The poets, of all ages and all languages, have dwelt with particular
delight upon the morning scenery, and the epithets of the dappled, the
rosy fingered, the saffron, and the blushing morn, have been not less
often quoted, than they have been imitated and read; and to these verbal
descriptions have followed those of the pencil; and in these graphic
truths no man has succeeded in any degree of comparison with Claude
Lorraine. The reason appears to be pretty obvious; he studied nature
with so much enthusiasm and perseverance, that he may be almost said to
have exhausted her varieties; and we hardly behold a composition from
his hand in which the rising or the setting sun does not irradiate or
warm his scenes; but the sober impressions of the dawn, those chaste and
reserved tints that particularly express the break of day, just
awakening from repose; when the curtain of the night seems to be
insensibly withdrawn, and the landscape appears to open by degrees, when
the colours of the sky are yet doubtful, and the landscape imperfect to
the view; in short, when darkness is not entirely fled, nor light
distinctly seen; this period of the day I do not recollect to have seen
expressed by the fidelity of his magical pencil.
When coolness sits upon the mountains, and freshness delights the
plains, when the dews hang trembling upon every leaf, and the insects
flutter on every thorn; when the groves begin to resound with the
murmurs of the dove, and the vallies to echo with the twitterings from
the spray; how delightful is it to see Arachne weave her web upon every
bush and the gossamer uplifted by the breeze! how extatic is the
twilight hour, which, for a time, hangs balanced between the dispersion
of darkness, and the dapplings of the east; and which gives a solemn
pleasure to every thing around! When these images of nature arrest our
sight, and their charms find a passage to the heart, how pleasing at
such a time are the feelings of anticipation to those who adore in his
works, the wonders of the Creator!
Of that period, when the sun begins to diffuse his early rays, to tip
the mountains with light, and to project the shadows of the hills, I do
not recollect to have seen more than one attempt of imitation; and this
effect I think is produced in the landscape of the celebrated picture of
Aurora, by the hand of Guido, in the Rospiliosi palace at Rome. The
distant sea would be undistinguished, or would rather partake of what
Milton calls “the darkness visible,” did it not almost seem to be
imperceptibly illuminated by the foam of the waves that wash, with
breaking murmurs, the silver sands, and pour their drowsy hoarseness on
the shore. As the eye wanders over this inimitable performance, the
chilness of the dawn appears to brood over the scene below; but, as the
imagination ascends, it fancies that it meets those breezes in the air
that mildly prognosticate, the blushes of the morning; whose curtains
the rosy fingered hours have drawn aside, and between which the infant
day begins to peep.
* * * * *
* * * *
Interesting History Of
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.
_Translated from the French._
(Continued from page 43.)
During their journey, and on their arrival, Thibault omitted no act of
tenderness, to convince the Princess she was still as dear to him as
ever; but finding all his protestations in vain, and that she concealed
a dagger in the bed one night with an intent to assassinate him, he took
a separate apartment, still endeavouring by his behaviour to her, to
prevent the public from finding out the cause of their disagreement; and
he was the more to be pitied, because he could not help loving her still
with the same ardency as ever. In the mean time, the Count de Ponthieu
perceived there was something more than ordinary between them, they
could not hide it from his penetration; Thibault was overwhelmed with a
secret melancholy--the Princess would be seen but rarely; her silence,
and when she was obliged to speak, the incoherency of her words, in
fine, all her actions implied a strange alteration, and made him resolve
to oblige Thibault to a discovery of the cause.---He defended himself a
long time, but being too closely pressed by a prince, to whom he owed
every thing, he at last revealed all the particulars of his misfortune
to him, and painted his love, and the unjust fury of the Princess, in
such moving colours, that the Count was so thoroughly affected, that he
could scarce contain his anger against her. He pitied Thibault,
comforted him, and promised him to speak to the Princess in a manner,
which should oblige her to change her conduct. “Yours,” said he, “is so
prudent and so tender, that I cannot sufficiently admire it; and I hope
my daughter will not always be insensible of it, but return to her
duty.”
