OLD PAGES AND OLD TIMES.

"Here's Nestor,

Instructed by the antiquary times,

He must-he is-he cannot but be wise."-SHAKSPEARE.

We have no great reverence for antiquity of any kind, simply considered as priority of production, for the world would have existed to very little purpose if it had not gone on pretty generally improving; and to be very old is only to be removed farther back from all that is enlightened, and nearer to all that is barbarous and ignorant. In books, indeed, we may admit some little qualification of this position, for an old work, provided it have been always common, has received successive new births or editions, which are so many honourable testimonies to the approbation of different ages: while one that has been suffered to become scarce, pronounces its own condemnation. Since the invention of printing, it may be confidently asserted, that no good book ever became rare; which is only saying in other words, that the major part of the scarce works, which modern collectors ferret out of the dust with so much care and cost, are little better than trash and rubbish. Intrinsic value, however, they no more regard, than the simpleton who gives a hundred pounds for a Queen Anne's farthing; nay, they even set a higher price upon copies which have been so utterly useless and despised as never to have had their leaves cut; or which have attained a perverse and fantastical estimation from their faults, misprints, and omissions. Who can help smiling when he hears an auctioneer impressing upon the company that the edition he is offering of some "small rare volume black with tarnished gold" is the only imperfect one known? or avoid laughing outright when he sees his neighbour bid an additional sum for an early copy of Shakspeare, because it wants Ben Jonson's verses on the portrait, the leaf containing Digges's ❝verses to Shakspeare's memorie," and the list of actors? The Bibliomaniac has as much right to squander his money and ride his blackletter hobby, as any other lunatic who is not quite fatuous enough to claim the wardenship of the Lord Chancellor, but he should not dignify his paltry pursuit with the name of literature.

Although we feel quite as much disposed as ever Pope was before us to leave

"Rare monkish manuscripts to Hearne alone,

And books to Mead, and butterflies to Sloane,"

yet we have access to a collection which will be duly estimated by the "black letter dogs," when we assure them that

"For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,

These shelves admit not any modern book;"

and we are prepared for the full measure of their wrath, when we assure them that we shall pass over without notice such gems as "The Boke call'd the Pype or Tonne of Perfection, by Richard Whytforde, 1532" -"The Visions of Piers Plowman"-"The Boke of Chivalrie, by Caxton," and his "Boke of Tulle of Old Age"-Wynkyn de Worde's "Orcharde of Syon"-Pynson's "Barclay's Ship of Folys;" and even some beautiful vellum copies where the text, to use the phrase of Ernesti, "natat velut cymba in oceano." These "perrari" and "rarissimi," which, as the catalogues say, "in paucorum manibus verSantur," have been ransacked and analyzed usque ad nauseam; but

there is still a description of old literature which has scarcely received its due share of attention, and which falls more peculiarly within the cognizance of a Magazine-we mean the periodical, from a small collection of which, mostly dating from the latter end of the century before the last, we purpose making occasional extracts, restricting ourselves to such passages from Old Pages as may serve to illustrate Old Times.

Out of respect for the New Monthly, we shall begin our notices with a venerable predecessor, who in the career of Magazines even took precedence of the superannuated Mr. Urban, and thus announces his intention to be periodical. "The first part of this undertaking I popped into the cautious world as a skilful angler does a new bait among wary fish who have oft been pricked in their nibbling; and finding the public snapping at it with as much greediness as a newsmonger at a Gazette, or a city politician at a new proclamation, makes me purpose to continue it Monthly, as long as we shall find encouragement.' The number with which we shall commence bears the title of "The London Spy for the month of December 1699. The second volume, part 2d. London, printed and sold by J. How, in the Ram-head-inn-yard, in Fanchurch. street, 1699;" and if it be curious to mark the contrast offered by the meagre contents of this tall sixteen-paged quarto, with the comprehensive copiousness of its modern successors, it is not less singular than instructive to observe the close resemblance which the popular infatuation of that day bears to the prevailing folly of the present. The above-mentioned number, indeed, has been selected on this account; and that the present era may be enabled to anticipate the future by seeing itself reflected in the past. Plague and pestilence were for a long time of periodical recurrence, and it seems as if certain moral diseases revisited us at stated periods. In the following passage we discover the first symptoms of that insatiable thirst and fear of gain, which became inflamed a few years after into the South-Sea bubble; and though the principal delusions of that day wore the form of lotteries, while the wild projects of our own time are all to turn out mines of gold, we think the observations of our shrewd ancestor, "The London Spy," are quite as applicable to the latter as to the former.

