que then proceeds to say is equally so,—namely, that "s'il se met à écrire, c'est le modèle des bons contes; il fait parler les animaux, les arbres, les pierres, tout ce qui ne parle point: ce n'est que légéreté, qu' élégance, que beau naturel, et délicatesse dans ses ouvrages. "Good Heavens, Mr. Foote," exclaimed an actress at the Haymarket Theatre, “what a humdrum kind of man Dr. Goldsmith appears in our greenroom, compared with the figure he makes in his poetry!" Garrick's butt, too, as one who -wrote like an angel, and talked like Poor Poll. He was We are told that Lord Dorset was so much struck by the extraordinary merit of " Hudibras," on its publication in 1663, that he must needs be introduced to the author. This was effected, accordingly, at a tavern, whither Mr. Fleetwood Shepherd brought his lordship as an untitled friend. With this result: that Mr. Butler, while the first bottle was drinking, appeared very flat and heavy; at the second bottle, brisk and lively, full of wit and learning, and a most agreeable companion; but before the third bottle was finished, he "sunk again into such deep stupidity and dulness, that hardly anybody would have believed him to be the author of a book which abounded with so much wit, learning, and pleasantry." He had his lucid interval, however; which is more than we find allowed of some wits, at any stage whatever of the bottling process. Next morning, Mr. Shepherd asked Dorset his opinion of Butler, and his lordship ingeniously replied, that Samuel was like a ninepin, little at both ends, but great in the middle. This golden mean redeemed Butler. He was not always little-not always "at both ends," semper in extremis. But poets and philosophers of almost equal renown have been denied, by associates and compotators, the redeeming point of any such middle passage. When Leslie, the painter, was at Ayr, all enthusiasm about Burns, he came across an old man who said he had often had a gill of whisky with Rab. "What a delightful companion Burns must have been," exclaimed Mr. Leslie. "Oh, not at all," the old man replied; "he was a silly chiel; but his brother Gilbert was quite a gentleman." Before we make much of this auld body's testimonial, we should like to know (but indeed inferentially do know) what sort of chiel he was, his ain sel. Quite capable, no doubt, of tossing off glass for glass, or gill for gill, with Rab the poet; but less so, possibly, of taking his mental measure, with that poor metrical ell-wand of his own. It is likely enough that there might be found, here and there, those of low estate, to whom Scott condescended, in that genial, uncondescending way of his, who would similarly disparage Sir Walter's colloquial claims. And what are we to say of him, in his real character, in this respect? Was Sir Walter the sort of man you might correctly predicate from your study of his books? Did the author personally answer to his books; or was he, like so many of his craft, in sheer and startling contrast with them? * Les Caractères dé La Bruyère, ch. xii. says: Suppose we take his own statement of the case, made early in life. Writing to Miss Seward, about the possible prospect of visiting her at Lichfield, the author of the Lay of the Last Minstrel "You would expect to see a person who had dedicated himself much to literary pursuits, and you would find me a rattle-sculled half-lawyer, half-sportsman, through whose head a regiment of horse has been exercising since he was five years old; half-educated-half-crazy, as his friends sometimes tell him; half-everything, but entirely Miss Seward's much obliged, affectionate, and faithful servant, Walter Scott."* Altogether a man to endorse Mr. Emerson's charge against the "too great fineness, effeminacy, and melancholy" of modern literature, as attributable to the enervated and sickly habits of the literary class; and to agree with the rider to that proposition: Better that the book should not be quite so good, and the bookmaker abler and better, and not himself often a ludicrous contrast to all that he has written.† Sir Walter used himself to say that, as for poets, he had seen all the best of his age and country, and that, except Byron, not one of them would answer an artist's notion of the character. And what was the impression that Scott made upon competent observers among his literary contemporaries? Joanna Baillie was asked the question, and answered that at first she was a little disappointed" for I was fresh from the Lay, and had pictured to myself an ideal elegance and refinement of feature." Nevertheless she said to herself, that, had she been in a crowd, and at a loss what to do, she should have fixed upon that face among a thousand, as the sure index of the benevolence and the shrewdness that would and could help her in her strait. Lockhart records the opinion of "not a few persons of undoubted ability and accomplishment," that the genius of the great novelist and poet rarely, if ever, revealed itself in his talk.§ It was in reference rather, perhaps, to Abbotsford belongings, than to the personnel of its proprietor, that Miss Edgeworth exclaimed, on one of the happiest days in Scott's life, and with a look and accent which those who saw and heard it never forgot, as he welcomed her at his archway, "Everything about you is exactly what one ought to have had wit enough to dream !"|| Before quitting Sir Walter's always pleasant presence, let us take passing note of his Diary record of the death of William Knox, reputed a poet of promise, if not approved one by performance-hymns and spiritual songs being the main offspring of his muse. Our present interest in him consists simply in the fact, that in his own line of society he was said to exhibit "infinite humour;" whereas all his works " are grave and pensive-a style, perhaps, like Master Stephen's melancholy, affected for the nonce."¶ On the other hand, there are authors of infinite jest, seemingly of drollery all compact, who, in private life, look and are as grave and pensive as the above hymn-writer was not. Thomas Hood may fairly represent the class, as so signally one who * Scott to Miss Seward, 1805. † Man the Reformer. § Ibid., ch. xli. -shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.* "He must In one of Hood's letters from Coblentz we read: "The artist who is coming out to take my portrait will have a nice elderly grizzled head to exhibit. What that pale, thin, long face the Comic! Zounds! I must gammon him, and get some friend to sit for me."+ flatter me, or they will take the whole thing for a practical joke,"‡ Hood writes to another friend, some eight months later. Shortly before his death he punningly writes to the author of " Essays from the Times," "My bust is modelled and cast. It is said to be a correct likeness: two parts Methodist, to one of Humourist, and quite recognisable in spite of the Hood all over the face."§ The artists and contributors to the London Charivari are, personally, one may pretty safely affirm, just about as much like Punch, as Hood was like the image formed of him by nineteen-twentieths of those who took in, and in this one point were taken in by, the Comic. Nor, by general testimony, was it in looks alone, but in mien and manners, however unobtrusive and even reserved, that he left upon you the impression of an essentially and constitutionally sad-hearted man. BENEDICT AND BACHELOR. BY JAMES M'GRIGOR ALLAN. MESSRS. BENEDICT and Bachelor are men who very fairly represent the conditions respectively implied by their names. Benedict, the married man, is a stout, warm, comfortable personage, engaged in trade. He is about forty-five, nearly bald, not particularly literary in his tastes; in short, a highly respectable, common-place man. Bachelor, who is unmarried, is a tall, thin man, about thirty, with a keen, restless eye, addicted to literary pursuits, poor, and jovial. These men cherish what is called "a sneaking kindness" for each other, though so unlike in every respect. They often meet, and never meet without sparring togetherI mean with the tongue, not with the fist. Their favourite topic of dispute is the grand question which has been argued from time immemorial, and which will probably be discussed till the end of the chapter: Whether marriage or celibacy is the preferable condition. I love to listen to them, and generally carry away some new lights on this topic, so deeply interesting to the whole human race. Shall I hide these lights under a bushel? No. The following discussion took place after dinner, in presence of some dozen or so of men. I lay stress on this fact, which doubtless contributed * Thackeray. † Hood to Lieut. de Franck, April 23, 1837. To Dr. Elliott, Dec. 2, 1837. 2 F not a little to the racy frankness of the speakers; and additional piquancy was added by the circumstance that the married and single men were pretty equally represented by the guests, who regarded Benedict and Bachelor as their respective champions. Bachelor began the fray by some reflections on the happy state. Benedict immediately took up the gauntlet, and spoke as follows: "I am sorry to hear such sentiments from Mr. Bachelor's lips. I wish I could add surprised. The only excuse for a bachelor depreciating marriage, is that he does not know what he is talking about. Only contrast the two conditions of life. The married man has a home. He knows that when his daily business is over, there are bright and joyous faces to welcome him there. What does Shakspeare say? If my memory does not deceive me, he says something to this effect: That it is sweet to see the honest watch-dog mark your coming, and look brighter when you come." (A laugh, in which, however, Mr. Bachelor does not join.) "I may not have quoted the passage correctly-I don't think I havebut that's the sentiment of it. Now, turn to the bachelor. He has no home. You can't apply that sacred name to the lodgings where the miserable man is taken in and done for-waited on by hirelings, or rather not waited on, for they never answer the bell. The bachelor has no wife to prepare his milk and corn, as some person somewhere says." (Another laugh.) "Pardon me. I don't pretend to accuracy in quotation. Mine is a busy life. I have a family to provide for, and can't find time to pore over books. The bachelor is a melancholy waif and stray. He is an encumbrance to everybody, and only tolerated by his landlady on account of the money he spends. He is the prey of the common lodging-house-keeper, who is remarkable for skinning her victims alive, like the eels. And let me tell you, misguided young men, who glory in your misfortunes! that the bachelor is dreadfully cheated. He is bullied by his landlady, and cheated by his laundress. I remember my own bachelor days." ("Very wild days they were; no wonder you remember them.") "I treat that interruption with silent contempt. I am not to be diverted from my subject. Think of the bachelor's unsocial, unsatisfactory dinner at an eating-house; that is, the meal they dignify by the name of dinner-a lukewarm plate of meat, instead of the cut from the nice family joint, served piping hot, with the delicious gravy." (Here several bachelors sighed heavily. It was evident their feelings were deeply touched by this eloquent gastronomical argument.) "You will say these are prosaic considerations. They are so, but- (Confused cries of "No, no"-"Not at all"-" Highly important"-" Go on”"Bravo," &c. Elated with the impression he was making, Mr. Benedict, continued:) "They are important. Our health depends on our digestion; our digestion on our dinner. I know that bachelors often sit down to far better dinners at their clubs than married men can afford to do in the bosom of their families." ("I believe you, my boy!") "Very true; and more shame to them for doing so. The bachelor dines in a lonely and unsocial manner, so he tries to make amends by sumptuous fare and expensive wines. I know men who spend a guinea on their dinners, and they complain they can't afford to marry-the selfish gormandisers! I don't wish to decry the pleasures of the table in moderation, or a jolly good dinner occasionally, such as we have enjoyed to pre day; but I ask you, my friends, what wines, what after-dinner conversation, what wit, can compare with the rosy faces of the children which surround paterfamilias at the dessert at home?" (Omnes: "Bravo, Benedict!") "To come to more serious considerations: What has the bachelor to live for? Come, Bachelor, answer for Philander, Lovejoy, Singleman, Guttleton, and the rest of you! What have you to live for? What interest binds you to life? A bachelor has no inducement to get on in the world, or make more money than is just sufficient for his own selfish, mischievous, and too often criminal pleasures." ("Benedict, your language is unparliamentary." Laughter from the bachelors, and applause from the married men.) "I will not be put down. I repeat too often criminal pleasures.' I say a bachelor won't work as hard as a married man, and I appeal to the bachelors sent as illustrations of what I say. Philander and Lovejoy think only of pleasure; Guttleton of good living; Heviswel of adorning his person; Doublefirst is a mere bookworm; Bachelor has literary ambition and talents, I admit, but, like all literary men who are single, he has no spur to action; he won't work." (Great laughter and applause from the married men.) 'Why should a bachelor exert himself to win wealth or fame? He has no one to share with him. Look, then, at the two portraits I have sketched. First, see the bachelor, living alone, spending his money extravagantly, mischievously on himself, plunging into excesses to forget his misery, daily growing more eccentric, selfish, and confirmed in his bachelor habits. What becomes of the poor wretch if he passes forty without marrying? Either he marries his cook, or he sees himself condemned to a lonely old age, without children, without any inducement to live. Now, look at the benedict, surrounded by a happy family, with every solace, every comfort to cheer his age. I ask you, bachelors, to try and imagine all the endearments of the domestic circle-of those sacred ties which, in your ignorance and inexperience, you so foolishly despise—and I solemnly demand what fancied bliss, what day-dream you are striving to realise in a single life. Speak-answer-if you can. I challenge a reply. What do you desire that wedlock does not bestow? What would you have more?" 66 Liberty!" said Bachelor. Did I possess the collective knowledge of language of all the deans who have written and are writing upon philology, I should still be unable to depict satisfactorily the effect which this single word (hurled like a bombshell in the midst of a general silence) had in dissipating the impression of Benedict's eloquence. I can only compare it to a similar result in "Les Misérables," where the republican Combeferre answers the eulogy of Marius on Napoleon by the same word—" Liberty!" Only one of the married men joined in the merriment of the bachelors; one or two hung their heads; others looked indignant at this attempt to throw ridicule on the sublime peroration of Benedict, who had spoken in perfect sincerity, and could see no joke in Bachelor's rejoinder. "What? What ?" he exclaimed, hastily. "I don't understand." "My dear Benedict," said Bachelor, gravely, but with a wicked twinkle in his eye, which showed he meant mischief, "have you read Æsop's Fables ?" "Of course I have when I was a boy," said Benedict. "Pshaw! |