, and She Stoops to Conquer was put into rehearsal. We were not over-sanguine of success, but perfectly determined to struggle hard for our author; we accordingly assembled our strength at the Shakespeare Tavern in a considerable body for an early dinner, where Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life and soul of the corps: the poet took post silently by his side, with the Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Fitzherbert, Caleb Whitefoord, and a phalanx of North British predetermined applauders, under the banner of Major Mills, all good men and true. Our illustrious president was in inimitable glee, and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery as patiently and complacently as my friend Boswell would have done any day or every day of his life. In the meantime, we did not forget our duty, and though we had a better comedy going, in which Johnson was chief actor, we betook ourselves in good time to our separate and allotted posts, and waited the awful drawing up of the curtain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were our signals for plaudits arranged and determined upon in a manner that gave every one his cue where to look for them and how to follow them up. We had amongst us a very worthy and sufficient member, long since lost to his friends and the world at large, Adam Drummond, of amiable memory, who was gifted by nature with the most sonorous, and, at the same time, the most contagious, laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. The neighing of the horse of the son of Hystaspes was a whisper to it; the whole thunder of the theatre could not drown it. This kind and ingenuous friend fairly forewarned us that he knew no more when to give his fire than the cannon did that was planted on a battery. He desired, therefore, to have a flapper at his elbow, and I had the honor to be deputed to that office. I planted him in an upper box, pretty nearly over the stage, in full view of the pit and galleries, and perfectly well situated to give the echo all its play through the hollows and recesses of the theatre. The success of our manœuvres was complete. All eyes were upon Johnson, who sat in a front row of a side box, and when he laughed everybody thought themselves warranted to roar. In the meantime, my friend followed signals with a rattle so irresistibly comic that, when he had repeated it several times, the attention of the spectators was so engrossed by his person and performances that the progress of the play seemed likely to become a secondary object, and I found it prudent to insinuate to him that he might halt his music without any prejudice to the author; but, alas, it was now too late to rein him in; he had laughed upon my signal where he found no joke, and now unluckily he fancied that he found a joke in almost everything that was said; so that nothing in nature could be more malapropos than some of his bursts every now and then were. These were dangerous moments, for the pit began to take umbrage; but we carried our play through, and triumphed, not only over Colman's judgment, but our own." It is related that Goldsmith, during the performance of the comedy, walked all the time in St. James's Park, in great uneasiness; and when he thought it must be over, he hastened to the theatre. His ears were assailed with hisses as he entered the green-room, when he eagerly inquired of Mr. Colman the cause. "Pshaw! Pshaw!" said Colman, "don't be afraid of squibs, when we have been sitting on a barrel of gun-powder these two hours." The fact was, that the comedy had been completely successful, and that it was the farce which had excited those sounds so terrific to Goldsmith.

A scene very different from that occurred at another "first acting"—as remarkable if not as famous. It was on the occasion of the first presentation of Lamb's farce of Mr. H., thirty years later, at Drury Lane. That acute dramatic scholar and critic had written a tragedy,—John Woodvil,—the fate of which his friend Procter has pleasantly narrated: "It had been in Mr. Kemble's hands for about a year, and Lamb naturally became urgent to hear his decision upon it. Upon applying for this he found that his play was—lost! This was at once acknowledged, and a 'courteous request made for another copy, if I had one by me.' Luckily, another copy existed. The 'first runnings' of a genius were not, therefore, altogether lost, by having been cast, without a care, into the dusty limbo of the theatre. The other copy was at once supplied, and the play very speedily rejected. It was afterward facetiously brought forward in one of the early numbers of the Edinburgh Review, and there noticed as a rude specimen of the earliest age of the drama, 'older than Æschylus.'" But the condemnation of his tragedy did not discourage him; he