The Theologians at the Mitre
I REMEMBER hearing an ingenious journalist remark that if ever he were appointed editor of a literary paper he would now and then devote a whole number to reviews of one book only, each review to be the work of a critic of eminence who was unaware that his verdict was not (as is usual) the only one that would be printed. “ Thus,” he added, “ I should make an interesting number of my paper, while the differences of opinion in the reviews would healthily illustrate the vanity of criticism.”
After having just read, with much entertainment, in an old book, the record of the travels in England of an intelligent German in the year 1782, I am inclined to think that, were I the editor of a general paper, I should adopt my friend’s idea, and now and then induce several foreigners to visit my city or country, and record their impressions in parallel columns; just to show the reader how we strike contemporaries and strangers. But here, of course, the differences of opinion would rather tend to complete the picture than to bring criticism into disrepute. The result would be like those myriad reflections of one’s self that are obtained from the triple mirrors in hatters’ shops — all true, but all different, and some exceedingly unfamiliar and surprising.
If one of my observers were a man as shrewd and philosophic as Charles Moritz, the 1782 traveler, the excellence of one column at any rate of that number would be assured, for Moritz had both eyes and a brain.
A pastor in his native land, he sailed for England alone in May, 1782, bent upon seeing London and, for some unexplained reason, the Peak of Derbyshire. He knew the language perfectly, from books; and he brought to his adventure an open and tolerant mind, courage, determination, and humor. As it turned out, he found himself in need of all these qualities. Indeed, no traveler can afford to do without any of them. He wrote in German: my copy of his work was translated “ by a Lady,” and is furnished with a lengthy and rather too patronizing preface by an anonymous editor, with a standard of criticism for this kind of work so severe that it is a miracle that Moritz ever passed it at all.
As to the translator, she is, says the conscientious entrepreneur, “a very young lady, whose name, if it had been thought proper to mention it, would be indifferent to no lover of sound and deep learning, and exemplary piety.” Since, however, the impropriety of mentioning it was so evident, we shall probably never be any the wiser. My own acquaintance with the deep learning and exemplary piety of the seventeen-eighties, at any rate in conjunction, is so meagre that I throw up the sponge forthwith. And now for the book itself, the translation of which seems to me easy and spirited almost beyond praise. “Some little stiffnesses,” says the editor, who confesses to a revising hand, “may still remain”; but if so I have missed them.
Let us disembark at Dartford on June 2, 1782, with Mr. Moritz, and proceed with him to London in a postchaise, by way of Greenwich. I have read of post-chaises before, but never found them so vividly or informingly described as by this German pastor. It is worth while to pause a moment before going further and ask ourselves what we know of post-chaises in England in 1782. It will make Mr. Moritz the more interesting. Speaking for myself, I certainly did not know that three persons might (by Act of Parliament) ride for the same cost as one, and that the charge was fixed at a shilling a mile. Had you realized that? I had always thought of the post-chaise as a luxury for the rich only, but this brings it within reach of much humbler purses. And now for the German: —
“ These carriages are very neat and lightly built, so that you hardly perceive their motion, as they roll along these firm smooth roads; they have windows in front, and on both sides. The horses are generally good, and the postilions particularly smart and active, and always ride on a full trot. The one we had wore his hair cut short, a round hat, and a brown jacket, of tolerable fine cloth, with a nosegay in his bosom. Now and then, when he drove very hard, he looked round, and with a smile seemed to solicit our approbation.”
That is quite a picture, is it not? Dickens could have made the post-boy look round no less brightly and triumphantly, but he would have given him jokes. This is Dickens without language: Dickens on the cinematoscope.
