Well did Christopher North characterize Delta as the poet of the

spring. He was the darling of that darling season. In all his poetry

there leaped and frolicked "vernal delight and joy." He had in some of

his verses admirably, and on purpose, expressed the many feelings or

images which then throng around the heart, like a cluster of bees

settling at once upon flower--the sense of absolute newness, blended

with a faint, rich thrill of recollection--the fresh bubbling out of

the blood from the heart-springs--the return of the reveries of

childhood or youth--the intolerance of the fireside--the thirst after

nature renewed within the soul--the strange glory shed upon the earth,

all red and bare though it yet be--the attention excited by every

thing, "even by the noise of the fly upon the sunny wall, or the

slightest murmur of creeping waters"--the springing up of the sun from

his winter declinature--the softer and warmer lustre of the stars--and

the new emphasis with which men pronounce the words "hope" and "love."

To crown a spring evening, there sometimes appears in the west the

planet Venus, bright yellow-green, shivering as with ecstasy in the

orange or purple sky, and rounding off the whole scene into the

perfection of beauty. The Scottish poet of spring did not forget this

element of its glory, but sung a hymn to that fair star of morn and

eve worthy of its serene, yet tremulous splendor.

Delta was eminently a national writer. He did not gad abroad in search

of the sublime or strange, but cultivated the art of staying at home.

The scenery of his own neighborhood, the traditions or the histories

of his own country, the skies and stars of Scotland, the wild or

beautiful legends which glimmer through the mist of its past--these

were "the haunt and the main region of his song," and hence, in part,

the sweetness and the strength of his strains. Indeed, it is

remarkable that nearly all our Scottish poets have been national and

descriptive. Scotland has produced no real epic, few powerful

tragedies, few meditative poems of a high rank, but what a mass of

poetry describing its own scenery and manners, and recording its own

traditions. King James the Sixth, Gawin Douglas, Davie Lyndsay,

Ramsay, Fergusson, Ross of the "Faithful Shepherdess," Burns, Beattie,

Sir Walter Scott, Wilson, Aird, Delta, and twenty more, have been all

more or less national in their subject, or language, or both. We

attribute this, in a great measure, to the extreme peculiarity of

Scottish manners, _as they were_, and to the extreme and romantic

beauty of Scottish scenery. The poetic minds, in a tame country like

England, are thrown out upon foreign topics, or thrown in upon

themselves; whereas, in Scotland, they are arrested and detained

within the circle of their own manners and mountains. "Paint _us_

first," the hills seem to cry aloud. A reason, too, why we have had

few good tragedies or meditative poems, may be found in our national

narrowness of creed, and in our strong prejudice against dramatic

entertainments. As it is, we have only Douglas, and three or four good

plays of Miss Baillie's, to balance Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, and all

that galaxy--not to speak of the multitudes who have followed--and

only the "Grave," the "Minstrel," and the "Course of Time," to compare

with the works of George Herbert, Giles Fletcher, Quarles, Milton,

Young, Cowper, and Wordsworth.

We find in Delta little meditative power or tendency. His muse had no

"speculation" in her eye. Whether from caution, or from want of the

peculiar faculty, he never approached those awful abysses of thought

which are now attracting so many poets--attracting them, partly from a

desire to look down into their darkness, and partly from a passion for

those strange and shivering flowers which grow around their sides.

Leigh Hunt, in his late autobiography, when speaking of Blanco White,

seems to blame all religious speculation, as alike hopeless and

useless. But, in the present day, unless there be religious

speculation, there can, with men of mind, be little religion--no

creed--nor even an approximation toward one. Would Mr. Hunt destroy

that link, which in every age has bound us to the infinite and

eternal? Would he bring us back to mere brute worship, and brute

belief? Because we cannot at present form an infallible creed, should

we beware of seeking to form a creed at all? Because we cannot see all

the stars, must we never raise our eyes, or our telescopes, to the

midnight heavens? Because HE has been able to reach no consistent and

influential faith, ought all men to abandon the task? So far from

agreeing with this dogmatic denunciation, we hold that it argues on

the part of its author--revered and beloved though he be--a certain

shallowness and levity of spirit--that its tendency is to crush a

principle of aspiration in the human mind, which may be likened to an

outspringing angel pinion, and that it indirectly questions the use

and the truth of all revelation. We honor, we must say, Blanco White,

in his noble struggles, and in his divine despair, more than Leigh

Hunt, in his denial that such struggles are wiser than a maniac's

trying to leap to the sun, and in the ignoble conceptions of man's

position and destiny which his words imply. And, notwithstanding his

chilling criticism, so unlike his wont, we believe still, with

Coleridge, that not Wordsworth, nor Milton, have written a sonnet,

embodying a thought so new and magnificent, in language so sweet and

musical, and perfectly fitted to the thought, like the silvery new

moon sheathed in a transparent fleecy cloud, as that of Blanco White's

beginning with "Mysterious Night."

Delta, we have already said, gained reputation, in prose, as well as

in verse. His _Mansie Wauch, Tailor in Dalkeith_, is one of the most

delightful books in the language. It is partly, it is true, imitated

from Galt; but, while not inferior to him in humor, it has infused a

far deeper vein of poetry into the conception of common Scottish life.

Honor to thee, honest Mansie! Thou art worth twenty Alton Lockes, the

metaphysical tailor (certainly one of the absurdest creations, and

surrounded by the most asinine story of the age, although redeemed by

some glorious scenes, and _one_ character, Sandy Mackay, who is just

Thomas Carlyle _humanized_). But better than thee still, is thy

'prentice, Mungo Glen, with decline in his lungs, poetry in his heart,

and on his lips one of the sweetest laments in the language! Many

years have elapsed since we read thy life, but our laughter at thy

adventures, and our tears at the death of thy poor 'prentice, seem as

fresh as those of yesterday!

Why did Delta only open, and never dig out, this new and rich vein? He

alone seemed adequate to follow, however far off, in the steps of the

Great Wizard. Aird seemed to have exhausted his tale-writing faculty,

exquisite as it was. Wilson's tales, with all their power, lack

repose; they are too troubled, tearful, monotonous, and tempestuous.

Galt, Miss Ferrier, the authoress of the Odd Volume, Macnish, &c., are

dead....

We had not the pleasure of hearing Delta's recent lectures. They were,

chatty, conversational, lively, full of information, although neither

very eloquent, nor very profound. He knew too well the position in

which he stood, and the provender which his audience required! Nor, we

confess, did we expect to meet in them with a comprehensive or final

vidimus of the poetry of the last fifty years. His Edinburgh eye has

been too much dazzled and overpowered by the near orbs of Walter Scott

and Wilson, to do justice to remoter luminaries. Nor was criticism

exactly Delta's forte. He had not enough of subtility--perhaps not

enough of profound native instinct--and, perhaps, _some_ will think,

not enough of bad blood. But his criticism must, we doubt not, be

always sincere in feeling, candid in spirit, and manly in language.

Still, we repeat, that his power and mission were in the description

of the woods and streams, the feelings and customs, the beauties and

peculiarities, of 'dear Auld Scotland.'

It may, perhaps, be necessary to add, that the name Delta was applied to

Dr. Moir, from his signature in "Black wood," which was always [Symbol:

Delta]; that he was a physician in Musselburgh, and the author of some

excellent treaties on subjects connected with his own profession; and that

while an accomplished litterateur and beautiful poet, he never neglected

his peculiar duties, but stood as high in the medical as in the literary

world.

From Fraser's Magazine.

THE DESERTED MANSION.

A few years ago, a picture appeared in the Exhibition of the Royal

Academy, which peculiarly impressed my imagination; it represented an

ancient ruinous dwelling, surrounded by dilapidated gardens, set in

sombre woods. The venerable trees, the moat filled with nettles and

rubbish, the broken fences, green stagnant waters, the gabled,

turreted, many-windowed, mouldering mansion, a perfect medley of

chaotic architecture. The _visible silence_, the spirit of supreme

desolation brooding over the precincts, filled my mind with

involuntary sadness; while fancy conjured up strange, wild tales of

other days, in connection with the scene. I could not shake off the

belief that reality was portrayed on the canvas; and writing an

account of the various pictures to a friend who resided in the

country, I dwelt on this particular one, and my singular impressions

respecting it. When I next received a letter from my friend, she

remarked how unaccountable my fancies were; fancies which were,

however, based on the foundation of truth.

She went on to say, that reading my letter to Mrs. L----, an

octogenarian in wonderful preservation, that lady informed her of the

locality of my deserted mansion, and also of its history; the picture

being actually painted for Mrs. L----'s son; and the tale attached to

it, which my friend eventually gave me in the old lady's own words,

was as follows:

"Fifty years ago, the mansion of St. Elan's Wood was reckoned ancient,

but it was a healthful, vigorous age, interesting and picturesque.

Then, emerald turf lined the sides of the moat, and blooming flowers

clustered within its sloping shelter; white drapery fluttered within

the quaint latticed windows, and delicate climbers festooned them

without; terraced walks and thick hollow hedges were in trim order,

fountains sparkled in the sunshine, and blushing roses bent over and

kissed the clear rejoicing waters.

"Fifty years ago, joyous laughter resounded amid the greenwood glades,

and buoyant footsteps pressed the greensward; for the master of St.

Elan's had brought home a bride, and friends and relatives hastened

thither to offer congratulations, and to share the hospitalities of

the festive season.

"Lady St. Elan was a very young wife; a soft-eyed, timid creature; her

mother had died during her daughter's infancy, and her father (an

officer of high rank in the army) being abroad, a lady whom we shall

call Sabina, by whom she had been educated, accompanied her beloved

pupil, now Lady St. Elan, to this new home. The death of Lady St.

Elan's father, and the birth of a daughter, eventually mingled

rejoicing and mourning together, while great anxiety was felt for the

young mother, whose recovery was extremely tedious. The visits of

eminent physicians, who were sent for from great distances, evinced

the fears which were still entertained, even when the invalid roamed

once more in the pleasant garden and woods around. Alas! it was not

for the poor lady's bodily health they feared; the hereditary mental

malady of her family on the maternal side, but which had slumbered for

two generations, again darkly shadowed forth its dread approaches.

