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us! Allow us to depart, and I will relinquish all thou hast promised. O Mohammed! remains there no more mercy!' 'None, none!' replied the malicious dive. Know, miserable prince! thou art now in the abode of vengeance and despair. Thy heart, also, will be kindled like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are allotted thee previous to this fatal period; employ them as thou wilt; recline on these heaps of gold; command the infernal potentates; range at thy pleasure through these immense subterranean domains, no barrier shall be shut against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission; I now leave thee to thyself.' At these words he vanished.

The caliph and Nouronihar remained in the most abject affliction. Their tears were unable to flow, and scarcely could they support themselves. At length, taking each other despondingly by the hand, they went falteringly from this fatal hall, indifferent which way they turned their steps. Every portal opened at their approach. The dives fell prostrate before them. Every reservoir of riches was disclosed to their view, but they no longer felt the incentives of curiosity, of pride, or avarice. With like apathy they heard the chorus of genii, and saw the stately banquets prepared to regale them. They went wandering on, from chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to gallery, all without bounds or limit; all distinguishable by the same lowering gloom, all adorned with the same awful grandeur, all traversed by persons in search of repose and consolation, but who sought them in vain; for every one carried within him a heart tormented in flames. Shunned by these various sufferers, who seemed by their looks to be upbraiding the partners of their guilt, they withdrew from them to wait, in direful suspense, the moment which should render them to each other the like objects of terror.

What!' exclaimed Nouronihar, 'will the time come when I shall snatch my hand from thine!' Ah!' said Vathek, and shall my eyes ever cease to drink from thine long draughts of enjoyment! Shall the moments of our reciprocal ecstasies be reflected on with horror! It was not thou that broughtst me hither; the principles by which Carathis perverted my youth have been the sole cause of my perdition! It is but right she should have her share of it.' Having given vent to these painful expressions, he called to an afrit, who was stirring up one of the brasiers, and bade him fetch the Princess Carathis from the palace of Samarah.

After issuing these orders, the caliph and Nouronihar continued walking amidst the silent crowd, till they heard voices at the end of the gallery. Presuming them to proceed from some unhappy beings who, like themselves, were awaiting their final doom, they followed the sound, and found it to come from a small square chamber, where they discovered, sitting on sofas, four young men of goodly figure, and a lovely female, who were holding a melancholy conversation by the glimmering of a lonely lamp. Each had a gloomy and forlorn air, and two of them were embracing each other with great tenderness. On seeing the caliph and the daughter of Fakreddin enter, they arose, saluted, and made room for them. Then he who appeared the most considerable of the group addressed himself thus to Vathek: 'Strangers, who doubtless are in the same state of suspense with ourselves, as you do not yet bear your hand on your heart, if you are come hither to pass the interval allotted, previous to the infliction of our common punishment, condescend to relate the adventures that have brought you to this fatal place, and we, in return, will acquaint you with ours, which deserve but too well to be heard. To trace back our crimes to their source, though we are not permitted to repent, is the only employment suited to wretches like us.'

The caliph and Nouronihar assented to the proposal, and Vathek began, not without tears and lamentations, a sincere recital of every circumstance that had passed.

When the afflicting narrative was closed, the young man entered on his own. Each person proceeded in order, and when the third prince had reached the midst of his adventures, a sudden noise interrupted him, which caused the vault to tremble and to open.

Immediately a cloud descended, which, gradually dissipating, discovered Carathis on the back of an afrit, who grievously complained of his burden. She, instantly springing to the ground, advanced towards her son, and said: 'What dost thou here in this little square chamber? As the dives are become subject to thy beck, I expected to have found thee on the throne of the preadamite kings.'

'Execrable woman!' answered the caliph, 'cursed be the day thou gavest me birth! Go, follow this afrit; let him conduct thee to the hall of the prophet Soliman: there thou wilt learn to what these palaces are destined, and how much I ought to abhor the impious knowledge thou hast taught me.'

