Return to soothe my aching heart?
Ah! never more; for stifled sighs
Announce that soon, too soon, we part.
Maternal cares, and anxious fears,
Alternate fill my sorrowing breast;
And many a sigh, and many a tear,
Moisten my pillow, and impede my rest.
Supported by affections dear,
The casual frowning of the world I brave;
’Tis only where I truly, fondly love,
That disappointment can my peace invade.
My children are my treasures, whence I draw
All I can know of happiness below:
And O! how rich, if certain there to find,
Not wealth of gold, but sterling wealth of mind.
’Twas you, my Jane, who were my first fond hope,
And smiling, told the blessing you had brought.
Though years on years have passed since that glad hour,
A mother’s memory still retains the power
To bring thy infant image to her view,
Such as it was, and such as since it grew.
Matured in education, and in life,
I view thee now a mother and a wife.
Grant that these duties with thy pleasures blend,
The wife at heart, not only wife, but friend.
These sacred ties, these precious gifts of heaven,
The first of human comforts to be given,
Cherish with care; and let affection bring
Thy share of love to make it ever spring.
Nourish the sentiments thy principles approve,
And put thy trust and confidence in God.
❦
[Sidenote: To revive a fading Flower.]
Cut the stalk, and hold it a few moments in the flame of the candle,
and then set the flower again in the cold water, when it will recover
its strength almost visibly after this violent assistance, and blossom
immediately.
❦
[Sidenote: Scenes from the Life of Titian.]
Titian Vecelli was born in 1477, at the Chateau of La Pieve, on the
frontiers of Friuli, one of the seven Communes of Cador. He was by
birth a gentleman, his father was Gregorio Vecelli, and his ancestors
were traced to the twelfth century.
Here may be corrected an absurdity often committed in designating
him as “_Le_ Titien,” _that_ being his baptismal name; as well say
_the_ Raphael--or _the_ Michael Angelo. The artist may certainly be
denominated “_The Vecelli_.”
Titian was not six years of age when he first gave notice of the great
art in which he was to shine so bright a star: and even then, may be
traced his transcendent genius in the power of colouring. The infant
artist took his tints from nature. The fields, the gardens were his
palettes; it was his custom to gather flowers, from which he expressed
the juices; he required no pencil, no pen, to sketch his designs, he
had discovered the fresco; instinct perfected his work; the perfume of
the flower was unheeded by this wonderful child, but he would fall in
extacies at the whiteness of the lily, the carnation of the rose, the
purple of the iris.
Titian was united in a band of most intimate friendship with Giorgione,
who had arrived from Castel-Franco, to study under Bellini, (Titian’s
master) and who called himself simply “George.” He soon became the
friend, the brother, the model of Titian; and when, in after years,
his jealousy of Titian’s talent went to such lengths as to separate
them, the latter left Venice, not being able to endure a residence in
the same city, with Giorgione thus alienated from him, nor did he ever
return to Venice till after the death of Giorgione.
In 1514, Alphonso d’Este, the reigning Duke of Ferrara, called Titian
to his court, which at that period was considered the most brilliant
and magnificent in Italy. Poets, Painters, every artist of celebrity
was there admitted, and honoured in proportion to his talents. Titian’s
long cherished dream of ambition and well earned fame, were now about
to be realized, and his glorious talent to be estimated as it deserved.
Although poor in fortune, there was no gentleman at the court of
Alphonso who could vie with him in the good taste and elegance of his
appearance. His manners were those of a high bred man: his conversation
full of charm. The Prince soon felt the superiority of his new guest,
and treated him with peculiar courtesy.
“Signor Titian,” said Alphonso, “consider our house as your own, and
be at perfect ease and freedom: my dearest wish is to render it so
agreeable to you, as to induce you to remain with us. It shall be our
care that your residence at Ferrara may lessen your regret at quitting
your beautiful Venice! Recollect though, that here pleasure takes the
precedence of business; however, if in your leisure hours you should
take up your pencil, we know too well how to appreciate your reputation
and your talent, not to recollect at proper seasons that our court is
honoured by the presence of the first painter in Venice.”
Alphonso’s conduct towards Titian fully bore out his professions, and
his favour, by giving to the artist the full scope of his enthusiasm in
his art, left to Titian nothing to desire. His sojourn at this court
was terminated by an event which not only proves the estimation with
which the duke honoured him, but gives also some idea of the morals of
the period of which we speak.
Alphonso, thinking the favour which he had bestowed on Titian entitled
him to make the request, one day entreated the great artist would
gratify him by taking the portrait of Dona Laura Eustochio d’Este, the
reigning Duchess of Ferrara.