Slight, indeed, had been the warning as yet, subtle the demonstrations

of the deadly enemy, but enough to alarm the watchful husband, who was

well acquainted with the facts. But the alarm passed away, the

physicians came no more, and apparent health and strength, both mental

and physical, were fully restored to the patient, while the sweet babe

really deserved the epithets lavished on it by the delighted mother of

the 'divinest baby in the world.'

"During the temporary absence of her husband, on affairs of urgent

business, Lady St. Elan requested Sabina to share her chamber at

night, on the plea of timidity and loneliness; this wish was

cheerfully complied with, and two or three days passed pleasantly

away.

"St. Elan was expected to return home on the following morning, and

when the friends retired to rest on the previous night, Sabina

withdrew the window curtains, to gaze upon the glorious landscape

which stretched far away, all bathed in silver radiance, and she soon

fell into a tranquil slumber, communing with holy thoughts and

prayerful aspirations. She was suddenly awakened by a curious kind of

sound in the room, accompanied by a half-stifled jeering laugh. She

knew not how long sleep had lulled her in oblivion, but when Sabina

turned round to see from whence the sound proceeded, imagine her

horror and dismay at beholding Lady St. Elan standing near the door,

sharpening a large knife on her slipper, looking wildly round now and

then, muttering and jibing.

"'Not sharp enough yet--not sharp enough yet,' she exclaimed, intently

pursuing her occupation.

"Sabina felt instinctively, that this was no practical _joke_; she

knew instinctively the dread reality--by the maniac's eye--by the tone

of voice--and she sprang from the bed, darting towards the door. It

was locked. Lady St. Elan looked cunningly up, muttering--

"'So you thought I was so silly, did you? But I double-locked it, and

threw the key out of the window; and perhaps you may spy out in the

moonshine you're so fond of admiring,' pointing to an open casement,

at an immense height from the ground--for this apartment was at the

summit of a turret, commanding an extensive view, chosen for that

reason, as well as for its seclusion and repose, being so far distant

from the rest of the household.

"Sabina was not afflicted with weak nerves, and as the full danger of

her position flashed across her mind, she remembered to have heard

that the human eye possesses extraordinary power to quell and keep in

abeyance all unruly passions thus terrifically displayed. She was also

aware, that in a contest where mere bodily energy was concerned, her

powers must prove utterly inadequate and unavailing, when brought into

competition with those of the unfortunate lady during a continuance of

the paroxysm. Sabina feigned a calmness which she was far from feeling

at that trying moment, and though her voice trembled, yet she said

cheerfully, and with a careless air--

"'I think your knife will soon be sharp enough, Lady St. Elan; what do

you want it for?'

"'What do I want it for?' mimicked the mad woman; 'why what should I

want it for, Sabina, but to cut your throat with?'

"'Well, that is an odd fancy,' exclaimed Sabina, endeavoring not to

scream or to faint: 'but you had better sit down, for the knife is not

sharp enough for that job--there--there's a chair. Now give me your

attention while you sharpen, and I'll sit opposite to you; for I have

had such an extraordinary dream, and I want you to listen to it.'

"The lady looked maliciously sly, as much as to say, 'You shall not

cheat me, if I _do_ listen.' But she sat down, and Sabina opposite to

her, who began pouring forth a farrago of nonsense, which she

pretended to have dreamt. Lady St. Elan had always been much addicted

to perusing works of romantic fiction, and this taste for the

marvellous was, probably, the means of saving Sabina's life, who,

during that long and awful night, never flagged for one moment,

continuing her repetition of marvels in the _Arabian Night's_ style.

The maniac sat perfectly still, with the knife in one hand, the

slipper in the other, and her large eyes intently fixed on the

narrator. Oh, those weary, weary hours! When, at length, repeated

signals and knocks were heard at the chamber-door, as the morning sun

arose, Sabina had presence of mind not to notice them, as her terrible

companion appeared not to do so; but she continued her sing-song,

monotonous strain, until the barrier was fairly burst open, and St.

Elan himself, who had just returned, alarmed at the portentous murmurs

within, and accompanied by several domestics, came to the rescue.

"Had Sabina moved, or screamed for help, or appeared to recognize the

aid which was at hand, ere it could have reached her, the knife might

have been sheathed in her heart. This knife was a foreign one of

quaint workmanship, usually hanging up in St. Elan's dressing-room;

and the premeditation evinced in thus secreting it was a mystery not

to be solved. Sabina's hair which was black as the raven's wing, when

she retired to rest on that fearful night, had changed to the

similitude of extreme age when they found her in the morning. Lady St.

Elan never recovered this sudden and total overthrow of reason, but

died--alas! it was rumored, by her own hand--within two years

afterwards. The infant heiress was entrusted to the guidance of her

mother's friend and governess; she became an orphan at an early age,

and on completing her twenty-first year was uncontrolled mistress of

the fortune and estates of her ancestors.

"But long ere that period arrived, a serious question had arisen in

Sabina's mind respecting the duty and expediency of informing Mary St.

Elan what her true position was, and gently imparting the sad

knowledge of that visitation overshadowing the destinies of her race.

It was true that in her individual case the catastrophe might be

warded off, while, on the other hand, there was lurking, threatening

danger; but a high religious principle seemed to demand a sacrifice,

or self-immolation, in order to prevent the possibility of a

perpetuation of the direful malady.

"Sabina felt assured that were her noble-hearted pupil once to learn

the facts, there would be no hesitation on her part in strictly

adhering to the prescribed line of right; it was a bitter task for

Sabina to undertake, but she did not shrink from performing it when

her resolution became matured, and her scruples settled into decision,

formed on the solid basis of duty to God and man. Sabina afterwards

learnt that the sacrifice demanded of Mary St. Elan was far more

heroic than she had contemplated; and when that sweet young creature

devoted herself to a life of celibacy, Sabina did not know, that

engrossed by 'first love,' of which so much has been said and sung,

Mary St. Elan bade adieu to life's hope and happiness.

"With a woman's delicate perception and depth of pity, Sabina gained

that knowledge; and with honor unspeakable she silently read the

treasured secrets of the gentle heart thus fatally wounded--the evil

from which she had sedulously striven to guard her pupil, had not been

successfully averted--Mary St. Elan had already given away her

guileless heart. But her sorrows were not doomed to last; for soon

after that period when the law pronounced her free from control

respecting her worldly affairs, the last of the St. Elans passed

peacefully away to a better world, bequeathing the mansion house and

estate of St. Elan's Wood to Sabina and her heirs. In Sabina's

estimation, however, this munificent gift was the 'price of blood:' as

but for _her_ instrumentality, the fatal knowledge would not have been

imparted; but for _her_ the ancestral woods and pleasant home might

have descended to children's children in the St. Elan's

line,--tainted, indeed, and doomed; but now the race was extinct.

"There were many persons who laughed at Sabina's sensitive feelings on

this subject, which they could not understand; and even well-meaning,

pious folk, thought that she carried her strict notions, too far. Yet

Sabina remained immovable; nor would she ever consent that the wealth

thus left should be enjoyed by her or hers.

"Thus the deserted mansion still remains unclaimed, though it will not

be long ere it is appropriated to the useful and beneficent purpose

specified in Mary St. Elan's will--namely, failing Sabina and her

issue, to be converted into a lunatic asylum--a kind of lunatic

alms-house for decayed gentlewomen, who, with the requisite

qualifications, will here find refuge from the double storms of life

assailing them, poor souls! both from within and without."

"But what became of Sabina, and what interest has your son in this

picture?" asked my friend of old Mrs. L----, as that venerable lady

concluded her narration; "for if none live to claim the property, why

does it still remain thus?"

"Your justifiable curiosity shall be gratified, my dear," responded

the kindly dame. "Look at my hair--it did not turn white from age: I

retired to rest one night with glossy braids, black as the raven's

wing, and they found me in the morning as you now behold me! Yes, it

is even so; and you no longer wonder that Sabina's son desired to

possess this identical painting; my pilgrimage is drawing towards its

close--protracted as it has been beyond the allotted age of man--but,

according to the tenor of the afore-named will, the mansion and estate

of St. Elan must remain as they now stand until I am no more; while

the accumulated funds will amply endow the excellent charity. Were my

son less honorable or scrupulous, he might, of course, claim the

property on my decease; but respect for his mother's memory, with firm

adherence to her principles, will keep him, with God's blessing, from

yielding to temptation. He is not a rich man, but with proud humility

he may gaze on this memorial picture, and hand it down to posterity

with the traditionary lore attached; and may none of our descendants

ever lament the use which will be made, nor covet the possession, of

this deserted mansion."

From Hogg's Instructor.

ILLUSTRATIONS OF MOTIVES.

Certain it is, that in the universe there can be but one infallible

Judge of motives. None but its Maker can see into the secret springs,

and clearly comprehend the motions, of the mind. Nevertheless, "the

will for the deed" is an old understanding among mankind, in virtue of

that inward life whose world and workings they know to extend so far

beyond the visible. It is, indeed, the privilege, and in some sense a

necessity of human reason, to inquire after, at least, obvious

motives, since the smallest acquaintance with character or history

cannot be formed without taking them into account. Thus, in the

biographies of notable men, in the histories of nations, and in the

gossip which constitutes the current history of most neighborhoods,

and is relished alike by the denizens of court and hamlet, nobody is

satisfied with knowing merely what was done, for the demand invariably

follows, Why they did it? That query is often necessary to legal, and

always to moral justice. It must be, so to speak, a most mechanical

and surface life, whose daily doings the beholder can fully explain,

independent of any reference to inward feelings, unuttered memories,

or concealed hopes. How many deeds and whole courses of action,

chameleon-like, utterly change their complexions, according to the

light of attributed motives! Through that medium, the patriot of one

party becomes the heartless and designing knave of another; and the

fanatical revolutionists of their own generation turn to fearless

reformers with the next. Many an act, on the details of which most

historians are agreed, is held up by one to the world's praise, and by

another to universal censure. Henri Quatre, says the first, conformed

to Catholicism rather than continue a civil war in his kingdom; while

a second remarks of the same monarch, that he sacrificed his faith for

a crown. When Frederick-William of Prussia was just at the hottest of

that persecution of his celebrated son, for which, together with his

love of tall soldiers, he is best known to the world, the grand

dispute amongst his favorite guards at Potsdam was, whether the kicks,

cuffs, and imprisonments, which the old king bestowed so liberally on

his heir-apparent, were intended to prevent young Fritz turning an

infidel, or arose from his father's fears that he might be a greater

man than himself! On no subject are mankind more apt to differ,

probably because there are few on which observation affords so much

inferential and so little direct evidence.

