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as yourself should adopt that nonsensical reading! What is 'hurly-burly,' pray? There is no such word in the language; you can't find an allusion to it in Johnson." Linley, whose veneration for Dr. Johnson was only inferior to that which he entertained for the great poet himself, said:

"Indeed! are you sure there is not? What can be the reason of the omission? The word, you see, is used by Shakespeare."

"No such thing," was the reply; "it appears so, indeed, in one or two early editions, but it is evidently mistranscribed. The second folio gives the true reading, though the old nonsense is still retained upon the stage.'

"

"Indeed! and pray what do you call the true reading?"

"Why, of course, the same that is followed by Johnson and Steevens in the edition upstairs-'When the early purl is done;' that is, when we have finished our 'early purl'-i.e., directly after breakfast."

Linley became quite puzzled by the gravity of my countenance, and only gave vent in a hesitating tone, half-doubtful, half-indignant, to the word "Nonsense!"

"Nonsense? It is as I assure you. We will send for the book, and see what Steevens says in his note upon the passage."

The book was accordingly sent for, but I took good care to intercept it before it reached the hands of Linley, and taking it from the servant, pretended to read from the volume: "Some copies have it, 'When the early purl is done;' and I am inclined to think this reading the true one, if the well-known distich be worthy of credit—

Hops, reformation, turkeys, and beer
Came to England all in one year.

This would seem to fix the introduction of beer, and consequently of early purl, into the country to about that period of Henry VIII's reign when he intermarried with Anne Boleyn, the mother of Queen Elizabeth, Shakespeare's great friend and patroness, and to whom this allusion may perhaps have been intended by the poet as a delicate compliment. Purl, it is well known, was a favorite beverage at the English Court during the latter part of the sixteenth century; and from the

epithet then affixed to it, 'early,' an adjunct which it still retains, was no doubt in common use for breakfast at a time when the China trade had not yet made our ancestors familiar with the product of the teaplant. Theobald's objection, that, whatever may have been the propriety of its introduction at the Court of Elizabeth, the mention of it at that of Macbeth would be a gross anachronism, may be at once dismissed as futile. Does not Shakespeare, in the very next scene, talk of 'Cannons overcharged with double cracks'? and is not allusion made by him to the use of the same beverage at the Court of Denmark, at a period coeval, or nearly so, with that under consideration-'Hamlet, this purl is thine'?"

"But, dear me," broke in Linley, “that is pearl, not purl. I remember old Packer used to hold up a pearl, and let it drop into the cup."

"Sheer misconception on the part of a very indifferent actor, my dear Linley, be assured.”

Here Beazley, who was present, observed, "Early purl' is all very well, but my own opinion has always leaned to Warburton's conjecture that a political allusion is intended. He suggests 'When the Earl of Burleigh's done;' that is, when we have 'done'-i.e., cheated or deceived, the Earl of Burleigh, a great statesman, you know, in Elizabeth's time, and one whom, to use a cant phrase among ourselves, 'you must get up verly early in the morning to take in!'"

"But what had Macbeth or the witches to do with the Earl of Burleigh? Stuff! nonsense!" said Linley indignantly. And though Beazley made a good fight in defence of his version, yet his opponent would not listen to it for an instant.

"No, no," he continued, "the Earl of Burleigh is all rubbish, but there may be something in the other reading."

And as the book was closed directly the passage had been repeated, and was replaced immediately on the shelf, the unsuspicious critic went away thoroughly mystified, especially as Tom Hill, for whose acquaintance with early English literature he had a great respect, confirmed the emendation with "Early purl!' Pooh, pooh! to be sure it is 'early purl'; I've got it so in two of my old copies."3

The Life and Letters of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham, 167-170. See also p. 391 for another hoax, perpetrated on a newspaper.

As well as being a delightful burlesque of Shakespearean criticism, this anecdote shows both Barham's immense range of knowledge and his promptness of extemporaneous invention; but as an elaborate effort to deceive a confiding friend, it is anything but canonical.

Another example of doubtful ethics is to be found in his biography, and we can be sure that he would recount it without shame because of its merits as a good story:

He had read prayers at the Chapel Royal, and been much struck by the excellent sermon of the Bishop of on the subject of the day. With his own composition, which happened to be on the same text, he had from the first felt dissatisfied. It had been prepared at short notice, and was to have been preached in the evening at St. George's, Hanover Square. It now appeared more imperfect than ever; so casting it aside, he contrived, between the morning and afternoon services, to write out from memory the one he had just heard delivered. At St. George's, as was not unusual for the preacher, he remained in the vestry until the termination of the prayers. On entering the pulpit, his consternation may be imagined at seeing, in a seat immediately opposite, the aforesaid eloquent Bishop of —. No retreat was open, no time left to collect his thoughts for an extemporaneous essay. There was nothing for it but to face the difficulty; to forget the presence of the Bishop as far as possible, and to give the unfortunate discourse with what confidence he might.

