Can there be no
sympathy
with-
out the gabble of words ?
out the gabble of words ?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
He does not find,
but bring. You never witness his first apprehension of a thing.
His understanding is always at its meridian - you never see
the first dawn, the early streaks. He has no falterings of
self-suspicion. Surmises, guesses, misgivings, half-intuitions, semi-
consciousnesses, partial illuminations, dim instincts, embryo con-
ceptions, have no place in his brain or vocabulary. The twilight
of dubiety never falls upon him. Is he orthodox — he has no
doubts. Is he an infidel he has none either. Between the
affirmative and the negative there is no borderland with him.
You cannot hover with him upon the confines of truth, or wan-
der in the maze of a probable argument. He always keeps the
path. You cannot make excursions with him, for he sets you
right. His taste never fluctuates. His morality never abates.
He cannot compromise or understand middle actions. There
can be but a right and a wrong. His conversation is as a book.
His affirmations have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak
upon the square with him. He stops a metaphor · like a sus-
pected person in an enemy's country. "A healthy book! ” said
one of his countrymen to me, who had ventured to give that
appellation to John Buncle,'"Did I catch rightly what you
said ? I have heard of a man in health, and of a healthy state
## p. 8827 (#451) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8827
>
of body; but I do not see how that epithet can be properly
applied to a book. ”
Above all, you must beware of indirect expressions before a
Caledonian. Clap an extinguisher upon your irony, if you are
unhappily blest with a vein of it. Remember you are upon your
oath. I have a print of a graceful female after Leonardo da
Vinci, which I was showing off to Mr.
After he had
examined it minutely, I ventured to ask him how he liked my
beauty (a foolish name it goes by among my friends); when he
very gravely assured me that he had considerable respect for
my character and talents” (so he was pleased to say), “but had
not given himself much thought about the degree of my per-
sonal pretensions. ” The misconception staggered me, but did not
seem much to disconcert him. Persons of this nation are par-
ticularly fond of affirming a truth which nobody doubts. They
do not so properly affirm as annunciate it. They do indeed
appear to have such a love of truth (as if like virtue it were
valuable for itself) that all truth becomes equally valuable,
whether the proposition that contains it be new or old, disputed
or such as is impossible to become a subject of disputation. I
was present not long since at a party of North Britons, where a
son of Burns was expected, and happened to drop a silly expres-
sion (in my South British way), that I wished it were the father
instead of the son; when four of them started up at once to in-
form me that “that was impossible, because he was dead. ” An
impracticable wish, it seems, was more than they could conceive.
Swift has hit off this part of their character — namely, their
love of truth — in his biting way, but with an illiberality that
necessarily confines the passage to the margin. The tediousness
of these people is certainly provoking. I wonder if they ever
tire one another. In my early life I had a passionate fondness
for the poetry of Burns, I have sometimes foolishly hoped to
ingratiate myself with his countrymen by expressing it. But I
have always found that a true Scot resents your admiration of
his compatriot even more than he would your contempt of him.
The latter he imputes to your «imperfect acquaintance with
many of the words he uses”; and the same objection makes it
a presumption in you to suppose that you can admire him.
.
Thomson they seem to have forgotten. Smollett they have neither
forgotten nor forgiven for his delineation of Rory and his com-
panion upon their first introduction to our metropolis. Speak of
## p. 8828 (#452) ###########################################
8828
CHARLES LAMB
run
(
Smollett as a great genius, and they will retort upon you Hume's
History compared with his Continuation of it. What the his-
torian had continued 'Humphrey Clinker'?
I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for Jews. They are a
piece of stubborn antiquity, compared with which Stonehenge is
in its nonage. They date beyond the Pyramids. But I should
not care to be in habits of familiar intercourse with any of that
nation. I confess that I have not the nerves to enter their syn-
agogues. Old prejudices cling about me. I cannot shake off the
story of Hugh of Lincoln. Centuries of injury, contempt, and
hate on the one side, of cloaked revenge, dissimulation, and hate
on the other, between our and their fathers, must and ought to
affect the blood of the children. I cannot believe it can
clear and kindly yet; or that a few fine words, such as “candor,"
"liberality,” the light of a nineteenth century,” can close up the
breaches of so deadly a disunion. A Hebrew is nowhere con-
genial to me. He is least distasteful on 'Change; for the mercan-
tile spirit levels all distinctions, as all are beauties in the dark.
I boldly confess that I do not relish the approximation of Jew
and Christian, which has become so fashionable. The reciprocal
endearments have, to me, something hypocritical and unnatural
in them. I do not like to see the Church and Synagogue kissing
and congeeing in awkward postures of an affected civility. If
they are converted, why do they not come over to us altogether?
Why keep up a form of separation when the life of it is fled ?
If they can sit with us at table, why do they keck at our cook-
ery? I do not understand these half convertites. Jews Christian-
izing — Christians Judaizing — puzzle me. I like fish or flesh. A
moderate Jew is a more confounding piece of anomaly than a
wet Quaker. The spirit of the synagogue is essentially separative.
Braham would have been more in keeping if he had abided by
the faith of his forefathers. There is a fine scorn in his face,
which nature meant to be of Christians. The Hebrew spirit is
strong in him, in spite of his proselytism. He cannot conquer
the Shibboleth. How it breaks out when he sings, « The Child-
ren of Israel passed through the Red Sea! ” The auditors for
the moment are as Egyptians to him, and he rides over our necks
in triumph. There is no mistaking him. Braham has a strong
expression of sense in his countenance, and it is confirmed by
his singing. The foundation of his vocal excellence is sense.
He sings with understanding, as Kemble delivered dialogue. He
.
## p. 8829 (#453) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8829
would sing the Commandments and give an appropriate char-
acter to each prohibition. His nation in general have not over-
sensible countenances,— how should they ? — but you seldom see
a silly expression among them. Gain and the pursuit of gain
sharpen a man's visage. I never heard of an idiot being born
among them.
Some admire the Jewish female physiognomy. I
admire it, but with trembling. Jael had those full dark inscru-
table eyes.
In the negro countenance you will often meet with strong
traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards
some of these faces — or rather masks — that have looked out
kindly upon one in casual encounters in the streets and high-
ways. I love what Fuller beautifully calls these images of God
cut in ebony. ” But I should not like to associate with them, to
share my meals and my good-nights with them— because they
are black.
I love Quaker ways and Quaker worship. I venerate the
Quaker principles. It does me good for the rest of the day when
I meet any of their people in my path. When I am ruffled or
disturbed by any occurrence, the sight or quiet voice of a Quaker
acts upon me as a ventilator, lightening the air and taking off a
load from the bosom. But I cannot like the Quakers (as Des-
demona would say) “to live with them. ” I am all over sophis-
ticated with humors, fancies, craving hourly sympathy. I must
have books, pictures, theatres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambigui-
ties, and a thousand whimwhams, which their simpler taste can
do without. I should starve at their primitive banquet. My ap-
petites are too high for the salads which (according to Evelyn)
Eve dressed for the angel, my gusto too excited
>
« To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse. ”
The indirect answers which Quakers are often found to return
to a question put to them may be explained, I think, without
the vulgar assumption that they are more given to evasion and
equivocating than other people. They naturally look to their
words more carefully, and are more cautious of committing them-
selves. They have a peculiar character to keep up on this head.
They stand in a manner upon their veracity. A Quaker is by
law exempted from taking an oath. The custom of resorting
to an oath in extreme cases, sanctified as it is by all religious
antiquity, is apt (it must be confessed) to introduce into the laxer
## p. 8830 (#454) ###########################################
8830
CHARLES LAMB
»
-
sort of minds the notion of two kinds of truth: the one applicable
to the solemn affairs of justice, and the other to the common
proceedings of daily intercourse. As truth bound upon the con-
science by an oath can be but truth, so in the common affirma-
tions of the shop and the market-place a latitude is expected
and conceded upon questions wanting this solemn covenant.