Approaching the innermost circles of private life, we find that the

views entertained of motives exercise a still greater influence in

determining our estimation of kindred, friends, or lovers. Volpone, in

Ben Jonson's play, even had he been capable of it, could have no cause

for gratitude to his numerous friends for all their gifts and

attentions, knowing so perfectly as he did, that they came but in

expectation of a legacy; and many a well-portioned dame has seen cause

for applying to her most attentive suitor those lines of a homely

Scottish song--

"My lad is sae muckle in love wi' my siller,

He canna hae love to spare for me."

There is a strange difference of opinion existing at times between the

principals and the spectators of these particular affairs. Few, it has

been said, can penetrate the motives of others in matters regarding

themselves. Yet most people are wonderfully sharp-sighted where their

neighbors are concerned; and the world--as every one of us is apt to

call that fraction of society in which we live, and move, and have our

associations--though generally not over charitable, is rarely wrong in

its conclusions.

He was a keen observer of life who remarked that the rapid changes to

which most of human friendships and enmities are liable, could be no

matter of surprise to one who took note of the motives from which they

generally originate. Poor and unsubstantial enough these doubtless

are, in many a case. There have been friendships that owed their

growth solely to showers of flattery, and bitter enmities have

spontaneously sprung up in the soil of envy. It was said of Goldsmith,

that he could never hear a brother poet, or, indeed, any citizen of

the world of letters, praised, without entertaining a temporary

aversion to that individual, and a similar effect was always produced

by the smallest sign of increasing literary consequence. A report that

M---- had been taken particular notice of by such a nobleman of those

patronizing times, or that his works had been admired in some segment

of the fashionable circle, was sufficient to make the author of the

"Deserted Village" find all manner of faults with him and his, till

time, or his habitual good nature, wiped the circumstance out of

Goldsmith's remembrance.

This reminds one of Madame de Montespan, a belle of that order which

reigned most triumphantly at the court of Louis XIV., who never could

forgive her rival, even when disgraced and dead, because she had once

got a ride in the royal carriage. It is curious that the learned and

the fair, far as their general pursuits, and visibilities, too, are

known to be apart, should, according to common report, approximate so

nearly in their motives to enmity or friendship. George Colman used to

say, that, if one had any interest in getting up a quarrel between

either two fine ladies or two literary men, he had nothing to do but

to praise the one energetically to the other, and the higher his

enthusiasm rose, the fiercer would be the war.

It was asserted of both the elder and younger Scaliger, that they

never applauded any scholar with all their might, but one who was

manifestly inferior to themselves; and of Madame de Maintenon, that

she never honored any one with her special friendship who was not, in

some considerable point, beneath her. There is still a large class of

characters, in all whose attachments a something to despise seems the

indispensable ingredient. The perpetual triumph of being always "king

of the company" has a binding attraction for such minds. It confers a

kind of dictatorship to have the advantage of one's friends. Nothing

else can explain the amount of patronage and befriending generally

lavished on the most worthless members of families or societies; and

the half-grudge, half-surveillance, which, under the covert of mere

mouth-honor, often surrounds great or successful abilities.

A strange motive to enmity is illustrated in the life of General

Loudoun, one of the Scotch Jacobites, who, on the defeat of his party,

entered the Austrian service, and rose to the rank of field-marshal in

the wars of Maria Theresa. He had taken the town of Seidlitz from the

Prussians. It was a great stroke in favor of the empress queen, and

might have been rewarded with a coronet, but, in his haste to send her

majesty the intelligence, Loudoun transmitted it through her husband,

the Emperor Francis, who had a private interest in the matter, having

long carried on a speculation of his own in victualling not only his

wife's troops, but those of her Prussian enemy. King Maria, as she was

styled by her Hungarian subjects, had also some special reasons for

allowing him to have neither hand nor voice in her concerns--a fact

which the marshal had never learned, or forgotten; and her majesty was

so indignant at receiving the news through such a channel, that,

though she struck a medal to commemorate the taking of Seidlitz,

Loudoun was rewarded only with her peculiar aversion throughout the

remaining seventeen years of her reign, for which the good wishes of

that imperial speculator in forage and flour afforded but poor

consolation.

Of all the important steps of human life, that by which two are made

one appears to be taken from the greatest variety of motives.

Doubtless, from the beginning it was not so; but manifold and

heterogeneous are those which have been alleged for it in the

civilized world. Goethe said he married to attain popular

respectability. Wilkes, once called the Patriot, when sueing his wife,

who chanced to have been an heiress, for the remains of her property,

declared that he had wedded at twenty-two, solely to please his

friends; and Wycherly the poet, in his very last days, worshipped and

endowed with all his worldly goods, as the English service hath it, a

girl whom poverty had made unscrupulous, in order to be revenged on

his relations.

Princes of old were in the habit of marrying to cement treaties, which

were generally broken as soon after as possible; and simple citizens

are still addicted to the same method of amending their fortunes and

families. There was an original motive to double blessedness set forth

in the advice of a veteran sportsman in one of the border counties.

His niece was the heiress of broad lands, which happened to adjoin an

estate belonging to a younger brother of the turf; and the senior

gentleman, when dilating to her on the exploits they had performed

together by wood and wold, wound up with the following sage

counsel--"Maria, take my advice, and marry young Beechwood, and you'll

see this county hunted in style."

The numbers who, by their own account, have wedded to benefit society,

in one shape or another, would furnish a strong argument against the

accredited selfishness of mankind, could they only be believed. The

general good of their country was the standing excuse of classic

times, and philosophers have occasionally reproduced it in our own.

Most people seem to think some apology necessary, but none are so

ingenious in showing cause why they should enter the holy state, as

those with whom it is the second experiment. The pleas of the widowed

for casting off their weeds are generally prudent, and often

singularly commendable. Domestic policy or parental affection supply

the greater part of them; and the want of protectors and step-mothers

felt by families of all sizes is truly marvellous, considering the

usual consequences of their instalment.

It is to be admired, as the speakers of old English would say, for

what noble things men will give themselves credit in the way of

motives, and how little resemblance their actions bear to them.

Montaigne was accustomed to tell of a servant belonging to the

Archbishop of Paris, who, being detected in privately selling his

master's best wine, insisted that it was done out of pure love to his

grace, lest the sight of so large a stock in his cellar might tempt

him to drink more than was commendable for a bishop. A guardian care

of their neighbors' well-being, somewhat similar, is declared by all

the disturbers of our daily paths. Tale-bearers and remarkers, of

every variety, have the best interests of their friends at heart; and

what troublesome things some people can do from a sense of duty is

matter of universal experience. Great public criminals, tyrants, and

persecutors in old times, and the abusers of power in all ages, have,

especially in the fall of their authority, laid claim to most exalted

motives. Patriotism, philanthropy, and religion itself, have been

quoted as their inspirers. The ill-famed Judge Jeffries said, his

judicial crimes were perpetrated to maintain the majesty of the law.

Robespierre affirmed that he had lived in defence of virtue and his

country. But perhaps the most charitable interpretation that ever man

gave to the motives of another, is to be found in the funeral sermon

of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and father of George III. The preacher,

after several judicious remarks on the virtues of the royal deceased,

concludes, "That in the extreme to which these were carried, they

appeared like vices; for so great was his generosity, that he ruined

half the tradesmen in London; and so extraordinary his condescension,

that he kept all sorts of bad company."

It is strange, that while motives abstractly virtuous have produced

large additions to the sum of mortal ills, little of private, and

still less of public, good has sprung, even casually, from those that

are evil in themselves. "If either the accounts of history, or the

daily reports of life, are to be at all credited," said one who had

learned and thought much on this subject, "the greatest amount of

crime and folly has been committed from motives of religion and love,

as men, for the most part, know them; while those of avarice, revenge,

and fear, have originated the most extraordinary actions and important

events."

The sins of revenge have usually a leaven of what Bacon calls "wild

justice" in them. Those of avarice are, from their very nature,

notorious; but perhaps no motive has ever prompted men to such varied

and singular actions as that of fear. The working of fear was

singularly exhibited in the conduct of a certain Marquis of

Montferrat, who lived at the period of the famous Italian wars, waged

between Charles V. of Germany and Francis I. of France. The marquis

was an Alpine feudatory of the former, and served him long and

faithfully, till a German astrologer of high repute in those days

assured him, from the stars, that the emperor would be eventually

overthrown, and all his partisans utterly ruined. To avoid his

probable share in that prediction, the marquis turned traitor to his

friend and sovereign, for Charles had trusted him beyond most men; but

the next year, the emperor was completely victorious, by both sea and

land. The marquis had fallen, fighting in vain for Francis, and his

fief was bestowed on a loyal vassal of the emperor.

