THE HERMIT ABROAD.* ANY one who has ever passed a September in London, a rainy day at Buxton, a winter-evening at an inn, or a week with a rich uncle in a small country town, must be feelingly alive to the virtues of an entertaining book, which may serve to dissipate some portion of that dreadful load of ennui which in such situations is found to "weigh upon the heart." It is only those persons who are acquainted with sufferings like these that can form any idea of the gratitude with which, upon its first publication, we received the precursor of the present work, "The Hermit in the Country," when it was forwarded to us per mail during a residence of some weeks with a relative, A Dowager Of great revenue, and who hath no children, in a distant and retired part of England. The mornings we had contrived to consume with the aid of the worthy old gamekeeper, but the evenings seemed as though they would, to use Macbeth's phrase, stretch out to the crack of doom." In spite of the excellent old lady's library, which appeared to be formed on the model of the one catalogued in the Spectator; nay, even in spite of her conversation and backgammon-board, the nights (it was in autumn) were drawn out to an almost interminable length. It would be in vain to describe the joy with which we seized upon the cargo of amusement, wherewith in our distress the provident attention of Messrs. Colburn and Co. supplied us. We could have hugged the greasy knave who carried the parcel from the neighbouring post-town, and we actually bestowed upon him a gratuity, which, we fear, tended for ever to confound in his mind the due proportion between labour and remuneration. With what hot impatience, despising the sober lessons taught us by Miss Edgeworth in (6 waste not, want not," did we cut the string which bound the parcel, into twenty pieces, and how eagerly did we pounce upon the contents! Debarred as we had been of every thing like an entertaining volume for many long days, we devoured one half of the work with an appetite which astonished our respected relative-nay we even furtively conveyed a volume into our bed-chamber, and enjoyed the ineffable luxury of reading it after our couchée. We remember being particularly pleased with the paper entitled "An Elopement," in which, according to our apprehension, considerable knowledge of the human heart is displayed. The feelings of the two guilty lovers are described with a truth and simplicity which are not found in all the Hermit's writings, who occasionally sentimentalizes a little too much for our taste. As a painting from low life (though the assertion may seem somewhat Irish) "The Top of a Stage" has many claims to merit. We could particularize some other clever papers in the Hermit in the Country, were we not sure that our readers can tell what amuses them at least as well as we can. Encouraged by a perusal of his peregrinations in the country, we resolved the other day to follow the Hermit Abroad, nor have we found reason to repent of our resolution. He has helped us to kill *By the author of the "Hermit in London," and "Hermit in the Country." 4 vols. 12mo. several heavy half-hours, of which we stood greatly in dread. We found him particularly useful in assisting us over those spare portions of the day which it is impossible wholly to avoid; and in filling up these crevices of life, a work like the present is of considerable value. Should dinner be delayed half an hour beyond the appointed period, it is in vain to attempt to beguile the time with any grave and weighty authors. The mind and body are both in a state of irritation which requires some lenitive to soothe them; and we have more than once on such occasions resorted to the Hermit's lucubrations with success. We hold that, in these cases, a work which like the Hermit's is composed of separate papers, is more to be desired than the regular novel, which, should it be a good one, requires a continuous perusal, and is not, like a flute or a friendship, to be taken up and laid down at pleasure. Who, for instance, could have the fortitude to read "The Bride of Lammermoor" by snatches? who could bear to break the wonderful chain of interest which binds together that heart-moving tale? When we meet with a production singularly attractive, we make a feast of it and consume it entire, despite of all its length; but the good Hermit has cut up his volumes into mouthfuls, of which we can swallow one or two at any spare season. Thus, when enjoying our Pekoe alone, we have sometimes enhanced its flavour by adding a few pages of the Hermit; for we hold it to be a high luxury thus to exhilarate at once both body and mind. Again, during the few agreeable sunny days with which we have been favoured this autumn, we found the Hermit a very pleasant companion beneath the shade of a certain oak-tree, whither, "as was our custom in an afternoon," we resorted at once for air and coolness. It is possible that the circumstances which have thus attended our perusal of these volumes, may, in some degree, have induced a bias in their favour. Every critic knows how much depends upon the humour he is in when he first reads his author, and that if an unfor-tunate writer happens to fall in with his reviewer when the gall of the latter is roused, he stands no small chance of suffering from that accident. What thief would choose to be tried before a judge impatient for his dinner, or what author would wish to fall into the hands of a reviewer in a fit of choler? But we shall now endeavour to award to the Hermit what the lawyers call summum jus. The Hermit's writings, then, are well suited to their scope and object-the whiling away of a leisure hour, and the dispersion of vapours and ennui. They exhibit much good-natured observation, and a deal of good taste in matters of principle and feeling, which are very creditable to the anchorite. Sometimes they are dashed with a little affectation, and now and then, though rarely, they are slightly mawkish; but these faults are forgotten in the amusement they afford, and the improving lessons they frequently inculcate. We hasten to select a short paper as a specimen of what may be expected from the Hermit's travels. Perhaps, "La Chaumière" will suit for the purpose. "Eles vous seul, Monsieur ? Are you alone, Sir? Will you have a cabinet, or will you be served in the garden? Do you belong to a société, or are you waiting for any one? Would Monsieur wish to have some refreshment before dinner, a déjeuner à la fourchette, or a petit verre.