Sterne abroad-"They manage these things better in France." I employed two years in visiting the greater part of France, Italy, and Germany; and I returned eight months ago, with a fair knowledge of the countries and people I saw, and the power of conversing with ease in the language of the two former. I am not dissatisfied with the success of my experiment, though in this, as in all human undertakings, the result falls short of the expectation. I at least find myself a very welcome guest among my friends; and only a fortnight ago, was delighted by a young lady's telling me that she had dined the day before at a very stupid party, where I was very much wanted. I find it a much easier, as well as more successful manner of making myself agreeable, to follow the conversation instead of trying to lead it. Whatever I see ludicrous in the course of my excursions, or read in that of my studies, I carefully treasure up, to introduce when it can come in à propos. One thing I particularly avoid, as a rock on which I have often seen others split, to enter unbidden on the subject of my travels; and here, by the by, I have to complain of being sometimes wantonly forced to be a bore entirely without fault of my own. Now and then, some one of the party, who would not the least care if I were buried eleven fathoms deep in the Frozen ocean, from politeness, asks me some question about my travels, which I must answer, and cannot answer briefly, though I am perfectly aware that neither the inquirer nor any one else present, is the least interested in the reply. I think I have at length discovered the secret of shining in conversation, and will report the result of my researches for the benefit of those who may be enabled, by station or talent, to make more advantage of it than I can: "To be able to say something on the subject that may be started without showing any anxiety or impatience to say it." More of the success than can be conceived, depends on the power of listening patiently and cheerfully; and I cannot better close this article than by quoting a saying of the Prince de Ligne, which should be deeply engraved in the minds of all who wish to render themselves agreeable in society, and to the remembrance of which I must in gratitude own myself indebted for having more than once escaped making myself very much the contrary,— "Ce qui coute le plus pour plaire, c'est de cacher que l'on s'ennuie. Ce n'est pas en amusant qu'on plait. On n'amuse pas même si l'on s'amuse: c'est en faisant croire que l'on s'amuse."—Lettres du Prince de Ligne. T. TO A FRIEND, ON A SEAL HAVING THE DEVICE OF CUPID WITH A LYRE, SEATED ON A LION. EMBLEM of Nature's happiest, noblest mould! GYMNASTICS OF THE STUDIOUS. "A MERE bookish learning," says a witty old friend of ours, who lived about three centuries ago, "is both troublesome and ungraceful. I could wish," continues he, "that Paluel or Pompey, the two famous dancing-masters of my time, could have taught us to cut capers, by only seeing them do it, without stirring from our places."-We commence our catalogue of the gymnastic amusements of scholars with this art, because it is certainly one of the most ancient extant, and because it is, in our apprehension, so peculiarly suitable to the literary character-a truth which, we have no doubt, we shall succeed in establishing, both by argument and authority. The ars saltandi, now most undeservedly degraded far beneath its level, was, in more ancient and noble times, a necessary acquisition to the accomplished scholar. Shall that shame us which Epaminondas accounted honourable? Did not the illustrious Scaliger perform the saltatio pyrrhica before the Emperor Maximilian, to the great admiration of all Germany "non sine stupore totius Germania?" and shall we hesitate after such an authority as this?-There are few species of exercise which have any thing intellectual about them; but dancing is one of those few. There is something mathematical in a quadrille. But it is the more sober kinds of dances which are particularly suited to the studious mind, such as the solemn and graceful movements of those measures, which the students at law of other days were accustomed to perform before the critical eyes of the great dignitaries of the profession. Was not this a more rational mode of teaching their legal ideas how to shoot, than the present practice of merely requiring the student to eat his way to distinction?-was it not, we ask, infinitely more noble and more intellectual? and may not the decrease of deep and sound lawyers in our day be mainly attributable to this source? There can be no doubt that Lord Coke was an excellent dancer. The Lord Chancellor Hatton, it is well known, was much celebrated for his saltatory abilities; and, indeed, may be said to have stepped to the woolsack per saltum." He was first taken notice of by the Queen, for the comeliness of his person, and for his graceful dancing in a masque at court; but more afterwards, for his great abilities." We always find envy accompanying ability and success; and accordingly, the serjeants of that day, vainly emulous of the fame which his graceful dancing had acquired, refused to plead before the "grave Lord Keeper." In 1633, the Inns of Court presented the King and Queen with a masque, with which their majesties were highly satisfied; and no doubt, on that occasion, the gentlemen of the long robe displayed much skill and dexterity in the exercise of their saltatory functions. Sir William Jones, one of the most scientific of our modern lawyers, seems to have been the last who paid that attention to this noble science which it so justly deserves. During his residence in London he was accustomed to receive instructions from a celebrated professor of this art; and who shall say that the beautiful specimen of legal and logical reasoning, which the work on Bailments presents, may not be in a great measure attributed to Sir William's proficiency in the art saltatory? Riding on horseback has been a favourite amusement with many literary men, and deservedly so. On horseback, you can take the best exercise in the shortest time; and besides, the attention is more earnestly engaged in the exercise itself, than in the mere act of walking, and consequently it is highly useful to those whose minds are too apt to dwell upon one train of thought. It is a sort of new existence to mount a high-spirited generous horse. We become endowed with all the corporeal advantages which Nature has bestowed upon him: we are swift as he is; we bound forward with equal velocity; and as he caracoles and shakes his mane, we feel animated with some of the same spirit. Moreover this exercise is peculiarly fitted to counteract the evil effects of a sedentary life-a fact for which we will vouch high authorities, since Plato recommends it as beneficial to the health, and Pliny says it is good for the stomach and the joints. (In the absence of authorities from Galen or Dr. Baillie, we hope the dicta of these two philosophers will be thought sufficient.) Many erudite and accomplished scholars have been much attached to this exercise.