Divines and philosophers have had many controversies concerning

motives. A great dispute on this subject is said to have engaged the

learned of Alexandria, about the accession of the emperor Julian,

whom, says a biographer, "some of his subjects named the Apostate, and

some the Philosopher." The controversy occupied not only the Christian

Platonists, for whose numbers that city was so celebrated, but also

the Pagan wisdom, then shedding its last rays under favor of the new

emperor. Yet neither Christians nor Pagans could entirely agree with

each other, and such a division of opinion had never been heard, even

in Alexandria. Things were in this state, says the tradition, when

there arrived in the capital of Egypt a Persian, whose fame had long

preceded him. He had been one of the Magi, at the base of the

Caucasus, till the Parthians laid waste his country, when he left it,

and travelled over the world in search of knowledge, and, in both east

and west, they called him Kosro the Wise. Scarce was the distinguished

stranger fairly within their gates when the chiefs of the parties

determined to hear his opinion on matter; and a deputation, consisting

of a Christian bishop, a Jewish rabbi, a Platonist teacher, and a

priest of Isis, waited on the Persian one morning, when he sat in the

portico of a long-deserted temple, which some forgotten Egyptian had

built to Time, the instructor. The rabbi and the priest were for

actions. The Platonist and the bishop were motive men, but in the

manner of those times, for even philosophy has its fashions, the four

had agreed that each should propose a question to Kosro, as his own

wisdom dictated. Accordingly, after some preparatory compliments,

touching the extent of his fame and travels, the Platonist, who was

always notable for circumlocution, opened the business by inquiring

what he considered the chief movers of mankind.

"Gain and vanity," replied Kosro.

"Which is strongest?" interposed the rabbi, in whom the faculty of

beating about in argument was scarcely less developed.

"Gain was the first," said the Persian. "Its worship succeeded the

reign of Ormuz, which western poets call the golden age, and I know

not when it was; but, in later ages, vanity has become the most

powerful, for every where I have seen men do that for glory which they

would not do for gain; and many even sacrifice gain to glory, as they

think it."

"But, wise Kosro," demanded the priest, impatient with what he

considered a needless digression, "tell us your opinion--Should men be

judged by their motives or their actions?"

"Motives," said Kosro, "are the province of divine, and actions of

human, judgment. Nevertheless, because of the relation between them it

is well to take note of the former when they become visible in our

light, yet not to search too narrowly after them, but take deeds for

their value; seeing, first, that the inward labyrinth is beyond our

exploring; secondly, that most men act from mingled motives; and,

thirdly, that if, after the thought of a western poet, there were a

crystal pane set in each man's bosom, it would mightily change the

estimation of many."

And the bishop made answer--"Kosro, thou hast seen the truth; man must

at times perceive, but God alone can judge of, motives."

From Sharpe's London Journal.

THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEX. DUMAS, BY MISS STRICKLAND.

The knowledge of an extensively organized conspiracy embittered the

last years of the Emperor Alexander, and increased his constitutional

melancholy. His attachment to Tzarsko Zelo made him linger longer at

his summer palace than was prudent in a man subject to erysipelas. The

wound in his leg reopened with very unfavorable symptoms, and he was

compelled to leave his favorite residence in a closed litter for St.

Petersburgh; and the skill and firmness of Mr. Wyllie, his Scotch

surgeon, alone saved the diseased limb from amputation. As soon as he

was cured, he returned again to Tzarsko Zelo, where the spring found

him as usual alone, without a court or chamberlain, only giving

audience to his ministers twice a-week. His existence resembled rather

that of an anchorite weeping for the sins of his youth, than that of a

great Emperor who makes the happiness of his people.

He regulated his time in the following manner:--in summer he rose at

five, and in winter at six o'clock every morning, and as soon as the

duties of the toilette were ended, entered his cabinet, in which the

greatest order was observed. He found there a cambric handkerchief

folded, and a packet of new pens. He only used these pens in signing

his name, and never made use of them again. As soon as he concluded

this business, he descended into the garden, where, notwithstanding

the report of a conspiracy which had existed two years against his

life and government, he walked alone with no other guards than the

sentinels always stationed before the palace of Alexander. At five he

returned, to dine alone, and after his solitary meal was lulled to

sleep by the melancholy airs played by the military band of the guard

regiment on duty. The selection of the music was always made by

himself, and he seemed to sink to repose, and to awake, with the same

sombre dispositions and feelings which had been his companions

throughout the day.

His empress Elizabeth lived like her consort, in profound solitude,

watching over him like an invisible angel. Time had not extinguished

in her heart the profound passion with which the youthful Czarowitz

had inspired her at first sight, and which she had preserved in her

heart, pure and inviolate. His numerous and public infidelities could

not stifle this holy and beautiful attachment, which formed at once

the happiness and misery of a delicate and sensitive woman.

At this period of her life, the Empress at five-and-forty retained her

fine shape and noble carriage, while her countenance showed the

remains of considerable beauty, more impaired by sorrow than time.

Calumny itself had never dared to aim her envenomed shafts at one so

eminently chaste and good. Her presence demanded the respect due to

virtue, still more than the homage proper to her elevated rank. She

resembled indeed more an angel exiled from heaven, than the imperial

consort of a Prince who ruled a large portion of the earth.

In the summer of 1825, the last he was destined to see, the physicians

of the Emperor unanimously recommended a journey to the Crimea, as the

best medicine he could take. Alexander appeared perfectly indifferent

to a measure which regarded his individual benefit, but the Empress,

deeply interested in any event likely to restore her husband's health,

asked and obtained permission to accompany him. The necessary

preparations for this long absence overwhelmed the Emperor with

business, and for a fortnight he rose earlier, and went to bed later,

than was customary to him.

In the month of June, no visible alteration was observed in his

appearance, and he quitted St. Petersburgh, after a service had been

chanted, to bring down a blessing from above on his journey. He was

accompanied by the Empress, his faithful coachman, Ivan, and some

officers belonging to the staff of General Diebitch. He stopped at

Warsaw a few days, in order to celebrate the birthday of his brother,

the Grand-Duke Constantine, and arrived at Tangaroff in the end of

August 1825. Both the illustrious travellers found their health

benefitted by the change of scene and climate. Alexander took a great

liking to Tangaroff, a small town on the borders of the sea of Azof,

comprizing a thousand ill-built houses, of which a sixth-part alone

are of brick and stone, while the remainder resemble wooden cages

covered with dirt. The streets are large, but then they have no

pavement, and are alternately loaded with dust, or inundated with mud.

The dust rises in clouds, which conceals alike man and beast under a

thick veil, and penetrates every where the carefully closed jalousies

with which the houses are guarded, and covers the garments of their

inhabitants. The food, the water, are loaded with it; and the last

cannot be drunk till previously boiled with salt of tartar, which

precipitates it; a precaution absolutely necessary to free it from

this disagreeable and dangerous deposit.

The Emperor took possession of the governor's house, where he

sometimes slept and took his meals. His abode there in the daytime

rarely exceeded two hours. The rest of his time was passed in

wandering about the country on foot, in the hot dust or wet mud. No

weather put any stop to his outdoor exercise, and no advice from his

medical attendant nor warning from the natives of Tangaroff, could

prevail upon him to take the slightest precaution against the fatal

autumnal fever of the country. His principal occupation was, planning

and planting a great public garden, in which undertaking he was

assisted by an Englishman whom he had brought with him to St.

Petersburgh for that purpose. He frequently slept on the spot on a

camp-bed, with his head resting upon a leather pillow.

If general report may be credited, planting gardens was not the

principal object that engrossed the Russian Emperor's attention. He

was said to be employed in framing a new Constitution for Russia, and

unable to contend at St. Petersburgh with the prejudices of the

aristocracy, had retired to this small city, for the purpose of

conferring this benefit upon his enslaved country.

However this might be, the Emperor did not stay long at a time at

Tangaroff, where his Empress, unable to share with him the fatigues of

his long journeys, permanently resided, during his frequent absences

from his head quarters. Alexander, in fact, made rapid excursions to

the country about the Don, and was sometimes at Tcherkask, sometimes

at Donetz. He was on the eve of departure for Astracan, when Count

Woronzoff in person came to announce to his sovereign the existence of

the mysterious conspiracy which had haunted him in St. Petersburgh,

and which extended to the Crimea, where his personal presence could

alone appease the general discontent.

The prospect of traversing three hundred leagues appeared a trifle to

Alexander, whom rapid journeys alone diverted from his oppressive

melancholy. He announced to the Empress his departure, which he only

delayed till the return of a messenger he had sent to Alapka. The

expected courier brought new details of the conspiracy, which aimed at

the life, as well as the government of Alexander. This discovery

agitated him terribly. He rested his aching head on his hands, gave a

deep groan, and exclaimed, "Oh, my father, my father!" Though it was

then midnight, he caused Count Diebitch to be roused from sleep and

summoned into his presence. The general, who lodged in the next house,

found his master in a dreadfully excited state, now traversing the

apartment with hasty strides, now throwing himself upon the bed with

deep sighs and convulsive starts. He at length became calm, and

discussed the intelligence conveyed in the dispatches of Count

Woronzoff. He then dictated two, one addressed to the Viceroy of

Poland, the other to the Grand-Duke Nicholas.

With these documents all traces of his terrible agitation disappeared.

He was quite calm, and his countenance betrayed nothing of the emotion

that had harassed him the preceding night.

Count Woronzoff, notwithstanding his apparent calmness, found him

difficult to please, and unusually irritable, for Alexander was

constitutionally sweet-tempered and patient. He did not delay his

journey on account of this internal disquietude, but gave orders for

his departure from Tangaroff, which he fixed for the following day.

His ill-humor increased during the journey; he complained of the

badness of the roads and the slowness of the horses. He had never been

known to grumble before. His irritation became more apparent when Sir

James Wyllie, his confidential medical attendant, recommended him to

take some precaution against the frozen winds of the autumn; for he

threw away with a gesture of impatience the cloak and pelisse he

offered, and braved the danger he had been entreated to avoid. His

imprudence soon produced consequences. That evening he caught cold,

and coughed incessantly, and the following day, on his arrival at

Orieloff, an intermittent fever appeared, which soon after, aggravated

by the obstinacy of the invalid, turned to the intermittent fever

common to Tangaroff and its environs in the autumn.

The Emperor, whose increasing malady gave him a presage of his

approaching death, expressed a wish to return to the Empress, and once

more took the route to Tangaroff; contrary to the prayers of Sir James

Wyllie, he chose to perform a part of the journey on horseback, but

the failure of his strength finally forced him to re-enter his

carriage. He entered Tangaroff on the fifth of November, and swooned

the moment he came into the governor's house. The Empress, who was

suffering with a complaint of the heart, forgot her malady, while

watching over her dying husband. Change of place only increased the

fatal fever which preyed upon his frame, which seemed to gather

strength from day to day. On the eight, Wyllie called in Dr.