“Listen to me, my dear Titian,” said the prince, in a tone of cordial
intimacy, “you are not ignorant (for every thing is known at a court),
that it was the surpassing beauty of my wife which induced me to marry
her, and you will easily believe how much it will gratify me, if by
your pencil her charms are rendered immortal. I know not whether the
ducal mantle will be allowed to fall at your request, this favour it
must be your task to obtain of the Duchess, but understand me well,
great master, that my ardent desire is that by your talent I should
be possessed of the faithful copy of those transcendent charms,
which have so enslaved me; and divested of all veil or drapery, as
though reflected in a mirror, such as are seen in your delightful
paintings--so that in after times, when she is represented (such as I
knew and adored her), it may be said, ‘her beauty was perfect; he was
not to blame for marrying her!’”
“Monsignore,” replied Titian, “although the artist sees and thinks
only as of a model, in the woman who is before him, were she a queen,
yet I will confess to your Highness, that I have so seldom seen the
Duchess since I have had the honour of residing at your court, and at
such times she has appeared to look on me with so much coldness and
dignity, that even by your order, I never could venture to prescribe
what attitude and costume would be most suitable: and I really think
that this would be best intimated by your Highness.”
“Not at all, my dear Titian, you know nothing of women. It suffices
that a husband wishes one thing, for them to press another. What
objections, what remonstrances, what reproaches I should have to
endure! She would insist that I had ceased to love her, and was no
longer jealous--whilst you would only speak as the painter, and would
be listened to and believed, for when Titian had said ‘On my honour,
Madam, I can make you a Venus,’ where is the woman who could oppose
him? In short, Titian, you know my wishes, do the best you can; the
Duchess expects you;” and in fact the Prince had scarcely left the
room, when two pages announced that the Duchess of Ferrara waited for
him.
In a room richly embellished with all the luxury of art, and which
would have inspired Ariosto with the enchantment of Armida’s palace,
the Duchess reclined on cushions, which yielded to every movement, a
young page of such beauty as is described in Raphael’s angels, gently
waved a fan of peacock’s feathers, and a little Ethiopian slave knelt
at his mistress’s feet, as though placed there in order to display the
whiteness of her skin by the contrast.
Into this scene Titian followed his conductor, but was struck dumb, and
seized as if with vertigo: he thought himself transported into some
region of fancy. On a sign from their mistress a seat, the easel, the
palette, the pencils and the colours were presented to the artist, and
the attendants lowly bowing withdrew, leaving Titian and the Duchess
alone.
The beauty of Laura is historical, and it were difficult to give any
adequate description of it. When Titian had recovered sufficient
self-command to render the feelings of the man subservient to those of
the artist, he raised his eyes, and fixed them on the Duchess; it was
the first time he had ever ventured to do so, for, as he had hinted,
Laura had ever appeared desirous of avoiding him; but recollecting
that he was now in her presence by the orders of the Prince, and by
nature of his business, he continued his gaze, and met in return her
gracious smile. Strange, it even seemed to him that he had seen that
face before--long since--in a dream possibly--or when the artist’s
imagination was inspired by some ideal beauty.
Titian drew the easel towards him, and respectfully bowing, said,
“Madam, I am here by your order.”
“Am I well placed thus, Sir Artist?” she replied.
The sound of this voice thrilled every nerve. He was now certain that
it was not the first time they had met; but when, where, or in what
country he had seen this woman, he had no recollection.
The Duchess with a little of impatience repeated her question.
“Perfectly, Madam,” replied Titian, beginning at the same time to
sketch the outline of the head.
“However,” he added, somewhat hesitating, “if your Highness would show
more of the hair, I think the portrait would be improved.”
“Of course, Signor Titian, your advice is law.” And the Duchess
proceeded to unbind her veil, and remove the jewels which confined
those beautiful tresses, which like a golden shower fell on her snow
white neck and shoulders. “What magnificent hair!” exclaimed the artist
in an under tone; “yes, surely I have seen this woman before; but then
she had not the transcendent beauty she has since attained, and which
now renders her the most perfect model a painter could wish.”
Titian worked on as if inspired; and when the head and part of the
shoulders were sufficiently advanced to allow the artist to satisfy the
curiosity of the fair original, Titian permitted the Duchess to look at
the canvass. On beholding the likeness, and the beauty of the sketch,
Laura d’Este uttered a cry of surprise and admiration.
