'Inscription on the Tomb-stone of one not unknown; yet more commonly known by the Initials of his Name than by the Name itself.'

ESTEESE'S αυτοεπιταφιον[1089:1]

(From a copy of the Todten-Tanz which belonged to Thomas Poole.)

FOOTNOTES:

P

[Habent sua Fata—Poetae][1089:2]

FOOTNOTES:

Q

TO JOHN THELWALL[1090:1]

FOOTNOTES:

R[1090:2]

'Relative to a Friend remarkable for Georgoepiscopal Meanderings, and the combination of the utile dulci during his walks to and from any given place, composed, together with a book and a half of an Epic Poem, during one of the Halts:—

FOOTNOTES:

APPENDIX II

ALLEGORIC VISION[1091:1]

A feeling of sadness, a peculiar melancholy, is wont to take
possession of me alike in Spring and in Autumn. But in Spring
it is the melancholy of Hope: in Autumn it is the melancholy
of Resignation. As I was journeying on foot through the
Appennine, I fell in with a pilgrim in whom the Spring and 5
the Autumn and the Melancholy of both seemed to have
combined. In his discourse there were the freshness and the
colours of April:

But as I gazed on his whole form and figure, I bethought me
of the not unlovely decays, both of age and of the late season,
in the stately elm, after the clusters have been plucked from
its entwining vines, and the vines are as bands of dried withies 15
around its trunk and branches. Even so there was a memory
on his smooth and ample forehead, which blended with the
dedication of his steady eyes, that still looked—I know not,
whether upward, or far onward, or rather to the line of meeting
where the sky rests upon the distance. But how may I express 20
that dimness of abstraction which lay on the lustre of the
pilgrim's eyes like the flitting tarnish from the breath of a sigh
on a silver mirror! and which accorded with their slow and
reluctant movement, whenever he turned them to any object
on the right hand or on the left? It seemed, methought, as 25
if there lay upon the brightness a shadowy presence of
disappointments now unfelt, but never forgotten. It was at once
the melancholy of hope and of resignation.

We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a sudden tempest
of wind and rain forced us to seek protection in the vaulted 30
door-way of a lone chapelry; and we sate face to face each on
the stone bench alongside the low, weather-stained wall, and
as close as possible to the massy door.

After a pause of silence: even thus, said he, like two strangers
that have fled to the same shelter from the same storm, not 35
seldom do Despair and Hope meet for the first time in the
porch of Death! All extremes meet, I answered; but yours
was a strange and visionary thought. The better then doth it
beseem both the place and me, he replied. From a Visionary
wilt thou hear a Vision? Mark that vivid flash through this 40
torrent of rain! Fire and water. Even here thy adage holds
true, and its truth is the moral of my Vision. I entreated him
to proceed. Sloping his face toward the arch and yet averting
his eye from it, he seemed to seek and prepare his words: till
listening to the wind that echoed within the hollow edifice, 45
and to the rain without,

he gradually sank away, alike from me and from his own purpose,
and amid the gloom of the storm and in the duskiness of that 50
place, he sate like an emblem on a rich man's sepulchre, or like a
mourner on the sodded grave of an only one—an aged mourner,
who is watching the waned moon and sorroweth not. Starting
at length from his brief trance of abstraction, with courtesy and
an atoning smile he renewed his discourse, and commenced his 55
parable.