If it be any extenuation, one may add that Barham was not alone in such peccadilloes: his friend and superior, Sydney Smith, indulged in a more public deception when, "positively disowning all connection with the 'Plymley Letters' in one edition, he actually published them in a collection of his acknowledged works some few months after."

Other characteristics of Barham seem equally remote from the ordinary ideal of a clergyman. His gaily affectionate references to intoxicating liquors, while they are certainly not those of a drunkard, at least imply a moderate indulgence; one of his typical impromptu doggerels was a vigorous remonstrance to The Globe for its publication of

some temperance propaganda. Again, the fact that he was a charter member of the Garrick Club testified his keen interest in theatrical affairs. "In early life, his own amateur performances had attracted the favorable notice of several 'regulars,' one of whom, an eminent actress, seriously assured him that with a little study he might soon arrive at a respectable position in the profession, and at all events make a very satisfactory stage villain." It is further stated, however, that he held that the stage "might be made to conduce materially to moral progress."

This justification for his dramatic enthusiasm is consistent with his theory as to the purpose of the Ingoldsby Legends. On his death-bed he suffered from only one anxiety, "the possibility of some misconception existing, or arising, as to his motives in the composition of those of the Legends which bear in any degree upon matters of religion. His purpose, he distinctly repeated, was to combat error and imposture, and the reactionary unbelief that naturally follows error and imposture in an age given overmuch perhaps to scientific criticism." This solemn didactic mission, which would link the Legends with In Memoriam and Easter Day, is very hard to reconcile with the irresponsible mirth of the poems themselves; but at least it is undeniable that he is never guilty of ridiculing true goodness and faith. On the contrary, his whimsical manner is so good-natured that even the "error and imposture" which he burlesqued do not suffer any irreparable wounds from his satire. But it is easy to imagine that, if it were ever brought to his attention that his innocent merriment might be misconstrued, his conscience would magnify the unintended sacrilege. The resulting exculpation, like all such post facto announcements, would make his motives seem much more definite and conscious than they had actually been.

It must be remembered that his decade, despite its prevailing levity, witnessed also a highly important activity in spiritual affairs, namely, the Oxford movement with its attendant controversies. By virtue of his public position, Barham was in danger of becoming embroiled in several

professional disputes, though he did his best to avoid them. His own opinions on the subject were no secret: his ridiculing of Catholic observances had an obvious contemporary application, and one is not surprised to find him expressing heartfelt relief that a new colleague proved not to be "some sour and lank-haired Puseyite, with whom I might have had to carry on a perpetual warfare." The new outcropping of earnestness and fervor was a direct assault on the easy-going mundane behavior of Barham and his friends, so his antagonism was natural. No doubt this background of topical allusion did something to give the Legends vitality, which mere antiquarian interest might have failed to supply.

But unquestionably the primary source and abiding inspiration of the Legends was Barham's keen enthusiasm for medieval lore. In his inexhaustible store of miscellaneous and recondite learning he resembles his predecessors, Rabelais and Burton, and his contemporaries, Thomas Love Peacock and Christopher North and Father Prout. Peacock was happier in Aristophanic Athens than in modern England, and Father Prout was able to rewrite The Groves of Blarney in four languages; with them Barham takes rank for his command of medieval Latin and ecclesiastical history. His bibliographical hobby led him to an exhaustive collation of early printed bibles, and is reflected in his fondness for using black-letter typography; as an antiquarian he assisted in forming the Archaeological Association, and despite the fact that he distressed the more solemn members by his pranks, such as circulating flippant epigrams during the learned deliberations, he was as enthusiastic as any of them over the investigations. By thus combining a passion like Sir Walter Scott's for specific details of antiquarian accuracy with an incorrigible tendency toward seeing the comic values of the material, he produced his unique legends, which succeed in achieving what so many conscientious historical novelists have pursued the revitalizing of a defunct era.

Along with his religion and his scholarship, a definite element in Barham's humor is provided by his politics. He was a thorough and typical Tory, and it is this fact which

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