The road to London is very prettily etched in: —
“ A thousand charming spots, and beautiful landscapes, on which my eye would long have dwelt with rapture, were now rapidly passed with the speed of an arrow. Our road appeared to be undulatory, and our journey, like the journey of life, seemed to be a pretty regular alternation of uphill and down, and here and there it was diversified with copses and woods; the majestic Thames every now and then, like a little forest of masts, rising to our view, and anon losing itself among the delightful towns and villages. The amazing large signs which, at the entrance of villages, hang in the middle of the street, being fastened to large beams, which are extended across the street from one house to another opposite it, particularly struck me; these signposts have the appearance of gates, or of gateways, for which I at first took them, but the whole apparatus, unnecessarily large as it seems to be, is intended for nothing more than to tell the inquisitive traveler that there is an inn. At length, stunned as it were by this constant rapid succession of interesting objects to engage our attention, we arrived at Greenwich nearly in a state of stupefaction.”
It is very much as a few years ago men wrote of their first motor-car ride, or as Wilbur Wright ’s passengers write now.
Between Greenwich and London in 1782 Mr. Moritz was surprised precisely in the same way in which I was surprised in Berlin in 1907. One thing in particular, he says, “struck and surprised me not a little; this was the number of people we met riding and walking with spectacles on,—among whom were many who appeared stout, healthy, and young.” Is not that — considering the date — odd? No German traveler would make such a remark now.
In London he lodged with a tailor’s widow somewhere near the Adelphi. The family consisted “ of the mistress of the house, her maid, and her two sons, Jacky and Jerry; singular abbreviations for John and Jeremiah. The eldest, Jacky, about twelve years old, is a very lively boy, and often entertains me in the most pleasing manner, by relating to me his different employments at school and afterwards desiring me, in my turn, to relate to him all manner of things about Germany. He repeats his amo, amas, amavi, in the same singing tone as our common school-boys. As I happened once, when he was by, to hum a lively tune, he stared at me with surprise, and then reminded me it was Sunday; and so, that I might not forfeit his good opinion by any appearance of levity, I gave him to understand that, in the hurry of my journey, I had forgotten the day. . . When the maid is displeased with me, I hear her sometimes at the door call me the German; otherwise in the family I go by the name of the Gentleman.” Quite an Addisonian touch.
The tailor’s widow was a woman out of the common, for a favorite author of hers was Milton, and she told her lodger that her “ late husband first fell in love with her on this very account; because she read Milton with such proper emphasis.” This endeared her to her lodger too, for a pocket Milton was his inseparable companion during his travels. But I fear that when he proceeds to deduce from the widow a general love of the great authors among even the common English people, he goes too far. He made indeed the mistake that he might make to-day, when cheap reprints of classics are far more numerous: the mistake of supposing that people read what they possess. Classics are still largely decoration. For the most part, I fear, the owners of the hundred best books are reading something from the circulating library.
The widow and her servant looked after him well, giving him bread and butter cut as thin as “ poppy leaves! ” But what he liked even better was their toast : —
“Another kind of bread and butter usually eaten with tea, which is toasted by the fire, and is incomparably good. You take one slice after the other and hold it to the fire on a fork till the butter is melted, so that it penetrates a number of slices at once. This is called toast.”
That seems to me a very pleasant touch. I wonder into how many books of travel in England toast has found its way.
His curiosity took him everywhere, sometimes without any introduction, and sometimes with a letter from the German minister, Count Lucy. His first experience of the House of Commons, with no influence at his back, was amusing and illuminating.
“ Above there is a small staircase, by which you go to the gallery, the place allotted for strangers. The first time I went up this small staircase and had reached the rails, I saw a very genteel man in black standing there. I accosted him without any introduction, and asked him whether I might be allowed to go in the gallery. He told me that I must be introduced by a Member, or else I could not get admission there. Now, as I had not the honour to be acquainted with a Member, I was under the mortifying necessity of retreating, and again going downstairs: as I did, much chagrined. And now, as I was sullenly marching back, I heard something said about a bottle of wine, which seemed to be addressed to me. I could not conceive what it could mean, till I got home, when my obliging landlady told me, I should have given the well-dressed man half-a-crown, or a couple of shillings, for a bottle of wine.