-Mercy! how many questions to a solitary elderly man in a black coat, without follower or precursor, sauntering from the boulevard Mont Parnasse, and wishing to take a peep at another scene in the environs of the metropolis! "I had now three waiters about me; one asked me if I was of the wedding party? Not a principal,' answered I, 'nor a party concerned in any way;' the second now winked at his fellow waiters, and said, in a low tone, the gentleman is waiting for some lady; then, addressing himself to me, you can have this cabinet,' pointing to a pigeon-hole, where a brace of cooing doves might have have been conveniently caged. 'You are wrong,' quoth I, showing the garçon that I understood him ; 'I mean to dine in the garden,' taking at the same time a chair and laying my cane across it Attendez, Monsieur,' said the last speaker, you must not occupy that place, it is for the dancers.' And that large room?' enquired I. That is for the marriage party, and here the fiddlers are to sit; but are you really alone? Comme vous voyez. Then,' observed another, 'I will get you a snug corner; will you have dubifsteck aux pommes de terre ? (What a proof that he held my tastecheap.) However, I begged leave not to have bifsteck, but called for the bill of fare, and chose a little dinner à la française, and a bottle of château margot. A la bonne heure,' muttered a trio of waiters, as much as to say, this n'entends pas has not so bad a taste. "The marriage party now arrived, sixty in number, of all ages, and whilst they sat down to a late déjeuner, I began to reflect on their wanting to get me into the cabinet (a thing I am not fit for), or to join the party in the grand saloon; or why they wondered at my sober, solitary visit. I now perceived that every face but mine was lit up with a smile, that snug tête-à-têtes moved together through the serpentine walks, that comfortable couples peeped through the lattices of closets, that the young and gay tripped it lightly in the dance, whilst veterans smoked their pipes under the bay or olive, and either went over the past campaigns again, or ogled their fat landlady or some buxom widow who might afford a solace after the rigours of war. A serious Englishman alone was a rarity in the place, and they seemed to pity me for not mingling in the surrounding mirth, for not belonging to some party or person, for not having some pursuit or other like the rest of the frequenters of the Chaumière. The dance now began, and I sat with my hat off reading the outlines of pretty faces, and watching the activity of well-turned ankles. I could easily make out the bride by her dress, and by the place which she occupied, as well as by the degree of attention which she gained. I could also discover bride-maids, relations, connexions, and mere acquaintances. The bride-maids had an arch look, not free from a feeling which, although not envy, was something like it; the sisters and near relations were discoverable by a warm look of regard thrown on the bride, meaning, May you be happy, but, ah! we are sorry to loose you! The connexions flirted it through the dance, and hung out for a partner after it; brothers looked anxiously, parents had a tinge of melancholy overclouding hope, whilst the mere acquaintances gamboled and pranced, and clearly proved that they came there merely for amusement and good cheer. The bride and bridegroom had a difficult card to play in endeavouring neither to seem too distant nor too familiar. When the dance was over, the party retired to dinner, and I wondered on looking at my watch and discovering how many hours I had been engaged in a scene with which I had no connexion or interest: No interest or connexion!' seemed to whisper an invisible being; 'No interest in the felicity of 'your fellow creatures! no connexion with the chain of humanity, although only a small link thereof! fie, fie! This monitor explained to me, that when we take pleasure in seeing others happy, we cannot be lonesome or forlorn ourselves; that the innocent diversion of a surrounding circle includes us in its sunshine; that, without having an assignation or intrigue, a party to join, or a festival to attend, there is no more rational pleasure than that of being a looker-on when youth and mirth form a party together. "The selfish and cold-hearted man will turn aside from what he may proudly and unfeelingly term folly, from the relaxations of the people; but they will never be indifferent to THE WANDERING HERMIT." ST. PAUL'S. HAPPY is the man who on a fine bright morning steps forth from. an hotel in a part of London which admits some of the charming freshness of early day, and full of health and strength and cheerfulness, feeling himself in good nerves, and dressed to his perfect satisfaction, unclogged with any ponderous, unmanageable, and inelegant companion, has London "all before him where to choose" pleasing occupation or rational amusement for the day. Happier still, if, for his companion in these feelings and these pursuits, he has some friend of similar taste, some man who hates the mere business and gravity, and all the pervading hypocrisy of life, and loves to partake of its allowable pleasures and advantageous elegancies when he can. With such a man there is no fear of being deluded into the city, or decoyed into the baleful outskirts of the town; he