JAMES HOWELL'S FAMILIAR LETTERS.t

GREAT as is the interest and merit of these Familiar Letters of James Howell, now again brought before the public after more than a century's oblivion, we do not altogether share in the editor's surprise at the comparative oblivion which, to quote his own words, " seems to have swept both letters and all general interest in their author into a backwater of unmerited neglect." It is in comparing their fate with the greater popularity of Montaigne's Essays that Mr. Bennett so writes, after showing, in a quotation from Thackeray with

which he heads his interesting biographical introduction, that the authors of both books were equal sharers in that great critic's affectionate regard and intimacy. While, how- ever, both are what Thackeray calls prattlers, and both talk about themselves, Montaigne prattles of almost every familiar trifle under the sun, of qualities and speculations common to the race of men, suited, therefore, to nearly all readers. Howell's prattle is, on the contrary, mainly of foreign travel, customs, and affairs, and of political events and persons of his day, the interest in which naturally decreased to the general reader as Continental travelling became no longer a novelty, and comments on contemporary politics, however familiarly given, and however interspersed with humorous anecdotes, came to require an accompanying effort of memory or reference to forgotten history. There is, moreover, a want of familiarity about many of these " Familiar Letters." We are held somewhat at a distance by the sense of knowledge being imparted,—an interesting process no doubt, but requiring quite a different and less frequently present state of mind from that needed by the familiar style which speaks of what we have an equal share in, and almost fancy we could say ourselves. The reader, too, shrinks back with rather the feeling of an intruder, and of a bored intruder, from the elaborate expression of compliment and affection with which so many of the earlier letters begin, as for instance,

one among many addressed to his friend, Richard Althorn, Esq. :— "DEAR SIR.,—Love is the marrow of friendship, and letters are the elixir of love; they are the best fuel of affection, and cast a sweeter odour than any frankincense can do ; such an odour, such an aromatic perfume your late letter brought with it, pro- ceeding from the fragrancy of those dainty flowers of eloquence, which I found blossoming as it were in every line ; I mean those sweet expressions of love and wit, which in every period were intermingled with so much art, that they seem'd to contend for mastery which was the strongest. I must confess, that you put me to hard shifts to correspond with you in such exquisite strains and raptures of love, which were so lively, that I must needs judge them to proceed from the motions, from the diastole and systole of a heart truly affected ; certainly your heart did dictate every syllable you writ, and guided your hand all along. Sir, give me leave to tell you, that not a dram, nor a dose, nor a scruple of this precious love of yours is lost, but is safely treasur'd up in my breast, and answer'd in like proportion to the full : mine to you

s as cordial, it is passionate and perfect, as love can be."

In contrast to the above, we cannot forbear quoting the following admirably expressed and cencise note which occurs much later on :—

"To Mr. R. Sc. at York.

" Sra,—I sent you one of the third current, but 'twas not answer'd ; I sent another of the thirteenth, like a second arrow to find out the first, but I know not what's become of either :

Statistik der Ehen, auf Grund der sixteen Gliederung der Dentilkerung, nach Folkezdhluegen and Hirchenbilchern in Dinernark. Von Marcus Rubin, Director des Stadtiechen Statistiachen Bureaus an Kopenhagen, and Harald Westergaard, Prof essor der t tatiatik an der tin iveraitat zu Kopenha,gen. Jona : G. Fischer. 1890.

t Epistoler Ho-RIlianz : the Familiar Letters of James Howell. Edited by W. 11. Bennett. 2 vole. London : David, Stott, 1890 I send this to find out the other two ; and if this fail, there shall go no more out of my quiver. If you forget nie, 1 have cause to complain, and more if you remember me. To forget may proceed from the frailty of memory ; not to answer use when you mind me, is pure neglect, and no less than a piacle. So I rest,—Yours easily to be recover'd, J. H."

The letters grow more natural, and the sentiment less over- strained, as we follow the course of this voluminous corre- spondence, which fact in itself gives strong refutation to an opinion which has been put forth of the letters having been concocted for publication. Years and adversity will be seen to have matured the style and feeling of the writer, when we compare the earlier letter given above with the following on the same theme, written from his prison :-

" To Tho. Hans, Esq.

"Sia,—There is no such treasure as a true friend, it is a trea- sure far above that of St. Mark's in Venice ; a treasure that is not liable to those casualties which others are liable to, as to plundering and burglary, to bankrupts and ill debtors, to firing and shipwrecks ; for when one hath lost his fortunes by any of these disasters, he may recover them all in a true friend, who is always a sure and stable commodity. This is verify'd in you, who have stuck so close to me in these my pressures ; like a glow- worm (the old emblem of true friendship) you have shin'd to me in the dark. Nor could you do good offices to any that wisheth you better ; for I always lov'd you for the freedom of your genius, for those choice parts and fancies I found in you, which I confess, hath made me more covetous of your friendship, than I used to be of others. And, to deal clearly with you, one of my prime errands to this town (when this disaster fell upon me) was to see you. God put a speedy period to these sad distempers ; but this wish, as I was writing it, did vanish in the impossibility of the thing, for I fear they are of a long continuance : so I pray God keep you, and comfort me, who am,—Your true friend to serve you, " Fleet, 6 May, 1643. J. H."