Something less than truth satisfies. It is common to hear a per-
son say, “You do not expect me to speak as if I were upon
my oath. ” Hence a great deal of incorrectness and inadvertency,
short of falsehood, creeps into ordinary conversation; and a kind
of secondary or laic truth is tolerated, where clergy-truth-oath-
truth — by the nature of the circumstances is not required. A
Quaker knows none of this distinction. His simple affirmation
being received, upon the most sacred occasions, without any
further test, stamps a value upon the words which he is to use
upon the most indifferent topics of life. He looks to them natur-
ally with more severity. You can have of him no more than his
word. He knows if he is caught tripping in a casual expression,
he forfeits, for himself at least, his claim to the invidious ex-
emption. He knows that his syllables are weighed; and how far
a consciousness of this particular watchfulness exerted against a
person has a tendency to produce indirect answers, and a divert-
ing of the question by honest means, might be illustrated, and
the practice justified, by a more sacred example than is proper to
be adduced upon this occasion. The admirable presence of mind
which is notorious in Quakers upon all contingencies might be
traced to this imposed self-watchfulness, if it did not seem rather
an humble and secular scion of that old stock of religious con-
stancy which never bent or faltered in the primitive Friends, or
gave way to the winds of persecution, to the violence of judge
or accuser, under trials and racking examinations. “You will
never be the wiser, if I sit here answering your questions till
midnight,” said one of those upright Justicers to Penn, who had
been putting law cases with a puzzling subtlety. “Thereafter as
the answers may be,” retorted the Quaker.
The astonishing composure of this people is sometimes ludi-
crously displayed in lighter instances. I was traveling in a stage-
coach with three male Quakers, buttoned up in the straitest
nonconformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover,
where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set before
My friends confined themselves to the tea-table.
(C
us.
I in my
## p. 8831 (#455) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8831
way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the
eldest of my companions discovered that she had charged for
both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous
and positive. Some mild arguments were used on the part of
the Quakers, for which the heated mind of the good lady seemed
by no means a fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual
peremptory notice. The Quakers pulled out their money and
formally tendered it, --so much for tea; I, in humble imitation,
tendering mine for the supper which I had taken. She would
not relax in her demand. So they all three quietly put up their
silver, as did myself, and marched out of the room; the eldest
and gravest going first, with myself closing up the rear, who
thought I could not do better than follow the example of such
grave and warrantable personages. We got in. The steps went
up.
The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not
very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time
inaudible; and now, my conscience, which the whimsical scene
had for a while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I
waited, in the hope that some justification would be offered by
these serious persons for the seeming injustice of their conduct.
To my great surprise not a syllable was dropped on the subject.
They sat as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of them
broke silence by inquiring of his next neighbor, “Hast thee
heard how indigos go at the India House? ”
DREAM-CHILDREN: A REVERY
From the Essays of Elia)
C"
HILDREN love to listen to stories about their elders when they
were children; to stretch their imagination to the concep-
tion of a traditionary great-uncle or grandame whom they
never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about
me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother
Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times
bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been
the scene
- so at least it was generally believed in that part
of the country — of the tragic incidents which they had lately
become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the
Wood. ' Certain it is that the whole story of the children and
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon
## p. 8832 (#456) ###########################################
8832
CHARLES LAMB
upon it.
the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the
Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set
up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story
Here Alice put on one of her dear mother's looks, too
tender to be called upbraiding.
Then I went on to say how religious and how good their
great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by
everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great
house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects
she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her
by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fash-
ionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the ad-
joining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had
been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a
sort while she lived, — which afterwards came to decay, and was
nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried
away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and
looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old
tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey and stick them up in
Lady C—'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as
much as to say,
That would be foolish indeed. ”
And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was
attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry
too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to show their
respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and
religious woman; so good, indeed, that she knew all the Psaltery
by heart, ay! and a great part of the Testament besides. Here
little Alice spread her hands.
Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-
grandmother Field once was, and how in her youth she
esteemed the best dancer (here Alice's little right foot played
an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave it desisted)
- the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel
disease called a cancer came, and bowed her down with pain;
but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop,
but they were still upright, because she was so good and reli-
gious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a
lone chamber of the great lone house, and how she believed that
an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight glid-
ing up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but
she said “those innocents would do her no harm ”; and how
was
## p. 8833 (#457) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8833
frightened I used to be,-though in those days I had my maid
to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious
as she,- and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded
all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.
Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren: hav-
ing us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular
used to spend many hours by myself in gazing upon the old
busts of the twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome,
till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be
turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with
roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms,
with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken
panels with the gilding almost rubbed out; sometimes in the
spacious old-fashioned gardens which I had almost to myself,
unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross
me; and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls
without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were for-
bidden fruit, unless now and then, and because I had more pleas-
ure in strolling about among the old melancholy looking yew-trees
or the firs, and picking up the red berries and the fir-apples,
which were good for nothing but to look at, or in lying about
upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden smells around me,
or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself
ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grate-
ful warmth, or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in
the fish-pond at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a
great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state,
as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings. I had more pleas-
ure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of
peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of child-
Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch
of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated
dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them
for the present as irrelevant.
Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though
their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in
an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John
L- , because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a
king to the rest of us, and instead of moping about in solitary
corners like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome
horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves,
XV—553
ren.
## p. 8834 (#458) ###########################################
8834
CHARLES LAMB
and make it carry him half over the country in a morning, and
join the hunters when there were any out,- and yet he loved
the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to
be always pent up within their boundaries; and how their uncle
grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the
admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field
most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back
when I was a lame-footed boy,- for he was a good bit older
than me,- many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and
how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not
always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was
impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate
he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he
died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he
had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life
and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well
at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though
I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he
would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long,
and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed
his kindness and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be
alive again to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled some-
times) rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy with-
out him as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor
took off his limb. Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if
their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John,
and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their
uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead
mother.
Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes,
sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice
W—n; and as much as children could understand, I explained
to them what coyness and difficulty and denial meant in maid-
ens: when suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice
looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment,
that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or
whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the
children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding and still
receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were
seen in the uttermost distance, which without speech strangely
impressed upon me the effects of speech:-“We are not of
-
## p. 8835 (#459) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8835
wait upon
Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of
Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing, less than nothing,
and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must
the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before
we have existence and a name. ” And immediately awakening, I
found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair where I had
fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side;
but John L-(or James Elia) was gone for ever.
A QUAKERS' MEETING
From the Essays of Elia!
STILL-BORN Silence! thou that art
Flood-gate of the deeper heart!
Offspring of a heavenly kind !
Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind!
Secrecy's confidant, and he
Who makes religion mystery!
Admiration's speaking'st tongue !
Leave, thy desert shades among,
Reverend hermits' hallowed cells,
Where retired Devotion dwells !
With thy enthusiasms come,
Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!
Rich. FLECKNOE.
R.
EADER, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet mean;
wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamors
of the multitude; wouldst thou enjoy at once solitude and
society; wouldst thou possess the depth of thine own spirit in
stillness, without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy
species; — wouldst thou be alone and yet accompanied; solitary,
yet not desolate; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in
countenance; a unit in aggregate, a simple in composite; - come
with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
Dost thou love silence deep as that “before the winds were
made”? Go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the
profundities of the earth; shut not up thy casements, nor pour
wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faithed, self-
mistrusting Ulysses. Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
For a man to refrain even from good words and to hold his
peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude it is great mas-
tery.
## p. 8836 (#460) ###########################################
8836
CHARLES LAMB
What is the stillness of the desert compared with this place ?
what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes ? Here the god-
dess reigns and revels. “Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud,”
do not with their interconfounding uproars more augment the
brawl, nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed
sounds, than their opposite (Silence, her sacred self) is multiplied
and rendered more intense by numbers and by sympathy. She
too hath her deeps that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a
positive more and less, and closed eyes would seem to obscure
the great obscurity of midnight.
There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal.
By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The
perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but
nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. Those first
hermits did certainly understand this principle when they retired
into Egyptian solitudes, not singly but in shoals, to enjoy one
another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his
brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness.
ular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through
a long winter evening with a friend sitting by, - say a wife,-
he or she too (if that be probable) reading another, without inter-
ruption or oral communication ?
Can there be no sympathy with-
out the gabble of words ? Away with this inhuman, shy, single,
shade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give me, Master Zimmer-
mann, a sympathetic solitude.
