THE PENNY MAGAZINE

[Colosseum or Coliseum of Rome.]

When the imperial power was firmly established at Rome, the sports of the amphitheatre were conducted upon a scale to which the Consuls of the republic had scarcely dared to aspire. Caligula, on his birth-day, gave four hundred bears, and as many other wild beasts to be slain; and on the birth-day of Drusilla, he exhibited these brutal spectacles, continued to the succeeding day on a similar scale^[1]. Claudius instituted combats between Thessalian horsemen and wild bulls; and he also caused camels to fight for the first time with horses. Invention was racked to devise new combinations of cruelty. Many of the emperors abandoned themselves to these sports with as passionate an ardour as the uncultivated multitude. Sensuality debases as much as ignorance, because it is ignorance under another name. Claudius rose at daylight to repair to the Circus, and frequently remained, that he might not lose a single pang of the victims, while the people went to their afternoon meal. Sometimes, during the reigns of Claudius and Nero, an elephant was opposed to a single fencer; and the spectators were delighted by the display of individual skill. Sometimes, hundreds and even thousands of the more ferocious beasts were slaughtered by guards on horseback; and the pleasure of the multitude was in proportion to the lavishness with which the blood of man and beast was made to flow. The passion for these sports required a more convenient theatre for its gratification than the old Circus. The Colosseum was commenced by Vespasian, and completed by Titus (A. D. 79). This enormous building occupied only three years in its erection. Cassiodorus affirms that this magnificent monument of folly cost as much as would have been required for the building of a capital city. We have the means of distinctly ascertaining its dimensions and its accommodations from the great mass of wall that still remains entire; and although the very clamps of iron and brass that held together the ponderous stones of that wonderful edifice were removed by Gothic plunderers; and succeeding generations have resorted to it as to a quarry for their temples and their palaces; yet the “enormous skeleton” still stands, to show what prodigious works may be raised by the skill and perseverance of man, and how vain are the mightiest displays of his power when compared with those intellectual efforts which have extended the empire of virtue and of science.

The Colosseum, which is of an oval form, occupies the space of nearly six acres. “It may justly be said to have been the most imposing building, from its apparent magnitude, in the world; the pyramids of Egypt can only be compared with it in the extent of their plan, as they cover nearly the same surface^[2].” The greatest length, or major axis, is 620 feet; the greatest breadth, or minor axis, 513 feet. The outer wall is 157 feet high in its whole extent. The exterior wall is divided into four stories, each ornamented with one of the orders of architecture. The cornice of the upper story is perforated for the purpose of inserting wooden masts, which passed also through the architrave and frieze, and descended to a row of corbels immediately above the upper range of windows, on which are holes to receive the masts. These masts were for the purpose of attaching cords to, for sustaining the awning which defended the spectators from the sun or rain. Two corridors ran all round the building, leading to staircases which ascended to the several stories; and the seats which descended towards the arena, supported throughout upon eighty arches, occupied so much of the space that the clear opening of the present inner wall next the arena is only 287 feet by 180 feet. Immediately above and around the arena was the podium, elevated about twelve or fifteen feet, on which were seated the emperor, senators, ambassadors of foreign nations, and other distinguished personages in that city of distinctions. From the podium to the top of the second story were seats of marble for the equestrian order; above the second story the seats appear to have been constructed of wood. In these various seats eighty thousand spectators might be arranged according to their respective ranks; and indeed it appears from inscriptions, as well as from expressions in Roman writers, that many of the places in this immense theatre were assigned to particular 146individuals, and that each might find his seat without confusion. The ground was excavated over the surface of the arena in 1813; a great number of substructions were then discovered, which by some antiquaries are considered to be of modern date, and by others to have formed dens for the various beasts that were exhibited. The descriptions which have been left by historians and other writers of the variety and extent of the shows, would indicate that a vast space and ample conveniences were required beneath the stage, to accomplish the wonders which were, doubtless, there realized in the presence of assembled Rome. We subjoin, from Messrs. Cresy and Taylor’s work, an interior view looking west, taken at the time when the arena was so excavated. It has since been filled up. The external view of this remarkable building is given as it existed in the time of Piranesi, in the last century.