“ Happy,” he says, “in this information, I went again the next day; when the same man who before had sent me away, after I had given him only two shillings, very politely opened the door for me, and himself recommended me to a good seat in the gallery.”
Manners in Parliament seem to have improved a little. Mr. Moritz says: —
“ The Members of the House of Commons have nothing particular in their dress; they even come into the house in their great-coats, and with boots and spurs. It is not at all uncommon to see a Member lying stretched out on one of the benches while others are debating. Some crack nuts, others eat oranges, or whatever else is in season. There is no end to their going in or out; and as often as any one wishes to go out, he places himself before the Speaker, and makes him his bow, as if, like a school-boy, he asked his tutor’s permission. Those who speak, seem to deliver themselves with but little, perhaps not always with even a decorous, gravity. All that is necessary is to stand up in your place, take off your hat, turn to the Speaker (to whom all the speeches are addressed), to hold your hat and stick in one hand, and with the other to make any such motions as you fancy necessary to accompany your speech.”
Mr. Moritz had good fortune, for he heard both Fox and Burke. He writes:
“Charles Fox is a short, fat, and gross man, with a swarthy complexion, and dark; and in general he is badly dressed. There certainly is something Jewish in his looks. But upon the whole, he is not an ill-made nor an ill-looking man: and there are many strong marks of sagacity and fire in his eyes. I have frequently heard the people here say, that this same Mr. Fox is as cunning as a fox. Burke is a well-made, tall, upright man, but looks elderly and broken.”
A few weeks later, on his return to London, Moritz was again in the House to hear the debate on the death of the Marquis of Rockingham. Fox, General Conway, and Burke were the speakers. This is interesting:—
“ Burke now stood up and made a most elegant, though florid speech, in praise of the late Marquis of Rockingham. As he did not meet with sufficient attention, and heard much talking and many murmurs, he said, with much vehemence, and a sense of injured merit, ‘ This is not treatment for so old a Member of Parliament as I am, and I will be heard! ’ On which there was immediately a most profound silence.”
Our traveler was fortunate in the matter of Charles James Fox, for he heard him again, at an election. The hustings were erected outside St. Paul’s, in Covent Garden, and Sir Cecil Wray was returned.
“ In the area before the hustings, immense multitudes of people were assembled, of whom the greatest part seemed to be of the lowest order. To this tumultuous crowd, however, the speakers often bowed very low, and always addressed them by the title of gentlemen. Sir Cecil Wray was obliged to step forward and promise these same gentlemen, with hand and heart, that he would faithfully fulfil his duties as their representative. He also made an apology, because, on account of his long journey, and ill health, he had not been able to wait on them, as became him, at their respective houses. The moment that he began to speak, even this rude rabble became all as quiet as the raging sea after a storm; only every now and then rending the air with the parliamentary cry of hear him! hear him! and as soon as he had done speaking, they again vociferated aloud an universal huzza, every one, at the same time, waving his hat.
“ And now, being formally declared to have been legally chosen, he again bowed most profoundly, and returned thanks for the great honour done him: when a well-dressed man, whose name I could not learn, stepped forward, and in a well-indited speech congratulated both the chosen and the chusers. ‘ Upon my word,’ said a gruff carter, who stood near me, ‘that man speaks well.’
“ Even little boys clambered up and hung on the rails and on the lamp posts; and as if the speeches had also been addressed to them, they too listened with the utmost attention: and they too testified their approbation of it, by joining lustily in the three cheers, and waving their hats.
“ When Fox, who was among the voters, arrived at the beginning of the election, he too was received with an universal shout of joy. At length, when it was nearly over, the people took it into their heads to hear him speak,and every one called out‘Fox! Fox! ’ I know not why,but I seemed to catch some of the spirit of the place and time; and so I also bawled ‘Fox! Fox! ’ and he was obliged to come forward and speak; for no other reason that I could find, but that the people wished to hear him speak.