During one of those short furloughs from the service of the
body, which the soul may sometimes obtain even in this its
militant state, I found myself in a vast plain, which I
immediately knew to be the Valley of Life. It possessed an 60
astonishing diversity of soils: here was a sunny spot, and
there a dark one, forming just such a mixture of sunshine and
shade, as we may have observed on the mountains' side in an
April day, when the thin broken clouds are scattered over
heaven. Almost in the very entrance of the valley stood 65
a large and gloomy pile, into which I seemed constrained to
enter. Every part of the building was crowded with tawdry
ornaments and fantastic deformity. On every window was
portrayed, in glaring and inelegant colours, some horrible tale,
or preternatural incident, so that not a ray of light could enter, 70
untinged by the medium through which it passed. The body
of the building was full of people, some of them dancing, in and out,
in unintelligible figures, with strange ceremonies and antic
merriment, while others seemed convulsed with horror, or
pining in mad melancholy. Intermingled with these, I observed 75
a number of men, clothed in ceremonial robes, who appeared
now to marshal the various groups, and to direct their
movements; and now with menacing countenances, to drag some
reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed of iron bars intercrossed,
which formed at the same time an immense cage, and the shape 80
of a human Colossus.

I stood for a while lost in wonder what these things might
mean; when lo! one of the directors came up to me, and with
a stern and reproachful look bade me uncover my head, for
that the place into which I had entered was the temple of 85
the only true Religion, in the holier recesses of which the
great Goddess personally resided. Himself too he bade me
reverence, as the consecrated minister of her rites. Awestruck
by the name of Religion, I bowed before the priest, and humbly
and earnestly intreated him to conduct me into her presence. 90
He assented. Offerings he took from me, with mystic
sprinklings of water and with salt he purified, and with strange
sufflations he exorcised me; and then led me through many
a dark and winding alley, the dew-damps of which chilled my
flesh, and the hollow echoes under my feet, mingled, methought, 95
with moanings, affrighted me. At length we entered a large
hall, without window, or spiracle, or lamp. The asylum and
dormitory it seemed of perennial night—only that the walls were
brought to the eye by a number of self-luminous inscriptions in
letters of a pale sepulchral light, which held strange neutrality 100
with the darkness, on the verge of which it kept its rayless vigil.
I could read them, methought; but though each of the words
taken separately I seemed to understand, yet when I took them
in sentences, they were riddles and incomprehensible. As I
stood meditating on these hard sayings, my guide thus addressed 105
me—'Read and believe: these are mysteries!'—At the
extremity of the vast hall the Goddess was placed. Her features,
blended with darkness, rose out to my view, terrible, yet vacant.
I prostrated myself before her, and then retired with my guide,
soul-withered, and wondering, and dissatisfied. 110

As I re-entered the body of the temple I heard a deep buzz
as of discontent. A few whose eyes were bright, and either
piercing or steady, and whose ample foreheads, with the weighty
bar, ridge-like, above the eyebrows, bespoke observation followed
by meditative thought; and a much larger number, who were 115
enraged by the severity and insolence of the priests in exacting
their offerings, had collected in one tumultuous group, and with
a confused outcry of 'This is the Temple of Superstition!' after
much contumely, and turmoil, and cruel maltreatment on all
sides, rushed out of the pile: and I, methought, joined them. 120

We speeded from the Temple with hasty steps, and had now
nearly gone round half the valley, when we were addressed by
a woman, tall beyond the stature of mortals, and with a
something more than human in her countenance and mien, which
yet could by mortals be only felt, not conveyed by words or 125
intelligibly distinguished. Deep reflection, animated by ardent
feelings, was displayed in them: and hope, without its
uncertainty, and a something more than all these, which I understood
not, but which yet seemed to blend all these into a divine unity
of expression. Her garments were white and matronly, and of 130
the simplest texture. We inquired her name. 'My name,' she
replied, 'is Religion.'

The more numerous part of our company, affrighted by the
very sound, and sore from recent impostures or sorceries,
hurried onwards and examined no farther. A few of us, struck 135
by the manifest opposition of her form and manners to those
of the living Idol, whom we had so recently abjured, agreed to
follow her, though with cautious circumspection. She led us to
an eminence in the midst of the valley, from the top of which
we could command the whole plain, and observe the relation of 140
the different parts to each other, and of each to the whole, and
of all to each. She then gave us an optic glass which assisted
without contradicting our natural vision, and enabled us to see
far beyond the limits of the Valley of Life; though our eye
even thus assisted permitted us only to behold a light and 145
a glory, but what we could not descry, save only that it was,
and that it was most glorious.

