Part 2

Whereas Frances wife of the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Vane, has for some months past absented herself from her husband, and the rest of her friends:--I do hereby promise to any person, or persons who shall discover where the said Lady Vane[1] is concealed, to me, or to Francis Harwes, Esq. her father, so that either of us may come to the speech of her, the sum of £100, as a reward to be paid by me on demand at my lodgings in Piccadilly. I do also promise, the name of the person, who shall make such discovery shall be concealed if desired. Any person concealing or lodging her after this advertisement shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour; or if her Ladyship will return to me, she may depend upon being kindly received. She is about twenty two years of age, tall, well shaped, has light brown hair, is fair complexioned, and has her upper teeth placed in an irregular manner. She had on when she absented a red damask French Lacque, and was attended by a French woman who speaks very bad English.

VANE. January the 24th. 1737.

[1] Lady Vane was the Lady of fashion whose adventures form so interesting an episode in “Peregrine Pickle.”

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[Sidenote: Delicacy of Feeling.]

The best parts of human qualities are the tenderness and delicacy of feeling in little matters, the desire to soothe and please others, the minutiæ of the social virtues. Some ridicule these feminine attributes, which are left out of many men’s natures: but I have known the brave, the intellectual, the eloquent possess these gentle qualities; the braggart, the weak, never! Benevolence and feeling ennoble the most trifling actions.

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_On a Tablet in the South Aisle of St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster._

[Sidenote: Inscription.]

Within the walls of this Church was deposited the body of the great Sir Walter Raleigh Kt. on the day he was beheaded in the old Palace yard Westminster Oct. 18th. 1618.

Reader, should you reflect on his errors, remember his many virtues, and that he was a mortal.

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[Sidenote: Alienation from Society.]

A woman must have either a very good or a very bad conscience, to find happiness in a complete alienation from society.

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[Sidenote: Poverty.]

Oh Poverty! or what is called a reverse of fortune, among the many bitter ingredients that thou hast in thy most bitter cup, thou hast not one so insupportably bitter, as that which brings us in close and hourly contact with the earthen ware and huckaback beings of the nether world. Even the vulgarity of inanimate things it requires time to get accustomed to, but living, breathing, bustling, plotting, planning, human vulgarity, is a species of _moral ipecacuanha_, enough to destroy any comfort.

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[Sidenote: Athéisme impossible.]

Si l’impiété pouvait se comprendre, ce serait au sein des grandes villes où il ne reste presque plus rien de ce que Dieu a fait, où on ne voit pas le Ciel. Mais en présence des grandes colères de l’océan, l’homme se trouve à chaque instant dans des situations telles que la puissance de tous les hommes réunis n’en pourrait sauver un seul. Peut-on oublier Dieu, peut-on croire que les fleurs n’ont été inventées que pour être jetées au théâtre à des danseuses en sueur?--

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[Sidenote: Calumny.]

Montesquieu says, I never listen to calumnies, because if they are untrue I run the risk of being deceived, and if they be true, of hating persons not worth thinking about.

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[Sidenote: Temper.]

When moralists, religionists, and philosophers of all sorts, set about reasoning on the phenomena of the world we live in, and contemplating the mass of human misery to be found therein, trace it to fearful crimes, they overlook one little cause of suffering which blights more happiness, and neutralises a greater portion of God’s bounteous favours, than all the heinous enormities of our depraved race put together. This hateful, stealthy, heart-destroying blight is often found, where every thing like atrocious vice is utterly unknown, and where many of the highest virtues flourish. All may exist, with a _sour temper_!

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_Set forms of expression inserted for imitation, by Edward Philips, a nephew of_ Milton’s.

[Sidenote: Forms of expression.]

You are the miracle of friendship.

You are the usurer of fame.

My genius and yours are friends.

I will unrip my very bosom to you.

My tongue speaks the freedom of my heart.

Sure winter dwells upon your lip, the snow is not more cold.

The sun never met the summer with more joy.

It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips.

You are a white enchantress, lady, you can enchain me with a smile.

Her name like some celestial fire quickens my spirit.

Midnight would blush at this.

