An Account of the Protestant Monastery of Little Gidding. THE founder of this monastery was Nicholas Ferrar, a man of uncommon ability, and of an enthusiastic disposition. He was the son of an opulent merchant in London; where he was born in the year 1592. He was educated at Clare Hall, Cambridge, of which he became a fellow; and, during his residence in the university, he obtained much distinction. Having completed his academical course, he resided five years on the continent. Soon after his return to England, he was chosen deputy-governor of the Virginia company; and acquired a high reputation by the talents which he displayed in managing the affairs of that corporation, when the king invaded its charter. He was elected a member of parliament in the year 1624; and he now displayed new proofs of his ability and virtue. But, before this period, he had formed the resolution of bidding adieu to the world, and spending the remainder of his days in monastic retirement. In the course of that year, he purchased a large mansion-house at Little Gidding in the county of Huntingdon; whither he retreated with his mother and many of her descendants. This house they converted into a kind of monastery; and, in order to perform the religious service with greater efficacy, he obtained deacon's orders from Dr Laud, at that time bishop of St Davids. On returning to Gidding in his new character, he showed his mother a written vow, which he had made with great solemnity; "That since God had so often heard his most humble petitions, and delivered him out of many dangers, and in many desperate calamities had extended his mercy to him, he would therefore now give himself up continually to serve God, to the utmost of his power, in the office of a deacon, into which office he had that very morning been regularly ordained; that he had long ago seen enough of the manners and of the vanities of the world; and that he did hold them all in so low esteem, that he was resolved to spend the remainder of his life in mortifications, in devotion, and charity, and in a constant preparation for death." The family consisted of about forty persons, male and female. As the house was very large, and contained many apartments, Ferrar allotted for the family devotions one great room, which he called the oratory; and, adjoining to this, other two convenient rooms of the same denomination; the one a night-oratory for the men, the other for the women. He also assigned a separate chamber and closet for each of his nephews and nieces; three more he reserved for the schoolmasters; and his own lodgings were so contrived, that he could conveniently superintend their conduct and discipline. The devotion of this singular family was fervent, fervent, and almost perpetual. Even during the night there was a double watch; of men at one end of the house, and of women at the other. Each watch consisted of two or more persons. These vigils commenced at nine o'clock at night, and terminated at one in the morning. In the course of these four hours it was incumbent on each watch to repeat, in the way of antiphony, the whole book of psalms, and then to pray for the life of the king and his sons. After their vigils were ended, they went to the door of Ferrar's chamber, wished him good morning, and left him a lighted candle. At one he constantly rose, and betook himself to religious meditation; founding this practice on an acceptation too liberal of the passage, At midnight will I rise, and give thanks. Several well-disposed persons, both in that vicinity, and from more distant quarters, attended these nocturnal vigils; and, among the rest, the famous Richard Crashaw, who was very intimate in the family, and frequently came from Cambridge for this purpose. On Sunday the whole family walked in procession to the neighbouring church. When they entered it, every person made a low obeisance, and then took his appointed place. Nicholas Ferrar, at his entrance, made a low obeisance; when he had advanced a few steps, a lower; and, at the half-pace, a lower still. He then ascended the reading-desk, and read matins according to the book of common prayer. "The extraordinary course of life," says Dr Peckard, "pursued at Gidding, the strictness of their rules, their prayers, literally without ceasing, their abstinence, mortifications, nightly watchings, and various other peculiarities, gave birth to censure in some, and inflamed the malevolence of others, but excited the wonder and curiosity of all; so that they were frequently visited, with different views, by persons of all denominations, and of opposite opinions. They received all who came with courteous civility, and from those who were inquisitive they concealed nothing; for, in truth, there was not any thing, either in their opinions or their practice, that was in the least degree necessary to be concealed. Whether their conduct was a subject of admiration or of imitation, is a distinct inquiry, which at present there is not any occasion to enter upon. They were at the time, notwithstanding all the real good they did, severally slandered and vilified; by some they were abused as papists, by others as puritans. Mr Ferrar himself, though possessed of uncommon patience and resignation, yet, in anguish of spirit, complained to his friends, that the perpetual obloquy he endured was a sort of unceasing martyrdom,' These unprofitable austerities gradually wasted his strength; and he died, at a premature age, in the year 1637. The civil wars ensued, and the monks and nuns were at length dispersed. A copious and curious account of these respectable enthusiasts may be 1 be found in the "Memoirs of the Life of Mr Nicholas Ferrar, by P. Peckard, D. D. Master of Magdalen College, Cambridge." * Original Letter from ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the Poet, to the Earl of BUCHAN. † MY LORD, January 19, 1802. Ir may look strange that one who has been repeatedly honoured with your lordship's conversation should have any thing to express by writing. But the sudden transition from shade to sunshine, from obscurity to publicity, which has fallen to my lot, has sometimes almost proved painful, and often perplexing in a great degree. Condescendence from superiors ought at least to inspire confidence sufficient to meet their approbation in all its shapes and modifications, and, when it does not, I am apt to suspect that it deserves no such plausible name as modesty; it is a dastardly child, the offspring of ignorance and fear. I feel and know that in my composition there is not an atom of what is called wit; my replies are the slow suggestions of contemplation; my good things mostly come an hour too late. I find this to be true in conversation with my equals, where restraint can have no force. There is, however, another enemy, (though in some cases my dearest friend,) whose power is resistless, and whose visits are perpetually made known by a