Gibbon, the historian, has given a splendid description, in his twelfth book, of the exhibitions of the Colosseum; but he acknowledges his obligation to Montaigne, who, says the historian, “gives a very just and lively view of Roman magnificence in these spectacles.” Our readers will, we doubt not, be gratified by the quaint but most appropriate sketch of the old philosopher of France:—

“It was doubtless a fine thing to bring and plant within the theatre a great number of vast trees, with all their branches in their full verdure, representing a great shady forest, disposed in excellent order, and the first day to throw into it a thousand ostriches, a thousand stags, a thousand boars, and a thousand fallow deer, to be killed and disposed of by the people: the next day to cause an hundred great lions, an hundred leopards and three hundred bears to be killed in his presence: and for the third day, to make three hundred pair of fencers to fight it out to the last,—as the Emperor Probus did. It was also very fine to see those vast amphitheatres, all faced with marble without, curiously wrought with figures and statues, and the inside sparkling with rare decorations and enrichments; all the sides of this vast space filled and environed from the bottom to the top, with three or four score ranks of seats, all of marble also, and covered with cushions, where an hundred thousand men might sit placed at their ease; and the place below, where the plays were played, to make it by art first open and cleft into chinks, representing caves that vomited out the beasts designed for the spectacle; and then, secondly, to be overflowed with a profound sea, full of sea-monsters, and loaded with ships of war, to represent a naval battle: and thirdly, to make it dry and even again for the combats of the gladiators; and for the fourth scene, to have it strewed with vermilion and storax, instead of sand, there to make a solemn feast for all that infinite number of people—the last act of one only day.

[Interior View of the Colosseum.]

“Sometimes they have made a high mountain advance itself, full of fruit-trees and other flourishing sorts of woods, sending down rivulets of water from the top, as from the mouth of a fountain: other whiles, a great ship was seen to come rolling in, which opened and divided of itself; and after having disgorged from the hold four or five hundred beasts for fight, closed again, and vanished without help. At other times, from the floor of this place, they made spouts of perfumed waters dart their streams upward, and so high as to besprinkle all that infinite multitude. To defend themselves from the injuries of the weather, they had that vast place one while covered over with purple curtains of needle-work, and by and by with silk of another colour, which they could draw off or on in a moment, as they had a mind. The net-work also that was set before the people to defend them from the violence of these turned-out beasts, was also woven of gold.”

“If there be anything excusable in such excesses as these,” continues Montaigne, “it is where the novelty and invention create more wonder than expense.” Fortunately for the real enjoyments of mankind, even under the sway of a Roman despot, “the novelty and invention” had very narrow limits when applied to matters so utterly unworthy and unintellectual as the cruel sports of the amphitheatre. Probus, indeed, transplanted trees to the arena, so that it had the appearance of a verdant grove; and Severus introduced four hundred ferocious animals in one ship sailing in the little lake which the arena formed. But on ordinary occasions, profusion,—tasteless, haughty, and uninventive profusion,—the gorgeousness of brute power, the pomp of satiated luxury—these constituted the only claim to the popular admiration. If Titus exhibited five thousand wild beasts at the dedication of the amphitheatre, Trajan bestowed ten thousand on the people at the conclusion of the Dacian war. If the younger Gordian collected together bears, elks, zebras, ostriches, boars, and wild horses, he was an imitator only of the spectacles of Carinus, in which the rarity of the animals was as much considered as their fierceness. Gibbon has well remarked, “While the populace gazed with stupid wonder on the splendid show, the naturalist might indeed observe the figure and properties of so many different species, transported from every part of the ancient world into the amphitheatre of Rome. But this accidental benefit, which science might derive from folly, 147is surely insufficient to justify such a wanton abuse of the public riches.” The prodigal waste of the public riches, however, was not the weightiest evil of the sports of the Circus. The public morality was sacrificed upon the same shrine as its wealth. The destruction of beasts became a fit preparation for the destruction of men. A small number of those unhappy persons who engaged in fight with the wild animals of the arena, were trained to these dangerous exercises, as are the matadors of Spain at the present day. These men were accustomed to exhaust the courage of the beast by false attacks; to spring on a sudden past him, striking him behind before he could recover his guard; to cast a cloak over his eyes, and then despatch or bind him at this critical moment of his terror; or to throw a cup full of some chemical preparation into his gaping mouth, so as to produce the stupefaction of intense agony. But the greater part of the human beings who were exposed to these combats, perilous even to the most skilful, were disobedient slaves and convicted malefactors. The Christians, during their persecutions, constituted a very large number of the latter class. The Roman power was necessarily intolerant; the assemblies of the new religion became objects of dislike and suspicion; the patience and constancy of the victims increased the fury of their oppressors; and even such a man as the younger Pliny held that their obstinacy alone was deserving of punishment. Thus, then, the imperial edicts against the early Christians furnished more stimulating exhibitions to the popular appetite for blood, than the combat of lion with lion, or gladiator with gladiator. The people were taught to believe that they were assisting at a solemn act of justice; and they came therefore to behold the tiger and the leopard tear the quivering limb of the aged and the young, of the strong and the feeble, without a desire to rescue the helpless, or to succour the brave.