There’s music in her smiles.

I will, like the perfumed winde, sport with your hair. Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in, than your breath.

Would I were secretary to your thoughts.

You walk in artificial clouds, and bathe your silver limbs in wanton dalliance.

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[Sidenote: An Answer to Vanity.]

In the reign of Louis XIV. the citizens of Pau had petitioned the King for leave to place a statue of “Henri quatre” in the market place of this his native town. The only reply which the vain monarch condescended to make was to send them his own statue. Of course obedience was imperative, but in erecting the statue of Louis the XIV. they inscribed on the pedestal, “This is the grandson of our good Henri.”[2]

[2] Celui-ci est le petit fils de notre bon Henri.

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[Sidenote: Woman’s pride.]

The _Pride_ of woman, natural to her, never sleeps till _modesty_ is gone.

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[Sidenote: “Parliament Heel.”]

What satire can be more pointed than the term applied by seamen when desirous of ascertaining the rottenness of a ship’s lower timbers, or detecting her unsoundness, they give her what they call a “_Parliament heel_.”

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[Sidenote: On a new-born child.]

From the Persian by Sir William Jones.

On Parent knee, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat’st, whilst all around thee smil’d, So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep, Pleas’d thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

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_Speech of Mr. Cuffe, Secretary to the Earl of Essex, who was executed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, for the same offence that brought his master to the block._

[Sidenote: Speech of Mr. Cuffe.]

“I am here adjudged to die for acting an act never plotted, for plotting a plot never acted. Justice will have her course; accusers must be heard; greatness will have the victory; scholars and naturalists (though learning and valour should have the pre-eminence) in England must die like dogs, and be hanged.

To mislike this, were but folly! to dispute it, but time lost! to alter it, impossible! but to endure it is manly, and to scorn it, magnanimity! The Queen is displeased, the lawyers injurious, and death terrible; but I crave pardon of the Queen; forgive the lawyers and the world; desire to be forgiven, and welcome death!

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[Sidenote: Woman’s Love.]

Look at the career of Man, as he passes through the world; of Man, visited by misfortune! How often is he left by his fellow man, to sink under the weight of his afflictions, unheeded and alone! one friend of his own sex forgets him, another neglects him, a third perhaps betrays him; but woman, faithful woman, follows him in his misery with unshaken affection; braves the changes of his feelings, of his temper, embittered by the disappointments of the world, with the highest of all the passive virtues; a resigned patience ministers to his wants, even when her own are hard and pressing; weeps with him, “_tear for tear_,” in his distress, and is the first to catch and to reflect a ray of joy, should but one light up his languid countenance in the midst of his sufferings: and never leave him to his misery, whilst there remains one act of love, duty, or compassion to be performed. And at the last, when life and sorrow cease together, follows him to the tomb with that ardour of affection which death alone can destroy.

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[Sidenote: Life of Savage.]

It is related in proof of the deep interest with which Johnson’s life of Savage must be perused, that Sir Joshua Reynolds, during a visit at a friend’s in Devonshire, took it up one day by accident, and so intensely did the work occupy his attention, that he continued in the same position, leaning his elbow on the chimney piece till he had read it through, when attempting to move his arm it was benumbed.

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_The Musical Instruments._

[Sidenote: A Fable.]