“When the whole was over, the rampant spirit of liberty, and the wild impatience of a genuine English mob, were exhibited in perfection. In a very few minutes the whole scaffolding, benches, and chairs, and every thing else, was completely destroyed; and the mat with which it had been covered torn into ten thousand long strips, or pieces, or strings, with which they encircled or enclosed multitudes of people of all ranks. These they hurried along with them, and every thing else that came in their way, as trophies of joy; and thus, in the midst of exultation and triumph, they paraded through many of the most populous streets of London.
“Whilst in Prussia poets only speak of the love of country as one of the dearest of all human affections, here there is no man who does not feel, and describe with rapture, how much he loves his country. ‘Yes, for my country, I ’ll shed the last drop of my blood! ’ often exclaims little Jacky, the fine boy here in the house where I live, who is yet only about twelve years old. The love of their country, and its unparalleled feats in war, are, in general, the subjects of their ballads and popular songs, which are sung about the streets by women, who sell them for a few farthings. It was only the other day our Jacky brought one home, in which the history of an admiral was celebrated, who bravely continued to command, even after his two legs were shot off, and he was obliged to be supported.”
Living authors seem to have had no interest for Mr. Moritz, and therefore we get no glimpse of Dr. Johnson; but he saw everything else. He went to Ranelagh and Vauxhall; to many of the churches, even preaching in one; to the British Museum and to the theatre, where he was so much taken with a musical farce called The Agreeable Surprise that he saw it again and wished to translate it into German. Edwin was the principal comedian. Although the play was good, the audience was very uncivil.
Here again it is not uninstructive to pause and ask ourselves for our views on the London theatre-gallery in 1782. It had not occurred to me that the gods were quite as highspirited and powerful as Mr. Moritz describes them. In his seat in the pit Mr. Moritz became at once their target; but whether it was because he looked foreign, or because he had the effrontery to be able to afford to sit there, is not explained.
“ Often and often, whilst I sat here, did a rotten orange or pieces of the peel of an orange fly past me, or past some of my neighbours, and once one of them actually hit my hat: without my daring to look round, for fear another might then hit me on the face.
“Besides this perpetual pelting from the gallery, which renders an English play-house so uncomfortable, there is no end to their calling out and knocking with their sticks, till the curtain is drawn up. I saw a miller’s, or a baker’s boy, thus, like a huge booby, leaning over the rails and knocking again and again on the outside, with all his might, so that he was seen by everybody, without being in the least ashamed or abashed.
“ In the boxes, quite in a corner, sat several servants, who were said to be placed there to keep the seats for the families they served, till they should arrive; they seemed to sit remarkably close and still, the reason of which, I was told, was their apprehension of being pelted; for if one of them dares to look out of the box, he is immediately saluted with a shower of orange peel from the gallery.”
And here the London experiences end.
Now for the open road. Having coached to Richmond, Mr. Moritz set out to reach Oxford on foot, sleeping at whatever village he came to at nightfall. But he was not very fortunate, either because he fell among peculiarly rude and inhospitable folk or because his appearance was so odd as to be irresistible. A traveler on foot in this country, he says, “seems to be considered as a sort of wild man, or out-ofthe-way being, who is stared at, pitied, suspected, and shunned by everybody that meets him. At least this has hitherto been my case, on the road from Richmond to Windsor.
“ When I was tired, I sat down in the shade under the hedges, and read Milton. But this relief was soon rendered disagreeable to me; for those who rode, or drove, past me, stared at me with astonishment; and made many significant gestures, as if they thought my head deranged. So singular must it needs have appeared to them to see a man sitting along the side of a public road, and reading. I therefore found myself obliged, when I washed to rest myself and read, to look out for a retired spot in some by-lane or crossroad.