It is Addison’s friend Tickell who tells us that the sale of the ‘Spectator’ sometimes amounted to 20,000 copies. The statement, however, is scarcely credible. In the tenth number of the work it is mentioned on the authority of the publisher, that the sale was already 3,000 a day. We question if it ever rose much higher than this. No. 445, which appeared on the 31st of July, 1712, was the last published without a stamp; and in it the writer (Addison) intimates that the price will in future be two-pence instead of a penny. Half of the addition was to pay for the halfpenny stamp, and the other half to compensate for the diminished circulation. A hope is at the same time expressed that the country may receive “five or six pounds a day” by means of this tax laid on the work. Even if this hope had been realised to its utmost extent, it would have implied a sale of only 2,880 copies. But in point of fact this appears to have been nearly the full circulation before the duty was put on; for, in No. 555, the concluding paper (of the first series) which is written and signed by Steele, the editor, the average produce of the tax is only rated as being then “above 20l. a week.” The sale must therefore have been only about 1,600 a day. And yet it seems to be intimated that it had for some time been rather recovering from the depression occasioned by the imposition of the tax: it was at first reduced, we are told, “to less than half the number that was usually printed before this tax was laid.” The circulation before the imposition of the tax, therefore, could not have greatly exceeded 3,000; and, such being its average amount, it seems scarcely possible that even on extraordinary occasions it should have ever risen to anything like the number mentioned by Tickell. At the time he wrote, however, the papers making the first four volumes had been reprinted and published in a cheaper form, and above 9,000 copies of each volume have been sold. This sale of the third and fourth volumes appears to have been effected in the course of the preceding three months; during which time, however, very few copies, if any at all, of the first and second volumes, would seem to have been disposed of. For, in No. 448, we are told that of these two volumes an edition of about 10,000 copies had already been carried off. It may be concluded, therefore, that this was the whole number which the demands of the public would be made to absorb. Many editions, however, of what extent we do not know, were sold in the course of the next twenty or thirty years. We have before us Tonson’s tenth edition, published in 1729; and his eleventh, dated 1733. There had been a new edition, therefore, about once in every two years since the first appearance of the work.

It was probably this stamp duty which chiefly contributed to bring the ‘Spectator’ to a close. In the number in which the rise of price is announced, considerable hesitation is expressed as to whether the publication should be continued or dropt, as it was understood many of the other penny papers would be. From a letter in No. 461, it appears that the ‘Spectator’ was the only one of these periodicals which had doubled its price; the others which survived contented themselves with merely charging their subscribers the additional halfpenny required to defray the tax. These, however, could not have allowed the retailers any additional profit concurrent with the additional price. On account of the increased price several coffee-houses had left off taking the ‘Spectator.’ In No. 488 we have again a notice of complaints made by subscribers on account of this rise in the price of the publication. In a short time after this we find the writers evidently beginning to make preparations for concluding their work. The members of the club drop off one by one. In No. 513 the clergyman is laid on his death-bed. No. 517 announces the death of Sir Roger; and No. 530 the marriage of Will Honeycomb. In No. 541 the Templar withdraws himself to study law. “What will all this end in?” says a letter in the next day’s publication; “we are afraid it portends no good to the public. Unless you speedily fix a day for the election of new members, we are under apprehensions of losing the ‘British Spectator.’” But the process of dissolution goes on. No. 544 communicates, in an epistle from himself, the transformation of Captain Sentry into a Squire; and, finally, No. 549 the removal of Sir Andrew Freeport by the same fate. Another week terminated the original series of the ‘Spectator,’ after it had continued to delight the public for about a year and three quarters. It was resumed about half a year afterwards, as a thrice-a-week publication; but the attempt is not understood to have met with the success by which it had formerly been attended; and the work was again laid down after it had continued for about six months.