To pace alone in the cloisters or side aisles of some cathedral
time-stricken,
(Or under hanging mountains,
Or by the fall of fountains,
In sec.
is but a vulgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy who
come together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted sol-
itude. This is the loneliness “to be felt. ” The Abbey Church
of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as
the naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. Here are
no tombs, no inscriptions -
«sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings; »
but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into the
foreground: SILENCE, eldest of things — language of old Night -
## p. 8837 (#461) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8837
primitive Discourser -- to which the insolent decays of molder-
ing grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and as we may say
unnatural progression.
« How reverend is the view of these hushed heads
Looking tranquillity!
»
Nothing-plotting, naught-caballing, unmischievous synod! con-
vocation without intrigue! parliament without debate! what a
lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory! If my pen
treat of you lightly, -as haply it will wander, - yet my spirit
hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, when, sitting among
you in deepest peace, which some outwelling tears would rather
confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of your begin.
nings, and the sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury. I
have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic
tranquillity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of
the insolent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent to molest you,-
for ye sate betwixt the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and
offscouring of Church and Presbytery. I have seen the reeling
sea-ruffian, who had wandered into your receptacle with the
avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit
of the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently
sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And I remember Penn
before his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted
up in spirit, as he tells us, and “the judge and the jury became
as dead men under his feet. ”
Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend
to you above all church narratives to read Sewel's History of
the Quakers. It is in folio, and is the abstract of the Journals
of Fox and the primitive Friends. It is far more edifying and
affecting than anything you will read of Wesley and his col-
leagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to make you
mistrust; no suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the worldly
or ambitious spirit. You will here read the true story of that
much-injured, ridiculed man (who perhaps hath been a byword in
your mouth), James Naylor: what dreadful sufferings, with what
patience he endured, even to the boring through of his tongue
with red-hot irons, without a murmur; and with what strength of
mind, when the delusion he had fallen into, which they stigma-
tized as blasphemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he could
renounce his error, in a strain of the beautifulest humility, yet
>>
## p. 8838 (#462) ###########################################
8838
CHARLES LAMB
keep his first grounds, and be a Quaker still! — so different from
the practice of your common converts from enthusiasm, who,
when they apostatize, a postatise all, and think they can never
get far enough from the society of their former errors, even to
the renunciation of some saving truths with which they had been
mingled, not implicated.
Get the writings of John Woolman by heart, and love the
early Quakers.
How far the followers of these good men in our days have
kept to the primitive spirit, or in what proportion they have sub-
stituted formality for it, the Judge of Spirits can alone determine.
I have seen faces in their assemblies, upon which the dove
sate visibly brooding. Others again I have watched, when my
thoughts should have been better engaged, in which I could pos-
sibly detect nothing but a blank inanity. But quiet was in all,
and the disposition to unanimity, and the absence of the fierce
controversial workings. If the spiritual pretensions of the Qua-
kers have abated, at least they make few pretenses. Hypocrites
they certainly are not in their preaching. It is seldom indeed
that you shall see one get up amongst them to hold forth. Only
now and then a trembling female, generally ancient, voice is
heard,- you cannot guess from what part of the meeting it pro-
ceeds,— with a low buzzing musical sound laying out a few words
which she thought might suit the condition of some present,"
with a quaking diffidence which leaves no possibility of suppos-
ing that anything of female vanity was mixed up where the tones
were so full of tenderness and a restraining modesty. The men,
for what I have observed, speak seldomer,
Once only, and it was some years ago, I witnessed a sample
of the old Foxian orgasm. It was a man of giant stature, who,
as Wordsworth phrases it, might have danced from head to foot
equipt in iron mail. His frame was of iron too. But he was
malleable. I saw him shake all over with the spirit-- I dare not
say of delusion.
The strivings of the outer man were unutter-
able: he seemed not to speak, but to be spoken from. I saw
I
the strong man bowed down, and his knees to fail; his joints all
seemed loosening: it was a figure to set off against Paul preach-
ing. The words he uttered were few and sound: he was evi-
dently resisting his will — keeping down his own word-wisdom
with more mighty effort than the world's orators strain for theirs.
“He had been a wit in his youth,” he told us with expressions
((
(C
## p. 8839 (#463) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8839
of a sober remorse. And it was not till long after the impres-
sion had begun to wear away that I was enabled, with something
like a smile, to recall the striking incongruity of the confession
- understanding the term in its worldly acceptation -- with the
frame and physiognomy of the person before me. His brow
would have scared away the Levities — the Jocos Risus-que-
faster than the Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna. By wit, ,
even in his youth, I will be sworn he understood something far
within the limits of an allowable liberty.
More frequently the meeting is broken up without a word
having been spoken. But the mind has been fed. You go away
with a sermon not made with hands. You have been in the
milder caverns of Trophonius, or as in some den where that
fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures, the Tongue, that un-
ruly member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. You have
bathed with stillness. . Oh, when the spirit is sore fretted, even
tired to sickness of the janglings and nonsense-noises of the
world, what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat yourself for
a quiet half-hour upon some undisputed corner of a bench among
the gentle Quakers!
Their garb and stillness conjoined present a uniformity tran-
quil and herd-like, as in the pasture,- forty feeding like one. ”
The very garments of a Quaker seem incapable of receiving
a soil, and cleanliness in them to be something more than the
absence of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily; and when
they come up in bands to their Whitsun-conferences, whitening
the easterly streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United
Kingdom, they show like troops of the Shining Ones.
MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
From the Essays of Elia)
“A
CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game. ” This
was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with
God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of
whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-
and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you
want one to make up a rubber: who affirm that they have no
pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose
another; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a
card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will
## p. 8840 (#464) ###########################################
8840
CHARLES LAMB
desire an adversary who has slipped a wrong card to take it up
and play another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a
table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may
be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing
at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them as
I do, from her heart and soul; and would not, save upon a strik-
ing emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with
them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy.
She took and gave no concessions. She hated favors. She never
made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her adversary without
exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight, cut
and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a
dancer. ” She sate bolt upright, and neither showed you her cards
nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side -
their superstitions; and I have heard her declare under the rose
that hearts was her favorite suit.
I never in my life and I knew Sarah Battle many of the
best years of it — saw her take out her snuff-box when it was
her turn to play, or snuff a candle in the middle of a game, or
ring for a servant till it was fairly over. She never introduced
or connived at miscellaneous conversation during its process. As
she emphatically observed, cards were cards; and if I ever saw
unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was
at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary turn, who had
been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand, and who in his
excess of candor declared that he thought there was
no harm
in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in
recreations of that kind! She could not bear to have her noble
occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in
that light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came
into the world to do,- and she did it. She unbent her mind
afterwards over a book.
Pope was her favorite author; his Rape of the Lock' her
favorite work. She once did me the favor to play over with
me (with the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in that poem,
and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and in what points
it would be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illustrations
were apposite and poignant, and I had the pleasure of sending
the substance of them to Mr. Bowles; but I suppose they came
too late to be inserted among his ingenious notes upon that
author.
## p. 8841 (#465) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8841
Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love; but whist
had engaged her maturer esteem. The former, she said, was
showy and specious, and likely to allure young persons. The
uncertainty and quick shifting of partners - a thing which the
-
constancy of whist abhors; the dazzling supremacy and regal in-
vestiture of spadille — absurd, as she justly observed, in the pure
aristocracy of whist, where his crown and garter gave him no
proper power above his brother nobility of the aces; the giddy
vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of playing alone; above
all, the overpowering attractions of a sans prendre vole, to the
triumph of which there is certainly nothing parallel or approach-
ing in the contingencies of whist;— all these, she would say, make
quadrille a game of captivation to the young and enthusiastic.
But whist was the solider game; that was her word. It was a
long meal; not like quadrille, a feast of snatches. One or two
rubbers might coextend in duration with an evening. They gave
time to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She
despised the chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuating alli-
ances of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say,
reminded her of the petty ephemeral embroilments of the little
Italian States depicted by Machiavel: perpetually changing pos-
tures and connections; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to-
morrow; kissing and scratching in a breath;- but the wars of
whist were comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational
antipathies of the great French and English nations.