And now with the rapid transition of a dream, I had overtaken
and rejoined the more numerous party, who had abruptly
left us, indignant at the very name of religion. They journied 150
on, goading each other with remembrances of past oppressions,
and never looking back, till in the eagerness to recede from the
Temple of Superstition they had rounded the whole circle of the
valley. And lo! there faced us the mouth of a vast cavern, at
the base of a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, the interior 155
side of which, unknown to them and unsuspected, formed the
extreme and backward wall of the Temple. An impatient
crowd, we entered the vast and dusky cave, which was the only
perforation of the precipice. At the mouth of the cave sate
two figures; the first, by her dress and gestures, I knew to be 160
Sensuality; the second form, from the fierceness of his demeanour,
and the brutal scornfulness of his looks, declared himself
to be the monster Blasphemy. He uttered big words, and yet
ever and anon I observed that he turned pale at his own
courage. We entered. Some remained in the opening of the 165
cave, with the one or the other of its guardians. The rest, and
I among them, pressed on, till we reached an ample chamber,
that seemed the centre of the rock. The climate of the place
was unnaturally cold.

In the furthest distance of the chamber sate an old dim-eyed 170
man, poring with a microscope over the torso of a statue
which had neither basis, nor feet, nor head; but on its breast
was carved Nature! To this he continually applied his glass,
and seemed enraptured with the various inequalities which it
rendered visible on the seemingly polished surface of the 175
marble.—Yet evermore was this delight and triumph followed
by expressions of hatred, and vehement railing against a Being,
who yet, he assured us, had no existence. This mystery
suddenly recalled to me what I had read in the holiest recess
of the temple of Superstition. The old man spake in divers 180
tongues, and continued to utter other and most strange
mysteries. Among the rest he talked much and vehemently
concerning an infinite series of causes and effects, which he
explained to be a string of blind men, the last of whom
caught hold of the skirt of the one before him, he of the next, 185
and so on till they were all out of sight; and that they all
walked infallibly straight, without making one false step
though all were alike blind. Methought I borrowed courage
from surprise, and asked him—Who then is at the head to
guide them? He looked at me with ineffable contempt, not 190
unmixed with an angry suspicion, and then replied, 'No one.'
The string of blind men went on for ever without any beginning;
for although one blind man could not move without stumbling,
yet infinite blindness supplied the want of sight. I burst into
laughter, which instantly turned to terror—for as he started 195
forward in rage, I caught a glimpse of him from behind; and
lo! I beheld a monster bi-form and Janus-headed, in the hinder
face and shape of which I instantly recognised the dread
countenance of Superstition—and in the terror I awoke.

FOOTNOTES:

LINENOTES:

APPENDIX III

[Vide ante p. 237.]

APOLOGETIC PREFACE TO 'FIRE, FAMINE,
AND SLAUGHTER'[1097:1]

At the house of a gentleman[1097:2] who by the principles and
corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian consecrates a
cultivated genius and the favourable accidents of birth, opulence,
and splendid connexions, it was my good fortune to meet, in
a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or polite 5
literature than are commonly found collected round the same
table. In the course of conversation, one of the party reminded
an illustrious poet [Scott], then present, of some verses which
he had recited that morning, and which had appeared in
a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, 10
Famine, and Slaughter were introduced as the speakers. The
gentleman so addressed replied, that he was rather surprised
that none of us should have noticed or heard of the poem, as it
had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in Scotland. It
may be easily supposed that my feelings were at this moment 15
not of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one only [Sir
H. Davy] knew, or suspected me to be the author; a man who
would have established himself in the first rank of England's
living poets[1097:3], if the Genius of our country had not decreed that
he should rather be the first in the first rank of its philosophers 20
and scientific benefactors. It appeared the general wish to
hear the lines. As my friend chose to remain silent, I chose
to follow his example, and Mr. . . . . . [Scott] recited the poem.
This he could do with the better grace, being known to have
ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and 25
Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both as
a good man and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, he
had been amused with the Eclogue; as a poet he recited it;
and in a spirit which made it evident that he would have read
and repeated it with the same pleasure had his own name been 30
attached to the imaginary object or agent.