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*

Carathis, however, eagerly entered the dome of Soliman, and without regarding in the least the groans of the prophet, undauntedly removed the covers of the vases, and violently seized on the talismans. Then, with a voice more loud than had hitherto been heard within these mansions, she compelled the dives to disclose to her the most secret treasures, the most profound stores, which the afrit himself had not seen. passed, by rapid descents, known only to Eblis and his most favoured potentates; and thus penetrated the very entrails of the earth, where breathes the sansar, or the icy wind of death. Nothing appalled her dauntless soul. She perceived, however, in all the inmates who bore their hands on their heart, a little singularity, not much to her taste.

She

As she was emerging from one of the abysses, Eblis stood forth to her view; but notwithstanding he displayed the full effulgence of his infernal majesty, she preserved her countenance unaltered, and even paid her compliments with considerable firmness.

This superb monarch thus answered: 'Princess, whose knowledge and whose crimes have merited a conspicuous rank in my empire, thou dost well to avail thyself of the leisure that remains; for the flames and torments which are ready to seize on thy heart will not fail to provide thee soon with full employment.' He said, and was lost in the curtains of his tabernacle.

Carathis paused for a moment with surprise; but resolved to follow the advice of Eblis, she assembled all the choirs of genii, and all the dives to pay her homage. Thus marched she in triumph, through a vapour of perfumes, amidst the acclamations of all the malignant spirits, with most of whom she had formed a previous acquaintance. She even attempted to dethrone one of the Solimans, for the purpose of usurping his place; when a voice,, proceeding from the abyss of death, proclaimed: All is accomplished!' Instantaneously the haughty forehead of the intrepid princess became corrugated with agony: she uttered a tremendous yell; and fixed, no more to be withdrawn, her right hand upon her heart, which was become a receptacle of eternal fire.

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Such was, and such should be, the punishment of unrestrained passions and atrocious deeds! Such shall be the chastisement of that blind curiosity which would transgress those bounds the wisdom of the Creator has prescribed to human knowledge; and such the dreadful disappointment of that restless ambition which, aiming at discoveries reserved for beings of a supernatural order, perceives not, through its infatuated pride, that the condition of man upon earth is to be-humble and ignorant.

Thus the Caliph Vathek, who, for the sake of empty pomp and forbidden power, had sullied himself with a thousand crimes, became a prey to grief without end, and remorse without mitigation; whilst the humble, the despised Gulchenrouz, passed whole ages in undis

turbed tranquillity, and in the pure happiness of erudition, taste, and accomplishments, he wanted, childhood.

There is astonishing force and grandeur in some of these conceptions. The catastrophe possesses a sort of epic sublimity, and the spectacle of the vast multitude incessantly pacing those halls, from which all hope has fled, is worthy the genius of Milton. The numberless graces of description, the piquant allusions, the humour and satire, and the wild yet witty spirit of mockery and derision-like the genius of Voltaire-which is spread over the work, we must leave to the reader. The romance altogether places Beckford among the first of our imaginative writers, independently of the surprise which it is calculated to excite as the work of a youth of twenty-two, who had never been in the countries he describes with so much animation and accuracy.

RICHARD CUMBERLAND.

RICHARD CUMBERLAND, the dramatist, was author of three novels, Arundel, Henry, and John de Lancaster. The learning, knowledge of society-including foreign manners-and the dramatic talents of this author, would seem to have qualified him in an eminent degree for novel-writing; but this is by no means the case. His fame must rest on his comedies of The West Indian, The Wheel of Fortune, and The Jew. Mr Cumberland was son of Mr Denison Cumberland, bishop of Clonfort, and afterwards of Kilmore. His mother was Joanna, daughter of the celebrated Dr Bentley, and said to be the Phoebe of Byrom's fine pastoral, My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent. (See vol. i. of this work, p. 731.) Cumberland was born in 1732. He was designed for the church; but in return for some services rendered by his father, the young student was appointed private secretary to the Marquis of Halifax, whom he accompanied to Ireland. Through the influence of his patron, he was made crown-agent for the province of Nova Scotia; and he was afterwards appointed, by Lord George Germain, secretary to the Board of Trade. The dramatic performances of Cumberland written about this time were highly successful, and introduced him to all the literary and distinguished society of his day. The character of him by Goldsmith in his Retaliation, where he is praised as