The method of judging the age of a horse is by examining the teeth, which amount to forty when complete; namely, six nippers, or incisors, as they are sometimes called, two tushes, and six grinders on each side, in both jaws. A foal, when first born, has in each jaw the first and second grinders developed; in about a week the two centre nippers make their appearance, and within a month a third grinder. Between the sixth and ninth month the whole of the nippers appear, completing the colt’s mouth. At the completion of the first year a fourth grinder appears, and a fifth by the end of the second year. At this period a new process commences, the front or first grinder giving way, which is succeeded by a larger and permanent tooth, and between two years and a half and three years the two middle nippers are displaced, and succeeded by permanent teeth. At three years old the sixth grinder has either made or is about making its appearance. In the fourth year another pair of 148nippers and the second pair of grinders are shed; and the corner nippers, toward the end of the fifth year, are succeeded by permanent teeth, when the mouth is considered almost perfect, and the colt or filly becomes a horse or a mare. What is called the mark of the teeth by which a judgment of the age of a horse for several years may be formed, consists of a portion of the enamel bending over and forming a little pit in the surface of the nipper, the inside and bottom of which becomes blackened by the food. This soon begins to wear down, and the mark becomes shorter and wider, and fainter. By the end of the first year the mark in the two middle teeth is wide and faint, and becomes still wider and fainter till the end of the third year, by which time the centre nippers have been displaced by the permanent teeth, which are larger than the others, though not yet so high, and the mark is long, narrow, deep, and black. At four years the second pair of permanent nippers will be up, the mark of which will be deep, while that of the first pair will be somewhat fainter, and that of the corner pair nearly effaced. At this age, too, the tushes begin to appear. Between the fourth and fifth year, the corner nippers have been shed, and the new teeth come quite up, showing the long deep irregular mark; the other nippers bearing evident tokens of increasing wearing. At six years the mark on the centre nippers is worn out, but there is still a brown hue in the centre of the tooth. At seven years the mark will be worn from the four centre nippers, and will have completely disappeared at eight years from them all. It may be added, that it is the lower jaw of the horse that is usually examined, and which is here described. The changes of the teeth taking place in both jaws about the same time, but the cavity of the teeth in the upper jaw being somewhat deeper, the mark lasts longer, though the exact period is a matter of controversy. According to what may be considered good authority, however, it may be stated that at nine years the mark will be worn from the middle nippers, from the next pair at ten, and from all the upper nippers at eleven. During all this time the tushes (the extremities of which are at first sharp-pointed and curved) become gradually blunter, shorter, and rounder. For further information on this subject, the volume on the Horse, published by the Society, may be advantageously consulted.

Tobacco was introduced into Europe from the province of Tabaca in St. Domingo in 1559, by a Spanish gentleman, named Hernandez de Toledo, who brought a small quantity into Spain and Portugal. From thence, by the means of the French ambassador at Lisbon, Jean Nicot from whom it derived its name of Nicotia, it found its way to Paris, where it was used in the form of a powder by Catherine de Medici. Tobacco then came under the patronage of the Cardinal Santa Croce, the pope’s nuncio, who, returning from his embassy at the Spanish and Portuguese courts, carried the plant to his own country, and thus acquired a fame little inferior to that which, at another period, he had won by piously bringing a portion of the real cross from the Holy Land. Both in France and in the Papal States it was at once received with general enthusiasm, in the shape of snuff; but it was some time after the use of tobacco as snuff that the practice of smoking it commenced. This practice is generally supposed to have been introduced into England by Sir Walter Raleigh; but Camden says, in his ‘Elizabeth,’ that Sir Francis Drake and his companions, on their return from Virginia in 1585, were “the first, as far as he knew, who introduced the Indian plant, called Tabacca or Nicotia, into England, having been taught by the Indians to use it as a remedy against indigestion. And from the time of their return,” says he, “it immediately began to grow into very general use, and to bear a high price; a great many persons, some from luxury, and others for their health, being wont to draw in the strong-smelling smoke with insatiable greediness through an earthenware tube, and then to puff it forth again through their nostrils: so that tabacca-taverns (tabernæ tabaccanæ) are now as generally kept in all our towns, as wine-houses or beerhouses.” No doubt the tobacco-taverns of Queen Elizabeth’s times were not unworthy predecessors of the splendid cygar divans of the present day. It appears from a note in the ‘Criminal Trials,’ vol i. p. 361, that in 1600 the French ambassador, in his despatches, represented the Peers, on the trial of the Earls of Essex and Southampton, as smoking tobacco copiously while they deliberated on their verdict. Sir Walter Raleigh, too, was accused of having sat with his pipe at the window of the armoury, while he looked in at the execution of Essex in the Tower. Both these stories are probably untrue, but the mere relation of them by contemporaneous writers shows that they were not then monstrously incredible, and they therefore prove the generality of the practice of smoking at that time amongst the higher class of society. After a time, however, the practice of smoking tobacco appears to have met with strenuous opposition in high places, both in this country and other parts of Europe. Its principal opponents were the priests, the physicians, and the sovereign princes; by the former its use was declared sinful; and, in 1684, Pope Urban VIII. published a bull, excommunicating all persons found guilty of taking snuff when in church. This bull was renewed in 1690, by Pope Innocent; and, about twenty-nine years afterwards, the Sultan Amurath IV made smoking a capital offence. For a long time smoking was forbidden in Russia, under pain of having the nose cut off; and in some parts of Switzerland, it was likewise made a subject of public prosecution—the police regulations of the canton of Berne, in 1661, placing the prohibition of smoking in the list of the Ten Commandments, immediately under that against adultery. Nay, that British Solomon, James I., did not think it beneath the royal dignity to take up his pen upon the subject. He accordingly, in 1603, published his famous ‘Counterblaste to Tobacco,’ in which the following remarkable passage occurs:—“It is a custom loathesome to the eye, hatefull to the nose, harmfull to the braine, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black stinking fume thereof nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.” But notwithstanding this regal and priestly wrath, the use of the plant extended itself far and wide; and tobacco is, at this moment, perhaps the most general luxury in existence. The allusion to the practice in the following lines, taken from the ‘Marrow 149of Compliment,’ written in 1651, seems to show the prevalence of smoking at that period:—

[Petrarch.]

