) Educan and for twenty years from the afternoon she vanished, I could not see her or hear of her: whether living or dead, I knew not till the night I am speaking of, that I saw come into the room, the lovely Julia Desborough transformed into Mrs. Mort. Our mutual surprise was vastly great. We could not speak for some time. We knew each other as well as if it had been but an hour ago we parted, so strong was the impression made. She was still divinely fair; but I wondered she could remember me so well, as time and many shaking rubs had altered me very greatly for the worse. See how strangely things are brought about! Miss Desborough was removed all the way to Italy, kept many years abroad that she might never see me more, and in the character of Mrs. Mort, by accident, I found her in solitude in the same country I lived in, and still my friend. This lady told me, she had buried an admirable husband a few years ago, and, as she never had any liking to the world, she devoted her time to books, her old favourites, the education of her daughter, and the salvation of her soul. Miss Mort and she lived like two friends. They read and spun some hours of their time every day away. "They had a few agreeable neighbours, and from the lake and cultivation of their gardens derived a variety of successive pleasures. They had no relish for the tumultuous pleasures of the town; but in the charms of letters and religion, the philosophy of flowers, the converse of their neighbours, a linen manufactory, and their rural situation, were as happy as their wishes could rise to in this hemisphere. All this to me was like vision. I wondered, I admired. Is this Miss Desborough with whom I was wont to pass so many hours in reading Milton to her, or Telemaque, or L'Avare de Moliere? What a fleeting scene is life! But a little while and we go on to another world. Fortunate are they who are fit for the remove, who have a clear conception of the precariousness and vanity of all human things, and by virtue and piety so strive to act what is fairest and most laudable, and so pass becomingly through this life, that they may in the next obtain the blessed and immortal abodes prepared for those who can give up their account with joy." Though his admiration for the female sex was always enthusiastic, it is not until he gets to the sequel that our author begins to show the sincerity of his appreciation by marrying them. When he does begin, his perseverance is limited only by his profound respect for human and divine legislation. John Buncle is a Mormon born out of due time. Had he lived in the day of Joe Smith, he would, beyond all manner of doubt, have proved his belief in a religion so consistent with the dictates of reason and the constitution of man by becoming one of the most distinguished of the Latter-Day Saints. Buncle represents the man who, in Meredith's phrase, has neither rounded Seraglio Point nor doubled Cape Turk; yet his constitutional respect for law, rather the letter than the spirit, is such that he finds a pleasure in restraining his polygamous instincts-and denouncing those of other people. Buncle's conscience was, in truth, a curious faculty. So long as he kept to the strict article of a definite, but somewhat shaky, code of morals, he was never tired of pluming himself upon his virtue, and complimenting those people who agreed with him. When once he begins to argue with himself or his detractors upon ethical questions, then his unconscious humour becomes most delectable. His apology to such as objected to the brevity of his periods of mourning for his deceased wives and his haste in securing another partner, has been quoted often enough, but I will venture to quote it again : "I reply, that I think it unreasonable and impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and proper tribute of tears and sorrow, humanity requires; but when that duty has been paid, we must remember, that to lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife. A wife must be a living woman. The wife we lose by death is no more than a sad and empty object, formed by the imagination, and to be still devoted to her, is to be in love with an idea. It is a mere chimerical passion, as the deceased has no more to do with this world, than if she had existed before the flood. As we cannot restore what nature has destroyed, it is foolish to be faithful to affliction. Nor is this all, if the woman we marry has the seven qualifications which every man would wish to find in a wife, beauty, discretion, sweetness of temper, a sprightly wit, fertility, wealth, and noble extraction, yet death's snatching so amiable a wife from our arms can be no reason for accusing fate of cruelty, that is, providence of injustice; nor can it authorise us to sink into insensibility, and neglect the duty and business of life. This wife was born to die, and we receive her under the condition of mortality. She is lent but for a term, the limits of which we are not made acquainted with; and when this term is expired, there can be no injustice in taking her back; nor are we to indulge the transports