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts, is one of the finest compliments ever paid by one author to another. In the year 1780, Cumberland was employed on a secret mission to Spain, in order to endeavour to detach that country from the hostile confederacy against England. He seems to have been misled by the Abbé Hussey, chaplain to the king of Spain; and after residing a twelvemonth at Madrid, he was recalled, and payment of his drafts refused. A sum of £5000 was due him; but as Cumberland had failed in the negotiation, and had exceeded his commission through excess of zeal, the minister harshly refused to remunerate him. Thus situated, the unfortunate dramatist was compelled to sell his paternal estate, and retire into private life. He took up his abode at Tunbridge, and there poured forth a variety of dramas, essays, and other works, among which were two epic poems, Calvary, and The Exodiad, the latter written in conjunction with Sir James Bland Burgess. None of these efforts can be said to have overstepped the line of mediocrity; for though Cumberland had

in all but two or three of his plays, the vivifying power of genius. His Memoirs of his Own Lifefor which he obtained £500-are graphic and entertaining, but too many of his anecdotes of his contemporaries will not bear a rigid scrutiny. Mr Cumberland died on the 7th of May 1811. His first novel Arundel (1789), was hurriedly composed; but the scene being partly in college and at court, and treating of scenes and characters in high life, the author drew upon his recollections, and painted vigorously what he had felt and witnessed. His second work, Henry (1795), which he polished with great care, to imitate the elaborate style of Fielding, was less happy; for in low life Cumberland was not so much at home, and his portraits are grossly overcharged. The character of Ezekiel Dow, a Methodist preacher, is praised by Sir Walter Scott as not only an exquisite but a just portrait. The resemblance to Fielding's Parson Adams is, however, too marked, while the Methodistic traits introduced are, however faithful, less pleasing than the learned simplicity and bonhomie of the worthy parson. Another peculiarity of the author is thus touched upon by Scott: 'He had a peculiar taste in love affairs, which induced him to reverse the natural and usual practice of courtship, and to throw upon the softer sex the task of wooing, which is more gracefully, as well as naturally, the province of the man.' In these wooing scenes, too, there is a great want of delicacy and propriety: Cumberland was not here a 'mender of hearts.' The third novel of our author was the. work of his advanced years, and is of a very inferior description. It would be unjust not to add, that the prose style of Cumberland in his memoirs and ordinary narratives, where humour is not attempted, is easy and flowing-the style of a scholar and gentleman.

MRS FRANCES SHERIDAN.

MRS FRANCES SHERIDAN (1724-1766) was the authoress of two novels, Sidney Biddulph and Nourjahad, and two comedies, The Discovery and The Dupe. The latter are common-place productions, but the novels evince fine imaginative powers and correct moral taste. Sidney Biddulph is a pathetic story: the heroine goes to her grave 'unrelieved but resigned,' as Boswell has said, and Johnson doubted whether the accomplished authoress had a right to make her readers suffer so much. Nourjahad is an eastern romance, also with a moral tendency, but containing some animated incidents and description. Mrs Sheridan was the wife of Thomas Sheridan, popular as an actor and elocutionist, and author of an Orthoepical Dictionary of the English Language. Dr Parr, with characteristic enthusiasm, pronounced Mrs Sheridan to be quite celestial,' and Charles James Fox considered Sidney Biddulph to be the best of all modern novels. Yet, perhaps, this amiable and gifted woman is now best known from being the mother of Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

THOMAS HOLOROFT.