Stephiegen, and on the thirteenth they endeavored to counteract the

affection of the brain, and wished to bleed the imperial patient. He

would not submit to the operation, and demanded iced water, which they

refused. Their denial irritated him, and he rejected every thing they

offered him, with displeasure. These learned men were unwise, to

deprive the suffering prince of the water, a safe and harmless

beverage in such fevers. In fact, nature herself sometimes, in

inspiring the wish, provides the remedy. The Emperor on the afternoon

of that day wrote and sealed a letter, when perceiving the taper

remained burning, he told his attendant to extinguish it, in words

that plainly expressed his feelings in regard to the dangerous nature

of his malady. "Put out that light, my friend, or the people will take

it for a bier candle, and will suppose I am already dead."

On the fourteenth of November, the physicians again urged their

refractory patient to take the medicines they prescribed, and were

seconded by the prayers of the Empress. He repulsed them with some

haughtiness, but quickly repenting of his hastiness of temper, which

in fact was one of the symptoms of the disease, he said, "Attend to

me, Stephiegen, and you too, Sir Andrew Wyllie. I have much pleasure

in seeing you, but you plague me so often about your medicine, that

really I must give up your company if you will talk of nothing else."

He however was at last induced to take a dose of calomel.

In the evening, the fever had made such fearful progress that it

appeared necessary to call in a priest. Sir Andrew Wyllie, at the

instance of the Empress, entered the chamber of the dying prince, and

approaching his bed, with tears in his eyes advised him "to call in

the aid of the Most High, and not to refuse the assistance of religion

as he had already done that of medicine."

The Emperor instantly gave his consent. Upon the fifteenth, at five

o'clock in the morning, a humble village priest approached the

imperial bed to receive the confession of his expiring sovereign.--"My

father, God must be merciful to kings," were the first words the

Emperor addressed to the minister of religion; "indeed they require it

so much more than other men." In this sentence all the trials and

temptations of the despotic ruler of a great people--his territorial

ambition, his jealousy, his political ruses, his distrusts and

over-confidences, seem to be briefly comprehended. Then, apparently

perceiving some timidity in the spiritual confessor his destiny had

provided for him, he added, "My father, treat me like an erring man,

not as an Emperor." The priest drew near the bed, received the

confession of his august penitent, and administered to him the last

sacraments. Then having been informed of the Emperor's pertinacity in

rejecting medicine, he urged him to give up this fatal obstinacy,

remarking, "that he feared God would consider it absolutely suicidal."

His admonitions made a deep impression upon the mind of the prince,

who recalled Sir Andrew Wyllie, and, giving him his hand, bade him do

what he pleased with him. Wyllie took advantage of this absolute

surrender, to apply twenty leeches to the head of the Emperor; but the

application was too late, the burning fever continually increased, and

the sufferer was given over. The intelligence filled the dying chamber

with weeping domestics, who tenderly loved their master.

The Empress still occupied her place by the bed-side, which she had

never quitted but once, in order to allow her dying husband to unbosom

himself in private to his confessor. She returned to the post assigned

her by conjugal tenderness directly the priest had quitted it.

Two hours after he had made his peace with God, Alexander experienced

more severe pain than he had yet felt. "Kings," said he, "suffer more

than others." He had called one of his attendants to listen to this

remark with the air of one communicating a secret. He stopped, and

then, as if recalling something he had forgotten, said in a whisper,

"they have committed an infamous action." What did he mean by these

words? Was he suspicious that his days had been shortened by poison?

or did he allude, with the last accents he uttered, to the barbarous

assassination of the Emperor Paul? Eternity can alone reveal the

secret thoughts of Alexander I. of Russia.

During the night, the dying prince lost consciousness. At two o'clock

in the morning, Count Diebitch came to the Empress, to inform her that

an old man, named Alexandrowitz, had saved many Tartars in the same

malady. A ray of hope entered the heart of the imperial consort at

this information, and Sir Andrew Wyllie ordered him to be sent for in

haste. This interval was passed by the Empress in prayer, yet she

still kept her eyes fixed upon those of her husband, watching with

intense attention the beams of life and light fading in their

unconscious gaze. At nine in the morning, the old man was brought into

the imperial chamber almost by force. The rank of the patient,

perhaps, inspiring him with some fear respecting the consequences that

might follow his prescriptions, caused his extreme unwillingness. He

approached the bed, looked at his dying sovereign, and shook his head.

He was questioned respecting this doubtful sign. "It is too late to

give him medicine; besides, those I have cured were not sick of the

same malady."

With these words of the peasant physician, the last hopes of the

Empress vanished; but if pure and ardent prayers could have prevailed

with God, Alexander would have been saved.

On the sixteenth of November, according to the usual method of

measuring time, but on the first of December, if we follow the Russian

calendar, at fifty minutes after ten in the morning, Alexander

Paulowitz, Emperor of all the Russias, expired. The Empress, bending

over him, felt the departure of his last breath. She uttered a bitter

cry, sank upon her knees, and prayed. After some minutes passed in

communion with heaven, she rose, closed the eyes of her deceased lord,

composed his features, kissed his cold and livid hands, and once more

knelt and prayed. The physicians entreated her to leave the chamber of

death, and the pious Empress consented to withdraw to her own.[9]

The body of the Emperor lay in state, on a platform raised in an

apartment of the house where he died. The presence-chamber was hung

with black, and the bier was covered with cloth of gold. A great many

wax tapers lighted up the gloomy scene. A priest at the head of the

bier prayed continually for the repose of his deceased sovereign's

soul. Two sentinels with drawn swords watched day and night beside the

dead, two were stationed at the doors, and two stood on each step

leading to the bier. Every person received at the door a lighted

taper, which he held while he remained in the apartment. The Empress

was present during these masses, but she always fainted at the

conclusion of the service. Crowds of people united their prayers to

hers, for the Emperor was adored by the common people. The corpse of

Alexander I. lay in state twenty-one days before it was removed to the

Greek monastery of St. Alexander, where it was to rest before its

departure for interment in St. Petersburgh.

Upon the 25th December, the remains of the Emperor were placed on a

funeral car drawn by eight horses, covered to the ground with black

cloth ornamented with the escutcheons of the empire. The bier rested

on an elevated dais, carpeted with cloth of gold; over the bier was

laid a flag of silver tissue, charged with the heraldic insignia

proper to the imperial house. The imperial crown was placed under the

dais. Four major-generals held the cords which supported the diadem.

The persons composing the household of the Emperor and Empress

followed the bier dressed in long black mantles, bearing in their

hands lighted torches. The Cossacks of the Don every minute discharged

their light artillery, while the sullen booming of the cannon added to

the solemnity of the imposing scene.

Upon its arrival at the church, the body was transferred to a

catafalco covered with red cloth, surmounted by the imperial arms in

gold, displayed on crimson-velvet. Two steps led up to the platform on

which the catafalco was placed. Four columns supported the dais upon

which the imperial crown, the sceptre, and the globe, rested.

The catafalco was surrounded by curtains of crimson velvet and cloth

of gold, and four massy candelabra, at the four corners of the

platform, bore wax tapers sufficient to dispel the darkness, but not

to banish the gloom pervading the church, which was hung with black

embroidered with white crosses. The Empress made an attempt to assist

at this funeral service, but her feelings overpowered her, and she was

borne back to the palace in a swoon; but as soon as she came to

herself she entered the private chapel, and repeated there the same

prayers then reciting in the church of St. Alexander.

While the remains of the Emperor Alexander were on their way to their

last home, the report of his dangerous state, which had been forwarded

officially to the Grand-Duke Nicholas, was contradicted by another

document, which bore date of the 29th of November, announcing that

considerable amendment had taken place in the Emperor's health, who

had recovered from a swoon of eight hours' duration, and had not only

appeared collected, but declared himself improved in health.

Whether this was a political ruse of the conspirators or the new

Emperor remains quite uncertain; however, a solemn _Te Deum_ was

ordered to be celebrated in the cathedral of Casan, at which the

Empress Mother and the Grand-Dukes Nicholas and Michael were present.

The joyful crowds assembled at this service scarcely left the imperial

family and their suite a free space for the exercise of their

devotions. Towards the end of the _Te Deum_, while the sweet voices of

the choir were rising in harmonious concert to heaven, some official

person informed the Grand-Duke Nicholas that a courier from Tangaroff

had arrived with the last dispatch, which he refused to deliver into

any hand but his own. Nicholas was conducted into the sacristy, and

with one glance at the messenger divined the nature of the document of

which he was the bearer. The letter he presented was sealed with

black. Nicholas recognized the handwriting of the Empress Consort,

and, hastily opening it, read these words:

"Our angel is in heaven; I still exist on earth, but I hope soon to be

re-united to him."

The bishop was summoned into the sacristy by the new Emperor, who gave

him the letter, with directions to break the fatal tidings it

contained to the Empress Mother with the tenderest care. He then

returned to his place by the side of his august parent, who alone, of

the thousands assembled there, had perceived his absence.

An instant after, the venerable bishop re-entered the choir, and

silenced the notes of praise and exultation with a motion of his hand.

Every voice became mute, and the stillness of death reigned throughout

the sacred edifice. In the midst of the general astonishment and

attention he walked slowly to the altar, took up the massy silver

crucifix which decorated it, and throwing over that symbol of earthly

sorrow and divine hope a black veil, he approached the Empress Mother,

and gave her the crucifix in mourning to kiss.

The Empress uttered a cry, and fell with her face on the

pavement;--she comprehended at once that her eldest son was dead.

The Empress Elizabeth soon realized the sorrowful hope she had

expressed. Four months after the death of her consort she died on the

way from Tangaroff, at Beloff, and soon rejoined him she had

pathetically termed "_her_ angel in heaven."

The historical career of the Emperor Alexander is well known to every

reader, but the minor matters of every-day life mark the man, while

public details properly denote the sovereign.