loves the western air, and doats on the growing magnificence of the capital; and whether in the morning, or afternoon, or night, lives only for the best parts of the great world of the metropolis. On such a morning, and with such intentions, and in such a happy state of mind and body, and above all, with such an enlightened and beloved friend, did I set forth on the second day of my stay in town; but we had not reached the bottom of St. James'sstreet before the provoking chances of the place clashed us with a man fresh from Lincolnshire, with all the odour of its fens about him; a man who from his youth upwards had passed his inglorious days in that pleasing part of England. It would have been cruel, heartless, utterly despicable, to meet the honest joy with which he greeted us by any coldness or affectation; and, not knowing how to avoid it, we allowed all our bright visions to be dissipated at once, and the whole design of the day to take its form and colour from our worthy but somewhat rustical companion. There was no time for reflection, and it was not without disappointment that I found in a few moments I had promised, or rather was sentenced, to see St. Paul's that very day, and already bending my steps away from the Eden of the West. The Tower itself, with all its armour and its beasts, was darkly hinted at; but happily for me that scheme Providence averted; for no suspected traitor ever visited that strange old pile of barbarous times and barbarous taste, that monument of regal crimes and monstrous tyranny, with more reluctance than myself, when " for some sin" I have been dragged thither by a sight-seeing friend. The approach to St. Paul's, in spite of buildings which have no association with it, is a grand thing, and its aspect from Ludgate-hill full of magnificence. The passenger has scarcely time to catch more than a glimpse of this, such is the hurry of the corner of the church-yard. Of all thoroughfares this is the most crowded, bustling, and thought-interrupting; and to those who are fond of contrasts, I know none which may be more strongly recommended than that of which we are sensible, when, ascending by the broad steps of the Cathedral, a moment elevates us above the struggling and the racket of the city, and shrouds us in the silence of that vast and solemn sanctuary. Fifteen years had elapsed since I had before ascended those steps, and the events of them, their good and evil things, passed before me by some mental magic in a single moment, all distinct and vivid and independent of time and distance; but London is not a place to indulge sentiment in, and abstractions, however flattering to human pride, are but follies after all. Fifteen years had made a difference in St. Paul's. Not that in that petty space of time its everlasting dome had shown symptoms of decay, or any feature of its aisles had mouldered into dust, but there was a rejuvenescence that startled one. It dwelt in my recollection a gloomy, dusty, and immeasurable place, and I found it enlivened in colour, with marks of care and attention about it, and all its proportions visible at once. The vastness of the church, as seen from the centre of the floor, is most imposing; it is impossible not to be struck with its extent, its length, its width, and the unbroken loftiness of the dome above, into the recesses of which the eye ascends and penetrates until respiration is thickened and the brain grows giddy, and we seek relief in the contemplation of objects nearer the surface of the earth and immediately around us, the monuments of the illustrious dead. It is disagreeable to have to say that the general effect of these works of art in this building is unpleasant, few of them being in good taste, and many of them so overloaded with allegory as to be quite absurd. The monument to Picton can never be seen, without interest, by those to whom the most devoted courage of a soldier is dear; and there are many more to proud names in military annals which revive the almost forgotten glories of the stirring years so lately past. The simple inscription under the organ, to Sir Christopher Wren, is a happy instance of taste; and although I am far from disputing the propriety of its being in Latin, it is still a pity that four-fifths of those who gaze and wonder at St. Paul's should be unable to profit by it, and thus be reminded of a tribute of gratitude to a name which should never be forgotten. It would be painful to enumerate the monuments disfigured by angels and by wild beasts (howling "in dull cold marble,") and by Britannias and by trumpets and all the noisy extravagancies which frantic allegory has associated with the silent grave. The monument to the immortal Nelson is rather less unhappy in this respect than some of the rest; but I confess that to me the statue of the man, with its likeness to the figure which he bore while on earth, would be more interesting and more affecting without that undefinable female and the two little schoolboys, and yet more without that huge and very unconcerned looking lion, which we are left to suppose means England. Nay, I am so fastidious that I cannot admire the keys in the hand of Howard; by a strange opposition to the will of the sculptor, they give the philanthropist a sort of jailor-look, and sometimes cause him to be oddly mistaken for St. Peter: his statue and his name would be sufficient, the keys and the trickery about him are superfluous. Every one must feel more pleasure in contemplating that monument, in which an officer is seen falling from his horse with a fatal wound into the arms of a soldier, than in beholding others in which dying heroes have some fairy nymph about them, some goddess or equivocal female, standing amid the dying and the dead, half-armed like a soldier and half-clothed like a woman, sprung or dropt from nobody knows where to do nobody knows what. It is high time indeed that a purer taste should prevail |