THOMAS HOLCROFT, whose singular history and dramatic performances we have already noticed, was author of several once popular novels. The first was published in 1780, under the title of Alwyn, or the Gentleman Comedian. This had, and deserved to have, but little success. His second, Anna St Ives, in seven volumes (1792), was well received, and

attracted attention from its political bearings no less than the force of its style and characters. The principal characters are, as Hazlitt remarks, merely the vehicles of certain general sentiments, or machines, put into action, as an experiment to shew how these general principles would operate in particular situations. The same intention is manifested in his third novel, Hugh Trevor, the first part of which appeared in 1794, and the remainder in 1797. In Hugh Trevor, Holcroft, like Godwin, depicted the vices and distresses which he conceived to be generated by the existing institutions of society. There are some good sketches, and many eloquent and just observations in the work, and those who have read it in youth will remember the vivid impression that some parts are calculated to convey. The political doctrines inculcated by the author are captivating to young minds, and were enforced by Holcroft in the form of well-contrasted characters, lively dialogue, and pointed satire. He was himself a true believer in the practicability of such a Utopian or ideal state of society. The song of Gaffer Gray in Hugh Trevor, which glances ironically at the inhumanity of the rich, has a forcible simplicity and truth in particular cases which made it a favourite with the public.

Gaffer Gray.

Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray?

And why does thy nose look so blue? 'Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!'

Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
Gaffer Gray;

And warm thy old heart with a glass.
'Nay, but credit I've none,
And my money's all gone;
Then say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!'

Hie away to the house on the brow,
Gaffer Gray;

And knock at the jolly priest's door.
"The priest often preaches
Against worldly riches,
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,
Well-a-day!'

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Holcroft wrote another novel, Brian Perdue, but it is greatly inferior to his former productions. His whole works, indeed, were eclipsed by those of Godwin, and have now fallen out of notice.

ROBERT BAGE.

Another novelist of a similar stamp was ROBERT BAGE, a Quaker, who, like Holcroft, imbibed the principles of the French Revolution, and infused them into various works of fiction. Bage was born at Darley, in Derbyshire, on the 29th of February 1728. His father was a paper-maker, and his son continued in the same occupation through life. His manufactory was at Elford, near Tamworth, where he realised a decent competence. During the last eight years of his life, Bage resided at Tamworth, where he died on the 1st of September 1801. The works of this author are, Mount Kenneth, 1781; Barham Downs, 1784; The Fair Syrian, 1787; James Wallace, 1788; Man as He Is, 1792; Hermsprong, or Man as He is Not, 1796. Bage's novels are decidedly inferior to those of Holcroft, and it is surprising that Sir Walter Scott should have admitted them into his novelists' library, and at the same time excluded so many superior works. Barham Downs and Hermsprong are the most interesting of the series, and contain some good satirical portraits, though the plots of both are crude and defective.

SOPHIA AND HARRIET LEE.

These ladies, authoresses of The Canterbury Tales, a series of striking and romantic fictions, were the daughters of Mr Lee, a gentleman who had been articled to a solicitor, but who adopted the stage as a profession. Sophia was born in London in 1750. She was the eldest of the sisters, and the early death of her mother devolved upon her the cares of the household. She secretly cultivated, however, a strong attachment to literature. Her first appearance as an author was not made till her thirtieth year, when she produced her comedy, The Chapter of Accidents, which was brought out at the Haymarket Theatre by the elder Colman, and received with great applause. The profits of this piece were devoted by Miss Lee towards establishing a seminary for young ladies at Bath, which was rendered the more necessary by the death of her father in 1781. Thither, accordingly, the sisters repaired, and their talents and prudence were rewarded by rapid and permanent success. In 1784, she published the first volume of The Recess, or a Tale of Other Times; which was soon followed by the remainder of the tale, the work having instantly become popular. The time selected by Miss Lee as the subject of her story was that of Queen Elizabeth, and her production may be considered one of the earliest of our historical romances. It is tinged with a melancholy and contemplative spirit; and the same feeling is displayed in her next production, a tragedy entitled Almeyda, Queen of Grenada, produced in 1796. In the succeeding year, Harriet Lee published the first volume of The Canterbury Tales, which ultimately extended to five volumes. Two only of the stories were the production of Sophia Lee, namely, The Young Lady's Tale, or the Two Emilys, and The Clergyman's Tale. They are characterised by great tenderness and feeling; but the more striking features of The Canterbury Tales, and the great merit of the collection, belong to Harriet Lee. Kruitzner, or the German's Tale, fell into the hands of Byron when he was about fourteen.