* We are told by Monstrelet, that a grave doctor of divinity by name Maistre Pierre Pol, was very fond of riding, but always preferred a side-saddle on which he used regularly to make his appearance in the streets of Paris. Montaigne must have been a great equestrian: "I do not willingly alight," says he "when I am once on horseback, for it is the place where, whether sick or well, I find myself most at ease." We know that Erasmus was fond of riding, from an anecdote which Roger Ascham has left us of him. So was Sir Philip Sidney; but all the wits and scholars of that day had still a large portion of the chivalrous character of antiquity in their composition. But of all the men that ever bestrid a horse, there is no one that can match Alfieri as an equestrian. Never was there in the world such a decided case of hipomania. The affection of an Arab for his family courser was scarcely superior to the esteem and love which the Italian poet appears to have felt for his four-footed companions. He bought about a dozen horses in England, and with the assistance of his grooms conducted them himself over the Alps, guiding their footsteps with all the care and attention which an anxious travel * Gilbert Wakefield is an exception-he was never on horseback in his life. ler would display for his friend's safety. He was indeed a bold and adventurous rider. In taking a high five-barred gate, his horse fell with him, and Alfieri broke his arm. Nothing deferred by this accident, he mounted again, and making a second attempt succeeded in clearing the gate. Most assuredly, whether mounted on his English hunter, or his Italian Pegasus, Alfieri was a man who would not easily yield to obstacles. Pope seems to have considered the exercise of riding as peculiarly favourable to literary contemplations. In that most scholastic ride in company with old Lintot, which the poet describes with such spirit in his letter to Lord Burlington, the two equestrians, author and bookseller, alighted to refresh themselves under the shade of some spreading trees. Lintot pulled out a pocket Horace, and requested Pope to amuse himself in "turning an ode" till they mounted again." Lord!" says Lintot, "if you pleased, what a clever miscellany you might make at leisure hours." "Perhaps I may," said Pope, "if we ride on; the motion is in aid to my fancy, a round trot very much awakens my spirits; then jog on apace, and I'll think as hard as I can." This very much reminds one of Swift's song, " Pegasus loves a jolting pace." The recipe, however, does not seem to have been very efficacious; for when, after the lapse of a full hour, Lintot broke out, "Well Sir! how far have you gone?" Pope's answer was only "Seven miles." The motion of a carriage, too, is very useful in rousing the thoughts; of which Sir Richard Blackmore is an example, "who, in that old rumbling chariot of his, between Fleet-ditch and St. Giles's pound, shall make you half a Job." But, after all, the primitive exercise is walking, an exercise, however, in which (ex vi termini) sedentary people can scarcely be supposed to indulge. And yet walking is certainly favourable to thought. Perhaps it acts on the mind someway in the same manner as it does upon the body, and causes at the same time a circulation of blood and ideas. Certainly "a walk in the garden" (we hope we are not trespassing) is as pleasant an amusement for the body and soul of man, be he scholar or not, as any in the world. It is so easy to put down your book and take up your hat, and seek your garden, and there walk, stand, saunter, or sit, just as the humour moves you. We should like to know, amongst all the quiet unpretending pleasures the world can furnish, what is better than to sit reading an entertaining book on a sunny day in the shade? We should like to know what The court, camp, church, the vessel and the mart, for such hours of tranquil enjoyment? Is it not Cowley that wisely tells Evelyn "In books and gardens thou hast placed aright In fact, a garden just accommodates itself to the perambulations of a scholar, who is not over-anxious about the extent of his limits, and who would perhaps rather wish his walks abridged than extended. There is a good characteristic account of the mode in which the literati take exercise, given in Pope's Letters. “I, like a poor squirrel, am continually in motion, indeed, but it is about a cage of three foot; my little excursions are like those of a shopkeeper, who walks every day a mile or two before his own door, but minds his business all the while." There is one mode of exercise which we venture to recommend to our sedentary friends, which is a sort of compromise between riding and walking. Although this may be deemed a childish amusement, yet we have the authority of two celebrated men in its favour, Agesilaus and Martinus Scriblerus. We allude to the salutary exercise of riding on a stick, or, as the learned Scriblerus hath it, "equitare in arundine longa." This exercise seems to us to unite in itself many of the advantages of both the other modes. Perhaps, however, it may now be said to be superseded by the velocipedes. The more violent and animal-like amusements of the field have never, we think, been greatly in vogue amongst the literati. They have but little relish for the "hounds and echoing horn." Hunting is, par excellence, the recreation of country squires. Who can fancy Spenser, after finishing a canto of the Faery Queen, pulling on his boots for a hunt, or Sir Isaac Newton asking for his whip and spurs? Squire Western, the least intellectual of all created beings, was hunting personified. A scholar cannot get rid of his thoughts all at once. The younger Pliny, when he used to go to hunt wild boars, generally carried his tablets with him. This was a sort of compromise between soul and want of soul. Shakspeare, to be sure, is said to have been fond of following the deer in his neighbour's park; but the daring hazard of the chase probably was to him its chief charm. There is, however, one species of these sylvan sports which has something of a scholastic nature about it, and which, indeed, has become a sort of literary property ever since it was sanctified by old Walton's pen. Perhaps it may be that there is something contemplative and scholar-like in the art itself. An angle is by no means incompatible with the poetical character, and even a mathematician may find ample time for reflection in the pauses of a nibble. Many learned men have accordingly been much attached to this diversion. The illustrious Sir H. Wotton, according to Walton, "did not forget his innate pleasure of angling, which he would usually call his idle time not idly spent ; saying often he would rather live five May months than forty Decembers." So Dr. Paley would have his picture |