He left him, and passed to the Princess’s apartment, whom he found
sitting in an elbow-chair; her head reclined, and in the posture of one
buried in thought, her women round her in a profound silence. The Count
making a sign for them to withdraw; “What, daughter,” said he, “will you
never lay aside this gloomy melancholy which so much troubles me, and
astonishes my whole court.---I know your misfortune, your generous
husband has just discovered it to me---I am very sensible of it, but
much more so of his proceeding; who, notwithstanding your blind rage,
has preserved so great a regard for you, as never to complain.”
At these words, the Princess fixing her eyes full of fury on the face of
her father, “How!” cried she, “has Thibault dared to reveal that secret
to you?” “Ah Princess,” interrupted the Count, “speak with more
moderation of a man who adores you----think a moment, remember you have
loved this husband----that I did not force you to accept of him, that
your misfortune, dreadful as it is, has not impaired his esteem; you, in
return, owe him the same affection and confidence; I desire it of you as
a friend, and demand it of you as a parent and a sovereign. Make good
use of the pity that pleads in my breast in your behalf---and dread
irritating me, lest I throw aside the father, and act wholly as a
prince.” This discourse, so far from softening the Princess, redoubled
her distraction, and she discovered so much rage of temper to the Count,
that he deferred, till a more favourable opportunity, the reclaiming
her. He went out, ordering her to be strictly guarded in her apartment,
and that she should not be suffered to have communication with any one
but her women; and so returning to Thibault, informed him of the ill
success he had met with. Yet he did not despair, but every day for a
whole month made fresh attempts on her disordered mind; but every thing
proving in vain, and her fury rather increasing than diminishing, he
resolved to free his family of a woman whom he looked on as a
monster.---With this intent, on pretence of taking the air, he carried
her with him in a shallop, and having got a considerable distance from
shore, he ordered her to be seized by some sailors, and put into a tun
prepared for that purpose, and closing it up again, thrown into the sea.
After this cruel expedition he landed; but alas! what became of
Thibault, when the other, still transported with rage, told him what he
had done! how great was his affliction! and what reproaches did he not
vent against so barbarous a father! He ran to the fatal place which he
heard had been the grave of his unhappy Princess; but finding nothing
that could flatter him with any hope of there being a possibility to
save her, he returned to court in a condition truly pitiable;---the many
charms of his lost Princess dwelt for ever on his mind, and he thought
himself the most miserable creature living, because he had it not in his
power to revenge her. It was not long before the Count himself repented
of the action, and his remorse became so great, that even the miserable
Thibault endeavoured to mitigate it. At last it wore off, and he began
to think a second marriage, and the hope of an heir, would dissipate his
afflictions; and well knowing that his son-in-law would never engage
himself again, he married, and was happy enough at the expiration of a
year to have a son: yet his grief was not wholly vanished, his daughter
came ever fresh into his memory, and the light of Thibault, who
continued overwhelmed with the deepest melancholy, added to his despair.
In this manner they passed almost nine years, when the Count becoming
once more a widower, resolved, together with Thibault, and his little
son, to travel to the Holy Land, hoping by devotion to expiate his
crime. Thibault, who now thought he had an opportunity of dying
gloriously in fighting for the faith, readily embraced the proposal.
Every thing was soon ready for the voyage, and the Count de Ponthieu
having entrusted the government of his dominions to persons of
confidence, they set out, and arrived safely at Jerusalem. The Count and
Thibault engaged themselves for the space of a year in serving the
temple, in which they had frequent opportunities of testifying their
zeal and courage. The year finished, and their vows accomplished, they
embarked in order to return. The winds were for some days favourable,
but a most violent tempest succeeding the calm, they were so shook by
the fury of it, that they expected nothing but death; when on a sudden,
a contrary gust arising, drove them on the coast of Almeria, a land
belonging to the infidels; they were soon surrounded by the barks and
brigantines of the Saracens, and as the ship was incapable of putting to
sea again, they were much less so in a condition of defence.
The Count de Ponthieu, the young Prince his son, and Thibault, were made
prisoners, and thrown into dungeons; all the christians in the ship were
served in the same manner, and so loaded with irons, that they
immediately found they had been preserved from the rage of the sea, only
to perish in a more cruel manner on land. Those heroes prepared
themselves for death with a resolution worthy of their courage; but the
infidels believing them a noble sacrifice, permitted them to live till
the day on which they celebrated the birth of the Sultan, it being the
custom of that country, to offer to their gods on that day a certain
number of criminals, or christians.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *