The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 545, May 5, 1832

    Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.

THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

Perhaps no writer has ever enjoyed in his lifetime so extensive a popularity as the Author of Waverley. His reputation may be truly said to be not only British, but European—and even this is too limited a term. He has had the advantage of writing in a language used in different hemispheres by highly civilized communities, and widely diffused over the surface of the globe; and he has written at a period when communication was facilitated by peace; while to the wonder of his own countrymen, he has to an unexampled degree established an ascendency over the tastes of foreign nations. His works have been sought by foreigners with an avidity equalling, nay, almost exceeding, that with which they have been received among us. The conflicting literary tastes of France and Germany, which twenty years ago seemed diametrically opposed, and hopelessly irreconcilable, have at length united in admiration of him. In France he has effected a revolution in taste, and given victory to the "Romantic School." He has had not only readers, but imitators. Among Frenchmen, the author of "Cinq Mars" may be cited as a tolerably successful one. Italy, in which what we call "Novels" were previously unknown, has been roused from its torpor, and has found a worthy imitator of British talent in the author of the "Promessi Sposi." Of the Waverley Novels, six editions have been published in Paris. Many of them have been translated into French, German, Italian, and other languages. To be read both on the banks of the Ganges and the Ohio; and to be found, as is mentioned by Dr. Walsh, where perhaps no other English book had ever come—on the very verge of civilization, on the borders of Turkey—this is indeed a wide reign and a proud distinction; but prouder still to be not only read, but to have subjugated, as it were, and moulded the literary tastes of the civilized world. Voltaire is the writer who, in his lifetime, has approached nearest to this extent of popularity. Sovereigns courted and corresponded with him; his own countrymen were enthusiastic in his praise; and so general was a knowledge of the French language, that a large majority of the well-educated throughout Europe, were familiar with his writings. But much of this popularity was the popularity of partisanship. He served a cause, and for such service, and not alone as the meed of genius, were honours lavished upon him. The people of France, by whom he was almost deified in his latter years, regarded him less as the literary marvel of their land, than as the man once persecuted by despotism, and the ablest assailant of those institutions which they were endeavouring to undermine. But Voltaire, with all his popularity, has left impressed on literature scarcely any distinguishable traces of his power. He exhibited no marked originality of style—he founded no school—and as for his imitators, where are they? To justify the admiration he excited, one must consider not merely how well, but how much and how variously he has written. With the exception of Voltaire, and perhaps of Lord Byron, there is scarcely a writer whose popularity, while he lived, passed beyond the precincts of his own country. This, until latterly, was scarcely possible. Till near the middle of the eighteenth century, what had been long called the "Republic of Letters" existed only in name. It is not truly applicable but to the present period, when the transmission of knowledge is rapid and easy, and no work of unquestionable genius can excite much interest in any country, without the vibration being quickly felt to the uttermost limits of the civilized world. How little this was previously the case is evident from the fact, that numerous and important as were the political relations of England with the continent, and successfully as we had attended to the cultivation of letters, yet it is scarcely more than a hundred years since we were first known on the continent to have what might deserve to be called "a Literature." Shakspeare, Dryden, and Pope, successively enjoyed in their own country the highest popularity as writers. Of these, it may reasonably be doubted whether the name of the first had been ever heard out of it. We can find no evidence which shows that the second had a wider fame. Pope was indeed better known; for literature had been made conspicuous through honours paid to it by the statesmen of Queen Anne; and Pope was the friend of a peer politically eminent, and was thought, in conjunction with him, to have written a poem, of which, if the poetry was disregarded, the opinions were not unacceptable to the "philosophers" of the continent.

One of the points of view in which the Author of Waverley is first presented to us is, as a delineator of human character. When we regard him in this light, we are struck at once by the fertility of his invention, and the force, novelty, and fidelity of his pictures. He brings to our minds, not abstract beings, but breathing, acting, speaking individuals. Then what variety! What originality! What numbers! What a gallery has he set before us! No writer but Shakspeare ever equalled him in this respect. Others may have equalled, perhaps surpassed him, in the elaborate finishing of some single portrait (witness the immortal Knight and Squire of Cervantes, Fielding's Adams, and Goldsmith's Vicar); or may have displayed, with greater skill, the morbid anatomy of human feeling—and our slighter foibles and finer sensibilities have been more exquisitely touched by female hands—but none save Shakspeare has ever contributed so largely, so valuably, to our collection of characters;—of pictures so surprisingly original, yet, once seen, admitted immediately to be conformable to Nature. Nay, even his anomalous beings are felt to be generally reconcilable with our code of probabilities; and, as has been said of the supernatural creations of Shakspeare, we are impressed with the belief, that if such beings did exist, they would be as he has represented them.—Edinburgh Review.