“You see, Madam, how much has been gained by yielding to my request to
remove that heavy head dress, and you will, I hope, equally comply
with my wish to see that gown taken off; attend, I beg you, Madam, to
an artist’s advice--uncover those shoulders, so perfect in shape, that
bust, so exquisitely formed, the contour of which is perfection. Surely
it was not to paint a bit of stuff, or a knot of riband that God has
endowed us with a talent of creation only secondary to his own great
power; for I too can give life to that world of beauty, and when it
shall have ceased to exist, it will survive on my canvass.”
“I no longer wonder that I was told to beware of Titian,” said the
Duchess, as she gradually obeyed the painter’s directions; “our great
Ariosto is not the only flatterer at our court.”
“If, Madam, you doubt my word, consult this mirror; its reflection is
not more true than my language.”
As by degrees the Duchess, in compliance with Titian’s wishes,
uncovered her foot, her leg, her knee--the whole of the admirable form
which had placed on her fair brow the crown of Ferrara--Titian recalled
the past; the vague ideas which had floated in his brain assumed
consistency, and a name, a date, were all left wanting to satisfy him.
And now the exquisite outline was nearly complete; one only obstacle
remained, the few folds of velvet which like a dark shade fell on the
form of snow white beauty, and prevented this master-piece of art from
shining forth in all its dazzling perfection.
“How happy was that artist,” exclaimed Titian with bitterness, “whose
chisel was suffered to sculpture the Venus of old in all the chaste
nudity of nature! He did not look on diamonds and draperies. Oh! were
the same privilege given me, this day should my pencil also produce a
Venus de Medicis!”
“Behold me, then!” exclaimed the Duchess, half laughing.
Titian, turning round, uttered a cry of amazement.
The wife of Don Alphonso of Ferrara had dropped her last veil, and
reclined on her divan precisely in the same attitude in which at this
time Titian’s Venus may still be seen with delight in the gallery at
Florence.
“Great God! I was not then mistaken,” said Titian, hurrying towards her.
“Well!”
“It is you!”
“It is me. Your model--your Laurette! Ungrateful man! you had then
forgotten me!”
“Can I believe it? the daughter of poor Guanetto?”
“Yes, she, who for a morsel of bread came to stand in your studio as
a model, at Venice, is now the Sovereign of Ferrara. But the most
surprising part of the event is, that her old lord and master persisted
in his forgetfulness, and refused to recognise the Duchess of Ferrara
till she had again descended to her humble capacity of a model.”
“I thought, indeed, those features were not unknown to me.”
“Well, this is something.--However, I forgive you. Twelve years have
elapsed, and I must be much altered.”
“And how did you attain your present position?”
“As the wife of Don Alphonso? Simply thus. He saw me, loved me, and
married me--nothing more natural.”
“Yes, he loves you, I have the proof of this.”
“He adores me. Ever since your arrival at Ferrara, he has entreated me
to give him this portrait. I avoided it as long as I could, but was
at length obliged to consent to prevent his being seriously grieved.
God knows, I dreaded the moment enough! for....” And the young woman
hesitated, and sighed.
“I understand: prudence bade you avoid me.”
“No, it was shame.”
Titian bowed down his head, and appeared buried in thought: when he had
somewhat recovered himself, and was able to speak--“Come, Madam,” he
said kindly but firmly, “replace your splendid robe, and adjust your
head-dress. This sketch is now useless, and I will complete it another
time. In my studio I have a portrait of you such as the Prince desires
to possess. But I wish also to paint you for your subjects: since fate
has placed a sovereign crown on your head, it shall not be said that I
have deprived you of it, even in a picture.”
“But what will my husband say?”
“He can but be pleased; for instead of the one portrait ordered, there
will be two--one as a Venus, the other as a Princess.”
Three days afterwards, Titian had returned to Venice....
Titian at this period was about thirty-seven years of age. He was tall
and dignified, his forehead high, his eyes large and full of expression
and feeling, his profile was correctly Grecian, his long beard curled
naturally, he was framed to inspire respect and love. His manners were
all grace, his smile enchanting.
After his return to Venice, he lived in princely style, so as to vie
even with the splendour of the palace of the Doge. Affable, cheerful,
generous, he was beloved even by his rivals. No artist ever acquired
such wealth, or lavished it more generously and willingly.
[Sidenote: Pacheco. Granella.]
Two Cardinals one day called unexpectedly at his _Atelier_, and told
him they came to dine with him. Titian detained them a short time under
pretence of retouching their portraits, and when unobserved, threw
his purse out of the window, saying to a servant, “I have some one to
dinner.” In an hour after, their Eminences sat down to a repast served
with regal splendour.