July 15.—Saint Swithin.—Swithin, or Swithum, was a bishop of Winchester who died in 868. He was, if the tradition connected with his memory is to be believed, a man of sense; for he was above observing one of the vain distinctions which exist even in our own day. He desired that he might be buried in the open church-yard, instead of the chancel of the minster, where the great reposed; and Bishop Hall adds, that he wished his body to be laid “where the drops of rain might wet his grave; thinking that no vault was so good to cover his grave as that of heaven.” This was a wise and a Christian wish; for assuredly the desire that the worthless body shall be entombed beneath the sacred aisles where the living come to elevate their thoughts with the hopes of immortality, is a poor clinging of the soul to the perishable garment with which it is clothed. The wish of Swithin that his ashes should speedily mingle with the elements, and that the rains of heaven should water his grave, showed a humble and a truly religious mind. His monks, says the tradition, thought more highly of worldly distinctions; and therefore, upon the good bishop being canonized, resolved to remove his body from the common cemetery into the choir of their church. This was to have been done on the 15th of July; but it rained so violently for forty days that the design was abandoned. Mr. Howard, in his interesting work on the Climate of London, says, “The tradition is so far valuable as it proves that the summers in this southern part of our island were subject a thousand years ago to occasional heavy rains, in the same way as at present.” The popular superstition connected with St. Swithin’s day is expressed in a Scotch proverb:—

Mr. Howard has taken some pains to ascertain how far the popular notion is borne out by the fact. In 1807, according to him, it rained with us on the day in question, and a dry time followed; and the same in 1808. In 1818 and 1819 it was dry on the 15th, and a very dry time in each case followed. The other summers, occurring between 1807 and 1819, appear to have come under the general proposition, “that in a majority of our summers, a showery period, which, with some latitude as to time and local circumstances, may be admitted to constitute daily rain for forty days, does come on about the time indicated by the tradition of St. Swithin.”

July 20.—The birth-day of Francis Petrarch, one of the three renowned fathers of the literature of modern Italy. He was born in 1304, at Arezzo, in the Florentine territory, the same district which had the glory of giving birth to his immediate predecessor Dante, and also to the other member of the illustrious trio, his contemporary and friend Boccaccio. Petrarch’s father had been a notary in the city of Florence, but had, like Dante, been banished some time before the birth of his son in consequence of one of the political convulsions then so frequent. Being intended by his father for his own profession, he was sent to study first at Montpellier and afterwards at Bologna; but he soon became deeply smitten with the charms of the newly-revived literature of antiquity, Virgil and Cicero stealing most of the hours which were professedly devoted to more rugged pages. His father is related to have been so much displeased on discovering how his son employed his time, that he took his favourite authors from him and threw them into the fire. This severity, however, failed to make a lawyer of Petrarch. His father died when he was about two and twenty, and he immediately abandoned the law altogether. He then chose the church for his profession; but he never was ordained, although in the latter part of his life some valuable clerical preferments were bestowed upon him by the patrons whom he had gained by his poetical fame. The remainder of Petrarch’s life took much of its colour from an incident which happened to him in his twenty-seventh year, his meeting at Avignon, in Provence, with the celebrated Laura, whose name he has rendered in so many beautiful verses as immortal as his own. After the researches of a long succession of biographers and critics, all is still uncertainty as to who or what this lady really was. Many have even believed that Petrarch spent his life in pouring out his passionate rhymes to a mere ideal being, or vision of his imagination. The same obscurity hangs over the very existence of Laura as over that of Dante’s Beatrice. Several succeeding years were spent by the poet in wandering through Italy and other countries. He then retired to Vaucluse, a solitary retreat not far from Avignon, and it was during several studious years which he spent there that he composed his principal works. The most memorable event of his life after this was his coronation, in 1340, as poet-laureat in the Capitol of Rome. “Twelve patrician youths,” says Gibbon, “were arrayed in scarlet; six representatives of the most illustrious families, in green robes, with garlands of flowers, accompanied the procession; in the midst of the princes and nobles, the senator, Count of Anguillara, a kinsman of the Colonna, ascended the throne; and at the voice of a herald, Petrarch arose. After discoursing on a text of Virgil, and thrice repeating his vows for the prosperity of Rome, he knelt before the throne, and received from the senator a laurel crown, with a more precious declaration, ‘This is the reward of merit.’ The people shouted, ‘Long life to the Capitol and the Poet!’ A sonnet in praise of Rome was accepted as the effusion of genius and gratitude; and after the whole procession had visited the Vatican, the profane wreath was suspended before the 150shrine of St. Peter. In the diploma which was presented to Petrarch, the title and prerogatives of poet-laureat are revived in the Capitol, after the lapse of thirteen hundred years; and he receives the perpetual privilege of wearing, at his choice, a crown of laurel, ivy or myrtle, of assuming the poetic habit, and of teaching, disputing, interpreting, and composing, in all places whatsoever, and on all subjects of literature. The grant was ratified by the authority of the Senate and people, and the character of citizen was the recompense of his affection for the Roman name.” After these honours he made other journeys to different parts of Italy, and also to Paris, in 1360, where he was received with great distinction. An archdeaconry in the church of Parma, a priory in the diocese of Pisa, and a canonry at Padua, were also bestowed upon him, as more substantial rewards of his merit and attestations of the public admiration. Our own Chaucer is supposed to have met with Petrarch either in 1368, at the marriage of Lionel Duke of Clarence with the daughter of the Duke of Milan, or more probably in the beginning of the year 1373, when he is supposed to have gone on an embassy to Genoa. At this interview Petrarch is thought to have communicated to the English poet the beautiful and pathetic tale of Griselda, which he had recently received from his friend Boccaccio, and had translated from the latter’s Italian into Latin. This translation, which Warton, in his History of English Poetry, inadvertently affirms never to have been printed, may be found in several of the old folio editions of Petrarch’s works. Petrarch, in a letter to Boccaccio, tells us, says Warton; “that on showing the translation to one of his Paduan friends, the latter, touched with the tenderness of the story, burst into such frequent and violent fits of tears, that he could not read to the end.”