now tried his genius upon a farce. Its acceptance, Talfourd says, gave Lamb some of the happiest moments he ever spent. He wrote joyously to Wordsworth about it, even carrying his humorous anticipations so far as to indulge in a draft of the "orders" he should send out to his friends after it had had a successful run: "Admit to Boxes. Mr. H. Ninth Night. Charles Lamb." Hear what he says about it to his friend Manning, then in China: "The title is Mr. H., no more; how simple, how taking! A great H— sprawling over the play-bill, and attracting eyes at every corner. The story is a coxcomb appearing at Bath, vastly rich—all the ladies dying for him—all bursting to know who he is—but he goes by no other name than Mr. H.; a curiosity like that of the dames of Strasburg about the man with the great nose. But I won't tell you any more about it. Yes, I will; but I can't give you any idea how I have done it. I'll just tell you that after much vehement admiration, when his true name comes out,—'Hogsflesh,'—all the women shun him, avoid him, and not one can be found to change her name for him—that's the idea: how flat it is here, but how whimsical in the farce! And only think how hard upon me it is that the ship is dispatched to-morrow, and my triumph cannot be ascertained till the Wednesday after; but all China will ring of it by and by.... I shall get two hundred pounds from the theatre if Mr. H. has a good run, and I hope one hundred pounds for the copyright.... Mary and I are to sit next the orchestra in the pit, next the dweedle dees." The Wednesday came, the wished-for evening, which decided the fate of Mr. H. "Great curiosity," says Talfourd, "was excited by the announcement; the house was crowded to the ceiling, and the audience impatiently awaited the conclusion of the long intolerable opera by which it was preceded. At length the hero of the farce entered, gayly dressed, and in happiest spirits,—enough, not too much, elated,—and delivered the prologue with great vivacity and success. The farce began; at first it was much applauded; but the wit seemed wire-drawn; and when the curtain fell on the first act, the friends of the author began to fear. The second act dragged heavily on, as second acts of farces will do; a rout at Bath, peopled with ill-dressed and over-dressed actors and actresses, increased the disposition to yawn; and when the moment of disclosure came, and nothing worse than the name Hogsflesh was heard, the audience resented the long play on their curiosity, and would hear no more. Lamb, with his sister, sat, as he anticipated, in the front of the pit; and having joined in encoring the epilogue, the brilliancy of which injured the farce, he gave way with equal pliancy to the common feeling, and hissed and hooted as loudly as any of his neighbors!" Away went the poet's fame, and the hoped-for three hundred pounds! Not even the autocratic countenance of Johnson, and the big, contagious laugh of Drummond, could have saved them. The next morning's play-bill contained a veracious announcement, that "the new farce of Mr. H., performed for the first time last night, was received by an overflowing audience with universal applause, and will be repeated for the second time to-morrow;" but the stage lamps never that morrow saw! An amusing, sad spectacle the whole thing was; Lamb, especially,—the dramatic scholar, critic, and wit, the theatre-goer, the associate of playwrights and actors,—hissing and hooting his own bantling! In a letter afterward to Manning, he labors to be amusing over the catastrophe in this ghastly and extravagant manner: "So I go creeping on since I was lamed by that cursed fall from off the top of Drury Lane Theatre into the pit, something more than a year ago. However, I have been free of the house ever since, and the house was pretty free with me upon that occasion. Hang 'em, how they hissed! It was not a hiss neither, but a sort of a frantic yell, like a congregation of mad geese; with roaring sometimes like bears; mows and mops like apes; sometimes snakes, that hissed me into madness. 'Twas like St. Anthony's temptations. Mercy on us! that God should give his favorite children, men, mouths to speak with, to discourse rationally, to promise smoothly, to flatter agreeably, to encourage warmly, to counsel wisely, to sing with, to drink with, and to kiss with, and that they should turn them into mouths of adders, bears, wolves, hyenas, and whistle like tempests, and emit breath through them like distillations of aspic poison, to asperse and vilify the innocent labors of their fellow-creatures who are desirous to please them! Heaven be pleased to make the teeth rot out of them all, therefore! Make them a reproach, and all that pass by them to loll out their tongues at them! Blind mouths! as Milton somewhere calls them."

Poor Elia! Of crazy stock; himself in a mad-house for six weeks at the end of his twentieth year; his sister insane at intervals throughout her life; his mother hopelessly bed-ridden till killed by her daughter in a fit of frenzy; his father pitifully imbecile; his old maiden aunt home from a rich relation's to be nursed till she died—all dependent upon him, his more prosperous brother declining to bear any part of the burden; his work for more than thirty years monotonous, and most of it performed at the same desk in the same back office; pinched all the time by adversity; with no ear for music; the list of his few friends, to use his own words, "in the world's eye, a ragged regiment,"—including the poet Lloyd, who died insane, and the scholar Dyer, who was so absent-minded as at one time to empty the contents of his snuff-box into the tea-pot when he was preparing breakfast for a hungry friend, at another, with staff in hand, and at noonday, to walk straight into the river,—the humor, we say, of dear, wretched, gentle Charles Lamb must stand a wonder in English literature.

Not less incredible was the steady growth of the prodigious genius of Charlotte Brontë, under circumstances hardly less awfully depressing. Think of the woful life of that suffering prodigy, in that cheerless village of forbidding stone houses, whose grim architecture illustrated the rigid hardness of their inhabitants. Above, below, all around, were rocks and moors, "where neither flowers nor vegetables would flourish, and where even a tree of moderate dimensions might be hunted far and wide; where the snow lay long and late; and where often, on autumnal and winter nights, the four winds of heaven seemed to meet and rage together, tearing round the houses as if they were wild beasts striving to find an entrance." Stone dikes were used in place of hedges. The cold parsonage, at the top of the one desolate street, with its stone stairs and stone floors in the passages and parlors, was surrounded on three sides by the "great old church-yard," which was "terribly full of upright tomb-stones," and which poisoned the water-springs of the pumps. The funeral bells, tolling, tolling, and the "chip, chip" of the mason, as he cut the grave-stones in a shed close by, were habitual sounds. The pews in the old church were of black oak, with high divisions, with the names of the owners painted in white letters on the doors. Her father, the clergyman, harsh, hard, and unsocial; at all times denying flesh food to his puny children; at dinner permitting them only potatoes, and rarely or never taking his meals with them; with a temper so violent and distrustful as to cause him always to carry a pistol, which he was in the habit of discharging from an upper window whenever in a fit of passion; who burned the little colored shoes of his children, presented by their mother's cousin, lest they should foster a love of dress; who cut in strips the silk gown of his wife because its color was not suited to his puritanical taste—at the time, too, when she was slowly dying of an internal cancer. Sent from home to be educated at a miserable school provided for the daughters of clergymen, where were bad air and bad food, and which caused the speedy death of both her elder sisters. So short-sighted that "she always seemed to be seeking something, moving her head from side to side to catch a sight of it." Having no visitors; visiting, during her childhood, but at one house, and that for but a short time. Her only intimate associates her two younger sisters. Wonderful trio! "At nine o'clock they put away their work, and began to pace the room backward and forward, up and down, over the stone floors,—as often with the candles extinguished, for economy's sake, as not,—their figures glancing in the firelight, and out into the shadow, perpetually. At this time they talked over past cares and troubles; they planned for the future, and consulted each other as to their plans. In after years, this was the time for discussing together the plots of their novels. And again, still later, this was the time for the last surviving sister (Charlotte) to walk alone, from old accustomed habit, round and round the desolate room, thinking sadly upon the 'days that were no more.'" Is there anything in books more sad and touching? Her only pet was a fierce bull-dog, and her only male associate her brilliant, drunken brother (who willfully died upon his feet, in an upright position, to fulfill an oft-declared purpose), a continual disgrace and terror as long as he lived. And much of the time, poor thing, in an agony about the fate of her soul! How the little, pinched victim of all this misery and wretchedness could have written a narrative which at once took its place, in spite of faithless and unsympathizing critics, and securely kept it, too, amongst the highest and best productions of the age, is a startling marvel in literature. Out of her own life she wrought her wonderful works. "The fiery imagination that at times eats me up," she wrote to her friend. In her stories she but told her own agonies, as Cowper noted the progress of his insanity, and the French physiologist his ebbing pulse under the deadly influence of burning charcoal.