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favor-
ite game. There was nothing silly in it, like the nob in cribbage
— nothing superfluous. No flushes, - that most irrational of all
pleas that a reasonable being can set up: that any one should
claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same mark and
color, without reference to the playing of the game, or the indi-
vidual worth or pretensions of the cards themselves! She held
this to be a solecism; as pitiful an ambition at cards as allitera-
tion is in authorship. She despised superficiality; pegging teased
her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a five-pound stake)
because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which
would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the
disgraceful tenure of declaring «Two for his heels. There is
something extremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah
Battle was a gentlewoman born.
Piquet she held the best game at the cards for two persons,
though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms,- such as
## p. 8842 (#466) ###########################################
8842
CHARLES LAMB
on
pique, repique, the capot: they savored (she thought) of affecta-
tion. But games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared
for. She loved the quadrate or square.
She would argue thus:
Cards are warfare: the ends are gain, with glory. But cards
are war in disguise of a sport: when single adversaries encounter,
the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves it is too
close a fight; with spectators it is not much bettered. No looker-
can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere
affair of money; he cares not for your luck sympathetically, or
for your play. Three are still worse: a mere naked war of
every
man against every man, as in cribbage, without league or alli-
ance; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succes-
sion of heartless leagues and not much more hearty infractions
of them, as in tradrille. But in square games (she meant whist)
all that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accomplished.
There are the incentives of profit with honor, common to every
species; though the latter can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in
those other games where the spectator is only feebly a partici.
pator. But the parties in whist are spectators and principals
too. They are a theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not
wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an impertinence.
Whist abhors neutrality, or interests beyond its sphere. You
glory in some surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not because a
cold or even an interested — bystander witnesses it, but because
your partner sympathizes in the contingency. You win for two.
You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are morti-
fied; which divides their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by
taking off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are
better reconciled than one to one in that close butchery. The
hostile feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. War
becomes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady
was accustomed to defend her favorite pastime.
No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any
game, where chance entered into the composition, for nothing.
Chance, she would argue - and here again admire the subtlety
of her conclusion — chance is nothing, but where something else
depends upon it. It is obvious that cannot be glory. What
rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size
ace a hundred times together by himself, or before spectators,
where no stake was depending? Make a lottery of a hundred
thousand tickets with but one fortunate number, and what possi-
ble principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it
## p. 8843 (#467) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8843
gratify to gain that number as many times successively without
a prize ? Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in back-
gammon, where it was not played for money. She called it
foolish, and those people idiots who were taken with a lucky hit
under such circumstances. Games of pure skill were as little
to her fancy Played for a stake, they were a mere system of
overreaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one
man's wit -- his memory or combination-faculty, rather -- against
another's; like a mock engagement at a review, bloodless and
profitless. She could not conceive a game wanting the spritely
infusion of chance, the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two
people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was
stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror
and ennui. Those well-cut similitudes of castles and knights, the
imagery of the board, she would argue (and I think in this case
justly), were entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard head
contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject
form and color. A pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were
the proper arena for such combatants.
To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing the bad
passions, she would retort that man is a gaming animal. He
must be always trying to get the better in something or other;
that this passion can scarcely be more safely expended than upon
a game at cards; that cards are a temporary illusion,- in truth,
a mere drama — for we do but play at being mightily concerned
where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet during the illusion
we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and
kingdoms. They are a sort of dream fighting: much ado, great
battling, and little bloodshed; mighty means for disproportioned
ends; quite as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than
many of those more serious games of life which men play with-
out esteeming them to be such.
With great deference to the old lady's judgment in these mat-
ters, I think I have experienced some moments in my life when
playing at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. When I
am in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for
the cards, and play a game at piquet for love with my cousin
Bridget — Bridget Elia.
I grant there is something sneaking in it; but with a tooth-
ache or a sprained ankle,-- when you are subdued and humble, -
you are glad to put up with an inferior spring of action.
## p. 8844 (#468) ###########################################
8844
CHARLES LAMB
There is such a thing in nature, I am convinced, as sick
whist.
I grant it is not the highest style of man; I deprecate the
manes of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas! to whom I should
apologize.
At such times, those terms which my old friend objected to
come in as something admissible. I love to get a tierce or a
quatorze, though they mean nothing. I am subdued to an infe-
rior interest. Those shadows of winning amuse me.
That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I capotted her)
— (dare I tell thee how foolish I am ? )— I wished it might have
lasted for ever, though we gained nothing and lost nothing, though
it was a mere shade of play; I would be content to go on in
that idle folly forever. The pipkin should be ever boiling that
was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my foot, which Bridget
was doomed to apply after the game was over; and as I do not
much relish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and
I should be ever playing.
## p. 8845 (#469) ###########################################
8845
LAMENNAIS
(1782-1854)
BY GRACE KING
UGUES FÉLICITÉ ROBERT DE LAMENNAIS was born at St. Malo
in 1782. His family, the Roberts, belonged to the old bour-
geoisie of Brittany. The seigneurial termination of De La
Mennais came from his father, a wealthy ship-owner, who was en-
nobled by Louis XVI. for services during the American war. His
mother, of Irish extraction, was noted for her brilliant accomplish-
ments and fervid piety. The mother dying when Félicité was but five
years old, the child was left by his busy, preoccupied father entirely
in the care of an elder brother, Jean, and
of an eccentric free-thinking uncle, who
lived in the country in his château of La
Chenaie. From Jean, Felicité received the
rudiments of his education; and almost at
the same time, such was his precocity, he
acquired in the great library of La Chenaie
the erudition of constant and indiscriminate
reading. Hence his first misunderstanding
by, rather than with, his Church. In the
instruction for his first communion, certain
points aroused his spirit of discussion, and
into the argument with the priest he poured
the mass of his ill-digested philosophical
LAMENNAIS
reading: the result was that he was refused
the communion. It was not until his twenty-second year upon the
occasion of his brother Jean's ordination, that he rectified his posi-
tion and became an active member of his church. Shortly afterward,
the two brothers, having inherited jointly La Chenaie from their uncle,
retired there. From this retreat, two years later, 1807, appeared
Lamennais's first literary essay: a (Guide Spirituel,' the translation
of Louis de Blois's tract the "Speculum Monacharum. The transla-
tion, perfect in itself, is accompanied by a preface which in pure
spirituality of thought and expression equals, if it does not surpass,
the original tract. Lamennais himself never afterwards surpassed it.
It was his next publication a year later, however, that sounds the
## p. 8846 (#470) ###########################################
8846
LAMENNAIS
true note, the war-cry of his genius, - his (Reflections upon the State
of the Church during the Eighteenth Century and the Actual Situa-
tion,' -- a fierce arraignment of the despotism which held the Church
in a cringing position before the government. The book, published
anonymously, was promptly suppressed by Napoleon's police. Jean,
now Vicar of St. Malo and director of the ecclesiastical seminary
there, withdrew his brother from La Chenaie, and gave him the posi-
tion of professor of mathematics in the seminary, persuading him
about the same time to receive the tonsure. In collaboration the
two brothers wrote “The Tradition of the Church on the Institution of
Bishops. The downfall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bour-
bons opportunely opening the way to Paris, Félicité went thither
with the manuscript. The book came out, but it did not sell.
Polemical by nature, the project of an ecclesiastical journal, a
Catholic organ, came to him as a necessity of the hour; but, help-
lessly dependent upon his brother, he urged him to come to Paris
and make the venture a possible one. Jean refused to be diverted
from his vocation as parish priest. The return of Napoleon put an
end to situation and projects. Lamennais went into exile in London.
Friendless and without resources, he was wandering around the streets
in search of employment, when he met the Abbé Caron, the dispenser
of royal charity to French exiles in London. The Abbé befriended
Lamennais, and in the end gained over him an influence similar to
that of his brother Jean. As a result of their intimacy, and before
the Hundred Days were over, Lamennais was persuaded to take the
last step in his profession and become a priest. It is in elucidating
this period of Lamennais's life that the publication of his private
letters has been of most service to his memory. When he returned
to Paris he was ordained priest. Two years later the first volume of
his “Essay on Indifference in Matters of Religion appeared. Its suc-
cess was instantaneous and immense.
To quote Sainte-Beuve: “Its
effect upon the world was that of a sudden explosion; the author
was bombarded into celebrity by it. ” Lamennais was soon surrounded
by a party of the most brilliant men among the clergy and laity.
