CHAPTER CCVIII.

VALUE OF WOMEN AMONG THE AFGHAUNS.—LIGON'S HISTORY OF BARBADOES, AND A FAVORITE STORY OF THE DOCTOR'S THEREFROM.—CLAUDE SEISSEL, AND THE SALIC LAW.—JEWISH THANKSGIVING.—ETYMOLOGY OF MULIER, WOMAN, AND LASS;—FROM WHICH IT MAY BE GUESSED HOW MUCH IS CONTAINED IN THE LIMBO OF ETYMOLOGY.

If thy name were known that writest in this sort, By womankind, unnaturally, giving evil report, Whom all men ought, both young and old, defend with all their might, Considering what they do deserve of every living wight, I wish thou should exiled be from women more and less, And not without just cause thou must thyself confess.

EDWARD MORE.

It would have pleased the Doctor when he was upon this topic if he had known how exactly the value of women was fixed among the Afghauns, by whose laws twelve young women are given as a compensation for the slaughter of one man, six for cutting off a hand, an ear, or a nose; three for breaking a tooth, and one for a wound of the scalp.

By the laws of the Venetians as well as of certain Oriental people, the testimony of two women was made equivalent to that of one man. And in those of the Welsh King Hywel Dda, or Howel Dha, “the satisfaction for the murder of a woman, whether she be married or not, is half that of her brother,” which is upon the same standard of relative value. By the same laws a woman was not to be admitted as bail for a man, nor as witness against him.

He knew that a French Antiquarian (Claude Seissel) had derived the name of the Salic law from the Latin word _Sal, comme une loy pleine de sel, c'est a dire pleine de sapience,_[1] and this the Doctor thought a far more rational etymology than what some one proposed either seriously or in sport, that the law was called _Salique_ because the words _Si aliquis_ and _Si aliqua_ were of such frequent occurrence in it. “To be born a manchild,” says that learned author who first composed an Art of Rhetoric in the English tongue, “declares a courage, gravity and constancy. To be born a woman, declares weakness of spirit, neshenes of body and fickleness of mind.”[2] Justin Martyr, after saying that the Demons by whom according to him the system of heathen mythology was composed, spake of Minerva as the first Intelligence and the daughter of Jupiter, makes this observation; “now this we consider most absurd, to carry about the image of Intelligence in a female form!” The Father said this as thinking with the great French comic poet that a woman never could be any thing more than a woman.

_Car, voyez-vous, la femme est, comme on dit, mon maître, Un certain animal difficile à connoître, Et de qui la nature est fort encline au mal; Et comme un animal est toujours animal. Et ne sera jamais qu' animal, quand sa vie Dureroit cent mille ans; aussi, sans repartie, La femme est toujours femme, et jamais ne sera Que femme, tant qu'entier le monde durera._

[Footnote 1: BRANTÔME.]

[Footnote 2: WILSON.]

A favourite anecdote with our Philosopher was of the Barbadoes Planters, one of whom agreed to exchange an English maid servant with the other for a bacon pig, weight for weight, four-pence per pound to be paid for the overplus, if the balance should be in favour of the pig, sixpence if it were on the Maid's side. But when they were weighed in the scales, Honour who was “extreme fat, lazy and good for nothing,” so far outweighed the pig, that the pig's owner repented of his improvident bargain, and refused to stand to it. Such a case Ligon observes, when he records this notable story, seldom happened; but the Doctor cited it as shewing what had been the relative value of women and pork in the West Indies. And observe, he would say, of white women, English, Christian women,—not of poor heathen blacks, who are considered as brutes, bought and sold like brutes, worked like brutes—and treated worse than any Government ought to permit even brutes to be treated.

However, that women were in some respects better than men, he did not deny. He doubted not but that Cannibals thought them so; for we know by the testimony of such Cannibals as happen to have tried both, that white men are considered better meat than negroes, and Englishmen than Frenchmen, and there could be little doubt that for the same reason, women would be preferred to men. Yet this was not the case with animals, as was proved by buck venison, ox beef, and wether mutton. The tallow of the female goat would not make as good candles as that of the male. Nature takes more pains in elaborating her nobler work; and that the male, as being the nobler, was that which Nature finished with greatest care must be evident, he thought, to any one who called to mind the difference between cock and hen birds, a difference discoverable even in the egg, the larger and finer eggs with a denser white, and a richer yolk, containing male chicks. Other and more curious observations had been made tending to the same conclusion, but he omitted them, as not perhaps suited for general conversation, and not exactly capable of the same degree of proof. It was enough to hint at them.