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'It made a deep impression upon me,' he says, 'and may indeed be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written.' While residing at Pisa in 1821, Byron dramatised Miss Lee's romantic story, and published his version of it under the title of Werner, or the Inheritance. The incidents, and much of the language of the play, are directly copied from the novel, and the public were unanimous in considering Harriet Lee as more interesting, passionate, and even more poetical, than her illustrious imitator. The story,' says one of the critics whom Byron's play recalled to the merits of Harriet Lee, 'is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as we are to name Harriet Lee, we cannot allow the opportunity to pass without saying that we have always considered her works as standing upon the verge of the very first rank of excellence; that is to say, as inferior to no English novels whatever, excepting those of Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edgeworth, and the author of Waverley. It would not, perhaps, be going too far to say, that The Canterbury Tales exhibit more of that species of invention, which, as we have already remarked, was never common in English literature, than any of the works even of those first-rate novelists we have named, with the single exception of Fielding. Kruitzner, or the German's Tale, possesses mystery, and yet clearness, as to its structure, strength of characters, and, above all, the most lively interest, blended with, and subservient to, the most affecting of moral lessons. The main idea which lies at the root of it is the horror of an erring father, who, having been detected in vice by his son, has dared to defend his own sin, and so to perplex the son's notions of moral rectitude, on finding that the son in his turn has pushed the false principles thus instilled to the last and worst extreme-on hearing his own sophistries flung in his face by a murderer.'* The short and spirited style of these tales, and the frequent dialogues they contain, impart to them something of a dramatic force and interest, and prevent their tiring the patience of the reader, like too many of the three-volume novels. In 1803, Miss Sophia Lee retired from the duties of her scholastic establishment, having earned an independent provision for the remainder of her life. Shortly afterwards she published The Life of a Lover, a tale which she had written early in life, and which is marked by juvenility of thought and expression, though with her usual warmth and richness of description. In 1807, a comedy from her pen, called The Assignation, was performed at Drury Lane; but played only once, the audience conceiving that some of the satirical portraits were aimed at popular

individuals.

Miss Harriet Lee, besides The Canterbury Tales, wrote two dramas, The New Peerage, and The Three Strangers. The plot of the latter is chiefly taken from her German tale. The play was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre in December 1835, but

was barely tolerated for one night.

A tablet is erected to the memory of these accomplished sisters in Clifton Church-where they are buried from which it appears that Sophia Lee was born in May 1750, and died March 13, 1824. Her sister, Harriet Lee-who long resided in the neighbourhood of Bristol, a valued and respected lady-was born April 11, 1766, and died August 1, 1851.

*Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xii

[Introduction to the Canterbury Tales.]

There are people in the world who think their lives well employed in collecting shells; there are others not less satisfied to spend theirs in classing butterflies. For my own part, I always preferred animate to inanimate nature; and would rather post to the antipodes to mark a new character, or develop a singular incident, than become a fellow of the Royal Society by enriching museums with nondescripts. From this account you, my gentle reader, may, without any extraordinary penetration, have discovered that I am among the eccentric part of mankind, by the courtesy of each other, and themselves, ycleped poets-a title which, however mean or contemptible it may sound to those not honoured with it, never yet was rejected by a single mortal on whom the suffrage of mankind conferred it; no, though the laurel-leaf of Apollo, barren in its nature, was twined by the frozen fingers of Poverty, and shed upon the brow it crowned her chilling influence. But when did it so? Too often destined to deprive its graced owner of every real good by an enchantment which we know not how to define, it comprehends in itself such a variety of pleasures and possessions, that well may one of us cry

Thy lavish charter, taste, appropriates all we see ! Happily, too, we are not like virtuosi in general, encumbered with the treasures gathered in our peregrinations. Compact in their nature, they lie all in the small cavities of our brain, which are, indeed, often so small, as to render it doubtful whether we have any at all. The few discoveries I have made in that richest of mines, the human soul, I have not been churl enough to keep to myself; nor, to say truth, unless I can find out some other means of supporting my corporeal existence than animal food, do I think I shall ever be able to afford that sullen affectation of superiority.