The faults of Alexander are comprised in his infidelity to a

beautiful, accomplished, and affectionate wife. He respected her even

while wounding her delicate feelings by his criminal attachments to

other women. After many years of mental pain, the injured Elizabeth

gave him the choice of giving her up, or banishing an imperious

mistress, by whom the Emperor had a numerous family.

Alexander could not resolve to separate for ever from his amiable and

virtuous consort,--he made the sacrifice she required of him.

His gallantry sometimes placed him in unprincely situations, and

brought him in contact with persons immeasurably beneath him. He once

fell in love with a tailor's wife at Warsaw, and not being well

acquainted with the character of the pretty grisette, construed her

acceptance of the visit he proposed making her, into approbation of

his suit. The fair Pole was too simple, and had been too virtuously

brought up, to comprehend his intentions. Her husband was absent, so

she thought it would not be proper to receive the imperial visit

alone; she made, therefore, a re-union of her own and her husband's

relations--rich people of the bourgeoisie class--and when the emperor

entered her saloon, he found himself in company with thirty or forty

persons, to whom he was immediately introduced by his fair and

innocent hostess. The astonished sovereign was obliged to make himself

agreeable to the party, none of whom appeared to have divined his

criminal intentions. He made no further attempt to corrupt the

innocence of this beautiful woman, whose simplicity formed the

safeguard of her virtue.

A severe trial separated him for ever from his last mistress, who had

borne him a daughter; this child was the idol of his heart, and to

form her mind was the pleasure of his life. At eighteen the young lady

eclipsed every woman in his empire by her dazzling beauty and graceful

manners. Suddenly she was seized with an infectious fever, for which

no physician in St. Petersburgh could find a remedy. Her mother,

selfish and timid, deserted the sick chamber of the suffering girl,

over whom the bitter tears of a father were vainly shed, while he kept

incessant vigils over one whom he would have saved from the power of

the grave at the expense of his life and empire. The dying daughter

asked incessantly for her mother, upon whose bosom she desired to

breathe her last sigh; but neither the passionate entreaties nor the

commands of her imperial lover could induce the unnatural parent to

risk her health by granting the interview for which her poor child

craved, and she expired in the arms of her father, without the

consolation of bidding her mother a last adieu.

Some days after the death of his natural daughter, the Emperor

Alexander entered the house of an English officer to whom he was much

attached. He was in deep mourning and appeared very unhappy. "I have

just followed to the grave," said he, "as a private person the remains

of my poor child, and I cannot yet forgive the unnatural woman who

deserted the death-bed of her daughter. Besides, my sin, which I never

repented of, has found me out, and the vengeance of God has fallen

upon its fruits. Yes, I deserted the best and most amiable of wives,

the object of my first affection, for women who neither possessed her

beauty nor merit. I have preferred to the Empress even this unnatural

mother, whom I now regard with loathing and horror. My wife shall

never again have cause to reproach my broken faith."

Devotion and his strict adherence to his promise balmed the wound,

which, however, only death could heal. To the secret agony which

through life had haunted the bosom of the son was added that of the

father, and the return of Alexander to the paths of virtue and

religion originated in the loss of this beloved daughter, smitten, he

considered, for his sins.

The friendship of this prince for Madam Krudener had nothing criminal

in its nature, though it furnished a theme for scandal to those who

are apt to doubt the purity of Platonic attachments between

individuals of opposite sexes.

In regard to this Emperor's political career, full of ambition and

stratagem, we can only re-echo his dying words to his confessor:--"God

must be merciful to kings?" His career, however varied by losses on

the field or humiliated by treaties, ended triumphantly with the

laurels of war and the olives of peace, and he bore to his far

northern empire the keys of Paris as a trophy of his arms. His

moderation demands the praise of posterity, and excited the admiration

of the French nation at large.[10] His immoral conduct as a man and a

husband was afterwards effaced by his sincere repentance, and he died

in the arms of the most faithful and affectionate of wives, who could

not long survive her irreparable loss. His death was deeply lamented

by his subjects, who, if they did not enrol his name among the

greatest of their rulers, never have hesitated to denote him as the

best and most merciful sovereign who ever sat upon the Russian throne.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] The autopsy exhibited the same appearance generally discovered in those

subjects whose death has been caused by the fever of the country: the brain

was watery, the veins of the head were gorged, and the liver was soft. No

signs of poison were discovered; the death of the Emperor was in the course

of nature.

[10] The French authorities would have removed the trophies of Napoleon's

victories, and the commemoration of the Russian share in the disastrous

days of Jena and Austerlitz. The Emperor Alexander magnanimously replied,

"No, let them remain: it is sufficient that I have passed over the bridge

with my army!" A noble and generous reply. Few princes have effaced public

wrongs so completely, or used their opportunity of making reprisals so

mercifully. (See Chateaubriand's Autobiography.)

FALLEN GENIUS.

BY MISS ALICE CAREY.

No tears for him!--he saw by faith sublime

Through the wan shimmer of life's wasted flame,

Across the green hills of the future time,

The golden breaking of the morn of fame.

Faded by the diviner life, and worn,

The dust has fallen away, and ye but see

The ruins of the house wherein were borne

The birth-pangs of an immortality.

His great life from the wondrous life to be,

Clasped the bright splendors that no sorrow mars,

As some pale, shifting column of the sea,

Mirrors the awful beauty of the stars.

What was Love's lily pressure, what the light

Of its pleased smile, that a chance breath may chill?

His soul was mated with the winds of night,

And wandered through the universe at will.

Oft in his heart its stormy passion woke,

Yet from its bent his soul no more was stirred,

Than is the broad green bosom of the oak

By the light flutter of the summer bird.

His loves were of forbidden realms, unwrought

In poet's rhyme, the music of his themes,

Hovering about the watch-fires of his thought,

On the dim borders of the land of dreams.

For while his hand with daring energy

Fed the slow fire that, burning, must consume,

The ravishing joys of unheard harmony

Beat like a living pulse within the tomb.

Pillars of fire that wander through life's night,

Children of genius! ye are doomed to be,

In the embrace of your far-reaching light,

Locking the radiance of eternity.

From the London Times.

COPENHAGEN.

A more stately city than Copenhagen can scarcely be imagined. The

streets, wide and long, filled with spacious and lofty houses of

unspotted whiteness, and built with great regularity, remind one

somewhat of Bath, but that the ground is level; many of them

all but equal, in breadth, to the Irishman's test of street

architecture--Sackville-street, Dublin. But large squares break up

their continuous lines, and the eye rests on fine statues, noble

palaces, and splendid buildings devoted to the arts, to amusement, to

justice, or to the purposes of religion in every quarter of the city.

Copenhagen is but a creation of the last century, and, after a little

time spent there, a large portion of it gives the idea that it was

built all of a sudden, by some Danish Grissell and Peto, according to

contract. Surrounded by a deep foss, by ramparts and intrenchments,

defended by formidable forts and batteries, filled with the halls of

kings, with churches, museums, and castles, it combines the appearance

of a new cut made by the royal commissioners through some old London

rookery, with the air of an old feudal town. The moat prohibits any

considerable extension. Seen under a bright cold sky, the blanched

fronts of the houses, the white walls of the public edifices, the

regularity of the streets, conveyed an impression of cleanliness,

which could only be destroyed when one happened to look down at his

feet, or ceased to keep guard over his nose. The paving is of the

style which may be called Titanic, and was never intended for any foot

garb less defensive than a _sabot_ or a _caliga_. The drainage is

superficial,--that is, all the liquid refuse of the city runs, or

rather walks very leisurely, along grooves in the pavement aforesaid,

which are covered over by boards in various stages of decomposition.

In summer, the city must be worse than Berlin (which, by the by, it

very much resembles in many respects). In spring time, after rain, my

own experience tells me it suggests forcible reminiscences of the

antique odors of Fleet Ditch. One thing which soon strikes the

stranger is the apparent want of shops. But they are to be found by

those who want them. Nearly every trader carries on his business very

modestly in his front parlor, and makes a moderate display of his

stock in the ordinary window, so that the illusory and enchanting

department of trade is quite gone. A Danish gentleman can walk out

with his wife without the least fear that he will fall a victim to "a

stupendous sacrifice," or be immolated on the altar of "an imperative

necessity to clear out in a week."

Moving through these streets is a quiet, soberly-attired population.

Bigger than most foreigners, and with great roundness of muscle and

size of bone, your Dane wants the dapper air of the Frenchman, or the

solemnity of the Spaniard, while he is not so bearded or so dirty as

the German. But then he smokes prodigiously, dresses moderately in the

English style, is addicted to jewelry in excess, and has a habit of

plodding along, straight in the middle of the road, with his head

down, which must be a matter of considerable annoyance to the native

cabman. He is, however, amazingly polite. He not only takes off his

hat to every one he knows, but gives any lady-acquaintance the trouble

of recognizing him, by bowing to her before she has made up her mind

whether the individual is known or not. Another of his peculiarities

is, that he always has a dog. I should say, more correctly, there is

always a dog following him,--for I have seen an animal, which seemed

to be bound by the closest ties to a particular gentleman, placidly

leave him at the corner of a street, and set off on an independent

walk by itself. These dogs are, in fact, a feature of the place by

themselves. In number they can only be excelled by the canine

scavengers of Cairo or Constantinople, and in mongrelness and ugliness

by no place in the world--not even in Tuum before the potato rot. They

get up little extemporary hunts through the squares, the trail being

generally the remnant of an old rat, carried away by the foremost, and

dash between your legs from unexpected apertures in walls and houses,

so as to cause very unpleasant consequences to the nervous or feeble

sojourner. On seeking for an explanation of their great abundance, I

was informed that they were kept to kill rats. But this is a mere

delusion. These dogs are far too wise to lose their health by keeping

late hours in pursuit of vermin. No, they retire as soon as darkness

sets in, and with darkness, out come the rats in the most perfect

security. Such rats! they are as big as kittens, and their squeaking

under the wooden planks of the gutters as you walk home is perfectly

amazing. The celebrated dog Billy would have died in a week of violent

exercise in any one street in Copenhagen, giving him his usual

allowance of murder. I must say that, in the matters of paving, dogs,

rats, sewers, water, and lights, Copenhagen is rather behind the rest

of the world. As to the lights, they are sparely placed, and as yet

gas is not used. With a laudable economy, the oil-wicks are

extinguished when the moon shines, and the result is, that sometimes

an envious cloud leaves the whole city in Cimmerian darkness for the

rest of the night, in consequence of five minutes' moonshine in the

early part, as, once put out, they are not again relumed.