The great Ambrose Parey (the John Hunter and the Baron Larrey of the sixteenth century) has brought forward many instances wherein women have been changed into men, instances which are not fabulous: but he observes, “you shall find in no history, men that have degenerated into women; for nature always intends and goes from the imperfect to the more perfect, but never basely from the more perfect to the imperfect.” It was a rule in the Roman law, that when husband and wife overtaken by some common calamity perished at the same time, and it could not be ascertained which had lived the longest, the woman should be presumed to have expired the first, as being by nature the feeblest. And for the same reason if it had not been noted whether brother or sister being twins came first in the world, the legal conclusion was that the boy being the stronger was the first born.

And from all these facts he thought the writer must be a judicious person who published a poem entitled the Great Birth of Man, or Excellence of his creation over Woman.

Therefore according to the Bramins, the widow who burns herself with the body of her husband, will in her next state be born a male; but the widow, who refuses to make this self sacrifice, will never be any thing better than a woman, let her be born again as often as she may.

Therefore it is that the Jew at this day begins his public prayer with a thanksgiving to his Maker, for not having made him a woman;—an escape for which the Greek philosopher was thankful. One of the things which shocked a Moor who visited England was to see dogs, women, and dirty shoes permitted to enter a place of worship, the Mahometans, as is well known, excluding all three from their Mosques. Not that all Mahometans believe that women have no souls. There are some who think it more probable they have, and these more liberal Mussulmen hold that there is a separate Paradise for them, because they say, if the women were admitted into the Men's Paradise, it would cease to be Paradise,—there would be an end of all peace there. It was probably the same reason which induced Origen to advance an opinion that after the day of Judgment women will be turned into men. The opinion has been condemned among his heresies; but the Doctor maintained that it was a reasonable one, and almost demonstrable upon the supposition that we are all to be progressive in a future state. There was, however, he said, according to the Jews a peculiar privilege and happiness reserved for them, that is for all those of their chosen nation, during the temporal reign of the Messiah, for every Jewish woman is then to lie in every day!

“I never,” says Bishop Reynolds, “read of more dangerous falls in the Saints than were Adam's, Sampson's, David's, Solomon's, and Peter's; and behold in all these, either the first enticers, or the first occasioners, are women. A weak creature may be a strong tempter: nothing too impotent or useless for the Devil's service.” Fuller, among his Good Thoughts has this paragraph:—“I find the natural Philosopher making a character of the Lion's disposition, amongst other his qualities, reporteth, first, that the Lion feedeth on men, and afterwards (if forced with extremity of hunger) on women. Satan is a roaring Lion seeking whom he may devour. Only he inverts the method and in his bill of fare takes the second first. Ever since he over-tempted our grandmother Eve, encouraged with success he hath preyed first on the weaker sex.”

“Sit not in the midst of women,” saith the son of Sirach in his Wisdom, “for from garments cometh a moth, and from women wickedness.” “Behold, this have I found, saith the Preacher, counting one by one to find out the account; which yet my soul seeketh, but I find not: one man among a thousand have I found; but a woman among all those have I not found.”

“It is a bad thing,” said St. Augustine, “to look upon a woman, a worse to speak to her, and to touch her is worst of all.” John Bunyan admired the wisdom of God for making him shy of the sex, and boasted that it was a rare thing to see him “carry it pleasant towards a woman.” “The common salutation of women,” said he, “I abhor, their company alone I cannot away with!” John, the great Tinker, thought with the son of Sirach, that “better is the churlishness of a man, than a courteous woman, a woman which bringeth shame and reproach.” And Menu the law-giver of the Hindoos hath written that “it is the nature of women in this world to cause the seduction of men.” And John Moody in the play, says, “I ha' seen a little of them, and I find that the best, when she's minded, won't ha' much goodness to spare.” A wife has been called a daily calamity, and they who thought least unfavourably of the sex have pronounced it a necessary evil.