Petrarch spent the last four years of his life at the beautiful mountain village of Arquà, about twelve miles from Padua; and here he died suddenly, in all probability of apoplexy, on the 19th of July, 1374, having just completed his seventieth year. He was found that morning in his library, with his head resting on a book. Here, too, his remains were deposited and are still preserved. Many of our readers will remember Lord Byron’s fine lines on this subject:—

That sensibility to beauty, which, when cultivated and improved, we term taste, is universally diffused through the human species; and it is most uniform with respect to those objects, which, being out of our power, are not liable to variation, from accident, caprice, or fashion. The verdant lawn, the shady grove, the variegated landscape, the boundless ocean, and the starry firmament, are contemplated with pleasure by every attentive beholder. But the emotions of different spectators, though similar in kind, differ widely in degree: and to relish, with full delight, the enchanting scenes of nature, the mind must be uncorrupted by avarice, sensuality, or ambition; quick in her sensibilities; elevated in her sentiments; and devout in her affections. He who possesses such exalted powers of perception and enjoyment, may almost say, with the poet—

Perhaps such ardent enthusiasm may not be compatible with the necessary toils and active offices which Providence has assigned to the generality of men. But there are none to whom some portion of it may not prove advantageous; and if it were cherished by each individual in that degree which is consistent with the indispensable duties of his station, the felicity of human life would be considerably augmented. From this source the refined and vivid pleasures of the imagination are almost entirely derived: and the elegant arts owe their choicest beauties to a taste for the contemplation of nature. Painting and sculpture are express imitations of visible objects; and where would be the charms of poetry, if divested of the imagery and embellishments which she borrows from rural scenes? Painters, statuaries, and poets, therefore, are always ambitious to acknowledge themselves the pupils of nature; and, as their skill increases, they grow more and more delighted with every view of the animal and vegetable world. But the pleasure resulting from admiration is transient; and to cultivate taste without regard to its influence on the passions and affections, “is to rear a tree for its blossoms which is capable of yielding the richest and most valuable fruit.” Physical and moral beauty bear so intimate a relation to each other, that they may be considered as different gradations in the scale of excellence; and the knowledge and relish of the former should be deemed only a step to the nobler and more permanent enjoyments of the latter.

Whoever has visited the Leasowes, in Warwickshire, must have felt the force and propriety of an inscription which meets the eye at the entrance into these delightful grounds:—

Now, such scenes contribute powerfully to inspire that serenity which is necessary to enjoy and to heighten their beauties. By a sweet contagion the soul catches the harmony which she contemplates; and the frame within assimilates itself to that which is without. For

In this state of composure we become susceptible of virtuous impressions from almost every surrounding object: an equal and extensive benevolence is called forth into exertion; and having felt a common interest in the gratifications of inferior beings, we shall be no longer indifferent to their sufferings, or become wantonly instrumental in producing them.