MEN COMPARED WITH BEES

(From a continuation of "the Indicator," by Leigh Hunt.)

It has been thought, that of all animated creation, the bees present the greatest moral likeness to man; not only because they labour and lay up stores, and live in communities, but because they have a form of government and a monarchy. Virgil immortalized them after a human fashion. A writer in the time of Elizabeth, probably out of compliment to the Virgin Queen, rendered them dramatis personae, and gave them a whole play to themselves. Above all, they have been held up to us, not only as a likeness, but as "a great moral lesson;" and this, not merely with regard to the duties of occupation, but the form of their polity. A monarchical government, it is said, is natural to man, because it is an instinct of nature: the very bees have it.

It may be worth while to inquire a moment into the value of this argument; not as affecting the right and title of our Sovereign Lord King William the Fourth (whom, with the greatest sincerity, we hope God will preserve!), but for its own sake, as well as for certain little collateral deductions. And, in the first place, we cannot but remark how unfairly the animal creation are treated, with reference to the purposes of moral example. We degrade or exalt them, as it suits the lesson we desire to inculcate. If we rebuke a drunkard or a sensualist, we think we can say nothing severer to him than to recommend him not to make "a beast of himself;" which is very unfair towards the beasts, who are no drunkards, and behave themselves as nature intended. A horse has no habit of drinking; he does not get a red face with it. The stag does not go reeling home to his wives. On the other hand, we are desired to be as faithful as a dog, as bold as a lion, as tender as a dove; as if the qualities denoted by these epithets were not to be found among ourselves. But above all, the bee is the argument. Is not the honey-bee, we are asked, a wise animal?—We grant it.—"Doth he not improve each passing hour?"—He is pretty busy, it must be owned—as much occupied at eleven, twelve, and one o'clock, as if his life depended on it:—Does he not lay up stores?—He does.—Is he not social? Does he not live in communities?—There can be no doubt of it.—Well, then, he has a monarchical government; and does not that clearly show that a monarchy is the instinct of nature? Does it prove, by an unerring rule, that the only form of government in request among the obeyers of instinct, is the only one naturally fitted for man?

In answering the spirit of this question, we shall not stop to inquire how far it is right as to the letter, or how many different forms of polity are to be found among other animals, such as the crows, the beavers, the monkeys; neither shall we examine how far instinct is superior to reason, nor why the example of man himself is to go for nothing. We will take for granted, that the bee is the wisest animal of all, and that it is a judicious thing to consider his manners and customs, with reference to their adoption by his inferiors, who keep him in hives. This naturally leads us to inquire, whether we could not frame all our systems of life after the same fashion. We are busy, like the bee; we are gregarious, like him; we make provision against a rainy day; we are fond of flowers and the country; we occasionally sting, like him; and we make a great noise about what we do. Now, if we resemble the bee in so many points, and his political instinct is so admirable, let us reflect what we ought to become in other respects, in order to attain to the full benefit of his example.

But we have not yet got half through the wonders, which are to modify human conduct by the example of this wise, industrious, and monarch-loving people. Marvellous changes must be effected, before we have any general pretension to resemble them, always excepting in the aristocratic particular. For instance, the aristocrats of the hive, however unmasculine in their ordinary mode of life, are the only males. The working-classes, like the sovereign, are all females! How are we to manage this? We must convert, by one sudden meta-morphosis, the whole body of our agricultural and manufacturing population into women! Mrs. Cobbett must displace her husband, and tell us all about Indian corn. There must be not a man in Nottingham, except the Duke of Newcastle; and he trembling lest the Queen should send for him. The tailors, bakers, carpenters, gardeners, must all be Mrs. Tailors and Mrs. Bakers. The very name of John Smith must go out. The Directory must be Amazonian. This commonalty of women must also be, at one and the same time, the operatives, the soldiers, the virgins, and the legislators of the country! They must make all we want, fight all our enemies, and even get up a Queen for us when necessary; for the sovereigns of the hive are often of singular origin, being manufactured! literally "made to order," and that too by dint of their eating! They are fed and stuffed into royalty! The receipt is, to take any ordinary female bee in its infancy, put it into a royal cradle or cell, and feed it with a certain kind of jelly; upon which its shape alters into that of sovereignty, and her Majesty issues forth, royal by the grace of stomach. This is no fable, as the reader may see on consulting any good history of bees. In general, several Queen-bees are made at a time, in case of accidents; but each, on emerging from her apartment, seeks to destroy the other, and one only remains living in one hive. The others depart at the head of colonies, like Dido.