“_Mulier_, quasi _mollior_,” saith Varro;[3] a derivation upon which Dr. Featley thus commenteth: “Women take their name in Latin from tenderness or softness, because they are usually of a softer temper than men, and much more subject to passions, especially of fear, grief, love and longing; their fear is almost perpetual, their grief immoderate, their love ardent, and their longing most vehement. They are the weaker vessels, not only weaker in body than men, and less able to resist violence, but also weaker in mind and less able to hold out in temptations; and therefore the Devil first set upon the woman as conceiving it a matter of more facility to supplant her than the man.” And they are such dissemblers, says the Poet,

as if their mother had been made Only of all the falsehood of the man, Disposed into that rib.

[Footnote 3: The Soothsayer in Cymbeline was of a like opinion with Varro!

The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call _mollis aer_; and _mollis aer_ We term it _mulier_.

Southey's favorite play upon the stage was Cymbeline, and next to it, As you like it.]

“Look indeed at the very name,” said the Doctor, putting on his gravest look of provocation to the ladies.—“Look at the very name—_Woman_, evidently meaning either _man's woe_—or abbreviated from _woe to man_, because by woman was woe brought into the world.”

And when a girl is called a lass, who does not perceive how that common word must have arisen? Who does not see that it may be directly traced to a mournful interjection, _alas!_ breathed sorrowfully forth at the thought the girl, the lovely and innocent creature upon whom the beholder has fixed his meditative eye, would in time become a woman,—a woe to man!

There are other tongues in which the name is not less significant. The two most notoriously obstinate things in the world are a mule and a pig. Now there is one language in which _pige_ means a young woman: and another in which woman is denoted by the word _mulier_: which word, whatever grammarians may pretend, is plainly a comparative, applied exclusively and with peculiar force to denote the only creature in nature which is more mulish than a mule. _Comment_, says a Frenchman, _pourroit-on aymer les_ Dames, _puis qu'elles se nomment ainsi du_ dam _et_ dommage _qu'elles apportent aux hommes!_[4]

[Footnote 4: BOUCHET.]

INTERCHAPTER XXIV.

A TRUE STORY OF THE TERRIBLE KNITTERS E' DENT WHICH WILL BE READ WITH INTEREST BY HUMANE MANUFACTURERS, AND BY MASTERS OF SPINNING JENNIES WITH A SMILE.—BETTY YEWDALE.—THE EXCURSION—AN EXTRACT FROM, AND AN ILLUSTRATION OF.

_O voi ch' avete gl' intelletti sani, Mirate la dottrina, che s' asconde Sotto 'l velame degli versi strani._

DANTE.

“It was about six an' fifty year sen, in June, when a woman cam fra' Dent at see a Nebbor of ours e' Langdon.[1] They er terrible knitters e' Dent[2]—sea my Fadder an' Mudder sent me an' my lile Sister, Sally, back we' her at larn at knit. I was between sebben an' eight year auld, an' Sally twea year younger—T' Woman reade on ya Horse, we Sally afore her—an I on anudder, we a man walking beside me—whiles he gat up behint an' reade—Ee' them Days Fwoak dud'nt gang e' Carts—but Carts er t'best—I'd rader ride e' yan than e' onny Carriage—I us't at think if I was t' Leady, here at t' Ho,'[3] how I wad tear about int' rwoads—but sen I hae ridden in a Chaise I hate t' nwotion ont' warst of ought—for t' Trees gang fleeing by o' ya side, an t' Wa' as[4] on tudder, an' gars yan be as seek as a peeate.

[Footnote 1: The valley of Langdale, near Ambleside. The Langdale Pikes are known to all tourists.]

[Footnote 2: Dent is a chapelry in the Parish and Union of Sedbergh, W. Division of the wapentake of Staincliffe and Ewcross, W. Riding of the County of York, sixteen miles E. from Kendal.—_Lewis's Topog. Dict._]

[Footnote 3: i.e. At the Hall.]

[Footnote 4: Wa' as, i.e. Walls, as in p. 86.]