The essay, falling into the hands of the law-student Lacordaire,
converted him into a student of theology.
but bring. You never witness his first apprehension of a thing.
His understanding is always at its meridian - you never see
the first dawn, the early streaks. He has no falterings of
self-suspicion. Surmises, guesses, misgivings, half-intuitions, semi-
consciousnesses, partial illuminations, dim instincts, embryo con-
ceptions, have no place in his brain or vocabulary. The twilight
of dubiety never falls upon him. Is he orthodox — he has no
doubts. Is he an infidel he has none either. Between the
affirmative and the negative there is no borderland with him.
You cannot hover with him upon the confines of truth, or wan-
der in the maze of a probable argument. He always keeps the
path. You cannot make excursions with him, for he sets you
right. His taste never fluctuates. His morality never abates.
He cannot compromise or understand middle actions. There
can be but a right and a wrong. His conversation is as a book.
His affirmations have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak
upon the square with him. He stops a metaphor · like a sus-
pected person in an enemy's country. "A healthy book! ” said
one of his countrymen to me, who had ventured to give that
appellation to John Buncle,'"Did I catch rightly what you
said ? I have heard of a man in health, and of a healthy state
## p. 8827 (#451) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8827
>
of body; but I do not see how that epithet can be properly
applied to a book. ”
Above all, you must beware of indirect expressions before a
Caledonian. Clap an extinguisher upon your irony, if you are
unhappily blest with a vein of it. Remember you are upon your
oath. I have a print of a graceful female after Leonardo da
Vinci, which I was showing off to Mr.
After he had
examined it minutely, I ventured to ask him how he liked my
beauty (a foolish name it goes by among my friends); when he
very gravely assured me that he had considerable respect for
my character and talents” (so he was pleased to say), “but had
not given himself much thought about the degree of my per-
sonal pretensions. ” The misconception staggered me, but did not
seem much to disconcert him. Persons of this nation are par-
ticularly fond of affirming a truth which nobody doubts. They
do not so properly affirm as annunciate it. They do indeed
appear to have such a love of truth (as if like virtue it were
valuable for itself) that all truth becomes equally valuable,
whether the proposition that contains it be new or old, disputed
or such as is impossible to become a subject of disputation. I
was present not long since at a party of North Britons, where a
son of Burns was expected, and happened to drop a silly expres-
sion (in my South British way), that I wished it were the father
instead of the son; when four of them started up at once to in-
form me that “that was impossible, because he was dead. ” An
impracticable wish, it seems, was more than they could conceive.
Swift has hit off this part of their character — namely, their
love of truth — in his biting way, but with an illiberality that
necessarily confines the passage to the margin. The tediousness
of these people is certainly provoking. I wonder if they ever
tire one another. In my early life I had a passionate fondness
for the poetry of Burns, I have sometimes foolishly hoped to
ingratiate myself with his countrymen by expressing it. But I
have always found that a true Scot resents your admiration of
his compatriot even more than he would your contempt of him.
The latter he imputes to your «imperfect acquaintance with
many of the words he uses”; and the same objection makes it
a presumption in you to suppose that you can admire him.
.
Thomson they seem to have forgotten. Smollett they have neither
forgotten nor forgiven for his delineation of Rory and his com-
panion upon their first introduction to our metropolis. Speak of
## p. 8828 (#452) ###########################################
8828
CHARLES LAMB
run
(
Smollett as a great genius, and they will retort upon you Hume's
History compared with his Continuation of it. What the his-
torian had continued 'Humphrey Clinker'?
I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for Jews. They are a
piece of stubborn antiquity, compared with which Stonehenge is
in its nonage. They date beyond the Pyramids. But I should
not care to be in habits of familiar intercourse with any of that
nation. I confess that I have not the nerves to enter their syn-
agogues. Old prejudices cling about me. I cannot shake off the
story of Hugh of Lincoln. Centuries of injury, contempt, and
hate on the one side, of cloaked revenge, dissimulation, and hate
on the other, between our and their fathers, must and ought to
affect the blood of the children. I cannot believe it can
clear and kindly yet; or that a few fine words, such as “candor,"
"liberality,” the light of a nineteenth century,” can close up the
breaches of so deadly a disunion. A Hebrew is nowhere con-
genial to me. He is least distasteful on 'Change; for the mercan-
tile spirit levels all distinctions, as all are beauties in the dark.
I boldly confess that I do not relish the approximation of Jew
and Christian, which has become so fashionable. The reciprocal
endearments have, to me, something hypocritical and unnatural
in them. I do not like to see the Church and Synagogue kissing
and congeeing in awkward postures of an affected civility. If
they are converted, why do they not come over to us altogether?
Why keep up a form of separation when the life of it is fled ?
If they can sit with us at table, why do they keck at our cook-
ery? I do not understand these half convertites. Jews Christian-
izing — Christians Judaizing — puzzle me. I like fish or flesh. A
moderate Jew is a more confounding piece of anomaly than a
wet Quaker. The spirit of the synagogue is essentially separative.
Braham would have been more in keeping if he had abided by
the faith of his forefathers. There is a fine scorn in his face,
which nature meant to be of Christians. The Hebrew spirit is
strong in him, in spite of his proselytism. He cannot conquer
the Shibboleth. How it breaks out when he sings, « The Child-
ren of Israel passed through the Red Sea! ” The auditors for
the moment are as Egyptians to him, and he rides over our necks
in triumph. There is no mistaking him. Braham has a strong
expression of sense in his countenance, and it is confirmed by
his singing. The foundation of his vocal excellence is sense.
He sings with understanding, as Kemble delivered dialogue. He
.
## p. 8829 (#453) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8829
would sing the Commandments and give an appropriate char-
acter to each prohibition. His nation in general have not over-
sensible countenances,— how should they ? — but you seldom see
a silly expression among them. Gain and the pursuit of gain
sharpen a man's visage. I never heard of an idiot being born
among them.
Some admire the Jewish female physiognomy. I
admire it, but with trembling. Jael had those full dark inscru-
table eyes.
In the negro countenance you will often meet with strong
traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards
some of these faces — or rather masks — that have looked out
kindly upon one in casual encounters in the streets and high-
ways. I love what Fuller beautifully calls these images of God
cut in ebony. ” But I should not like to associate with them, to
share my meals and my good-nights with them— because they
are black.
I love Quaker ways and Quaker worship. I venerate the
Quaker principles. It does me good for the rest of the day when
I meet any of their people in my path. When I am ruffled or
disturbed by any occurrence, the sight or quiet voice of a Quaker
acts upon me as a ventilator, lightening the air and taking off a
load from the bosom. But I cannot like the Quakers (as Des-
demona would say) “to live with them. ” I am all over sophis-
ticated with humors, fancies, craving hourly sympathy. I must
have books, pictures, theatres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambigui-
ties, and a thousand whimwhams, which their simpler taste can
do without. I should starve at their primitive banquet. My ap-
petites are too high for the salads which (according to Evelyn)
Eve dressed for the angel, my gusto too excited
>
« To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse. ”
The indirect answers which Quakers are often found to return
to a question put to them may be explained, I think, without
the vulgar assumption that they are more given to evasion and
equivocating than other people. They naturally look to their
words more carefully, and are more cautious of committing them-
selves. They have a peculiar character to keep up on this head.
They stand in a manner upon their veracity. A Quaker is by
law exempted from taking an oath. The custom of resorting
to an oath in extreme cases, sanctified as it is by all religious
antiquity, is apt (it must be confessed) to introduce into the laxer
## p. 8830 (#454) ###########################################
8830
CHARLES LAMB
»
-
sort of minds the notion of two kinds of truth: the one applicable
to the solemn affairs of justice, and the other to the common
proceedings of daily intercourse. As truth bound upon the con-
science by an oath can be but truth, so in the common affirma-
tions of the shop and the market-place a latitude is expected
and conceded upon questions wanting this solemn covenant.