“Many of the coachmen who drove by called out to me, ever and anon, and asked if I would not ride on the outside; and when, every now and then, a farmer on horseback met me, he said, and seemingly with an air of pity for me,”T is warm walking, sir! ’ and when I passed through a village, every old woman testified her pity by an exclamation of ‘Good God!’ ”
His troubles continued, for an Eton inn refused to admit him at all, and the servants at the Windsor inn did all they could to make him uncomfortable. He had his revenge, however: —
“ As I was going away, the waiter, who had served me with so very ill a grace, placed himself on the stairs, and said, ‘Pray remember the waiter!’ I gave him three halfpence: on which he saluted me with the heartiest ‘ G—d d——n you, sir!’ I had ever heard. At the door stood the cross maid, who also accosted me with ‘Pray remember the chambermaid!’ — ‘Yes, yes,’ said I, ‘I shall long remember your most ill-mannered behaviour and shameful incivility ’; and so I gave her nothing. I hope she was stung and nettled by my reproof: however, she strove to stifle her anger by a contemptuous, loud horse-laugh.”
But this was not all, for just outside Windsor Mr. Moritz made acquaintance with the perils of trespassing: —
“ I found no regular path leading to these hills; and therefore went straight forward, without minding roads; only keeping in view the object of my aim. This certainly created me some trouble. I had sometimes an hedge, and sometimes a bog, to walk round; but at length, I had attained the foot of the so earnestly wished-for hill, with the high white house on its summit, when, just as I was going to ascend it, and was already pleasing myself in the idea of the prospect from the white house, behold I read these words on aboard: ‘Take care! there are steel traps and spring-guns here.’
“All my labour was lost, and I now went round to the other hill; but here were also steel traps and spring-guns, though probably never intended to annoy such a wanderer as myself, who wished only to enjoy the fine morning air from this eminence.”
An adventure with a foot-pad and rebuffs from other landlords followed, but in the little Berkshire village of Nettlebed, five miles northwest of Henley, he found repose. Nettlebed remained in his mind as the most charming spot in England: he liked the inn, he liked the people, and he liked the church. His description of the inn actually re-creates the past; indeed, it is not unworthy to stand beside that, description of the inn in The Old Curiosity Shop in which the nature of dwarfs and giants was so illuminatingly discussed, over the landlord’s wonderful stew.
“ ‘May I stay here to-night ? ’ I asked with eagerness.
“ * Why, yes, you may.’ — An answer which, however cold and surly, made me exceedingly happy.
“They shewed me into the kitchen, and let me sit down to sup at the same table with some soldiers and the servants. I now, for the first time, found myself in one of their kitchens which I had so often read of in Fielding’s fine novels, and which certainly give one, on the whole, a very accurate idea of English manners.
“The chimney in this kitchen, where they were roasting and boiling, seemed to be taken off from the rest of the room and enclosed by a wooden partition: the rest of the apartment was made use of as a sitting and eating room. All round on the sides were shelves with pewter dishes and plates, and the ceiling was well stored with provisions of various kinds, such as sugar-loaves, black-puddings, hams, sausages, flitches of bacon, etc.
“While I was eating, a post-chaise drove up; and in a moment both the folding-doors were thrown open, and the whole house set in motion, in order to receive, with all due respect, these guests, who, no doubt, were supposed to be persons of consequence. The gentlemen alighted, however, only for a moment, and called for nothing but a couple of pots of beer; and then drove away again. Notwithstanding the people of the house behaved to them with all possible attention, for they came in a post-chaise.
“Though this was only an ordinary village, and they certainly did not take me for a person of consequence, they yet gave me a carpeted bedroom, and a very good bed.
“The next morning I put on clean linen, which I had along with me, and dressed myself as well as I could. And now, when I thus made my appearance, they did not, as they had the evening before, shew me into the kitchen, but into the parlour: a room that seemed to be allotted for strangers, on the ground floor. I was also now addressed by the most respectful term, Sir; whereas, the evening before I had been called only Master: by this latter appellation, I believe, it is usual to address only farmers, and quite common people.