“Weel, we dud'nt like Dent at a—' nut that they wer bad tull us—but ther way o' leeving—it was round Meal—an' they _stoult_ it int' frying pan, e' keaeks as thick as my fing-er.—Then we wer _stawed_[5] we' sae mickle knitting—We went to a _Skeul_ about a mile off—ther was a Maister an' Mistress—they larnt us our Lessons, yan a piece—an' then we knit as hard as we cud drive, striving whilk cud knit t' hardest yan again anudder—we hed our _Darracks_[6] set afore we com fra' Heam int' mwornin; an' if we dud'nt git them duun we warrant to gang to our dinners—They hed o' macks o' contrivances to larn us to knit swift—T' Maister wad wind 3 or 4 clues togedder, for 3 or 4 Bairns to knitt off—_that'_ at knit slawest raffled tudders yarn, an' than she gat weel thumpt (but ther was baith Lasses an' Lads 'at learnt at knit)—Than we ust at sing a mack of a sang, whilk we wer at git at t'end on at every needle, ca'ing ower t' Neams of o' t' fwoak in t' Deaal—but Sally an me wad never ca' _Dent_ Fwoak—sea we ca'ed Langdon Fwoak—T' Sang was—

Sally an' I, Sally an' I, For a good pudding pye, Taa hoaf wheat, an' tudder hoaf rye, Sally an' I, for a good pudding pye.

We sang this (altering t' neams) at every needle: and when we com at t' end cried ‘off’ an' began again an' sea we strave on o' t' day through.

[Footnote 5: i.e. cloyed, saturated, fatigued. BROCKETT'S Glossary of North Country words.]

[Footnote 6: i.e. _Days-works_. So the Derwent is called the Darron.]

“We wer _stawed_, as I telt yea—o' t' pleser we hed was when we went out a bit to beat t' fire for a nebbor 'at was baking—that was a grand day for us!—At Kursmas teea, ther was t' maskers—an' on Kursmas day at mworn they gav' us sum reed stuff to' t' Breakfast—I think it maun ha' been Jocklat—but we dud'nt like 't at a', 't ommost puzzened us!—an' we cared for nought but how we wer to git back to Langdon—Neet an' Day ther was nought but _this_ knitting! T' Nebbors ust at gang about fra' house to house, we' ther wark,—than yan fire dud, ye knaw, an' they cud hev a better—they hed girt lang black peeats—an' set them up an hed in a girt round we' a whol at top—an a' t' Fwoak sat about it. When ony o' them gat into a hubble we' ther wark, they shouted out ‘_turn a Peeat_’—an' _them'_ at sat naarest t' fire turnt yan, an' meaad a _low_[7]—for they nivver hed onny cannal.—We knat quorse wosset stockings—some gloves—an' some neet caps, an' wastecwoat breests, an' petticwoats. I yance knat a stocking, for mysell, e' six hours—Sally yan e' sebben—an' t'woman's Doughter, 'at was aulder than us e' eight—an' they sent a nwote to our Fwoak e' Langdon at tell them.

[Footnote 7: i.e. _a flame_; it is an Icelandic word. See Haldorson's Lexicon. _At loga, ardere_ and _Loga, flamma_. So in St. George for England,

As timorous larks amazed are With light, and with a _low_-bell.]

“Sally an' me, when we wer by our sells, wer always contrivin how we wer at git away, when we sleept by oursells we talk't of nought else—but when t' woman's Doughter sleept we' us we wer _qwhite_ mum—summat or udder always happent at hinder us, till yan day, between Kursmas an' Cannalmas, when t' woman's Doughter stait at heaam, we teuk off. Our house was four mile on 'todder side o' Dent's Town—whor, efter we hed pass t' Skeul, we axed t'way to Kendal—It hed been a hard frost, an' ther was snaw on t' grund—but it was beginnin to thow, an' was varra sloshy an' cauld—but we _poted_ alang leaving our lile footings behint us—we hed our cloggs on—for we durst'nt change them for our shoon for fear o' being fund out—an' we had nought on but our hats, an' bits o' blue bedgowns, an' brats—sea ye may think we cuddent be varra heeat—I hed a sixpence e' my pocket, an' we hed three or four shilling mare in our box, 'at our Fwoak hed ge'en us to keep our pocket we'—but, lile mafflins[8] as we wer, we thought it wad be misst an' durst'nt tak ony mare.