Titian’s studio was the resort and rendezvous of every remarkable
personage in Europe: from every quarter of the world people hurried
to behold the venerable old man, who approached his hundredth year.
Henry III. King of France and Poland, attended by the Dukes of Ferrara,
Mantua, and Albano, paid a visit of ceremony to the distinguished
artist, and conversed at length with him on the subject of his
honourable reception at the several courts of Charles V. and of
Ferdinand and Philip. He admired all his collection of pictures, and
having selected those he was desirous of purchasing, he begged that
Titian would himself name the sum he should pay for them, and which
should be immediately laid down. The old man smiled, and rising with
some difficulty from his chair, he bowed respectfully to the king,
saying, “Your Majesty will confer on me the favour of accepting these
pictures, as a proof of my gratitude. I never take money from my
guests.”
[Sidenote: Pope.]
Titian was unequalled in his talent for giving _life_ to his portraits.
It is an undoubted fact that having placed the portrait of Paul III. on
his terrace, to dry the varnish, the people who passed by, supposing
it to be really the Pope taking the air on the balcony, stopped to bow
with reverence to his Holiness.
Titian died of the plague raging in Venice, in 1576. Regrets and tears
followed the splendid artist to the tomb, in the church of St. Luc,
where he was interred with the highest honours.
❦
[Sidenote: For my Cottage.]
_Diospyrus Lotus_ is a handsome tree for a shrubbery. It grows very
gracefully, spreading out its branches, and its leaves are tinged
underneath with a beautiful pink, and covered with a long, soft,
pinkish down. It is quite hardy.
Also the Locust tree of the Americans, _Robina pseudacacia_; it
receives its name from Jean Robins, the Herbalist of Henry IV. and is
very hardy. The flowers, which are very sweet, resemble a bunch of
white laburnum.
❦
_The Hand of Heaven._
Despair, and suffering, and sorrow,
Had poured their bitterness on me;
Hope had no ray to gild the morrow,
And life was only misery.
Each coming day shed deeper sadness,
And health along with hope had fled;
Religion only saved from madness
This aching agonized head.
At length, when nature’s pulse was dying,
That Power, which brought religious balm
Gave back the life that seem’d fast flying,
With health, and hope, and peaceful calm.
Cease then, woe’s child, thy deep despairing;
Remember, Heaven’s hand can save,
Though every sorrow thou art sharing,
Though life seems hov’ring o’er the grave.
❦
Sorrow, though it ever sharpens the intellect, also sometimes sours the
heart.
❦
[Sidenote: Bayle and his Mother.]
It is said of the celebrated writer, _Bayle_, that when his mother
desired to receive his portrait, he sent her a picture of his _heart_.
❦
[Sidenote: Traditions.]
In a palace on the site of Hatton Garden, died John of Gaunt. _Brook
House_, at the corner of Brook Street, Holborn, was the residence of
Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brook, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney. In
the same street died Chatterton, by poison, and was buried in the
Workhouse, Shoe Lane. In Gray’s Inn lived, and meditated, Lord Bacon.
At the corner of Chancery Lane, Fleet Street, Cowley was born. In
Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, was the house of Thomas Sackville,
first Earl of Dorset, one of the first authors of English Tragedy.
In Bolt Court, not far distant, lived Dr. Johnson. Congreve died
in Surrey Street, Strand, at his own house. In Maiden Lane, Covent
Garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, at the sign of the White
Peruke. In Leicester Square was the town mansion of the Sydneys, Earl
of Leicester, and the families of Sir Philip and Algernon Sydney.
Dryden lived and died in Gerard Street. Newton lived in St. Martin’s
Street. Steele in Bury Street, St. James’s. Spencer died at an inn
where he put up, in King Street, Westminster. Sir Thomas More lived at
Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland House, Kensington. Handel
lived in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, and Gibbon in Bentinck Street,
Manchester Square. De Foe kept a hosier’s shop in Cornhill.
❦
_The Graves of the Departed loved._
With fairest flowers
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose;
Nor the azured harebell, like thy veins;
No, nor the leaf of eglantine,
Which, not to slander it, outsweeten’d
Not thy breath.
“These to renew with more than annual care,
That wakeful love with pensive step will go;
The hand that lifts the dibble shakes with fear,
Lest haply it disturb the friend below.
Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,
An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?
They only who are cursed with breasts of steel
Can mock the foibles of surviving love.”
❦
[Sidenote: Eyes of the Mind.]
Objects are but bright and happy as the eyes of the mind see them; with
a vision clouded or unclouded by its secret shadow.