To sum up then the conditions of human society were it to be re-modelled after the example of the bee, let us conclude with drawing a picture of the state of our beloved country, so modified. Imprimis, all our working people would be females, wearing swords, never marrying, and occasionally making queens. They would grapple with their work in a prodigious manner, and make a great noise. Secondly, our aristocracy would be all males, never working, never marrying, (except when sent for,) always eating or sleeping, and annually having their throats cut. The bee-massacre takes place in July; when accordingly all our nobility and gentry would be out of town, with a vengeance! The women would draw their swords, and hunt and stab them all about the West end, till Brompton and Bayswater would be choked with slain.

Thirdly, her Majesty the Queen would either succeed to a quiet throne, or, if manufactured, would have to eat a prodigious quantity of jelly in her infancy; and so alter growing into proper sovereign condition, would issue forth, and begin her reign either with killing her royal sisters, or leading forth a colony to America or New South Wales. She would then take to husband some noble lord for the space of one calendar hour, and dismissing him to his dullness, proceed to lie in of 12,000 little royal highnesses in the course of the eight following weeks, with others too numerous to mention; all which princely generation with little exception, would forthwith give up their title, and divide themselves into lords or working-women as it happened; and so the story would go round to the end of the chapter, bustling, working, and massacring:—and here ends the sage example of the Monarchy of the Bees.

We must observe nevertheless, before we conclude, that however ill and tragical the example of the bees may look for human imitation, we are not to suppose that the fact is anything like so melancholy to themselves. Perhaps it is no evil at all, or only so for the moment. The drones, it is true, seem to have no fancy for being massacred; but we have no reason to suppose, that they, or any of the rest concerned in this extraordinary instinct, are aware of the matter beforehand; and the same is to be said of the combats between the Queen-bees; they appear to be the result of an irresistible impulse, brought about, by the sudden pressure of a necessity. Bees appear to be very happy, during far the greater portion of their existence. A modern writer, of whom it is to be lamented that a certain want of refinement stopped short his perceptions, and degraded his philosophy from the finally expedient into what was fugitively so, has a passage on this point, as agreeable as what he is speaking of. "A bee among the flowers in spring," says Dr. Paley, "is one of the cheerfullest objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment, so busy and so pleased."—Abridged from the New Monthly Magazine.

THE GATHERER

Toast of a Scotch Peer.—Lord K—, dining at Provost S—'s, and being the only peer present, one of the company gave a toast, "The Duke of Buccleugh." So the peerage went round till it came to Lord K—, who said he would give them a peer, which, although not toasted, was of more use than the whole. His lordship gave "The Pier of Leith."—Chambers's Edin. Jour.

Caroline, Queen of George II. amused herself by reading Butler's Analogy of Religion to Human Nature; a book which Hoadley, Bishop of Winchester, said always gave him the head-ache, if he only looked into it.

After George II. had ceased to visit the theatres, Macklin's farce of Love A-la-mode having been acted with much applause, he sent for the manuscript, and had it read over to him by a sedate old Hanoverian gentleman, who being but little acquainted with English, spent eleven weeks in puzzling out the author's meaning!

Ships.—During the early part of the last century, as has been remarked, almost all the towns of England were on the water (in the navy.) Of the few persons who have been so highly esteemed as to have their names given to men of war, are Dr. Franklin and Joan of Arc, who were thus honoured by the French. In the English navy, the ships the Royal George have been singularly unfortunate. The Great Harry also was burnt in the reign of Queen Mary.