Travelling, I have already said, is my taste; and, to make my journeys pay for themselves, my object. Much against my good liking, some troublesome fellows, a few months ago, took the liberty of making a little home of mine their own; nor, till I had coined a small portion of my brain in the mint of my worthy friend George Robinson, could I induce them to depart. I gave a proof of my politeness, however, in leaving my house to them, and retired to the coast of Kent, where I fell to work very busily. Gay with the hope of shutting my door on these unwelcome visitants, I walked in a severe frost from Deal to Dover, to secure a seat in the stage-coach to London. One only was vacant; and having engaged it, maugre the freezing of the bitter sky,' I wandered forth to note the memorabilia of Dover, and was soon lost in one of my fits of exquisite

abstraction.

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immortal bard has, with more fancy than truth, With reverence I looked up to the cliff which our described; with toil mounted, by an almost endless staircase, to the top of a castle, which added nothing to my poor stock of ideas but the length of our virgin queen's pocket-pistol-that truly Dutch present: cold and weary, I was pacing towards the inn, when a sharpvisaged barber popped his head over his shop-door to which I suddenly cast my eye on, invited my frozen reconnoitre the inquisitive stranger. A brisk fire, hands and feet to its precincts. A civil question to the honest man produced on his part a civil invitation; and having placed me in a snug seat, he readily gave me the benefit of all his oral tradition.

'Sir,' he said, 'it is mighty lucky you came across me. The vulgar people of this town have no genius, sir-no taste; they never shew the greatest curiosity in the place. Sir, we have here the tomb of a poet!'

'The tomb of a poet!' cried I, with a spring that

electrified my informant no less than myself. 'What poet lies here? and where is he buried?'

'Ay, that is the curiosity,' returned he exultingly. I smiled; his distinction was so like a barber. While he had been speaking, I recollected he must allude to the grave of Churchill-that vigorous genius who, well calculated to stand forth the champion of freedom, has recorded himself the slave of party, and the victim of spleen! So, however, thought not the barber, who considered him as the first of human beings.

This great man, sir,' continued he, 'who lived and died in the cause of liberty, is interred in a very remarkable spot, sir; if you were not so cold and so tired, sir, I could shew it you in a moment.' Curiosity is an excellent greatcoat: I forgot I had no other, and strode after the barber to a spot surrounded by ruined walls, in the midst of which stood the white marble tablet marked with Churchill's name to appearance its only distinction.

'Cast your eyes on the walls,' said the important barber; they once enclosed a church, as you may see!'

On inspecting the crumbling ruins more narrowly, I did indeed discern the traces of Gothic architecture. 'Yes, sir,' cried my friend the barber, with the conscious pride of an Englishman, throwing out a gaunt leg and arm, Churchill, the champion of liberty, is interred here! Here, sir, in the very ground where King John did homage for the crown he disgraced.'

The idea was grand. In the eye of fancy, the slender pillars again lifted high the vaulted roof that rang with solemn chantings. I saw the insolent legate seated in scarlet pride; I saw the sneers of many a mitred abbot; I saw, bareheaded, the mean, the prostrate king; I saw, in short, everything but the barber, whom, in my flight and swell of soul, I had outwalked and lost. Some more curious traveller may again pick him up, perhaps, and learn more minutely the fact.

Waking from my reverie, I found myself on the pier. The pale beams of a powerless sun gilt the fluctuating waves and the distant spires of Calais, which I now clearly surveyed. What a new train of images here sprung up in my mind, borne away by succeeding impressions with no less rapidity! From the monk of Sterne I travelled up in five minutes to the inflexible Edward III. sentencing the noble burghers; and having seen them saved by the eloquence of Philippa, I wanted no better seasoning for my mutton-chop, and pitied the empty-headed peer who was stamping over my little parlour in fury at the cook for having over-roasted his pheasant.