[Footnote 8: _Maffling_—_a state of perplexity_.—BROCKETT. Maffled, mazed, and maisled (as used a little further on) have all a like sense.]

“Afore we gat to Sebber[9] we fell hungry; an' ther was a fine, girt, reed house nut far off t' rwoad, whar we went an' begged for a bit o' breead—but they wadd'nt give us ought—sea we trampt on, an com to a lile theakt house, an' I said—‘Sally thou sall beg t' neesht—thou's less than me, an mappen they'll sarra us’—an' they dud—an' gav us a girt shive[10] o' breead—at last we gat to _Scotch Jins_, as they ca' t' public House about three mile fra Sebber (o' this side) a Scotch woman keept it.—It was amaist dark, sea we axt her at let us stay o' neet—she teuk us in, an' gav us sum boilt milk and breead—an' suun put us to bed—we telt her our taael; an' she sed we wer int' reet at run away.

[Footnote 9: i.e. Sedbergh.]

[Footnote 10: i.e. a slice. So in Titus Andronicus.

“Easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a _shive_ we know.”]

“Neesht mwornin she gav us sum mare milk an' breead, an' we gav her our sixpence—an' then went off-sledding away amangt' snaw, ower that cauld moor (ye ken' 't weel enough) naarly starved to deeath, an' maisled—sea we gat on varra slawly, as ye may think—an' 't rain'd tua. We begged again at anudder lile theakt house, on t' Hay Fell—there was a woman an' a heap of raggeltly Bairns stannin round a Teable—an' she gave us a few of their poddish, an' put a lock of sugar into a sup of cauld tea tull them.

“Then we trailed on again till we com to t' Peeat Lane Turnpike Yat—they teuk us in there, an' let us warm oursells, an' gav us a bit o' breead. They sed had duun re'et to com away; for Dent was t' poorest plaace in t' warld, and we wer seafe to ha' been hungert—an' at last we gat to Kendal, when 't was naar dark—as we went up t' streat we met a woman, an' axt t' way to Tom Posts—(_that_ was t' man at ust te bring t' Letters fra' Kendal to Ammelsid an' Hawksheead yance a week—an' baited at his house when we com fra' Langdon) she telt us t' way an' we creept on, but we leaked back at her twea or three times—an' she was still stanning, leuking at us—then she com back an' _quiesed_ us a deal, an' sed we sud gang heam with her—We telt her whor we hed cum fra' an' o' about our Tramp 'at we hed hed.—She teuk us to her house—it was a varra poor yan—down beside t' brig at we had cum ower into t' Town—Ther was nea fire on—but she went out, an' brought in sam _eilding_[11] (for they can buy a pennerth, or sea, o' quols or Peeats at onny time there) an' she set on a good fire—an' put on t' kettle—then laited[12] up sum of her awn claes, an' tiet them on us as weel as she cud, an' dried ours—for they wer as wet as thack—it hed rained a' t' way—Then she meead us sum tea—an' as she hedden't a bed for us in her awn house she teuk us to a nebbors—Ther was an aud woman in a Bed naar us that flaed us sadly—for she teuk a fit int' neet an' her feace turnt as black as a cwol—we laid trimmiling, an' hutched oursells ower heead e' bed—Fwoks com an' steud round her—an' we heeard them say 'at we wer asleep—sea we meade as if we wer asleep, because we thought if we wer asleep they waddn't kill us—an' we wisht oursells e' t' streets again, or onny whor—an' wad ha' been fain to ha' been ligging under a Dyke.

[Footnote 11: _Fire-elding_,—the common term for fuel. _Ild_ in Danish is _fire_. Such words were to be expected in Cumberland. The commencement of Landor's lines to Southey, 1833, will explain why—

Indweller of a peaceful vale, Ravaged erewhile by white-hair'd Dane, &c.]

[Footnote 12: To _late_ or _leat_ is to seek out. See BROCKETT. It is from the Icelandic _at leyta_, quærere. Cf. Haldorson in V.]