Personal Ornament.—The city of Kano, the great emporium of the kingdom of Houssa, in Africa, is celebrated for the art of dyeing cotton cloth, which is afterwards beaten with wooden mallets until it acquires a japan gloss. The women dye their hair with indigo, and also their hands, feet, legs, and eyebrows. Their legs and arms thus painted, look as if covered with dark blue gloves and boots. Both men and women colour their teeth a blood-red, which is esteemed a great ornament. T. GILL.

A "Manager."—Colley Cibber gives the following spirited description of a famous theatrical manager in his day; "That he was as sly a tyrant as ever was at the head of a theatre, for he gave the actors more liberty, and fewer day's pay than any of his predecessors; he would laugh with them over a bottle, and trick them in their bargains; he kept them poor, that they might not be able to rebel; and sometimes merry, that they might not think of it"

Newton's Weather Wisdom.—Sir Isaac Newton was once riding over Salisbury Plain, when a boy, keeping sheep, called to him—"Sir, you had better make haste on, or you will get a wet jacket." Newton looking round and observing neither clouds nor speck on the horizon, jogged on, taking very little notice of the rustic's information. He had made but a few miles, when a storm suddenly arising, wetted him to the skin. Surprised at the circumstance, and determined, if possible, to ascertain how an ignorant boy had attained a precision and knowledge in the weather, of which the wisest philosophers would be proud, he rode back, wet as he was. "My lad," said Newton, "I'll give thee a guinea if thou wilt tell me how thou canst foretell the weather so truly." "Will ye, sir? I will then," said the boy, scratching his head, and holding out his hand for the guinea. "Now, sir," having received the money, and pointing to his sheep, "when you see that black ram turn his tail towards the wind, 'tis a sure sign of rain within an hour." "What," exclaimed the philosopher, "must I, in order to foretell the weather, stay here, and watch which way that black ram turns his tail?" "Yes, sir," replied the boy. Off rode Newton, quite satisfied with his discovery, but not much inclined to avail himself of it, or to recommend it to others.W.G.C.

Primitive Lamp.—The inhabitants of the Landes, in the south of France, being cut off from the rest of the world, have it not in their power, except when once or twice a year they travel to the nearest towns with their wool, to purchase candles; and as they have no notion how these can be made, they substitute in their place a lamp fed with the turpentine extracted from the fir-trees. The whole process is simple and primitive. To obtain the turpentine, they cut a hole in the tree, and fasten a dish in it to catch the sap as it oozes through, and as soon as the dish is filled, they put a wick of cotton into the midst of the liquor, and burn it as we do a lamp.W.G.C.

Turning the Back.—In this and all countries of Europe, to turn the back upon persons of rank or in authority, is considered highly improper; a striking instance of which may be seen in the mode in which messengers from the Lords retreat along the floor of the House of Commons. In the interior of Africa it is quite otherwise. There the court assemble round the sovereign invariably with their backs to him.T. GILL.

A gentleman having frequently reproved his servant, an Irish girl, for boiling eggs too hard, requested her in future, to boil them only three minutes by the clock. "Sure, sir," replied the girl, "how shall I do that, for your honour knows the clock is always a quarter of an hour too fast."W.G.C.

Unhappy Fate of Camoens.—Camoens the celebrated Portuguese poet, was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Meco, on the coast of Camboja, and lost his whole property; but through the assistance of his black servant, he saved his life and his poems, which he bore through the waves in one hand,[5 - Precious Salvage.] whilst he swam ashore with the other: his black servant begged in the streets of Lisbon for the support of his master, who died in 1579. It is said that his death was accelerated by the anguish with which he foresaw the ruin impending over his country. In one of his letters (says his biographer) he uses these remarkable expressions: "I am ending the course of my life; the world will witness how I have loved my country. I have returned not only to die in her bosom, but to die with her." He was buried as obscurely as he had closed his life, in St. Anne's Church, and the following epitaph was inscribed over his grave:—

"Here lies Lewis de Camoens,
Prince of the Poets of his time.
He lived poor and miserable, and died
such, Anno Domini, 1579."

    P.T.W.
The Philosopher's Stone.—Sir Kenelm Digby was relating to King James that he had seen the true Philosopher's Stone, in the possession of a hermit in Italy; and when the king was very curious to understand what sort of a stone it was, and Sir Kenelm being much puzzled in describing it, Sir Francis Bacon, who was present, interposed, and said, "Perhaps it was a whetstone."

N.B. There is an old proverbial expression, in which an excitement to a lie was called a whetstone.

P.T.W.

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