The coachman now shewed his ruby face at the door, and I jumped into the stage, where were already seated two passengers of my own sex, and one of-would I could say the fairer! But, though truth may not be spoken at all times, even upon paper, one now and then may do her justice. Half a glance discovered that the good lady opposite to me had never been handsome, and now added the injuries of time to the severity of nature. Civil but cold compliments having passed, I closed my eyes to expand my soul; and, while fabricating a brief poetical history of England, to help short memories, was something astonished to find myself tugged violently by the sleeve; and not less so to see the coach empty, and hear an obstinate waiter insist upon it that we were at Canterbury, and the supper ready to be put on the table. It had snowed, I found, for some time; in consideration of which mine host had prudently suffered the fire nearly to go out. A dim candle was on the table, without snuffers, and a bell-string hanging over it, at which we pulled, but it had long ceased to operate on that noisy convenience. Alas, poor Shenstone! how often, during these excursions, do I think of thee. Cold, indeed, must have been thy acceptation in society, if thou couldst seriously say:

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his various course has been, Must sigh to think how oft he found His warmest welcome at an inn.

Had the gentle bard told us that, in this sad substitute for home, despite of all our impatience to be gone, we must stay not only till wind and weather, but landlords, postilions, and hostlers choose to permit, I should have thought he knew more of travelling; and stirring the fire, snuffing the candles, reconnoitring the company, and modifying my own humour, should at once have tried to make the best of my situation. After all, he is a wise man who does at first what he must do at last; and I was just breaking the ice on finding that I had nursed the fire to the general satisfaction, when the coach from London added three to our party; and common civility obliged those who came first to make way for the yet more frozen travellers. We supped together; and I was something surprised to find our two coachmen allowed us such ample time to enjoy our little bowl of punch; when lo! with dolorous countenances, they came to give us notice that the snow was so heavy, and already so deep, as to make our proceeding by either road dangerous, if not utterly impracticable.

"If that is really the case,' cried I mentally, 'let us see what we may hope from the construction of the seven heads that constitute our company.' Observe, gentle reader, that I do not mean the outward and visible form of those heads; for I am not amongst the new race of physiognomists who exhaust invention only to ally their own species to the animal creation, and would rather prove the skull of a man resembled an ass, than, looking within, find in the intellect a glorious similitude of the Deity. An elegant author more justly conveys my idea of physiognomy, when he says, that 'different sensibilities gather into the countenance and become beauty there, as colours mount in a tulip and enrich it.' It was my interest to be as happy as I could, and that can only be when we look around with a wish to be pleased: nor could I ever find a way of unlocking the human heart but by frankly inviting others to peep into my own. And now for my survey.

In the chimney-corner sat my old gentlewoman, a little alarmed at a coffin that had popped from the fire, instead of a purse; ergo, superstition was her weak side. In sad conformity to declining years, she had put on her spectacles,, taken out her knitting, and thus humbly retired from attention, which she had long, perhaps, been hopeless of attracting. Close by her was placed a young lady from London, in the bloom of nineteen: a cross on her bosom shewed her to be a Catholic, and a peculiar accent an Irish woman; her face, especially her eyes, might be termed handsome; of those, archness would have been the expression, had not the absence of her air proved that their sense was turned inward, to contemplate in her heart some chosen cherished image. Love and romance reigned in every lineament.

A French abbé had, as is usual with gentlemen of that country, edged himself into the seat by the belle, to whom he continually addressed himself with all sorts of petits soins, though fatigue was obvious in his air; and the impression of some danger escaped gave a wild sharpness to every feature. Thou hast comprised,' thought I, 'the knowledge of a whole life in perhaps the last month; and then, perhaps, didst thou first study the art of thinking, or learn the misery of feeling!' Neither of these seemed, however, to have troubled his neighbour, a portly Englishman, who, though with a sort of surly good-nature he had given up his place at the fire, yet contrived to engross both candles, by holding before them a newspaper, where he dwelt upon the article of stocks, till a bloody duel in Ireland induced communication, and enabled me to

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