It seems to be the intention of Providence that the lower order of animals should be subservient to the comfort, convenience, and sustenance of man. But his right of dominion extends no further; and if this right be exercised with mildness, humanity, and justice, the subjects of his power will be no less benefited than himself; for various species of living creatures are annually multiplied by human art, improved in their perceptive powers by human culture, and plentifully fed by human industry. The relation, therefore, is reciprocal between such animals and man; and he may supply his own wants by the use of their labour, the produce of their bodies, and even the sacrifice of their lives; whilst he co-operates with all-gracious Heaven in promoting happiness, the great end of existence.

151But though it be true that partial evil, with respect to different orders of sensitive beings, may be universal good, and that it is a wise and benevolent institution of nature, to make destruction itself, within certain limitations, the cause of an increase of life and enjoyment; yet a generous person will extend his compassionate regards to every individual that suffers for his sake; and whilst he sighs

he will naturally be solicitous to mitigate pain, both in duration and degree, by the gentlest mode of inflicting it.

I am inclined to believe, however, that this sense of humanity would soon be obliterated, and that the heart would grow callous to every soft impression, were it not for the benignant influence of the smiling face of nature. The Count do Lauzun, when imprisoned by Louis XIV. in the Castle of Pignerol, amused himself, during a long period of time, with catching flies, and delivering them to be devoured by a rapacious spider. Such an entertainment was equally singular and cruel, and inconsistent, I believe, with his former character and subsequent turn of mind. But his cell had no window, and received only a glimmering light from an aperture in the roof. In less unfavourable circumstances, may we not presume that, instead of sporting with misery, he would have released the agonized flies, and bid them enjoy that freedom of which he himself was bereaved?

But the taste for natural beauty is subservient to higher purposes than these which have been enumerated; and the cultivation of it not only refines and humanizes, but dignifies and exalts the affections. It elevates them to the admiration and love of that Being who is the Author of all that is fair, sublime, and good in the creation. Scepticism and irreligion are hardly compatible with the sensibility of heart which arises from a just and lively relish of the wisdom, harmony, and order subsisting in the world around us; and emotions of piety must spring up spontaneously in the bosom that is in unison with all animated nature. Actuated by this divine inspiration, man finds a fane in every grove; and, glowing with devout fervour, he joins his song to the universal chorus, or muses the praise of the Almighty in more expressive silence. Thus they

Among the numerous benevolent schemes and institutions formed by the wealthy to assist their poorer brethren, many may no doubt be found, which instead of being beneficial are pernicious in their effects—palsying the hand of industry, and destroying the sense of independence by mere almsgiving. All those societies, however, which give motives for industry, and which tend to create a sympathy and union between the two classes of those who have abundance and those who want, must be of moral benefit to both parties, and few can doubt their practical utility.

The following is a slight sketch of a Society which appears eminently to combine the above advantages.

About five or six years back “The District Society” was formed at Brighton, in consequence of the suggestions of that benevolent lady, Mrs. Fry. The purport of this association was, that its members should visit the poor at their own houses—affording them assistance where required, and encouraging in them habits of industry and frugality. The idea was eagerly seized by those of the inhabitants whose activity and influence were best able to promote this object, and in a very short time the society was established.

This society is divided into three departments—the mendicity department—the relief department—and the department for the encouragement of frugality and saving. It is not our intention at present to touch upon the first or second of these, but to confine ourselves solely to the latter object.

The town is divided into six districts, and each district into about twelve divisions. To each of these divisions a visitor is appointed, and this office is voluntarily undertaken by some benevolent individual. The number of ladies who devote themselves to this duty considerably exceeds that of the gentlemen. The recommendation most urged by the visitors is the exercise of frugality. The industrious poor are exhorted to save, at a time when they have the power of doing so—thus reserving to themselves the means of obtaining the enjoyment of such comforts as they could not otherwise procure, at periods when their exertions produce to them less profit. As an inducement to prefer the future good to the present gratification, a small addition from the funds of the society is made to the savings of individuals.

The visitors receive deposits, however small—enter these sums in a book—and pay them over to the treasurer. The depositors feel that they may have their money at any moment they think proper to call for it, unchecked in their demand, save by the moral restraint which would prevent them from requiring it for vicious or wasteful occasions. Deposits are returned either in money or in such articles as are wanted by those receiving them, the small gratuity already noticed being always duly added. The number of depositors, and the sums deposited, have been gradually increasing. Many of these depositors have, at various times, candidly confessed to the visitors, that but for their interference and the facility thus afforded to them for saving, their money would have been spent on things useless in comparison with those comforts which frugality has enabled them to procure.

