Le Sage, the merry author of Gil Blas, delights to expatiate in praise
of a Spanish soup, denominated, in that language, an Olla Podrida,
a dish formed by a motley mixture of many ingredients, of which some one
can tickle the most fastidious palate.
Essays should resemble this Olio, if their author wish for readers. When
a student sits down to a system, he expects the formality and method of
the schools, but how frequent would be the yawn, if periodical writings
resembled LOCKE’s Essay on Understanding? Of works intended for
amusement, the essence is sprightliness and variety. Without these
requisites a reader would rise from the literary repast, and, in
SHAKESPEARE’s phrase, pronounce it but _lenten_ entertainment.
When cookery was young, viands the most simple were sought; and, in an
ancient bill of fare, acorns and spring water were the first articles.
Time has created alteration; and the refinement of modern luxury
requires _made_ dishes. Plain food daily grows into disrepute, and, for
the substantial sirloin we substitute ragouts and fricacees, replete
with spicery. To gratify modern taste, every thing must be _high
seasoned_. This irregular appetite affects the library, as well as the
table, and extends to the books, which we read, as well as to the
dishes, which we taste. Motley miscellany, in all its Proteus forms,
aptly christened by the British booksellers “light, summer reading,” is
the favourite amusement of all _gentle students_. On this occasion, one
might declaim against modern degeneracy; might compare the tinsel of
KELLY with the gold of ADDISON; might sigh for solid books and dishes,
and invoke HOOKER and BACON to write, and a turnspit of Queen ELIZABETH
to _cook_ for us. But this species of railing is grown so trite that
“’tis a custom more honoured in the breach, than in the observance.” It
is better, with a willing adroitness, to comply, with what we cannot
change, and to form the “stuff” of our argument, as a tailor cuts a
coat, by the rule of fashion.
A literary adventurer, confident of amusing himself, though almost
hopeless of amusing others, prepares to scribble in conformity to the
preceding sentiment. Though still juvenile, he has, for a period of some
duration, been in the habit of marking the hues of “many-colored life.”
The morning he gives to books, and the evening to men; and, from every
page that he twirls, and from every character which he sees, he
endeavours, like his renowned predecessor, the Spectator, to extract
amusement or instruction. He is not, however, like him, only an observer
in society, but cheerfully converses even with “wayfaring men, though
fools,” that he may learn some particulars of life’s journey. With all
the restlessness of busy indolence, and with all the volatility of a
humming bird, he roams from object to object, as caprice inspires. This
is the province of a lounger; he is one of “the privileged orders” in
society, and to wander is his vocation.
Thus inquisitive from habit, and thus restless from temper, he fancies,
perhaps presumptuously, that he may now become the herald of what he has
seen and heard. In giving his lucubrations to the world, he confesses
that his nerves thrill with the tremors of timidity. Though he thinks,
with Dr. YOUNG, that “fondness of fame, is avarice of air,” yet, in
spite of sober belief, juvenile ambition
“Will sink with spleen, or swell with pride,
As the gay palm is granted, or denied.”
As he is a _volunteer_ in the literary corps, he hopes that severe
discipline will not be exercised. He implores of the critics a
dispensation from an observance of the more rigid rules of method, as he
never was educated in that “drowsy school.” A lover of the desultory
style, his effusions shall keep pace with STERNE’s--in digression and
eccentricity, though halting far behind him in wit. Such a writer, the
logicians must permit to wander at large,
“Nor to a narrow path confin’d,
Hedge in, by rules, his roving mind.”
If he be suffered to remain enfranchised, though abusing his liberty, he
may stray from the high road, yet he hopes never to deviate far from the
boundaries of common sense; and if, in the wildness of volatility, he
sometimes leap the hedge, he will endeavour to catch a butterfly, or
crop a flower. All parties in the _State_, may read the moderate
sentiments of a writer, who will neither factiously blow the trumpet of
democracy, nor proudly stalk in the aristocratical buskin. All sects in
the _Church_, may cheerily and charitably unite in the perusal of a
work, intended to amuse as a speculation, not dogmatize as a creed.
Though feminine foibles will be smilingly derided, yet, at the
apprehension of malignant satire from the author of the _Farrago_, not a
heart need palpitate, a fan flutter, nor a tea-table shake. If the
ladies will “put away those strange gods,” coquetry, futility and
artifice, he will, in, the words of SHAKESPEARE’s weaver, so restrain
and aggravate his voice, that he will roar at them, like any sucking
dove, he will roar, like any nightingale.--In fine, like every other
adventurer, he promises plausibly; and though he cannot hope to instruct
by golden precept, like PYTHAGORAS, or divert by humour, like FALSTAFF,
yet like SANCHO PANZA, by his very simplicity he may inform and amuse.
* * * * *
* * * *
+The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+
An Interesting Spanish Tale.
(Concluded from page 342.)
No sooner had she come to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived
Don Alphonso. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against
the wall, her head sunk on her shoulder, and the tears bedewed her
cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and,
endeavouring to speak with firmness, approached the prisoner.
‘Stranger,’ said she, disguising her voice, ‘you have killed your
companion. What could induce you to commit such a horrid crime?’
‘Alcaid,’ answered Don Alphonso, ‘I have committed no crime; it was an
act of justice; but I am desirous to die. Death alone can end the
miseries, of which the wretch I have sacrificed was the first cause.
Condemn me. I wish not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which
is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it
delightful; since I can no longer hope ever to find’----
He was scarce able to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name
of Marina.
Marina trembled on hearing him pronounce her name. She could scarcely
conceal her transports, but was ready to throw herself into the arms of
her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses restrained her.
She, therefore, turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left
alone with the prisoner. She was obeyed.