The Beaux and Belles were gone, the Concert o’er, And Kelly’s sprightly strains were heard no more; Thro’ the deserted room dead silence reign’d, And still and dumb each tuneful string remain’d; When from the case in which a Fiddle lay Arose a voice that said or seem’d to say: “Basses and Tenors, Kettledrums and Flutes, Trumpets, and Horns, Fiddles, Flageolets, From you that solemn groan to you that squeak, Patient attend and hear a brother speak: Oft have I mused with sorrow and regret, Since here confined I mourn’d my captive state, That tho’ from Harmony our being rose, We unconnected live, nor friends nor foes; Nor know society, till in the band We yield our music to the master’s hand; Those happy moments o’er, confined again, Silent and un-united we remain: Let us for mutual interest then combine; To each his different share of power assign; And from our choice that no dissension spring, Speak, all, and let the worthiest be our King, Under whose reign, by man when unemploy’d, Peace, harmony and bliss may be enjoy’d.” He spoke, thro’ all melodious accents ran, And the slow solemn Organ thus began: “Much I approve my four string’d brother’s scheme, And own it oft has been my silent theme, And since harmonic merit mounts the throne, I claim the royal title as my own. Observe me well when glorious here I stand, And with a look alone respect command. On me has man bestow’d his utmost care, And as he found me great he found me fair; My front with pipes of radiant gold array’d Above the painter’s utmost art display’d; This made a thousand instruments combine And all in one great, glorious whole conjoin: Nor do I boast of outward form alone, For Harmony has mark’d me as her own; Has taught my sweetly solemn sounds to flow In all the pomp and majesty of woe; Has taught my notes on seraph’s wings to fly, And raise the ravish’d soul above the sky; Has made in Heaven’s own that voice rever’d, And kings to kneel whenever it is heard. To whom then but to me shall pow’r be given, Who rule on earth and lead the way to heaven?” The Organ spoke majestically slow, And thus the brazen Trumpet ’gan to blow: “Were size enormous or were colours bright To strike the judgment as they strike the sight, The world’s great empire would disputed lie ’Twixt the huge whale and gilded butterfly; But the gay peacock vainly strives to sing, In vain the unwieldy ostrich spreads his wing, While music swells the homely linnet’s throat, And on the yielding air the little swallows float. I boast no beauty then, I boast no size, Since nought but merit true can gain the prize: If so, I boldly call that prize my own, And claim, whoe’er oppose that claim, the throne. If warlike feats, if deeds of high renown, Bravely perform’d, on men bestow the crown, Like right is mine, who still am heard afar, The dreadful harbinger of glorious war; At whose loud voice, heroic ardour springs In the bold hearts of heroes and of kings. With them where’er they go, I brave my fate, With them victorious share their royal state; Till men whene’er my glorious voice they hear, Know that a hero or a prince is near. Such are my claims, let me your ruler be, Receive a hero and a King in me.” He ended, and the silver sounding Flute Thus strove the boaster’s title to confute: “Brothers of Harmony, whose breathings move The human soul to virtue, peace, and love, Shall we be ruled by one whose dreadful breath Spreads thro’ the world division, discord, death? Let kings for fame forget their people’s good, And butchering heroes wade in harmless blood, While we endeavour, as by Heaven design’d, To soothe and not inflame the human mind. In the sweet shade, and by the silent stream, I softly sing, and peace and love my theme. To my gay notes, beneath the checker’d shade, Dance the blithe shepherd and the harmless maid. Far from destroying war or faithless courts I seek the scenes where innocence resorts, There have I learnt betimes, in virtue’s school, The _art_, do you bestow the _power_ to rule.” Soon as the gentle Flute had spoke his claim From every corner mingling murmurs came: With loud commanding note the Fiddle swore Ne’er was _his_ preference denied before; ’Twas he that still employed the master’s hand, Follow’d obsequious by the list’ning Band; Nay swore, that _Kelly_ learnt from him the art To rule with magic sounds the human heart! The Harpsichord, the fav’rite of the fair, Talk’d much of _them_, and plac’d his merits there. Clamour on clamour grew, each prais’d his own, And strove his neighbour’s merits to run down; Till frightened Harmony forsook the room, And crashing Discord shook the lofty dome; Up rose at last a chief of little _fame_, Yet mighty _use_, and _Pitch pipe_ was his name; In steady unison he thus began, While wonder thro’ the place in murmur ran: “Brethren of melody, to whom ’tis given By man, first taught the glorious art by Heaven, The various passions of the human soul, To raise, to soothe, to heighten, to controul; To thrill with softest sounds the lover’s heart, To raise his transports, or to soothe his smart; To cheer the sinking soul with liveliest air, To soften madness or to calm despair; To rule the thousand sympathies that bind, With strongest, sweetest ties, the human mind. Such are your powers while Harmony _shall_ reign, By her forsaken, all those powers are vain. His hallow’d notes in vain the Organ blows, The Fiddle’s tone with sweet expression glows; In vain the Flute soft blows his am’rous breath, The strepent Trumpet speaks the sounds of death; Vainly they strive to move the feeling soul, Till heaven-born Harmony conduct the whole. For _me_ one _note_ does all my power confine, Employ’d for others’ uses, not for mine; And yet, however small my compass be, Harmonic _Union_ you must owe to me; For still by me, whene’er you sound alone, Or mix in concerts, must be fix’d your _tone_. Then strive no more but fix on _me_ your choice, Who save from discord, strife, confusion, noise; So shall the powers of music matchless reign, Nor has divine Cecilia come from heaven in vain.” He said, and straight his tone, tho’ simple sound, Conviction follow’d, and himself was crown’d. ’Tis thus, my friend, that in the human soul The various movements _Reason_ should controul, While headlong sallies Prudence should restrain, And fancy yield to Judgment’s shady reign; If the kind muse poetic rage inspire, Or glows the breast with patriotic fire, If wit, that seldomer does good than harm ’Midst social scenes, shall teach the tongue to charm, If love with sweet sensations fills the mind, Or sacred friendship mutual bosoms bind, Howe’er with _genius_, _fancy_, _feeling_ blest, ’Tis Prudence must direct, or vain are all the rest.