James Howell was born at the end of the sixteenth century, and died in 1666. He lived, therefore, through a period when it was possible for an intelligent observer and a shrewd reasoner as he was, to throw many "side-lights," as the editor terms them, upon the great historical events and questions of the day. He had, too, exceptional opportunities, for one of his time and of his moderate means, of learning by observation the condition of foreign affairs, and so gaining an insight into the foreign policies which at that time were so interwoven with those of this country. When quite young, he was sent abroad in the interests of a glass-manafaeturers firm. He seems to us to have qualified himself for a post of such responsibility in an amazingly short time ; but we rather infer than are exactly told that he prospered in what was com- mitted to him. It is, however, in the observations and descrip- tions with which his letters written during this three years' absence abound, that we are interested. They are very full, elaborate, and exceedingly quaint, interspersed with anecdotes and shrewd comparisons and remarks, all mingled up together and told with a sedate gravity which makes them very enter- taining. On arriving in Holland, he digresses a little, and gives an admirably concise account of the struggle between Spain and the Low Countries, not many years before brought to a con- clusion. Thence, with eyes wide open, that nothing may escape him or lose the chance of being duly weighed in his

receptive and well-balanced mind, he goes to Spain,—or, according to his own words, he " crossed and clambered up the Pyrenees to Spain," finding them, as he afterwards relates, " not so high or so hideous as the Alps." He spends a long time in Italy, and sends interesting and beautifully written descriptions of many of the cities there. Of Paris he has spoken very contemptuously :-

" I am now newly come to Paris, this huge magazine of men, the epitome of this large populous kingdom, and rendezvous of all foreigners. The structures here are indifferently fair, tho' the streets generally foul all the four seasons of the year ; which I impute first to the position of the city, being built upon an isle, (the Isle of France, made so by the branching and serpentine course of the river of Seine) and having some of her suburbs seated high, the filth runs down the channel, and settles in many places within the body of the city, which lies upon a flat ; as also for a world of coaches, carts, and horses of all sorts that go to and fro perpetually, so that sometimes one shall meet with a stop half a mile long of those coaches, carts, and horses, that can move neither forward nor backward, by reason of some sudden encounter of others coming a cross way ; so that oftentimes it will be an hour or two before they can disentangle. In such a stop the great Henry nas so fatally slain by Ravaillac. Hence comes it to pass, that this town (for Paris is a town, a city, and a university) is always dirty, and 'tis such a dirt, that by a perpetual motion is beaten into such black unctuous oil, that where it sticks no art can wash it off of some colours ; insomuch, that it may be no im- proper comparison to say that an ill name is like the trot (the dirt) of Paris, which is indelible ; besides, the stain this dirt

leaves, it gives also so strong a scent, that it may be smelt many miles off, if the wind be in one's face as he comes from the fresh air of the country."

The languages and experience which Howell gained on this tour seem to have stood him in good stead all his life, and not many year elapse without his services being in request as travelling companion, secretary, or some post of the kind. We find him at Madrid on a mission of importance at the time of the celebrated Spanish match negotiations, when the sudden visit of Charles and Buckingham seems to have seriously interfered with the course of his business, and the breaking off of the match to have been the reason for the miscarriage of his own mission. He has much, of course, to say on the subject, and as we are accustomed to find him willing to be generally useful, as the phrase goes, it does not surprise us to learn that on his return from Madrid he is employed to convey home the Prince's jewels.

The letters end with the year 1645, the date of their first publication, when their author had already been several years immured in the Fleet Prison. This misfortune overtook him in all probability, and according to his own showing, from political causes, though a certain Anthony h Wood, who strikes us as an officious kind of person, throws out, among several suggestions of the same uncomfortable kind, the idea that he was imprisoned for debt, " being prodigally inclined." His later letters are, therefore, tinged with melancholy, both on account of the growing misfortunes of his country and his private sorrows; but as we expect from our already lengthened acquaint- ance with him, the consolations of religion and philosophy are not absent from his mind. We must leave to the reader the perusal of his quaint meditations and reflections in adver- sity, which gain for him an added respect in our eyes. There is also a long letter in which he furnishes for a friend's guidance some details of his " private cubicular devotions," which is especially deserving of notice. Towards the end of it, he thanks God that " I have this fruit of my foreign travels, that I can pray to Him every day in a several language, and upon Sunday in seven, which in versions of my own I punctually perform in my private pomeridian [sic] devotions." This is one of the advantages of foreign travel which would not readily occur to most people, but is a serious cause of thank- fulness to our somewhat priggish but earnest and right-minded correspondent. He thus proceeds to sum up in the same letter :—

" By these steps I strive to climb to Heaven, and my soul prompts me that I shall go thither ; for there is no object in the world delights me more than to cast up my eyes that way, specially in a starlight night : and if my mind be overcast with any odd clouds of melancholy, when I look up and behold that glorious fabric, which I hope shall be my country hereafter, them are new spirits begot in me presently, which make me scorn the world, and the pleasures thereof, considering the vanity of the one and the inanity of the other."

The little volumes of this new edition will be a boon to those to whom James Howell and his " Familiar Letters" come as a surprise ; they will prove an extra convenience, from their diminutive size, to those who can say with Thackeray that Howell is a " dear old friend," and his Letters their " bedside book." We have some doubt, however, as to whether these last will recognise their "old friend" in the pretty, baby-like, modern uniform of the " Stott Library."