Something less than truth satisfies. It is common to hear a per-
son say, “You do not expect me to speak as if I were upon
my oath. ” Hence a great deal of incorrectness and inadvertency,
short of falsehood, creeps into ordinary conversation; and a kind
of secondary or laic truth is tolerated, where clergy-truth-oath-
truth — by the nature of the circumstances is not required. A
Quaker knows none of this distinction. His simple affirmation
being received, upon the most sacred occasions, without any
further test, stamps a value upon the words which he is to use
upon the most indifferent topics of life. He looks to them natur-
ally with more severity. You can have of him no more than his
word. He knows if he is caught tripping in a casual expression,
he forfeits, for himself at least, his claim to the invidious ex-
emption. He knows that his syllables are weighed; and how far
a consciousness of this particular watchfulness exerted against a
person has a tendency to produce indirect answers, and a divert-
ing of the question by honest means, might be illustrated, and
the practice justified, by a more sacred example than is proper to
be adduced upon this occasion. The admirable presence of mind
which is notorious in Quakers upon all contingencies might be
traced to this imposed self-watchfulness, if it did not seem rather
an humble and secular scion of that old stock of religious con-
stancy which never bent or faltered in the primitive Friends, or
gave way to the winds of persecution, to the violence of judge
or accuser, under trials and racking examinations. “You will
never be the wiser, if I sit here answering your questions till
midnight,” said one of those upright Justicers to Penn, who had
been putting law cases with a puzzling subtlety. “Thereafter as
the answers may be,” retorted the Quaker.
The astonishing composure of this people is sometimes ludi-
crously displayed in lighter instances. I was traveling in a stage-
coach with three male Quakers, buttoned up in the straitest
nonconformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover,
where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set before
My friends confined themselves to the tea-table.
(C
us.
I in my
## p. 8831 (#455) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8831
way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the
eldest of my companions discovered that she had charged for
both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous
and positive. Some mild arguments were used on the part of
the Quakers, for which the heated mind of the good lady seemed
by no means a fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual
peremptory notice. The Quakers pulled out their money and
formally tendered it, --so much for tea; I, in humble imitation,
tendering mine for the supper which I had taken. She would
not relax in her demand. So they all three quietly put up their
silver, as did myself, and marched out of the room; the eldest
and gravest going first, with myself closing up the rear, who
thought I could not do better than follow the example of such
grave and warrantable personages. We got in. The steps went
up.
The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not
very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time
inaudible; and now, my conscience, which the whimsical scene
had for a while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I
waited, in the hope that some justification would be offered by
these serious persons for the seeming injustice of their conduct.
To my great surprise not a syllable was dropped on the subject.
They sat as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of them
broke silence by inquiring of his next neighbor, “Hast thee
heard how indigos go at the India House? ”
DREAM-CHILDREN: A REVERY
From the Essays of Elia)
C"
HILDREN love to listen to stories about their elders when they
were children; to stretch their imagination to the concep-
tion of a traditionary great-uncle or grandame whom they
never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about
me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother
Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times
bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been
the scene
- so at least it was generally believed in that part
of the country — of the tragic incidents which they had lately
become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the
Wood. ' Certain it is that the whole story of the children and
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon
## p. 8832 (#456) ###########################################
8832
CHARLES LAMB
upon it.
the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the
Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set
up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story
Here Alice put on one of her dear mother's looks, too
tender to be called upbraiding.
Then I went on to say how religious and how good their
great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by
everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great
house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects
she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her
by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fash-
ionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the ad-
joining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had
been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a
sort while she lived, — which afterwards came to decay, and was
nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried
away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and
looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old
tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey and stick them up in
Lady C—'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as
much as to say,
That would be foolish indeed. ”
And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was
attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry
too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to show their
respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and
religious woman; so good, indeed, that she knew all the Psaltery
by heart, ay! and a great part of the Testament besides. Here
little Alice spread her hands.
Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-
grandmother Field once was, and how in her youth she
esteemed the best dancer (here Alice's little right foot played
an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave it desisted)
- the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel
disease called a cancer came, and bowed her down with pain;
but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop,
but they were still upright, because she was so good and reli-
gious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a
lone chamber of the great lone house, and how she believed that
an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight glid-
ing up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but
she said “those innocents would do her no harm ”; and how
was
## p. 8833 (#457) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8833
frightened I used to be,-though in those days I had my maid
to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious
as she,- and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded
all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.
Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren: hav-
ing us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular
used to spend many hours by myself in gazing upon the old
busts of the twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome,
till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be
turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with
roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms,
with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken
panels with the gilding almost rubbed out; sometimes in the
spacious old-fashioned gardens which I had almost to myself,
unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross
me; and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls
without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were for-
bidden fruit, unless now and then, and because I had more pleas-
ure in strolling about among the old melancholy looking yew-trees
or the firs, and picking up the red berries and the fir-apples,
which were good for nothing but to look at, or in lying about
upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden smells around me,
or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself
ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grate-
ful warmth, or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in
the fish-pond at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a
great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state,
as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings. I had more pleas-
ure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of
peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of child-
Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch
of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated
dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them
for the present as irrelevant.
Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though
their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in
an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John
L- , because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a
king to the rest of us, and instead of moping about in solitary
corners like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome
horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves,
XV—553
ren.
## p. 8834 (#458) ###########################################
8834
CHARLES LAMB
and make it carry him half over the country in a morning, and
join the hunters when there were any out,- and yet he loved
the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to
be always pent up within their boundaries; and how their uncle
grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the
admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field
most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back
when I was a lame-footed boy,- for he was a good bit older
than me,- many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and
how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not
always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was
impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate
he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he
died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he
had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life
and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well
at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though
I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he
would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long,
and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed
his kindness and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be
alive again to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled some-
times) rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy with-
out him as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor
took off his limb. Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if
their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John,
and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their
uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead
mother.
Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes,
sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice
W—n; and as much as children could understand, I explained
to them what coyness and difficulty and denial meant in maid-
ens: when suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice
looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment,
that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or
whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the
children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding and still
receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were
seen in the uttermost distance, which without speech strangely
impressed upon me the effects of speech:-“We are not of
-
## p. 8835 (#459) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8835
wait upon
Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of
Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing, less than nothing,
and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must
the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before
we have existence and a name. ” And immediately awakening, I
found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair where I had
fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side;
but John L-(or James Elia) was gone for ever.
A QUAKERS' MEETING
From the Essays of Elia!
STILL-BORN Silence! thou that art
Flood-gate of the deeper heart!
Offspring of a heavenly kind !
Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind!
Secrecy's confidant, and he
Who makes religion mystery!
Admiration's speaking'st tongue !
Leave, thy desert shades among,
Reverend hermits' hallowed cells,
Where retired Devotion dwells !
With thy enthusiasms come,
Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!
Rich. FLECKNOE.
R.
EADER, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet mean;
wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamors
of the multitude; wouldst thou enjoy at once solitude and
society; wouldst thou possess the depth of thine own spirit in
stillness, without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy
species; — wouldst thou be alone and yet accompanied; solitary,
yet not desolate; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in
countenance; a unit in aggregate, a simple in composite; - come
with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
Dost thou love silence deep as that “before the winds were
made”? Go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the
profundities of the earth; shut not up thy casements, nor pour
wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faithed, self-
mistrusting Ulysses. Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
For a man to refrain even from good words and to hold his
peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude it is great mas-
tery.
## p. 8836 (#460) ###########################################
8836
CHARLES LAMB
What is the stillness of the desert compared with this place ?
what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes ? Here the god-
dess reigns and revels. “Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud,”
do not with their interconfounding uproars more augment the
brawl, nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed
sounds, than their opposite (Silence, her sacred self) is multiplied
and rendered more intense by numbers and by sympathy. She
too hath her deeps that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a
positive more and less, and closed eyes would seem to obscure
the great obscurity of midnight.
There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal.
By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The
perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but
nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. Those first
hermits did certainly understand this principle when they retired
into Egyptian solitudes, not singly but in shoals, to enjoy one
another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his
brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness.
ular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through
a long winter evening with a friend sitting by, - say a wife,-
he or she too (if that be probable) reading another, without inter-
ruption or oral communication ?
Can there be no sympathy with-
out the gabble of words ? Away with this inhuman, shy, single,
shade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give me, Master Zimmer-
mann, a sympathetic solitude.