“Neesht mwornin we hed our Brekfast, an' t' woman gav us baith a hopenny Keack beside (that was as big as a penny 'an now) to eat as we went—an' she set us to t' top o' t' House o' Correction Hill—It was freezing again, an' t' rwoad was terrible slape; sea we gat on varra badly—an' afore we com to Staavley (an' that was but a lile bit o' t' rwoad) we fell hung'ry an' began on our keacks—then we sed we wad walk sea far, an' then tak a bite—an' then on again an' tak anudder—and afore we gat to t' Ings Chapel they wer o' gane—Every now an' than we stopped at reest—an' sat down, an' grat,[13] under a hedge or wa'a crudled up togedder, taking haud o' yan anudders hands at try at warm them, for we were fairly maizled wi' t' cauld—an' when we saw onny body cumming we gat up an' walked away—but we duddn't meet monny Fwoak—I dunnat think Fwoak warr sea mickle in t' rwoads e' them Days.

[Footnote 13: i.e. wept, from the old word _greet_, common to all the Northern languages. Chaucer, Spenser, &c., use it. See Specimen Glossarii in Edda Sæmundar hinns Froda V. _Grætr, ploratus, at græta, plorare,_ Hence _grief_ &c.]

“We scraffled[14] on t' this fashion—an' it was quite dark afore we gat to Ammelsid Yat—our feet warr sare an' we warr naarly dune for—an' when we turnt round Windermer Watter heead, T' waves blasht sea dowly[15] that we _warr_ fairly heart-brossen—we sat down on a cauld steane an' grat sare—but when we hed hed our belly-full o' greeting we gat up, an feelt better[16] fort' an' sea dreed on again—slaw enough ye may be sure—but we warr e' _kent_ rwoads—an' now when I gang that gait I can nwote o' t' spots whor we reested—for them lile bye lwoans erent sea micklealtert, as t' girt rwoads, fra what they warr. At Clappers-gait t' Fwoak wad ha' knawn us, if it heddent been dark, an' o' ther duirs steeked,[17] an geen us a relief, if we hed begged there—but we began at be flate[18] 'at my Fadder an' Mudder wad be angert at us for running away.

[Footnote 14: i.e. struggled on. BROCKETT in V.]

[Footnote 15: i.e. lonely, melancholy. _Ibid._]

[Footnote 16: The scholar will call to mind the _ὀλοοῖο τεταρπώμεσθα γόοιο_ of the Iliad, xxiii. 98., with like expressions in the Odyssey, e.g. xi. 211, xix. 213, and the reader of the Pseudo Ossian will remember the words of Fingal. “Strike the harp in my hall, and let Fingal hear the song. _Pleasant is the joy of grief._”]

[Footnote 17: “Steek the heck,”—i.e. shut the door. BROCKETT.]

[Footnote 18: From the verb “Flay” to _frighten_.]

“It was twea o'clock int' mworning when we gat to our awn Duir—I c'aed out Fadder! Fadder!—Mudder! Mudder! ower an' ower again—She hard us, an' sed—‘That's our Betty's voice’—‘Thou's nought but fancies, lig still,’ said my Fadder—but she waddent; an' sea gat up, an' opent' Duir and there warr we stanning doddering[19]—an' daized we' cauld, as deer deead as macks nea matter—When she so us she was mare flate than we—She brast out a crying—an' we grat—an my Fadder grat an' a'—an' they duddent flight,[20] nor said nought tull us, for cumming away,—they warrant a bit angert—an' my Fadder sed we sud nivver gang back again.

[Footnote 19: We still speak of _Dodder_ or _Quaker's_ grass,—a word by the way, older than the Sect.]

[Footnote 20: A. S. _Flitan_—to scold.]

“T' Fwoaks e' Dent nivver mist us, tilt' Neet—because they thought 'at we hed been keept at dinner time 'at finish our tasks—but when neet com, an' we duddent cum heam, they set off efter us to Kendal—an' mun ha' gane by Scotch Jins when we warr there—how they satisfied thersells I knan't, but they suppwosed we hed gane heam—and sea they went back—My Fadder wasn't lang, ye may be seur, o' finding out' T' Woman at Kendal 'at was sea good tull us—an' my Mudder put her doun a pot o' Butter, an' meead her a lile cheese an' sent her.”

INTERPOLATION.