“This was Sunday; and all the family were in their Sunday-cloaths. I now began to be much pleased with the village.”
On at last tearing himself from Nettlebed, after three futile efforts, Mr. Moritz walked to Dorchester, where he hoped to sleep but was not permitted. Late at night, therefore, he set out for Oxford, and was joined on the way by another traveler to the same city, a young clergyman. They reached Oxford just before midnight, and Mr. Moritz proposed to sleep on a stone. “ No, no,” said his companion: and here we come to the gem of the book.
Hitherto Mr. Moritz has been now and then a little caustic, and always an alert observer, holding himself well in hand; but in the next two pages a very delightful satirical glint appears I consider the midnight theological conversation that follows by no means unworthy to be remembered along with Hogarth’s picture of a not dissimilar occasion. Mr. Moritz’s editor no doubt had different views, for humor in a book of travel, as indeed in life, was not looked for in 1782; but at least he did not revise it out of the volume, and we must honor him accordingly. Whether it is known at Oxford I have not inquired; but I have several friends there who would immensely relish it.
“‘No, no,”' said his friend, “‘come along with me to a neighbouring alehouse, where it is possible they may n’t be gone to bed and we may yet find company.’ We went on a few houses further, and then knocked at a door. It was then nearly twelve. They readily let us in; but how great was my astonishment when, on being shewn into a room on the left, I saw a great number of clergymen, all with their gowns and bands on, sitting round a large table, each with his pot of beer before him. My traveling companion introduced me to them, as a German clergyman, whom he could not sufficiently praise for my correct pronunciation of the Latin, my orthodoxy, and my good walking.
“ I now saw myself in a moment, as it were, all at once transported into the midst of a company, all apparently very respectable men, but all strangers to me. And it appeared to me very extraordinary that I should, thus at midnight, be in Oxford, in a large company of Oxonian clergy, without well knowing how I had got there. Meanwhile, however, I took all the pains in my power to recommend myself to my company, and in the course of conversation I gave them as good an account as I could of our German universities, neither denying nor concealing that, now and then, we had riots and disturbances. ‘ O, we are very unruly here too,’ said one of the clergymen, as he took a hearty draught out of his pot of beer, and knocked on the table with his hand. The conversation now became louder, more general, and a little confused; they enquired after Mr. Bruns, at present professor at Helmstadt, who was known by many of them.
“Among these gentlemen there was one of the name of Clerk, who seemed ambitious to pass for a great wit, which he attempted by starting sundry objections to the Bible. I should have liked him better if he had confined himself to punning and playing on his own name, by telling us again and again, that he should still be at least a Clerk, even though he should never become a clergyman. Upon the whole, however, he was, in his way, a man of some humour, and an agreeable companion.
“Among other objections to the Scriptures, he stated this one to my traveling companion, whose name I now learnt was Maud, that it was said in the Bible that God was a wine-bibber and a drunkard. On this Mr. Maud fell into a violent passion, and maintained that it was utterly impossible for any such passage to be found in the Bible. Another divine, a Mr. Caern, referred us to his absent brother, who had already been forty years in the Church, and must certainly know something of such a passage if it were in the Bible, but he would venture to lay any wager his brother knew nothing of it.
“‘Waiter! fetch a Bible! ’ called out Mr. Clerk, and a great family Bible was immediately brought in, and opened on the table among all the beer-jugs.