To pace alone in the cloisters or side aisles of some cathedral
time-stricken,
(Or under hanging mountains,
Or by the fall of fountains,
In sec.
is but a vulgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy who
come together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted sol-
itude. This is the loneliness “to be felt. ” The Abbey Church
of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as
the naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. Here are
no tombs, no inscriptions -
«sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings; »
but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into the
foreground: SILENCE, eldest of things — language of old Night -
## p. 8837 (#461) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8837
primitive Discourser -- to which the insolent decays of molder-
ing grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and as we may say
unnatural progression.
« How reverend is the view of these hushed heads
Looking tranquillity!
»
Nothing-plotting, naught-caballing, unmischievous synod! con-
vocation without intrigue! parliament without debate! what a
lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory! If my pen
treat of you lightly, -as haply it will wander, - yet my spirit
hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, when, sitting among
you in deepest peace, which some outwelling tears would rather
confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of your begin.
nings, and the sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury. I
have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic
tranquillity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of
the insolent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent to molest you,-
for ye sate betwixt the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and
offscouring of Church and Presbytery. I have seen the reeling
sea-ruffian, who had wandered into your receptacle with the
avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit
of the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently
sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And I remember Penn
before his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted
up in spirit, as he tells us, and “the judge and the jury became
as dead men under his feet. ”
Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend
to you above all church narratives to read Sewel's History of
the Quakers. It is in folio, and is the abstract of the Journals
of Fox and the primitive Friends. It is far more edifying and
affecting than anything you will read of Wesley and his col-
leagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to make you
mistrust; no suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the worldly
or ambitious spirit. You will here read the true story of that
much-injured, ridiculed man (who perhaps hath been a byword in
your mouth), James Naylor: what dreadful sufferings, with what
patience he endured, even to the boring through of his tongue
with red-hot irons, without a murmur; and with what strength of
mind, when the delusion he had fallen into, which they stigma-
tized as blasphemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he could
renounce his error, in a strain of the beautifulest humility, yet
>>
## p. 8838 (#462) ###########################################
8838
CHARLES LAMB
keep his first grounds, and be a Quaker still! — so different from
the practice of your common converts from enthusiasm, who,
when they apostatize, a postatise all, and think they can never
get far enough from the society of their former errors, even to
the renunciation of some saving truths with which they had been
mingled, not implicated.
Get the writings of John Woolman by heart, and love the
early Quakers.
How far the followers of these good men in our days have
kept to the primitive spirit, or in what proportion they have sub-
stituted formality for it, the Judge of Spirits can alone determine.
I have seen faces in their assemblies, upon which the dove
sate visibly brooding. Others again I have watched, when my
thoughts should have been better engaged, in which I could pos-
sibly detect nothing but a blank inanity. But quiet was in all,
and the disposition to unanimity, and the absence of the fierce
controversial workings. If the spiritual pretensions of the Qua-
kers have abated, at least they make few pretenses. Hypocrites
they certainly are not in their preaching. It is seldom indeed
that you shall see one get up amongst them to hold forth. Only
now and then a trembling female, generally ancient, voice is
heard,- you cannot guess from what part of the meeting it pro-
ceeds,— with a low buzzing musical sound laying out a few words
which she thought might suit the condition of some present,"
with a quaking diffidence which leaves no possibility of suppos-
ing that anything of female vanity was mixed up where the tones
were so full of tenderness and a restraining modesty. The men,
for what I have observed, speak seldomer,
Once only, and it was some years ago, I witnessed a sample
of the old Foxian orgasm. It was a man of giant stature, who,
as Wordsworth phrases it, might have danced from head to foot
equipt in iron mail. His frame was of iron too. But he was
malleable. I saw him shake all over with the spirit-- I dare not
say of delusion.
The strivings of the outer man were unutter-
able: he seemed not to speak, but to be spoken from. I saw
I
the strong man bowed down, and his knees to fail; his joints all
seemed loosening: it was a figure to set off against Paul preach-
ing. The words he uttered were few and sound: he was evi-
dently resisting his will — keeping down his own word-wisdom
with more mighty effort than the world's orators strain for theirs.
“He had been a wit in his youth,” he told us with expressions
((
(C
## p. 8839 (#463) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8839
of a sober remorse. And it was not till long after the impres-
sion had begun to wear away that I was enabled, with something
like a smile, to recall the striking incongruity of the confession
- understanding the term in its worldly acceptation -- with the
frame and physiognomy of the person before me. His brow
would have scared away the Levities — the Jocos Risus-que-
faster than the Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna. By wit, ,
even in his youth, I will be sworn he understood something far
within the limits of an allowable liberty.
More frequently the meeting is broken up without a word
having been spoken. But the mind has been fed. You go away
with a sermon not made with hands. You have been in the
milder caverns of Trophonius, or as in some den where that
fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures, the Tongue, that un-
ruly member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. You have
bathed with stillness. . Oh, when the spirit is sore fretted, even
tired to sickness of the janglings and nonsense-noises of the
world, what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat yourself for
a quiet half-hour upon some undisputed corner of a bench among
the gentle Quakers!
Their garb and stillness conjoined present a uniformity tran-
quil and herd-like, as in the pasture,- forty feeding like one. ”
The very garments of a Quaker seem incapable of receiving
a soil, and cleanliness in them to be something more than the
absence of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily; and when
they come up in bands to their Whitsun-conferences, whitening
the easterly streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United
Kingdom, they show like troops of the Shining Ones.
MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
From the Essays of Elia)
“A
CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game. ” This
was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with
God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of
whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-
and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you
want one to make up a rubber: who affirm that they have no
pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose
another; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a
card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will
## p. 8840 (#464) ###########################################
8840
CHARLES LAMB
desire an adversary who has slipped a wrong card to take it up
and play another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a
table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may
be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing
at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them as
I do, from her heart and soul; and would not, save upon a strik-
ing emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with
them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy.
She took and gave no concessions. She hated favors. She never
made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her adversary without
exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight, cut
and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a
dancer. ” She sate bolt upright, and neither showed you her cards
nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side -
their superstitions; and I have heard her declare under the rose
that hearts was her favorite suit.
I never in my life and I knew Sarah Battle many of the
best years of it — saw her take out her snuff-box when it was
her turn to play, or snuff a candle in the middle of a game, or
ring for a servant till it was fairly over. She never introduced
or connived at miscellaneous conversation during its process. As
she emphatically observed, cards were cards; and if I ever saw
unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was
at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary turn, who had
been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand, and who in his
excess of candor declared that he thought there was
no harm
in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in
recreations of that kind! She could not bear to have her noble
occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in
that light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came
into the world to do,- and she did it. She unbent her mind
afterwards over a book.
Pope was her favorite author; his Rape of the Lock' her
favorite work. She once did me the favor to play over with
me (with the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in that poem,
and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and in what points
it would be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illustrations
were apposite and poignant, and I had the pleasure of sending
the substance of them to Mr. Bowles; but I suppose they came
too late to be inserted among his ingenious notes upon that
author.
## p. 8841 (#465) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8841
Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love; but whist
had engaged her maturer esteem. The former, she said, was
showy and specious, and likely to allure young persons. The
uncertainty and quick shifting of partners - a thing which the
-
constancy of whist abhors; the dazzling supremacy and regal in-
vestiture of spadille — absurd, as she justly observed, in the pure
aristocracy of whist, where his crown and garter gave him no
proper power above his brother nobility of the aces; the giddy
vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of playing alone; above
all, the overpowering attractions of a sans prendre vole, to the
triumph of which there is certainly nothing parallel or approach-
ing in the contingencies of whist;— all these, she would say, make
quadrille a game of captivation to the young and enthusiastic.
But whist was the solider game; that was her word. It was a
long meal; not like quadrille, a feast of snatches. One or two
rubbers might coextend in duration with an evening. They gave
time to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She
despised the chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuating alli-
ances of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say,
reminded her of the petty ephemeral embroilments of the little
Italian States depicted by Machiavel: perpetually changing pos-
tures and connections; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to-
morrow; kissing and scratching in a breath;- but the wars of
whist were comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational
antipathies of the great French and English nations.
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favor-
ite game. There was nothing silly in it, like the nob in cribbage
— nothing superfluous. No flushes, - that most irrational of all
pleas that a reasonable being can set up: that any one should
claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same mark and
color, without reference to the playing of the game, or the indi-
vidual worth or pretensions of the cards themselves! She held
this to be a solecism; as pitiful an ambition at cards as allitera-
tion is in authorship. She despised superficiality; pegging teased
her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a five-pound stake)
because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which
would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the
disgraceful tenure of declaring «Two for his heels. There is
something extremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah
Battle was a gentlewoman born.