In the crowd you meet many pale, sorrow-stricken women in mourning,

and now and then a poor soldier limps before you, with recent bandages

on his stump, or hobbles along limpingly, with perhaps a sabre-cut

across the face, or an empty coat-sleeve dangling from his shoulder;

and then you remember all the horrors the late war must have caused

Denmark, when, out of her small population, 90,000 men were under arms

in the field. It can scarcely atone for this sight to meet dashing

hussars, with their red coats and sheepskin calpacks; heavy dragoons

in light-blue and dark-green; jagers in smart frocks of olive-green,

decorated with stars and ribands, and swaggering along in all the

pride of having smelt powder and done their duty. They are numerous

enough, indeed every third man is a soldier; but one of these sad

widows or orphans is an antidote to the glories of these fine heroes,

scarcely less powerful than that of the spectacle of their mutilated

and mangled comrades. This war has roused the national spirit of

Denmark; it has caused her to make a powerful effort to shake off all

connection with Germany, or dependence on her Germanic subjects, but

it has cost her L5,000,000 of money, and it has left many a home

desolate for ever.

From Household Words.

THE SHADOW OF LUCY HUTCHINSON.

There are some books that leave upon the mind a strange impression,

one of the most delightful reading can produce--a haunting of the

memory, it may be, by one form or by several, strangely real, having a

positive personal presence and identity, yet always preserving an

immaterial existence, and occupying a "removed ground," from which

they never stir to mingle with the realities of recollection. These

shadows hold their place apart, as some rare dreams do, claiming from

us an indescribable tenderness.

The "Memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson" is such a book. In many passages

it is tedious--a record of petty strategies of partisan warfare--and,

more dreary still, of factious jealousies and polemical hatreds. The

absolute truth of the book is fatal, in one direction to our

hero-worship. The leaders of the Great Rebellion, in such minute

details, appear as mere schemers, as rival agents at a borough

election; and the most fervent in professions of religious zeal are as

bitter in their revenges as the heroes of a hundred scalps; but there

arises out of the book, and is evermore associated with it, the calm

quiet shadow of a woman of exquisite purity, of wondrous constancy, of

untiring affection--Lucy Hutchinson, its writer.

John Hutchinson is at Richmond, lodging at the house of his

music-master. He is twenty-two years of age. The village is full of

"good company," for the young Princes are being educated in the

palace, and many "ingenious persons entertained themselves at that

place." The music-master's house is the resort of the king's

musicians; "and divers of the gentlemen and ladies that were affected

with music came thither to hear." There was a little girl "tabled" in

the same house with John Hutchinson, who was taking lessons of the

lutanist--a charming child, full of vivacity and intelligence. She

told John she had an elder sister--a studious and retiring person--who

was gone with her mother, Lady Apsley, into Wiltshire--and Lucy was

going to be married, she thought. The little girl ever talked of

Lucy--and the gentlemen talked of Lucy--and one day a song was sung

which Lucy had written--and John and the vivacious child walked,

another day, to Lady Apsley's house, and there, in a closet, were

Lucy's Latin books. Mr. Hutchinson grew in love with Lucy's image; and

when the talk was more rife that she was about to be married--and some

said that she was indeed married--he became unhappy--and "began to

believe there was some magic in the place, which enchanted men out of

their right senses; but the sick heart could not be chid nor advised

into health." At length Lucy and her mother came home; and Lucy was

not married. Then John and Lucy wandered by the pleasant banks of the

Thames, in that spring-time of 1638, and a "mutual friendship" grew up

between them. Lucy now talked to him of her early life; how she had

been born in the Tower of London, of which her late father, Sir John

Apsley, was the governor; how her mother was the benefactress of the

prisoners, and delighted to mitigate the hard fortune of the noble and

the learned, and especially Sir Walter Raleigh, by every needful help

to his studies and amusements; how she herself grew serious amongst

these scenes, and delighted in nothing but reading, and would never

practise her lute or harpsichords, and absolutely hated her needle.

John was of a like serious temper. Their fate was determined.

The spring is far advanced into summer. On a certain day the friends

on both sides meet to conclude the terms of the marriage. Lucy is not

to be seen. She has taken the small-pox. She is very near death. At

length John is permitted to speak to his betrothed. Tremblingly and

mournfully she comes into his presence. She is "the most deformed

person that could be seen." Who could tell the result in words so

touching as Lucy's own? "He was nothing troubled at it, but married

her as soon as she was able to quit the chamber, when the priest and

all that saw her were affrighted to look on her. But God recompensed

his justice and constancy by restoring her; though she was longer than

ordinary before she recovered to be as well as before."

They were married on the 3d of July, 1638.

In the autumn of 1641, John and Lucy Hutchinson are living in their

own house of Owthorpe, in Nottinghamshire. They have two sons. They

are "peaceful and happy." John has dedicated two years since his

marriage to the study of "school divinity." He has convinced himself

of "the great point of predestination." This faith has not, as his

wife records, produced a "carelessness of life in him," but "a more

strict and holy walking." He applies himself, in his house at

Owthorpe, "to understand the things then in dispute" between the King

and Parliament. He is satisfied of the righteousness of the

Parliament's cause; but he then "contents himself with praying for

peace." In another year the King has set up his standard in

Nottingham; the battle of Edgehill has been fought; all hope of peace

is at an end. John Hutchinson is forced out of his quiet habitation by

the suspicions of his royalist neighbors. He is marked as a Roundhead.

Lucy does not like the name. "It was very ill applied to Mr.

Hutchinson, who having naturally a very fine thick-set head of hair,

kept it clean and handsome, so that it was a great ornament to him;

although the godly of those days, when he embraced their party, would

not allow him to be religious because his hair is not in their cut."

The divinity student now becomes a lieutenant-colonel. He raises a

company of "very honest godly men." The Earl of Chesterfield is

plundering the houses of the Puritans in the vale of Belvoir, near

Owthorpe; and the young colonel has apprehensions for the safety of

his family. In the depth of winter, a troop of horse arrive one night

at the lonely house where Lucy and her children abide. They are

hastily summoned to prepare for an instant journey. They are to ride

to Nottingham before sunrise, for the soldiers are not strong enough

to march in the day. Lucy is henceforth to be the companion of her

husband in his perilous office--his friend, his comforter--a

ministering angel amongst the fierce and dangerous spirits, whom he

sways by a remarkable union of courage and gentleness.

Let us look at the shadow of Lucy Hutchinson. She tranquilly sits in

one of the upper chambers of the old and ruinous castle of which her

husband is appointed governor. It is a summer evening of 1643. In that

tower, built upon the top of the rock, tradition says that Queen

Isabel received her paramour Mortimer; and at the base of the rock are

still shown Mortimer's Well, and Mortimer's Hole, as Lady Hutchinson

saw them two centuries ago. She looks out of the narrow windows by

which her chamber is lighted. There is the Trent, peacefully flowing

on one side, amid flat meadows. On the other is the town of

Nottingham. The governor has made the ruinous castle a strong

fortress, with which he can defy the Cavaliers should they occupy the

town beneath. Opposite the towers is the old church of St. Nicholas,

whose steeple commands the platform of the castle. The Governor has

sent away his horse, and many of his foot, to guard the roads by which

the enemy could approach Nottingham. There is no appearance of danger.

The reveille is beat. Those who have been watching all night lounge

into the town. It is in the possession of the Cavaliers. The scene is

changed. The din of ordnance rouses Lucy from her calm gaze upon the

windings of the Trent. For five days and nights there is firing

without intermission. Within the walls of the castle there are not

more than eighty men. The musketeers on St. Nicholas steeple pick off

the cannoniers at their guns.

Now and then, as the assailants are beaten from the walls, they leave

a wounded man behind, and he is dragged into the castle. On the sixth

day, after that terrible period of watchfulness, relief arrives. The

Cavaliers are driven from the town with much slaughter, and the castle

is filled with prisoners. Lucy has been idle during those six days of

peril. There was a task to be performed,--a fitting one for woman's

tenderness. Within the castle was a dungeon called the Lion's Den,

into which the prisoners were cast; and as they were brought up from

the town, two of the fanatical ministers of the garrison reviled and

maltreated them. Lucy reads the commands of her Master after another

fashion. As the prisoners are carried bleeding to the Lion's Den, she

implores that they should be brought in to her, and she binds up and

dresses their wounds. And now the two ministers mutter--and their

souls abhor to see this favor done to the enemies of God--and they

teach the soldiers to mutter. But Lucy says, "I have done nothing but

my duty. These are our enemies, but they are our fellow-creatures. Am

I to be upbraided for these poor humanities?" And then she breathes a

thanksgiving to Heaven that her mother had taught her this humble

surgery. There is a tear in John's eye as he gazes on this scene. That

night the Cavalier officers sup with him, rather as guests than as

prisoners.

In the vale of Belvoir, about seven miles from Belvoir Castle, is the

little village of Owthorpe. When Colonel Hutchinson returned to the

house of his fathers, after the war was ended, he found it plundered

of all its movables--a mere ruin. In a few years it is a fit dwelling

for Lucy to enjoy a lifelong rest, after the terrible storms of her

early married days. There is no accusing spirit to disturb their

repose. John looks back upon that solemn moment when he signed the

warrant for the great tragedy enacted before Whitehall without

remorse. He had prayed for "an enlightened conscience," and he had

carried out his most serious convictions. He took no part in the

despotic acts that followed the destruction of the monarchy. He had no

affection for the fanatics who held religion to be incompatible with

innocent pleasures and tasteful pursuits. At Owthorpe, then, he lived

the true life of an English gentleman. He built--he planted--he

adorned his house with works of art--he was the first magistrate--the

benefactor of the poor. The earnest man who daily expounded the

Scriptures to his household was no ascetic. There was hospitality

within those walls--with music and revelry. The Puritans looked

gloomily and suspiciously upon the dwellers at Owthorpe. The Cavaliers

could not forgive the soldier who had held Nottingham Castle against

all assaults.