Giving a free course to her tears she advanced towards Don Alphonso, and
offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, ‘Do you
then still love her who lives for you alone?’
At these words, at this voice, Alphonso lifts his head, unable to
believe his eyes. ‘Oh Heavens! Is it--is it my Marina! Or is it some
angelic being assuming her form? Yes, it is my Marina herself, I can no
longer doubt it,’ cried he, clamping her in his arms, and bathing her
with his tears. ‘It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended.’
‘No,’ said Marina, as soon as she could recover speech, ‘you are guilty
of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair
to-morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my
birth, relate to him our misfortunes, and, if he refuses me your
liberty, will return and end my days with you in this prison.’
Marcello immediately gave orders for the removal of Alphonso from the
dungeon into a less hideous place of security. He took care that he
should want for nothing, and returned home to prepare for his journey,
the next day, when a most alarming event prevented his departure, and
hastened the delivery of Don Alphonso.
Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on
board which Don Alphonso was, had arrived on the coast, some time after
the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had
taken, had determined to land, during the night. Two renegadoes, who
knew the country, undertook to conduct the barbarians to the village of
Gadara, and fulfilled their promise but too well.
About one in the morning, when labour enjoys repose, and villainy wakes
to remorse, the dreadful cry _to arms! to arms!_ was heard.
The Corsairs had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before
them. The darkness of the night, the groans of the dying, and the
shrieks of the inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The
trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men
sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames,
the light of which discovered the gory scymitars and white turbans of
the Moors.
Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand, and the hatchet in the
other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; making their
way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, and
returning covered with blood, and loaded with booty.
Here they rush into the chamber, to which two lovers, the bride and
bridegroom of the day, had been conducted by their mother. Each on their
knees, side by side, was pouring forth thanks to heaven, for having
crowned their faithful wishes. An unfeeling wretch, remorseless, seizes
the terrified bride; loads her unhappy lover, whom in cruelty he spares,
with chains; and snatches before his face, in spite of his distraction,
his tears, prayers, and exclamations, that prize which was due to him
alone.
There they take the sleeping infant from its cradle. The mother,
frantic, defends it, singly, against an host. Nothing can repel, nothing
can terrify her. Death she braves and provokes. For her child she
supplicates, threatens, and combats; while the tender infant, already
seized by these tigers, starts, wakes, stares, with the wild agony of
terror, on the grim visage of its murderer, and sinks into convulsive
horror and sleep, from which it wakes no more.
Nothing is held sacred by these monsters. They force their way into the
temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and
trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! of what avail to the priests
is their sacred character? to the aged their grey hairs? to youth its
graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and
death are every where, and compassion is fled.
On the first alarm the Alcaid made all haste to the prison to inform Don
Alphonso of the danger. The brave Alphonso demanded a sword for himself
and a buckler for the Alcaid. He takes Marina by the hand, and making
his way to the market-place, thus accosts the fugitives: ‘My friends,
are ye Spaniards, and do ye abandon your wives and children to the fury
of the infidels?’
He stops, he rallies them, inspires them with his own valor, and, more
than human, (for he is a lover, and a hero) rushes, sabre in hand, on a
party of the Moors, whom he instantly disperses. The inhabitants recover
their recollection and their courage; enraged, behold their slaughtered
friends; and hasten in crowds to join their leader.
Alphonso, without quitting Marina, and ever solicitous to expose his
life in her defence, attacks the barbarians at the head of his brave
Spaniards, and dealing destruction to all who make resistance, drives
the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and
only quits the pursuit of the enemy to return and extinguish the flames.
The day begin to break, when a body of troops, who had received
information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neighbouring
town. The governor had put himself at their head and found Don Alphonso
surrounded by women, children, and old men; who, weeping, kissed his
hands, with unfeigned gratitude, for having preserved their husbands,
their fathers, or their sons.
The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Alphonso, loaded him with
praises and caresses; but Marina, requesting to be heard, declared to
the governor in presence of the whole village, her sex; giving, at the
same time, a relation of her adventures, the death of the bravo by Don
Alphonso, and the circumstances which rendered him excusable.
All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, fell at the feet
of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were
indebted for their preservation. Their request was granted, and the
happy Alphonso, thus restored to his dear Marina, embraced the governor,
and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced:
‘Brave stranger,’ said he, ‘you are our deliverer, but you take from us
our Alcaid; this loss perhaps outweighs your benefit. Double our
blessings; instead of depriving us of our greatest, remain in this
village; condescend to become our Alcaid, our master, our friend. Honour
us so far, as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great
city, the cowardly and the wicked, who maintain the same rank with
yourself, will think themselves your equals; while, here, every virtuous
inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself,
you will receive, from us, the highest honour; and, while life remains,
on the anniversary of this day, the fathers of our families will present
their children before you, saying, ‘behold the man who preserved the
lives of your mothers.’
Alphonso was enchanted while he listened to the old man. ‘Yes,’ cried
he, ‘my children, yes, my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be
devoted to Marina and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions
in Granada. Our excellent governor will add his interest to ours that we
may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which
the Infidels have burnt. On this condition alone, will I accept the
office of Alcaid; and though I should expend in your service, both my
riches and my life, I should still be your debtor; for it is you who
have restored to me my Marina!’
Imagine the transports of the villagers while Alphonso spoke. The
governor was a person of power, and undertook to arrange every thing to
his wish; and, two days afterwards, the marriage was celebrated between
Marina and her lover.
Notwithstanding their late misfortunes, nothing could exceed the joy of
the inhabitants. The two lovers long lived in unexampled felicity; and
made the whole district as virtuous and happy as themselves.
* * * * *
* * * *