Piquet she held the best game at the cards for two persons,
though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms,- such as
## p. 8842 (#466) ###########################################
8842
CHARLES LAMB
on
pique, repique, the capot: they savored (she thought) of affecta-
tion. But games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared
for. She loved the quadrate or square.
She would argue thus:
Cards are warfare: the ends are gain, with glory. But cards
are war in disguise of a sport: when single adversaries encounter,
the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves it is too
close a fight; with spectators it is not much bettered. No looker-
can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere
affair of money; he cares not for your luck sympathetically, or
for your play. Three are still worse: a mere naked war of
every
man against every man, as in cribbage, without league or alli-
ance; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succes-
sion of heartless leagues and not much more hearty infractions
of them, as in tradrille. But in square games (she meant whist)
all that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accomplished.
There are the incentives of profit with honor, common to every
species; though the latter can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in
those other games where the spectator is only feebly a partici.
pator. But the parties in whist are spectators and principals
too. They are a theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not
wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an impertinence.
Whist abhors neutrality, or interests beyond its sphere. You
glory in some surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not because a
cold or even an interested — bystander witnesses it, but because
your partner sympathizes in the contingency. You win for two.
You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are morti-
fied; which divides their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by
taking off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are
better reconciled than one to one in that close butchery. The
hostile feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. War
becomes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady
was accustomed to defend her favorite pastime.
No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any
game, where chance entered into the composition, for nothing.
Chance, she would argue - and here again admire the subtlety
of her conclusion — chance is nothing, but where something else
depends upon it. It is obvious that cannot be glory. What
rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size
ace a hundred times together by himself, or before spectators,
where no stake was depending? Make a lottery of a hundred
thousand tickets with but one fortunate number, and what possi-
ble principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it
## p. 8843 (#467) ###########################################
CHARLES LAMB
8843
gratify to gain that number as many times successively without
a prize ? Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in back-
gammon, where it was not played for money. She called it
foolish, and those people idiots who were taken with a lucky hit
under such circumstances. Games of pure skill were as little
to her fancy Played for a stake, they were a mere system of
overreaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one
man's wit -- his memory or combination-faculty, rather -- against
another's; like a mock engagement at a review, bloodless and
profitless. She could not conceive a game wanting the spritely
infusion of chance, the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two
people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was
stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror
and ennui. Those well-cut similitudes of castles and knights, the
imagery of the board, she would argue (and I think in this case
justly), were entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard head
contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject
form and color. A pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were
the proper arena for such combatants.
To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing the bad
passions, she would retort that man is a gaming animal. He
must be always trying to get the better in something or other;
that this passion can scarcely be more safely expended than upon
a game at cards; that cards are a temporary illusion,- in truth,
a mere drama — for we do but play at being mightily concerned
where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet during the illusion
we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and
kingdoms. They are a sort of dream fighting: much ado, great
battling, and little bloodshed; mighty means for disproportioned
ends; quite as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than
many of those more serious games of life which men play with-
out esteeming them to be such.
With great deference to the old lady's judgment in these mat-
ters, I think I have experienced some moments in my life when
playing at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. When I
am in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for
the cards, and play a game at piquet for love with my cousin
Bridget — Bridget Elia.
I grant there is something sneaking in it; but with a tooth-
ache or a sprained ankle,-- when you are subdued and humble, -
you are glad to put up with an inferior spring of action.
## p. 8844 (#468) ###########################################
8844
CHARLES LAMB
There is such a thing in nature, I am convinced, as sick
whist.
I grant it is not the highest style of man; I deprecate the
manes of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas! to whom I should
apologize.
At such times, those terms which my old friend objected to
come in as something admissible. I love to get a tierce or a
quatorze, though they mean nothing. I am subdued to an infe-
rior interest. Those shadows of winning amuse me.
That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I capotted her)
— (dare I tell thee how foolish I am ? )— I wished it might have
lasted for ever, though we gained nothing and lost nothing, though
it was a mere shade of play; I would be content to go on in
that idle folly forever. The pipkin should be ever boiling that
was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my foot, which Bridget
was doomed to apply after the game was over; and as I do not
much relish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and
I should be ever playing.
## p. 8845 (#469) ###########################################
8845
LAMENNAIS
(1782-1854)
BY GRACE KING
UGUES FÉLICITÉ ROBERT DE LAMENNAIS was born at St. Malo
in 1782. His family, the Roberts, belonged to the old bour-
geoisie of Brittany. The seigneurial termination of De La
Mennais came from his father, a wealthy ship-owner, who was en-
nobled by Louis XVI. for services during the American war. His
mother, of Irish extraction, was noted for her brilliant accomplish-
ments and fervid piety. The mother dying when Félicité was but five
years old, the child was left by his busy, preoccupied father entirely
in the care of an elder brother, Jean, and
of an eccentric free-thinking uncle, who
lived in the country in his château of La
Chenaie. From Jean, Felicité received the
rudiments of his education; and almost at
the same time, such was his precocity, he
acquired in the great library of La Chenaie
the erudition of constant and indiscriminate
reading. Hence his first misunderstanding
by, rather than with, his Church. In the
instruction for his first communion, certain
points aroused his spirit of discussion, and
into the argument with the priest he poured
the mass of his ill-digested philosophical
LAMENNAIS
reading: the result was that he was refused
the communion. It was not until his twenty-second year upon the
occasion of his brother Jean's ordination, that he rectified his posi-
tion and became an active member of his church. Shortly afterward,
the two brothers, having inherited jointly La Chenaie from their uncle,
retired there. From this retreat, two years later, 1807, appeared
Lamennais's first literary essay: a (Guide Spirituel,' the translation
of Louis de Blois's tract the "Speculum Monacharum. The transla-
tion, perfect in itself, is accompanied by a preface which in pure
spirituality of thought and expression equals, if it does not surpass,
the original tract. Lamennais himself never afterwards surpassed it.
It was his next publication a year later, however, that sounds the
## p. 8846 (#470) ###########################################
8846
LAMENNAIS
true note, the war-cry of his genius, - his (Reflections upon the State
of the Church during the Eighteenth Century and the Actual Situa-
tion,' -- a fierce arraignment of the despotism which held the Church
in a cringing position before the government. The book, published
anonymously, was promptly suppressed by Napoleon's police. Jean,
now Vicar of St. Malo and director of the ecclesiastical seminary
there, withdrew his brother from La Chenaie, and gave him the posi-
tion of professor of mathematics in the seminary, persuading him
about the same time to receive the tonsure. In collaboration the
two brothers wrote “The Tradition of the Church on the Institution of
Bishops. The downfall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bour-
bons opportunely opening the way to Paris, Félicité went thither
with the manuscript. The book came out, but it did not sell.
Polemical by nature, the project of an ecclesiastical journal, a
Catholic organ, came to him as a necessity of the hour; but, help-
lessly dependent upon his brother, he urged him to come to Paris
and make the venture a possible one. Jean refused to be diverted
from his vocation as parish priest. The return of Napoleon put an
end to situation and projects. Lamennais went into exile in London.
Friendless and without resources, he was wandering around the streets
in search of employment, when he met the Abbé Caron, the dispenser
of royal charity to French exiles in London. The Abbé befriended
Lamennais, and in the end gained over him an influence similar to
that of his brother Jean. As a result of their intimacy, and before
the Hundred Days were over, Lamennais was persuaded to take the
last step in his profession and become a priest. It is in elucidating
this period of Lamennais's life that the publication of his private
letters has been of most service to his memory. When he returned
to Paris he was ordained priest. Two years later the first volume of
his “Essay on Indifference in Matters of Religion appeared. Its suc-
cess was instantaneous and immense.
To quote Sainte-Beuve: “Its
effect upon the world was that of a sudden explosion; the author
was bombarded into celebrity by it. ” Lamennais was soon surrounded
by a party of the most brilliant men among the clergy and laity.
The essay, falling into the hands of the law-student Lacordaire,
converted him into a student of theology.