❦
La Philosophie triomphe aisément des maux passés et des maux à venir;
mais les maux présens triomphent d’elle.
❦
[Sidenote: Refinement.]
Those who rail at poetry and refinement as superfluous ingredients in
every day happiness, little know what main props they thus seek to
undermine. These will abide when even principles wave. _Manly delicacy_
is as necessary in family life as manly rectitude; and _womanly tact_
as womanly virtue. There is as much happiness wrecked from the absence
of the one, as of the other, and perhaps more. Those who neglect the
_varnishes_ of life, commit an insidious sin towards themselves: and
these lie in the _mind_, and not in the _purse_.
❦
_Delights of Sea Bathing as_ usually _the custom_.
A chilly early rising with a walk to the beach before the day is
aired, a tormentor in the shape of a rough sailor, or fat fisherwoman,
to plunge you remorselessly beneath a horrid wave, whence you issue
blinded, deafened, and stifled, and incomparably colder and crosser
than you went in.
Why not, when the day is at the hottest, step leisurely in like a
water-nymph, bathe head and face, nestle gradually beneath the rippling
waves, and dabble with their smooth resistance for twenty minutes at
least, emerging with limbs pliant and strengthened?
❦
[Sidenote: Effect of Scenery on the Mind.]
Surely the presence of sublimity and beauty must render the temperament
of those who dwell in such solitudes poetical; and yet the mountain
shepherd is only weather wise. Always simple, often stupid, he is
scarcely superior in intelligence to his watch dogs, which are at the
same time his coadjutors, his playfellows, and his protectors.
It is strange, if--living here alone amid the snows, removed from the
contagious vices of mankind, from the coarse sensuality, the brutality,
the debasement too often found in the world, from the temptations,
the struggles, the strife produced by want, envy, ambition, the love
of gain; constantly familiar with the ever varying face of primitive
nature, with her grandest and loveliest aspects--the mind be not
elevated, and the soul pure. Hourly are sights beheld, seen only in
these regions. The glaciers reflecting tints of every hue, gilded with
sunshine, or glowing with rose light. The stars, no longer brilliant
specks, but appearing as they are, globes of intense fire. The moon,
seeming to shed with her white beams the coldness of the icy skies. The
whistling, the howling of the blast, its subterranean muttering, the
roar of the thunder, all prolonged by a hundred echoes. The lightning
flashing upon a numerous crystal-like pinnacle, the shivered pines,
the rent rocks, the sublimity of the tempest! Then the dread silence
which succeeds. The fleecy snow no longer falls; all is entranced by
the mighty spell of frost; all mute, all motionless. Spring returns;
the sun regains his power; light fleecy clouds float in the heavens;
soft, balmy rains descend: below, verdure, foliage, and flowers burst
forth with almost the first gleam of sunshine: but ah! the torrents are
unbound, the masses of snow tremble, they are loosened, they fall: the
avalanche overwhelms the valley with destruction and desolation.
❦
_Inscription on a Sun Dial._
Mark well my shade, and seriously attend
The silent lesson of a common friend.
Since time and life speed hastily away,
And no one can recall the former day,
Improve each flitting hour before ’tis past,
And know each fleeting hour may be thy last!
❦
[Sidenote: Law of Jury.]
The English law of Jury is founded on the law of nature. Man is to be
judged by his _Peers_, because by them only can he be loved.
❦
[Sidenote: Tradition.]
The Rainbow Coffee-house, near Temple Bar, one of the oldest taverns
in the metropolis, was kept by James Fan, a barber, soon after the
introduction of coffee into England. Three years previous to the
Restoration, anno 1657, he was presented by the Inquest of St.
Dunstan’s in the West, “For making and selling a sort of liquor called
‘Coffee,’ as a great nuisance and prejudice of the neighbourhood,” &c.
Strange as it may appear, within half a century of this period, namely
in 1708, there were upwards of three thousand Coffee-houses in London
alone. An old author says, Who would have thought, after the prejudice
against coffee, which was considered pernicious and a public nuisance,
it would have been, as now, so much drunk “by the _best of quality_,
and by _physicians_?”
❦
[Sidenote: Tobacco.]
In the archives of the Society of Antiquaries, amongst other curious
documents, is an alehouse license, granted by six justices of the peace
in Kent, in which the innkeeper is thus enjoined: “Item, You shall not
utter, nor suffer to be uttered, drunke, or taken, any tobacco within
your house, cellar, or other place thereunto belonging.” This is dated
in the time of James I.
❦
[Sidenote: Duchesse d’Abrantes.]