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[Sidenote: Reflection.]

Let none imagine that the bare letter of duty or even the reputation of good resolutions will bear them with “golden opinions” through a life of action, despising those means which, like the farmer’s heavy rollers, smoothen the ground they are compelled to crush. Let such persons neglect that amenity, that considerate bearing, so essential in the intercourse of life, and infallibly the return will be found a bitter harvest of aversion.

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[Sidenote: Poverty.]

Print this in thy thought, that whatever virtue thou hast, be it never so manifold, if thou be poor withal thou and thy qualities shall be despised: besides Poverty is a shame amongst men, an imprisonment of the mind, a vexation of every worthy spirit. Thou shalt neither help thyself or others, thou shalt drown thee in all thy virtues, having no means to show them; thou shalt be a burthen and an eyesore to thy friends; every one will fear thy company.

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If you are wretched, the world will mock your wretchedness--if you are poor, you will be insulted and contemned--and if proud, you will be exposed to hourly mortification.

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Though nothing can be more galling to a generous spirit than to be placed under obligation by meanness, it is purely delightful to be beholden to one of its own calibre. Charity _is_ then indeed twice blessed, when the giver and the receiver are equally elevated above the selfish and sordid feelings of vulgar humanity.

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[Sidenote: Portrait of Charles I.]

It is recorded of the celebrated Sculptor Giovanni Lorenzi Bernini, that on his seeing the painting by Vandyke which presents three portraits of King Charles I. on the same canvass, the one a front face, the other a half side, and the third a profile, the artist observed, “whoever the individual be whose likeness these three portraits represent, I am of opinion that the same will come to an untimely end.”

This painting had been expressly taken and forwarded to Rome in order that Bernini might, from the resemblance, sculpture a marble bust of the king; which accordingly he did, and King Charles, the best and greatest patron of the arts that England can boast of, was so much pleased with the performance, that he sent Bernini a very valuable ring, saying to the person whom he commissioned to deliver it, “Andate a coronar quello mano, che ha fatto si bel lavarno.”

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“The _Ballad_” was the favourite dance of the Italians. This word now used only to designate the words of a peculiar species of _song_, is derived from the Italian “_ballare_” to dance, and originally signified a dance accompanied by a chaunt. This dance was probably pantomimic, exhibiting the story of the accompanying verse by that expressive gesticulation in which the Italians of all ages have excelled.

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_On a Lady not celebrated for her attention to cleanliness._

Accept, dear Peg, in moral lays, The thanks a grateful heart repays; Oft has my soul, puff’d up with pride, The truths of sacred writ denied, And to myself I still have said, Sure mankind ne’er of dust was made, Till thou, dear Peg, revers’d my creed, And shew’d me, we are _dirt_ indeed.