But, recurring to Lamb and his set, what impossible, incomprehensible characters it included: Elton Hammond, for instance, a contemporary if not an associate. He inherited his father's tea business in Milk Street. In order, he said, to set an example to the world how a business should be carried on, and that he might not be interfered with in his plans, he turned off the clerks and every servant in the establishment, which soon wound up the business altogether. For a while he had no other society than a little child, which he taught its letters, and a mouse, that fed out of his hands. He journalized his food, his sleep, his dreams. He had a conviction that he was to have been, and ought to have been, the greatest of men, but was conscious in fact that he was not. The reason assigned by him for putting an end to his life was that he could not condescend to live without fulfilling his proper vocation. He said to one of his friends that he was on the point of making a discovery which would put an end to physical and moral evil in the world. He quarreled with another of his friends for not being willing to join him in carrying a heavy box through the streets of London for a poor woman. He refused a private secretaryship to Rough, a colonial chief justice, on the ground of the obligation involved to tell a lie and write a lie every day, subscribing himself the humble servant of people he did not serve, and toward whom he felt no humility. Here are a few things he wrote: "When I was about eight or ten I promised marriage to a wrinkled cook we had, aged about sixty-five. I was convinced of the insignificance of beauty, but really felt some considerable ease at hearing of her death, about four years after, when I began to repent of my vow."... "I always said that I would do anything to make another happy, and told a boy I would give him a shilling if it would make him happy; he said it would, so I gave it to him. It is not to be wondered at that I had plenty of such applications, and soon emptied my purse. It is true I rather grudged the money, because the boys laughed rather more than I wished them. But it would have been inconsistent to have appeared dissatisfied. Some of them were generous enough to return the money, and I was prudent enough to take it, though I declared that if it would make them happy I should be sorry to have it back."... "It is not pain, it is not death, that I dread, it is the hatred of a man; there is something in it so shocking that I would rather submit to any injury than incur or increase the hatred of a man by revenging it."... "The chief philosophical value of my papers I conceive to be that they record something of a mind that was very near taking a station far above all that have hitherto appeared in the world."... "It is provoking that the secret of rendering man perfect in wisdom, power, virtue, and happiness, should die with me. I never till this moment doubted that some other person would discover it; but I now recollect that when I have relied on others I have always been disappointed. Perhaps none may ever discover it, and the human race has lost its only chance of eternal happiness."... "I believe that man requires religion. I believe that there is no true religion now existing. I believe that there will be one. It will not, after eighteen hundred years of existence, be of questionable truth and utility, but perhaps in eighteen years be entirely spread over the earth, an effectual remedy for all human suffering, and a source of perpetual joy. It will not need immense learning to be understood, it will be subject to no controversy."... "Another sufficient reason for suicide is, that I was this morning out of temper with Mrs. Douglas (for no fault of hers). I did not betray myself in the least, but I reflected to be exposed to the possibility of such an event once a year was evil enough to render life intolerable. The disgrace of using an impatient word is to me overpowering."... "I am stupefied with writing, and yet I cannot go my long journey without taking leave of one from whom I have received so much kindness, and from whose society so much delight. My place is booked in Charon's boat to-night at twelve. Diana kindly consents to be of the party. This is handsome of her. She was not looked for on my part. Perhaps she is willing to acknowledge my obedience to her laws by a genteel compliment. Good. The gods, then, are grateful." To the coroner and his jury he wrote, "Let me suggest the following verdict, as combining literal truth with justice: 'Died by his own hand, but not feloniously.' If I have offended God, it is for God, not you, to inquire. Especial public duties I have none. If I have deserted any engagement in society, let the parties aggrieved consign my name to obloquy. I have for nearly seven years been disentangling myself from all my engagements, that I might at last be free to retire from life. I am free to-day, and avail myself of my liberty. I cannot be a good man, and prefer death to being a bad one,—as bad as I have been and as others are."