"We now return'd back again to our buzzing metropolis the city, where honesty and plain dealing were laid aside, to pursue the wonderful expectancies so many thousands had from a mixture of projectors' knavery and their own folly. The Gazet and Post-papers lay by neglected, and nothing was purr'd over in the coffee-houses but the ticket-catalogues. No talking of the jubilee, the want of a current trade with France, or the Scotch settlement at Darien; nothing buzz'd about by the purblind trumpeters of state news but blank and benefit. People running up and down the streets in crowds and numbers, as if one end of the town was on fire, and the other running to help them off with their goods. One stream of coachmen, footmen, 'prentice-boys, and servant-wenches flowing one way, with wonderful hopes of getting an estate for threepence:-Knights, esquires, gentlemen, and traders, married ladies, virgin madams, jilts, concubines, and strumpets, moving on foot, in sedans, chariots, and coaches another way, with a pleasing expec tancy of getting six hundred a-year for a crown.

"Thus were all the fools in town so busily employed in running to one lottery or another, that it was as much as London could do to conjure together such numbers of knaves as might cheat 'em fast enough of their money. The unfortunate crying out as they went along-'A cheat! a cheat!

a confounded cheat,-nothing of fairness in it!' The fortunate, in opposition to the other, crying-Tis all fair! all fair! the fairest adventure that ever was drawn!' and thus every body, according to their success, expressing variously their sentiments. Though the losers, who may be said to be in the wrong of it to venture their money, were most right in their conception; and the gainers, who were in the right of it to venture their money, I am very apt to believe, were most wrong in their opinion of the matter: for I have much ado to forbear believing that luck in a bag is almost as honest as fortune in a wheel, or any other of the like projects. Truly, says my friend, I cannot conceive any extraordinary opinion of the fairness of any such lottery; for whenever such a number of fools fall into a knave's hand, he will make the most of them; and I think the Parliament could not have given the nation greater assurances of their especial regard to the welfare of the public than by suppressing all lotteries which only serve to buoy up the mistaken multitude with dreams of golden showers, to the expense of their money, which with hard labour they have earned; and often to the neglect of their business, which doubles the inconveniency. The gentry, indeed, might make it their diversion; but the common people make it a great part of their care and business, hoping thereby to relieve a necessitous life, instead of which they plunge themselves further into an ocean of difficulties."

After the lapse of above a century and a quarter, the Parliament seem once more to have adopted the same conviction; and it might not be amiss if they extended their suppression to some of these undermining projects, which are likely to prove worse than lotteries, since the ultimate share-holders will get nothing but blanks, while the blowers of the bubble will have secured all the prizes. But let us continue company with the "London Spy" and his friend:

“Prythee, says my friend, let us go to Mercers' Chappel, and see how the crowd behave themselves there: ten to one but we may find something or other that shall prove diverting to ourselves, and worth rendering to the publick. Accordingly we directed ourselves thither, to which rendezvous of adventurers, as well as ourselves, abundance of fools from all parts of the town were flocking; none showing a despairing countenance, but all expressing as much hopes in their looks, as if every one had an assurance from a Moorfields' conjurer of having the great prize. Some being thoughtful how to improve it, should it so happen; some, how happily they'd enjoy it; women, what fine clothes they'd wear; maids, what handsome husbands they'd have; beaus, what fine wigs they'd wear; and sots, what rare wine they'd drink; the religious, what charitable works they'd do; and young libertines, what fine ws they'd keep. With much ado we crowded into the hall, where young and old, rich and poor, gentle and simple, were mixed higglede-piggle-de, all gaping for a benefit, like so many Fortune's minions, waiting for a windfall from the blind lady's golden pippin-tree; whilst the projector and the honorable trustees sat laughing in their sleeves, to see fair play dealt out to the attentive assembly, whose avaricious hearts went pit-a-pat at the drawing of every ticket.

"My friend and I, having ventured nothing in their plausible piece of uncertainty, thought it not worth our while to spend any further time amongst them, but concluded to march about our business, and leave the numerous sons and daughters of Fortune to flatter themselves with the vain hopes of their mother's kindness: Going, when we came out, to a neighbouring coffee-house, where we smoked a pipe, and consulted of some new measures to take in our next Spy; which having agreed on, we retired home; where I scribbled over the following lines, with which I shall conclude.

"What sundry projects the ingenious find
T'allure and cozen avaricious fools,

And draw the common people, who are blind,
In all their stratagems to be their tools!

"The hope of suddain wealth does most deceive
When 'tis from labour and from danger free ;
Let but the hopes be plausible you give,

And most men will with your designs agree.
"Thousands, 'tis plain, would soon have been undone,
Had the late Act much longer been delay'd;
Where many suffer to enrich but one,

All such designs are in their nature bad.
"All loose, vain projects ought to be debarr'd,
Which are of evil to the public known,
Wherein projectors have a large reward

For doing what had better ne'er been done.
"This is enough to prove they hurtful are-

Since amongst all the adventurers you meet,
To one who has reason to believe 'em fair,
A thousand shall cry out—A cheat! a cheat!
"He that projects or models the design,

Like the box-keeper, certain is to win;
In lotteries 'tis the same as 'tis in play-

The knave's the vulture, and the fool's the prey."

THE FAMILY JOURNAL.-NO. III.
The Country.