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Relate your story simply, and never forget that overcharged accusations will always assume in the eyes of the court the appearance of calumny.

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[Sidenote: Lady M. W. Montague.]

Spence says of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, that she is one of the most shining characters in the world; but she is like a comet, she is all irregularity, and always wandering: the most wise, most imprudent, loveliest, most disagreeable, best natured, cruelest woman in the world.

Of herself she writes, “I thank God I still retain my taste for the gay part of reading. Wise people may think it trifling, but it serves to sweeten life to me, and is at least better than the generality of conversation.” I know by experience how far the love of reading is capable of softening the cruelest accidents of life: even the happiest cannot be passed without many weary hours, and there is no remedy so easy as books, which if they do not give cheerfulness, at least restore quiet to the most troubled mind.

Gardening is certainly the next amusement to reading.

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The mild air gives birth to pestilence, and the whirlwind, though it uproots trees, destroys the devouring locust. God blesses in a blow, and punishes in a gift. To hasten the ripening of the fig, we pierce it; and what so sweet as the wounded pulp?

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[Sidenote: The Mother of the Cagot.]

Strange but beautiful is the strength of maternal affection. This object to all others so hideous--that for earth to hide his deformity, for death to close upon his afflictions, seems a boon to be prayed for, a mercy to be acknowledged with thankfulness--in the eyes of his mother is one of hope and of interest as great as the most perfect. She weeps not that he was born, but that he dies; weeps as passionately as the parent who loses the most beautiful, the most gifted offspring: perhaps more so than if he _had_ been beautiful and gifted, for then he would not have been exclusively dependant on her love and care. Is it not right there should be a source in the desert as well as in the valley? Blessed is the illusion the mother’s heart lends to her eyes! yet alas! for the “_Cagot_,” the earth brings forth healing herbs in vain, the Church withholds her rites in vain. Their degradation, their destitution is appalling.

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As the storm which bruises the flower nourishes the tree, so absence, which starves a weak affection, strengthens a strong one.

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Strain the Bow, and the arrow swerves; such is the case with the mind.

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[Sidenote: The Essex Ring.]

_Lines written by Buchanan, in the year 1564, and sent by Mary Queen of Scotland, with a diamond ring, to Elizabeth Queen of England._

This Gem, behold, the emblem of my heart, From whence my Cousin’s image ne’er shall part; Clear in its lustre, spotless does it shine; As clear, as spotless is this heart of mine. What tho’ the stone a greater hardness wears, Superior firmness still the figure bears.

This is the same ring so celebrated afterwards as that given by Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex, and intrusted with a prayer for his life by that unfortunate nobleman to the Countess of Nottingham, who perfidiously concealed her mission till the solemnity of a death-bed influenced her to disclose the circumstance to the Queen. The ring is now in the possession of the descendant of Sir Thomas Warner, to whom it was given by King James I.

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[Sidenote: Reflections.]

I regret the not having oftener noted down the hopes and agitations which have often influenced my feelings: it would have furnished some apology for that fitful and impatient inequality of manner, which has arisen from the strain of feeling which each hour has brought with it--the pain arising from the ineffectual struggle to obtain the credit for good intentions, and the just appreciation of my motives.

I begin to find every effort vain; and after years of anxious labour and personal sacrifice, I have only reaped one certain harvest--the just valuation of my fellow beings; so different from what I saw it under happier circumstances. I have acquired the certainty that the poor are made poorer, the sorrowing more sad, whenever it is from a fellow worm we look for aid or comfort; and that the best, the most upright intentions will not shield the unprotected from those who are only strong from our incapacity to resist.

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_Flacourt’s History of Madagascar contains the following sublime Prayer, said to be used by the people we call Savages._

“O Eternal, have mercy upon me, because I am passing away. O Infinite, because I am weak. O Sovereign of life, because I draw nigh to the grave. O Omniscient, because I am in darkness. O All bounteous, because I am poor. O All sufficient, because I am nothing.”

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_From his late Majesty, King William IV. to Sir Charles Shipley, on his release from a French prison, through the heroic exertions of his wife._

Richmond, January 6th, 1796.

Dear Sir,