Here then was a sum of money distributed among those who had a right to it—who were under no obligation to any one, farther than that which is incurred when others interest themselves in our welfare. While the depositors enjoy the comforts thus obtained, they feel, with a proud satisfaction, that these are not doled out to them by means of the poors’ rates, nor administered to them by the hand of charity, but are derived from their own savings, and result from their own industry, prudence, and forbearance.

This feeling of independence thus called forth, raises man in the scale of being; and an institution which fosters or awakens this ennobling sentiment, offers, besides all other claims to merit, a sufficient proof of its great value.

The above outline has been given in the hope that its consideration may prove of general utility.

That class of labourers whose earnings are the least profitable, generally earn more in the summer than in the winter, while their expenses during the latter season are always the greatest. It is then during the former period that the prudent labourer would lay by to meet the increased demands at the latter time. If a person can only get twelve shillings per week during the winter months, and fourteen shillings per week during the summer, since he can live much better on twelve shillings per week in summer than on fourteen shillings per week in winter, he would act wisely to lay by two or three shillings weekly at the one time, and thus provide for the deficiencies of the other. But he may ask, how is this to be effected?—he has no “district society” in his neighbourhood—no kind visiting friend to remind him of the propriety of saving, and to receive his small deposits. The savings’ bank is at some distance—it is inconvenient to send there—it requires time, and is therefore expensive to be constantly going there himself—in short, a thousand reasons will always suggest themselves as excuses for not doing at all what is not done with hearty good will. But to save money it must be put as much beyond our reach as possible—it will burn in our pockets, and will be got rid of somehow or other. What then is to be done? We remember when we were young possessing a small earthenware pot with only a slit in it for an opening, and so constructed that whatever was put in could not be got out again without destroying 152the pot. This was the receptacle for our spare money, and whenever any temptation was felt to spend the little savings, the circumstance of being obliged to break the jar previously to appropriating its contents, always induced us to pause for reflection. The result of such deliberation generally showed that the money was about to have been expended uselessly, and that it would be much better to leave the pot whole, and to go on putting in instead of taking out. The benefit of this prudent determination was ultimately reaped, at a time when it was most acceptable. We would recommend a plan somewhat similar to this to those who are desirous of constantly making small savings. A tin box might be made at a very small cost, with a lock and key to it, and a slit at the top, large enough to put any sized piece of money into it, and a piece of cloth so placed in the inside as to act like a valve, affording ingress, but not egress, to the coins. This box should be locked, and the key intrusted to some one to whom the possessor would not like to apply on trivial occasions. It should be put in a safe place, but where it might often meet the eye, and should be looked upon as a friend who will furnish a supply of extra comforts during winter time. But as it is not Fortunatus’ purse, which we read of in fairy tales as abounding with an exhaustless fund, it must receive its supply from the practice of self-denial, by withholding from oneself any unnecessary gratifications when the means of procuring them are at hand, and slipping the money that was to purchase these in the slit of the box.

This box then may stand in lieu of a visitor of the District Society; and every time anything is put into it, it may be considered as a friend ready to afford its assistance in the time of sickness, in the hour of distress, or during those periods when expenses are greatest and wages least.

One of the most beautiful minor poems of Milton, though slightly obscure in some passages from the use of antiquated phrases, and in one instance strongly imbued with the author’s political feelings, is his Monody of Lycidas. This was written in Milton’s 29th year, on the occasion of the untimely death of his friend, Mr. John King, who was drowned in the passage from England to Ireland. The character of the poem is pastoral, it being assumed that the author and his lamented friend were brother shepherds:—

The complaint of the poet on the shortness of life, and the glowing reply of Phœbus to his lamentation, is one of the finest passages in the whole compass of English verse:—

But Milton’s soul was nourished with the hopes of the Christian, as well as excited with the ambition of the poet;—and thus the monody finely concludes with an eloquent expression of the only real consolation under every such calamity:—

[Lycidas. From a design by Fuseli.]

That sanctity which settles on the memory of a great man, ought, upon a double motive, to be vigilantly sustained by his countrymen; first, out of gratitude to him, as one column of the national grandeur; secondly, with a practical purpose of transmitting, unimpaired, to posterity the benefit of ennobling models. High standards of excellence are among the happiest distinctions by which the modern ages of the world have an advantage over earlier, and we are all interested by duty as well as policy in preserving them inviolate.—From a Memoir of Milton in ‘The Gallery of Portraits.’

This liberty in conversation (fiction and exaggeration) defeats its own end. Much of the pleasure and all the benefit of conversation depends upon our opinion of the speaker’s veracity.—Paley’s Moral Philosophy.