rising of the stomach, and a redundancy of water in the eyes. Subjects of interest to the feelings are frequent in parties such as I lately had the honour to join, when, independent of the subject being often above my reach, I find this weakness (if it can be a weakness) stand in my way, and absolutely obstruct any remark or reply whatever. Your lordship informed me particularly of the death of a lady, the circumstances attending which were of a singular and uncommonly interesting nature. I know not whether to wish such scenes to fall in my way, or whether to rejoice selfishly that I have no such torture; for excess of pleasure certainly becomes pain. I have never frequented so desirable and honourable a school as that in which your lordship presides-I mean your friendly conversations with the learned and good, the very cream of a nation's talents. When I reflect on what I am, I can but wonder at that one qualification which alone is thought sufficient to entitle me to be amongst you. The clashing of animated spirits, the flint and steel of conversation, though_they communicate no fire, give me a glorious light; and while I suppress my own thoughts, I often hear them better advanced, and * Cambridge, 1790, 8vo. From the Buchan papers in the possession of Dr Anderson. better better clothed, by others. The illustrious soul that has left among us the name of Burns, has often been lowered down to comparison with me; but the comparison exists more in circumstances than in essentials. That man stood up with the stamp of superior intellect on his brow: a visible greatness, and great and patriotic subjects would only have called into action the powers of his mind, which lay inactive while he played calmly and exquisitely the pastoral pipe. The letters to which I have alluded in the preface to the Rural Tales were friendly warnings, pointed with the immediate reference to the fate of that extraordinary man. Remember Burns, has been the watchword of my friends. I do remember Burns; but I am not Burns; neither have I his fire to fan nor to quench, nor his passions to control. Where, then, is my merit, if I make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, and no mutiny on board? To a lady (I have it from herself) who remonstrated with him on his danger from drink, and the pursuits of some of his associates, he replied, "Madam, they would not thank me for my company, if I did not drink with them; I must give them a slice of my constitution." How much to be regretted that he did not give them thinner slices of his constitution, that it might have lasted longer! I write this much under the twinges of an headach, to which I am subject, which has prevented my waiting on your lordship this morning. If, in my fireside reflections, I thus draw a picture of myself, I hope I do not trespass on Mr Gardiner's profession, and more particularly I hope I shall not trespass on your lordship's patience. I feel so great a triumph in having your lordship's decided approbation, that I cannot forbear hazarding an avowal of it in writing. I have said, "Nature's sublime scenes ne'er charmed mine eyes." And what effect the Cambrian or Caledonian mountains, or a sight of the sea, would have, I can only guess. These to me are distant, visionary raptures, like the saint's prospect of heaven. My Emma's Kid* is the dream of imagination, and the eye had no share in collecting any one idea to identify the picture. If a man is set upon a housetop, he must be a fool not to tread with caution, and feel a becoming solicitude for his safety, more particularly if, among the spectators, some might be found who would like to see him fall. This is my situation in some degree. The patronage of wealth and conspicuous talents may be envied, and will, perhaps, as long as envy dwells in little souls, and nobility in great ones. Though I know that I am incomprehensible to myself, and thus call my courage and confidence to a reckoning for failures, I know that a small dose of poison, alias spirits, has a momentary influence in strengthening both; but as I have a strong predilection for living as long as I can, and for living with your lordship's favour upon my This poem, printed for the first time, will be found in our poetical department. my head, I beseech you at all times, and on all occasions, to guard your decisions with your accustomed good sense and candour, and never believe that Bloomfield is turned fool till you see it yourself. Indeed, I much question the wisdom of counteracting and opposing my watery-headed propensity at all. The indulgence of it is more precious than the wealth of all the distilleries in the world, and I have always written best when I have indulged it most. But I perceive I am tattling, like old Richard, all about myself; and beg pardon for troubling your lordship with the fruits of the headache, and the stirrings of gratitude, and perhaps ambition; but I will never be ashamed of them, while I hold life and your lordship's good opinion, Ι ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. On the recent Improvements in Chemistry. THE present enslaved situation of the continent is so unfavourable both to the arts and sciences, that if matters were to continue much longer in their present state, the languor and de if not the final extinction, of both might be predicted. In France, the most powerful and most favoured of the continental kingdoms, which has filled so distinguished a place among enlightened nations ever since the revival of letters, and which has produced such a number of poets and fine writers, the state of polite literature, by the confession of their own literary men, is at the lowest ebb. Those who cultivate it, say the second and third classes of the Institute in their address to Bonaparte, are old men, and they have no successors. Some of the sciences, indeed, still linger in that country; but their votaries are, comparatively speaking, few, and entirely confined within the walls of Paris. Of these sciences, mathematics and chemistry are the principal. Mathematics were fostered by the old government with particular care. Pensions were assigned to those who excelled in that science; they were made members of the academy; and thus sufficient leisure was given them to prosecute their favourite investigations in private. Several of the eminent men who were thus raised still exist, and shed a lustre over the mathematical sciences in the French empire. Chemistry, chiefly in consequence of the illustrious career of Lavoisier, of the new views which he introduced into the science, and the new nomenclature which was invented by the French chemists in consequence of those views, acquired a splendour in France which contributed materially to the rapidity of its progress. For several years, the French chemists placed themselves at the head of the science, and were regarded with a kind of deference by the other countries of Eu rope. |