of grief to distraction, but should look out for another with the seven qualifications, as it is not good for man to be alone, and as he is by the Abrahamic covenant bound to carry on the succession in a regular way if it be in his power. Nor is this all, if the woman adorned with every natural and acquired excellence is translated from this gloomy planet to some better world, to be a sharer of the divine favour, in that peaceful and happy state which God hath prepared for the virtuous and faithful, must it not be senseless for me to indulge melancholy and continue a mourner on her account, while she is breathing the balmy air of paradise, enjoying pure and radiant vision, and beyond description happy? His other motives for desiring to get married as often as he decently could, and the workings of his very peculiar conscience, are revealed with wonted frankness in the following statement of his mental deliberations when con. fronted with the responsibility of a choice of brides : "Against staying longer than two or three days, I had many good reasons that made it necessary for me to depart: beside the unreasonableness of my being an expense to Mr. Turner in his absence, or confining his sister to the country; there was Orton-Lodge, to which I could not avoid going again : and there was Miss Melmoth, on whom I had promised to wait, and did intend to ask her if she would give me her hand, as I liked her and her circumstances, and fancied she would live with me in any retreat I pleased to name; which was a thing that would be most pleasing to my mind. It is true, if Charles Turner had come home, while I stayed at his house, it was possible I might have got his sister, who was a very great fortune: but this was an uncertainty however, and in his absence, I could not in honour make my addresses to her: if it should be against his mind, it would be acting a false part, while I was eating his bread. Miss Turner to be sure had fifty thousand pounds at her own disposal, and so far as I could judge of her mind, during the three days that I stayed with her at Skelsmore-Vale, I had some reason to imagine her heart might be gained: but for a man worth nothing to do this, in her brother's house without his leave, was a part I could not act, though by missing her I had been brought to beg my bread." The moral, religious, and speculative digressions that take up by far the greater space in the book are of singularly little interest to us. They contain no original thought, and merely display the extent of their author's erudition. The utmost praise one can give is that now and then he puts a commonplace well, as for instance : "How shall we account for such things? By saying, that the world that now is, and the world that is to come, are in the hands of God, and every transaction in them is quite right, though the reason of the procedure may be beyond our view. We cannot judge certainly of the ends and purposes of Providence, and therefore to pass judgment on the ways of God, is not only impious, but ridiculous to the last degree." Beyond that his science is absurd, his speculations are vain, and his reasoning, in spite of its pompous phrasing, very shallow. Amory's exaggerated descriptions of scenery, in the Memoirs, and the earlier part of John Buncle, have drawn upon his head a great deal of ridicule. Per. haps he has been laughed at rather unfairly, and more allowance ought to have been made for the ideas of the time when he wrote. With hardly any exception, the eighteenth century writers who have tried to delineate savage scenery have been afflicted by emotions of nervousness and stupefaction that seem rather absurd nowadays. This is how Pennant describes the scenery of Derwentwater: "Here all the possible variety of Alpine scenery is exhibited, with all the horror of precipice, overhanging rock, or insulated pyramidal hills, contrasted with others whose smooth and verdant sides, swelling into immense aerial heights, at once please and surprise the eye. The two extremities of the lake afford most discordant prospects: the southern is a composition of all that is horrible, an immense chasm opens," and so on. Dr. Brown, in his famous letter, finds that "the full perfection of Keswick consists of three circumstances, beauty, horror, and immensity united." "On the opposite shore," says he, "you will find rocks and cliffs of stupendous height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur, some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests; a variety of waterfalls are seen pouring from their summits, and tumbling in vast sheets from rock to rock in rude and terrible magnificence," etc. At Malham Cove, in Craven, one of the spots, probably, where Buncle encountered an impassable range of unscalable "mountains," the poet Gray found it "safer to shelter yourself close to its bottom" (lest any of the rocks at the summit should give way and overwhelm the spectator)," and trust to the mercy of that enormous mass, which nothing but an earthquake can stir." "I stayed there," he continues, "not without shuddering, a quarter of an