After the recitation our amiable host observed that in his
opinion Mr. . . . . . had over-rated the merits of the poetry;
but had they been tenfold greater, they could not have
compensated for that malignity of heart which could alone have 35
prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived that my
illustrious friend became greatly distressed on my account; but
fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and presence of
mind enough to take up the subject without exciting even
a suspicion how nearly and painfully it interested me. 40

What follows is the substance of what I then replied, but
dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my intention,
I said, to justify the publication, whatever its author's feelings
might have been at the time of composing it. That they are
calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from a good man, 45
is not the worst feature of such poems. Their moral deformity
is aggravated in proportion to the pleasure which they are
capable of affording to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled
readers. Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the
author seriously wished what he had thus wildly imagined, 50
even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so monstrous would
be an insult to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of
consideration, whether the mood of mind and the general state
of sensations in which a poet produces such vivid and fantastic
images, is likely to co-exist, or is even compatible with, that 55
gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious wish to realize
them would pre-suppose. It had been often observed, and all
my experience tended to confirm the observation, that prospects
of pain and evil to others, and in general all deep feelings of
revenge, are commonly expressed in a few words, ironically tame, 60
and mild. The mind under so direful and fiend-like an influence
seems to take a morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of
its wishes and feelings with the slightness or levity of the
expressions by which they are hinted; and indeed feelings
so intense and solitary, if they were not precluded (as in almost 65
all cases they would be) by a constitutional activity of fancy
and association, and by the specific joyousness combined with it,
would assuredly themselves preclude such activity. Passion, in
its own quality, is the antagonist of action; though in an
ordinary and natural degree the former alternates with the latter, 70
and thereby revives and strengthens it. But the more intense
and insane the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the
correspondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate
thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its
favourite object, and exercises as it were a perpetual tautology 75
of mind in thoughts and words which admit of no adequate
substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it moves restlessly
round and round the scanty circumference, which it cannot
leave without losing its vital element.

There is a second character of such imaginary representations 80
as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to another,
which we often see in real life, and might even anticipate from
the nature of the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive
man places before his imagination, will most often be taken
from the realities of life: they will be images of pain and 85
suffering which he has himself seen inflicted on other men, and
which he can fancy himself as inflicting on the object of his
hatred. I will suppose that we had heard at different times
two common sailors, each speaking of some one who had
wronged or offended him: that the first with apparent violence 90
had devoted every part of his adversary's body and soul to all
the horrid phantoms and fantastic places that ever Quevedo
dreamt of, and this in a rapid flow of those outrageous and wildly
combined execrations, which too often with our lower classes
serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess of their passions, 95
as so much superfluous steam that would endanger the vessel if
it were retained. The other, on the contrary, with that sort of
calmness of tone which is to the ear what the paleness of anger
is to the eye, shall simply say, 'If I chance to be made
boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but once get that 100
fellow under my hand (and I shall be upon the watch for him),
I'll tickle his pretty skin! I won't hurt him! oh no! I'll only
cut the — — to the liver!' I dare appeal to all present, which
of the two they would regard as the least deceptive symptom
of deliberate malignity? nay, whether it would surprise them 105
to see the first fellow, an hour or two afterwards, cordially
shaking hands with the very man the fractional parts of whose
body and soul he had been so charitably disposing of; or even
perhaps risking his life for him? What language Shakespeare
considered characteristic of malignant disposition we see in the 110
speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who spoke 'an infinite
deal of nothing more than any man in all Venice';