The above affecting and very simple story, Reader, was taken down from the mouth of Betty Yewdale herself, the elder of the two children,—at that time an old woman, but with a bright black eye that lacked no lustre. A shrewd and masculine woman, Reader, was Betty Yewdale,—fond of the Nicotian weed and a short pipe so as to have the full flavour of its essence,—somewhat, sooth be said, too fond of it, for the pressure of the pipe produced a cancer in her mouth, which caused her death.—Knowest thou, gentle Reader, that most curious of all curious books—(we stop not to inquire whether Scarron be indebted to it, or it to Scarron)—the Anatomy of Melancholy by Democritus Junior, old Burton to wit?—Curious if thou art, it cannot fail, but that thou knowest it well,—curious or not, hear what he says of Tobacco, poor Betty Yewdale's bane!

“Tobacco, divine, rare, super-excellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all their panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. A good vomit, I confesse, a vertuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but, as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health, hellish, devilish and damned tobacco, the ruine and overthrow of body and soul.”

Gentle Reader! if thou knowest not the pages of honest old Burton—we speak not of his melancholy end, which melancholy may have wrought, but of his honesty of purpose, and of his life,—thou wilt not be unacquainted with that excellent Poem of Wordsworth's,—“The Excursion, being a Portion of the Recluse.”—_If any know not the wisdom contained in it, forthwith let them study it!_—Acquainted with it or not, it is Betty Yewdale that is described in the following lines, as holding the lanthorn to guide the steps of old Jonathan, her husband, on his return from working in the quarries, if at any time he chanced to be beyond his usual hour. They are given at length;—for who will not be pleased to read them _decies repetita_?

Much was I pleased, the grey-haired wanderer said, When to those shining fields our notice first You turned; and yet more pleased have from your lips, Gathered this fair report of them who dwell In that Retirement; whither, by such course Of evil hap and good as oft awaits A lone wayfaring Man, I once was brought. Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell While I was traversing yon mountain pass, And night succeeded with unusual gloom; So that my feet and hands at length became Guides better than mine eyes—until a light High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, For human habitation, but I longed To reach it destitute of other hope. I looked with steadiness as sailors look, On the north-star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, And saw the light—now fixed—and shifting now— Not like a dancing meteor; but in line Of never varying motion, to and fro. It is no night fire of the naked hills, Thought I, some friendly covert must be near. With this persuasion thitherward my steps I turn, and reach at last the guiding light; Joy to myself! but to the heart of Her Who there was standing on the open hill, (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) Alarm and disappointment! The alarm Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, And by what help had gained those distant fields. Drawn from her Cottage, on that open height, Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood Or paced the ground,—to guide her husband home, By that unwearied signal, kenned afar; An anxious duty! which the lofty Site Traversed but by a few irregular paths, Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance Detains him after his accustomed hour When night lies black upon the hills. ‘But come, Come,’ said the Matron,—‘to our poor abode; Those dark rocks hide it!’ Entering, I beheld A blazing fire—beside a cleanly hearth Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked, The Dame returned.—Or ere that glowing pile Of mountain turf required the builder's hand Its wasted splendour to repair, the door Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, Frank conversation, make the evening's treat: Need a bewildered Traveller wish for more? But more was given; I studied as we sate By the bright fire, the good Man's face—composed Of features elegant; an open brow Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek Suffused with something of a feminine hue; Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; But in the quicker turns of his discourse, Expression slowly varying, that evinced A tardy apprehension. From a fount Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, But honour'd once, those features and that mien May have descended, though I see them here, In such a Man, so gentle and subdued, Withal so graceful in his gentleness, A race illustrious for heroic deeds, Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld By sundry recollections of such fall From high to low, ascent from low to high, As books record, and even the careless mind Cannot but notice among men and things,) Went with me to the place of my repose.

BOOK V. THE PASTOR.

* * * * *

[Miss Sarah Hutchinson, Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, and Mrs. Warter took down the story from the old woman's lips and Southey laid it by for the Doctor, &c. She then lived in a cottage at Rydal, where I afterwards saw her. Of the old man it was told me—(for I did not see him)——“He is a perfect picture,—like those we meet with in the better copies of Saints in our old Prayer Books.”

There was another comical History intended for an Interchapter to the Doctor, &c. of a runaway match to Gretna Green by two people in humble life,—but it was not handed over to me with the MS. materials. It was taken down from the mouth of the old woman who was one of the parties—and it would probably date back some sixty or seventy years.]