“ Mr. Clerk turned over a few leaves, and in the book of Judges, 9th chapter, verse xiii, he read, ‘ Should I leave my wine, which cheareth God and man ? ’
“ Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern, who had before been most violent, now sat as if struck dumb. A silence of some minutes prevailed, when all at once the spirit of revelat ion seemed to come on me, and I said, ‘ Why, gentlemen, you must be sensible that it is but an allegorical expression; and,’ I added, ‘how often in the Bible are kings called Gods! ’
' Why, yes, to be sure,’ said Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern, ‘ it is an allegorical expression; nothing can be more clear; it is a metaphor, and therefore it is absurd to understand it in a literal sense.’ And now they, in their turn, triumphed over poor Clerk, and drank large draughts to my health. Mr. Clerk, however, had not yet exhausted his quiver, and so he desired them to explain to him a passage in the prophecy of Isaiah, where it is said in express terms that God is a barber. Mr. Maud was so enraged at this, that he called Clerk an impudent fellow; and Mr. Caern again yet more earnestly referred us to his brother, who had been forty years in the Church, and who therefore, he doubted not, would also consider Mr. Clerk as an impudent fellow, if he maintained any such abominable notions. [This is sheer Dickens, is n’t it?]
“ Mr. Clerk all this while sat perfectly composed, without either a smile or a frown; but turning to a passage in Isaiah, chapter xx, verse 7, he read these words: ‘In the same day the Lord shall shave with a razor . . . the head, and the hair of the feet: and it shall also consume the beard.’ If Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern were before stunned and confounded, they were much more so now; and even Mr. Caern’s brother, who had been forty years in the Church, seemed to have left them in the lurch, for he was no longer referred to. I broke silence a second time, and said, ‘ Why, gentlemen, this also is clearly metaphorical, and it is equally just, strong and beautiful.’ ‘ Aye, to be sure it is,’ rejoined Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern both in a breath; at the same time rapping the table with their knuckles. I went on, and said, ‘ You know it was the custom for those who were captives to have their heads shorn; the plain import, then, of this remarkable expression is nothing more than that God would deliver the rebellious Jews to be prisoners to a foreign people, who would shave their beards! ’ ‘ Aye, to be sure it is; any body may see it is; why it is as clear as the day! ’ ‘ So it is,’ rejoined Mr. Caern, ‘and my brother, who has been forty years in the Church, explains it just as this gentleman does.’
“ We had now gained a second victory over Mr. Clerk; who being perhaps ashamed either of himself or of us, now remained quiet, and made no further objections to the Bible. My health, however, was again encored, and drunk in strong ale; which, as my company seemed to like so much, I was sorry I could not like. It either intoxicated or stupefied me; and I do think it overpowers one much sooner than so much wine could. The conversation now turned on many different subjects. At last, when morning drew near, Mr. Maud suddenly exclaimed, ‘ D—n me, I must read prayers this morning at All-Souls!
The scene of that convivial disputation was the Mitre; and if there are more amusing descriptions of a night in that inn I should like to read them. It reflects credit, not only upon the traveler, but also upon the very young lady, his translator, whose name was so fragrant with exemplary piety.
Mr. Maud, before he departed on his conscientious errand, arranged to call for Mr. Moritz and show him Oxford; but the strong ale had been too much for the foreigner and he was not able to see the city till the day following. He was then taken to Corpus Christi and All Souls and other colleges. While “ going along the street, we met the English poet laureate, Warton, now rather an elderly man; and yet he is still the fellow of a college. His greatest pleasure, next to poetry, is, as Mr. Maud told me, shooting wild ducks.” After Oxford, Mr. Moritz visited Stratford-on-Avon, which he reached in a coach. And after Stratford-on-Avon, he saw Birmingham and the Peak of Derbyshire, and so returned to London and Germany. He had other adventures and encounters, all described with liveliness; but here I must stop, hoping, not with Mr. Moritz’s editor, that you may have both admired his genius and respected his good sense.
The ideal travel book could, I suppose, be written only by the Wandering Jew, who, never ceasing, as he does, to perambulate this globe, returning periodically, as one imagines, to every country, has it in his power in each successive description to note not only physical but social changes. I don’t know what intervals elapse between his visits to London, but they must be sufficiently lengthy to permit of very noticeable alterations, perceptible even to a footsore and disenchanted Hebrew of incredible age. In default of this ancient peripatetic, no one could do it better than Halley’s Comet, whose visits are paid punctually every seventyfour years, and who is with us now.