hour, and thought my trouble richly paid, for the impression will last for life." West, of Ulverston, the author of the earliest guide to the Lakes, who fell foul of Gray for his hyperbolic descriptions, speaks of "an arrangement of vast mountains, entirely new, both in form and colouring of rock; large hollow craters scooped in their bosoms, once the seeming seats of raging liquid fire, though at present overflowing with the purest water, that foams down the craggy brows." Here we can almost picture the tarns on the hill-tops described by Buncle, their depths communicating with the "abyss." And again we can realize some of his difficulties in travelling when we read of another writer who found the lake of Wastwater "of access most laborious from the nature of its surrounding soil, which is utterly devoid of tenacity." West goes on, "The lower parts are pastured with a motley herd; the middle tract is assumed by the flocks, the upper regions (to man inaccessible) are abandoned to the birds of Jove." Mr. W. P. Haskett Smith quotes Mrs. Radcliffe touching the ascent of Saddleback: "The views from the summit are exceedingly extensive, but those immediately under the eye on the mountain itself so tremendous and appalling that few persons have sufficient resolution to experience the emotions which those awful scenes inspire." "When we had ascended about a mile," says another writer, "one of the party, on looking round, was so astonished with the different appearance of objects in the valley so far beneath us that he declined proceeding. We had not gone much further till the other companion was suddenly taken ill and wished to loose blood and return." Buncle's romantic pen, sketching freely from memory, and biassed by his constitutional megalomania, went very little farther, after all, when he turned these awe-inspiring fells into ranges of impassable mountains. The lakes, the tarns, the bogs, and the waterfalls are still there, and may have similar effects on people who are prepared by a suitable education to be appalled. Stainmore Forest has always been one of the wildest districts in Britain, and in Amory's day still retained an evil reputation for murders and highway robberies. The burning river may have had its origin in a reminiscence of bog-fires, more plentiful then than now. The adjoining district of Craven possesses genuine marvels enough in the way of caves, pot-holes and underground water-channels, wet and dry, to furnish a Jules Verne with ample materials for romance. Buncle has simply multiplied the existing caverns and magnified their proportions. If we make proper allowance for the attitude of the time as regards natural sublimity, I think Amory is not a much more flagrant offender against truth and probability than the author of Lorna Doone. John Buncle is a personage of definite lineaments whom, once known, we can never forget or confuse with any other personage, real or fictitious: his author, Thomas Amory, is a very vague and unsubstantial being indeed. Yet there is much to be said, if only on internal evidence, for the view that in the creation we may recognize the authentic features of the author himself. There is a certain class of books that convince their reader, although it might be impossible to prove the case by actual reason, that they are autobiogra. phical, in the sense that they express, more or less consciously, the character of their writers. One feels it in reading them, the perception is intuitive and irresistible. Whether it be the accent given to unimportant traits, or the emergence of more intimate peculiarities, or something altogether undefinable and intangible, we feel it, quite independently of external evidence, in reading David Copperfield, Pendennis, or Jane Eyre, and even minor works like The Fool of Quality. We feel it, never more strongly, whilst perusing The Life of John Buncle, so strongly that it would require cogent proofs of the contrary to unsettle our convictions. The reader must judge from the following summary of what can be ascertained about Thomas Amory, from the statements of himself, his son, and other persons, whether the validity of the intuitive view is confirmed in the present instance. A letter appeared in the St. James's Chronicle on October 25, 1788, inquiring as to the authorship of John Buncle, and it was replied to in a letter, which can be referred to in the Gentleman's Magazine (vol. lviii. p. 1062), stating that the unknown author was Thomas Amory, a native of Ireland, who had been bred to some branch of the profession of physic, and was now living as a recluse on a small fortune in Orchard Street, Westminster, with a country house to which he occasionally retired at Bellfont, near Hounslow. The correspondent went on to describe Amory as "A man of a very peculiar Look and Aspect, though at the same time, he bore quite the Appearance of a Gentleman. He read much; and scarce ever stirred, but like a Bat, in the Dark of the Evening; and then he would take his usual Walk; but seemed to be always ruminating on speculative Subjects, even while passing along the most crowded