The Restoration comes. The royalist connexions of Lucy Hutchinson have

a long struggle to save her husband's life; but he is finally included

in the Act of Oblivion. He is once more at Owthorpe, without the

compromise of his principles. He has done with political strife for

ever.

On the 31st of October 1663, there is a coach waiting before the hall

of Owthorpe. That hall is filled with tenants and laborers. Their

benefactor cheerfully bids them farewell; but his wife and children

are weeping bitterly. That coach is soon on its way to London with the

husband and wife, and their eldest son and daughter. At the end of the

fourth day's journey, at the gates of that fortress within which she

had been born, Lucy Hutchinson is parted from him whose good and evil

fortunes she had shared for a quarter of a century.

About a mile from Deal stands Sandown Castle. In 1664, Colonel

Hutchinson is a prisoner within its walls. It was a ruinous place, not

weatherproof. The tide washed the dilapidated fortress; the windows

were unglazed; cold, and damp, and dreary was the room where the proud

heart bore up against physical evils. For even here there was

happiness. Lucy is not permitted to share his prison; but she may

visit him daily. In the town of Deal abides that faithful wife. She is

with him at the first hour of the morning; she remains till the latest

of night. In sunshine or in storm, she is pacing along that rugged

beach, to console and be consoled.

Eleven months have thus passed, when Lucy is persuaded by her husband

to go to Owthorpe to see her children.

"When the time of her departure came, she left with a very sad and

ill-presaging heart." In a few weeks John Hutchinson is laid in the

family vault in that Vale of Belvoir.

Lucy Hutchinson sits in holy resignation in the old sacred home. She

has a task to work out. She has to tell her husband's history, for the

instruction of her children:--"I that am under a command not to grieve

at the common rate of desolate women, while I am studying which way to

moderate my woe, and, if it were possible, to augment my love, can,

for the present, find out none more just to your dear father, nor

consolatory to myself, than the preservation of his memory."

So rests her shadow, ever, in our poor remembrance.

From Eliza Cook's Journal.

THE WIVES OF SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, AND LOVELL.

Southey, Coleridge, and Lovell, three poets, married three sisters,

the Misses Fricker of Bristol. They were all alike poor when they

married. Southey's aunt shut her door in his face when she found he

was resolved on marrying in such circumstances; and he, postponing

entry upon the married life, though he had contracted the

responsibility of husband, parted from his wife at the church door,

and set out on a six months' visit to Portugal, preparatory to

entering on the study of the legal profession. Southey committed his

maiden wife to the care of Mr. Cottle's sisters during his absence.

"Should I perish by shipwreck," he wrote from Falmouth to Mr. Cottle,

"or by any other casualty, I have relations whose prejudice will yield

to the anguish of affection, and who will love, cherish, and give all

possible consolation to my widow." With these words Southey set sail

for Portugal, and his wife, who had persuaded him to go, and cried

when he was going, though she would not then have permitted him to

stay, meekly retired to her place of refuge, wearing her wedding-ring

round her neck.

Southey returned to England, and commenced the study of the law, but

after a year's drudgery gave it up. His wife joined him in a second

visit to Portugal, and on his return he commenced the laborious

literary career which he pursued till his death. He enjoyed on the

whole a happy married life; took pleasure in his home and his family;

loving his children and his wife Edith dearly. This is one of his own

pictures:--"Glance into the little room where sits the gray-haired

man, 'working hard and getting little--a bare maintenance, and hardly

that; writing poems and history for posterity with his whole heart and

soul; one daily progressing in learning, not so learned as he is

poor, not so poor as proud, not so proud as happy.'" Great men have

invited him to London, and he is now answering the invitation. The

thought of the journey plagues him. "Oh dear, oh dear!" he writes,

"there is such a comfort in one's old coat and old shoes, one's own

chair and own fireside, one's own writing-desk and own library--with a

little girl climbing up to my neck and saying, 'Don't go to London,

papa, you must stay with Edith'--and a little boy whom I have taught

to speak the language of cats, dogs, cuckoos, jackasses, &c., before

he can articulate a word of his own--there is such a comfort in all

these things, that _transportation_ to London seems a heavier

punishment than any sins of mine deserve." But a sad calamity fell

upon him in his old age. His dear Edith was suddenly bereft of reason.

"Forty years," he writes to Grosvenor Bedford from York, "has she been

the life of my life--and I have left her this day in a lunatic

asylum." In the same letter he expresses the resignation of a

Christian and the confident courage of a man. "God, who has visited me

with this affliction," he says, "has given me strength to bear it, and

will, _I know_, support me to the end, whatever that may be. To-morrow

I return to my poor children. I have much to be thankful for under

this visitation. For the first time in my life (he was sixty years

old) I am so far beforehand with the world that my means are provided

for the whole of next year, and that I can meet this expenditure,

considerable in itself, without any difficulty."

Mrs. Southey, after two years' absence, returned to Keswick, the

family home, and closed her pitiable existence there. Southey was now

a broken-down man. "There is no one," he mournfully writes, "to

partake with me the recollections of the best and happiest portion of

my life; and for that reason, were there no other, such recollections

must henceforth be purely painful, except when I collect them with the

prospects of futurity." Two years after, however, Southey married

again: the marriage was one of respect on the part of Caroline Bowles,

the gifted authoress, who was his choice, and probably of convenience

and friendship on the part of Southey. We have heard that the union

greatly tended to his comfort, and that his wife tenderly soothed and

cheered his declining years.

Southey, in addition to maintaining his own wife and family at Keswick

by his literary labors, had the families of his two sisters-in-law

occasionally thrown upon his hands. He was not two-and-twenty when Mr.

Lovell, who married his wife's sister, fell ill of fever, died, and

left his widow and child without the slightest provision. Robert

Southey took mother and child at once to his humble hearth, and there

the former found happiness until his death. Coleridge, not

sufficiently instructed by a genius to which his contemporaries did

homage, in a wayward and unpardonable mood withdrew himself from the

consolations of home; and in their hour of desertion his wife and

children were saved half the knowledge of their hardships by finding a

second husband and another father in the sanctuary provided for them

by Robert Southey.

Coleridge was unpunctual, unbusiness-like, improvident, and dreamy, to

the full extent to which poets are said proverbially to be. When he

married--his pantisocratic Owenite scheme having just been exploded,

and his lectures at Bristol having proved a failure--he retired with

Sara Fricker, his wife, to a cottage at Clevedon, near Bristol. Though

the cottage was a poor one, consisting of little more than four bare

walls, for which he paid only L5 annual rental, he and his wife made

it pretty snug with the aid of the funds supplied by their constant

friend, Mr. Cottle, the Bristol bookseller. Coleridge decorated this

cottage with all the graces that his imagination and fancy could throw

around it. It is alluded to in many of his poems:--

"Low was our pretty cot! our tallest rose

Peep'd at the chamber window. We could hear

At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,

The sea's faint murmur. In the open air

Our myrtles blossom'd, and across the porch

Thick jasmines twin'd: the little landscape round

Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.

It was a spot which you might aptly call

The valley of seclusion."

But his loved young wife was not forgotten; for again he sings:--

"My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclin'd

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our cot--our cot o'ergrown

With white-flowered jasmine, and the broad leav'd myrtle

(Meet emblems they of innocence and love!)

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve,

Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be!)

Shine opposite."

Here their first child was born--Hartley, the dreamer--on whom the

happy parent shed tears of joy:--

"But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while

Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,)

Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm

Impress'd a father's kiss; and all beguil'd

Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,

I seem'd to see an angel's form appear--

'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear,

And dearer was the mother for the child."

But writing poetry, reading Hartley and Condillac, would not make the

poet's pot boil at all briskly, and so he had to go a little nearer to

the world, and went back to Bristol. Coleridge, however, wanted

application, and could scarcely be induced to work, even though the

prospect of liberal remuneration was offered to him. Hence, a few

years after marriage, in July, 1796, we find him thus groaning in the

spirit to a friend: "It is my duty and business to thank God for all

his dispensations, and to believe them the best possible; but, indeed,

I think I should have been more thankful if He had made me a

journeyman shoemaker, instead of an author, by trade. I have left my

friends, I have left plenty," &c. "So I am forced to write for bread!

with the nights of poetic enthusiasm, when every minute I am hearing a

groan from my wife--groans, and complaints, and sickness! The present

hour I am in a quickset of embarrassments, and whichever way I turn, a

thorn runs into me! The future is a cloud and thick darkness! Poverty,

perhaps, and the thin faces of them that want bread looking up to me,"

&c. This was not the kind of spirit to make a wife happy--very

different indeed from the manly, courageous, and self-helping

Southey--and the poor wife suffered much. Whatever Coleridge touched

failed: his fourpenny paper, the _Watchman_, was an abortion; and the

verses he wrote for a London paper did little for him. He next

preached for a short time among the Unitarians, deriving a very

precarious living from that source; when at length the Messrs.

Wedgwood, struck by his great talents, granted him an annuity of L150

to enable him to devote himself to study. Then he went to Germany,

leaving his wife and little family to the hospitality of Southey; and

returned and settled down to the precarious life of a writer for the

newspapers: his eloquent conversation producing unbounded admiration,

but very little "grist." He was often distressed for money, wasting

what he had by indulgence in opium, to which he was at one time a

fearful victim. The great and unquestionable genius of Coleridge was

expended chiefly on projections. He was a man who was capable of

greatly adorning the literature of his time, and of creating an

altogether new era in its history; but he could not or would not work,

and his life was passed in dreamy idleness, in self-inflicted poverty,

often in poignant misery, in gloomy regrets, and in unfulfilled

designs. We fear the life of Mrs. Coleridge was not a happy one, good

and affectionate though she was as a wife and mother.

MY NOVEL: OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[11]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.