"There the rich and lofty trees welcome us with their noble shadows: there the ground is thick set with grass, and variegated with a thousand flowers: there the limpid fountains, and rivulets of silver, sliding down out of the fertile abundance of the mountains, talk to us with a pleasant murmur: there the painted birds carol; the leaves whisper with every little air; the small deer play about; flocks and herds are in repose. There we light upon the cottage of the shepherd, the narrow cabin which we fancy without care every thing is tranquil and full of silence; our eyes and ears are not only satiated, and the mind so lapped into enjoyment, but the spirits gather their scattered forces; the genius, if by chance it is tired, rises again upon its innermost energy, and incites us to the loftiest meditations: so that we long greedily to compose noble things, being wonderfully moved to that end by the society of our books, and by sweet visions of the Muses leading round about us their choral hymns. All which things, who that is given to study, and rightly turneth in his mind, would not prefer solitudes unto cities ?"*

THE moment I set my foot upon a green turf, or get among the trees, I seem arrived at a heaven upon earth; a place not only of tranquillity, but reward. I drink in the silence at my ears; I see old visions in the woods; the morning of my life seems to have waited for me, and to smile at my return.

How I can be such a lover of the town and country both, sometimes surprises me; but nothing can be truer. I think I deserve it, for

"Ibi in cœlum erectæ fagi, et arbores cæteræ, opacitate sua recentes porrigentes umbras: ibi solum viridantibus herbis contectum, atque mille colorum distinc tum floribus: limpidi fontes, et argentei rìvuli, lepido cum murmure ex ubertate montium declinantes: ibi pictæ aves cantu, frondesque lenis auræ motu, resonantes: bestiola ladentes: ibi greges et armenta: ibi pastoria domus aut gurgustiolum nulla domestica re sollicitum: et omnia tranquillitate et silentio plena: quæ non solum satiatis oculis auribusque delitiis suis animum mulcent, verum mentem in se colligere, et ingenium, si forte fessum sit, in vires revocare, atque illud videntur impingere in desiderium meditationis sublimium, et aviditatem etiam componendi quae mira exhortatione suadent libellorum societas, et canori circum choreas agentes musarum chori: quæ omnia si rite consideremus, quis studiosns homo civitatibus solitudines non præponat ?"

Boccaccio, De Genealogia Deorum, lib. 14, cap. 11.

loving each of them so well. Perhaps a strong sense of contrast has much to do with it, just as melancholy people are observed to have the strongest relish of mirth. But I believe the main part of the secret lies in my willingness to be pleased, and the force of imagination. When away from the trees, I find a world of entertainment in shops and crowds; when away from the crowds, I enter into the pleasure of the squirrels and the deer, and fancy the very trees enjoying a dreaming quiet. Upon the whole, I think I prefer the country, because I always desire something of it when alone. Town is in itself society. I like society also in the country; but if alone, I demand a tree and a bit of grass. Thus the back windows of my rooms in town look upon a garden. If I could not have this, I should have a transparency at my window, painted with some rural scene. I should plant my desk under a landscape, or write with books before me full of sylvan imaginations; and indeed I often do so, as it is. I am writing with one now, although in the country: nor do I very well know which is the more real thing, -the forest which I see out of doors, or the leafy solitudes into which the writer puts me, as I look at him.

The reader must look upon this extract from the old bosky Italian, not merely as the motto, but as the commencement of the present paper. If it appears to him too shady and sequestered, his steps have no business this way. He is warned off. He will see no dreadful faces, as Adam and Eve did at the gate of Paradise; but his fate will be worse, for he will see nothing.

I cannot express the pleasure I have in putting this fine old arboraceous passage at the head of my paper. I bought the Genealogia Deorum the other day, when I was in town, at a bookstall in Marylebone; and were I to reap no other reward from it, this would be sufficient. But besides its own good things-all about gods and goddesses, nymphs and poets, and demogorgons, written with as much love and gusto as though the writer "had never grown old," there is bound up at the end of it, his treatise on woods, mountains, &c.; and the whole volume is in a type so much to my liking (saving some passages, where the printer keeps one somewhat long with his abbreviations), that as I sit with the book before me, it appears like a dark and glimmering wood, interspersed with fantastic bowers and quaint apparitions; which, the reader must know, are the head-pieces to the respective chapters. Here buds an A, and there a B; Cupids take possession of noble E's and S's. Inside of a D are two river-gods, not easily to be imposed upon, who are discussing the mysteries of a pine-apple. I do not observe, as usual, men running away from their own bodies, or ostentatiously exhibiting cast-iron flourishes for legs; but there is a panther eschewing his initial; and two dragons, who by their open mouths, and grim approach on either side, appear to have considerable objections to the letter A.

The being enabled to commence with this bland and sylvan exordium, is like stepping at once from my door into "alleys green;" or it is like fencing my subject, as the scene in which I live is fenced, with oaks and elms; and he that is not prepared to be pleased with the very thick of all that is sylvan and imaginative, in this sequestered part of my lucubrations, had better turn his horse's head or his own, and seek more sophisticate entertainment.