Streets." This elicited a reply from the son of the mysterious author, Robert Amory, M.D., who controverted certain erroneous statements, and gave a genealogy of the Amorys, whose lineage he traced to Amory de Montford, who married the sister of Henry II., and was created Earl of Leicester. Amory was not a native of Ireland. His Father, Councillor Amory, attended King William to Ireland, and was appointed Secretary for the forfeited Estates in that Kingdom, and was possessed of very extensive Property in the County of Clare. He was the youngest Brother of Amory or Damer, the Miser, whom Pope calls the Wealthy and the Wise'; from whom comes Lord Milton, etc., etc. My Grandfather married the Daughter of Fitzmaurice, Earl of Kerry; Sir William Petty another Daughter; and the Grandfather of the Duke of Leinster another." He goes on to state that Thomas Amory lived on Mill Bank, Westminster, and for a few years rented a house at Bedfont. He never had but one wife, and Robert Amory was himself the only surviving child. At that date, 1788, his father was still living, though now ninety-seven years old. When young he was a very handsome man. He had published many religious and political tracts, poems and songs. He now lived in complete seclusion, not seeing anybody. This letter was replied to by Louis Renas, who threw doubt and contumely on the alleged genealogy, which he characterized as "an idle tale, void of foundation or probability." The insult drew out a further letter from Dr. Amory, who in an irritated manner reasserted his original statements, and wound up by insinuating that his correspondent's real name was "Mr. Louis the Ass," whence he said it would be easy for the Heralds Office to find out his family connections. This pretty controversy came to an end with a letter from L. Renas, dated April 20, 1790, in which he apologized for a slight error in his previous communications, and admitted that Thomas Amory was indeed the grandson of a lord-Baron Kerry-but reiterated his other contentions. There can be little doubt that Robert Amory, M.D., had inherited some of the eccentricities and a good deal of the temper of his father, who was as fond of a dispute as his hero, John Buncle. Amory, if not a native of Ireland, seems to have lived in Dublin at some period, and to have been acquainted with Swift. In 1751, on the publication of Lord Orrery's remarks on the life and writings of Dr. Swift, the following advertisement appeared in the Whitehall Evening Post, but there is no record that the pamphlet was ever printed: "Soon will be published a Letter to Lord Orrery in answer to what his Lordship says in his late remarks in praise of Swift's Sermon on the Trinity; being an attempt to vindicate the divinity of God the Father Almighty, and to convince his Lordship, if he has a mind open to conviction, that the tritheistic discourse preached by the Dean of St. Patrick's is so far from being that masterpiece my Lord Orrery calls it that it is in reality the most senseless and despicable performance ever produced by orthodoxy to corrupt the divine religion of Jesus Christ. By Thomas Amory, Esq." One would like greatly to read this fulmination by a man who, to judge by the disposition of his fictitious counterpart, was quick to wrath, a good hater, and outdid even that other eccentric of genius, George Borrow, in the violence of his enmity for Roman Catholics, and most other people who disagreed with him. In 1776 appeared an anonymous work entitled John Buncle, junr., Gentleman, 12 mo, Dublin, the author of which was a certain Dr. Cogan. An anonymous pamphlet that appeared in the same year as the Memoirs, entitled, "A Letter to the Reviewers occasioned by their account of a book called Memoirs, etc." was presumably written by Amory. In Notes and Queries for January 27, 1855, is quoted a letter from Amouri," (Thomas Amory) to an unnamed lady, enclosing a copy of verses composed by ten gentlemen, including the writer, in praise of a certain Molly Rowe. The following stanza is signed "T. Amory " : "In the dance, through the couples ascudding, How graceful and light does she go! No Englishman ever lov'd pudding The pudding simile is certainly in the vein of John Buncle. The letter is dated from Newton in Yorkshire, July th' 8, 1773. Amory died on November 25, 1788, at the age of ninety-seven. It is regrettable that the Dictionary of National Biography and the latest edition of Chambers's Cyclopædia of English Literature should still persist in the statement that the author of John Buncle must have been disordered in his intellect, in spite of the indignation with which this charge, advanced in the General Biographical Dictionary, in 1798, was repudiated by an able writer in the Retrospective Review (vol. vi., 1822). Although it is insinuated that anybody who admires the book must likewise be in want of medical treatment, we can afford to bear the reflection with equanimity in the distinguished company of Lamb, Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, and other able men who have confessed a liking for this strange book. E.A.B. |