This excess of pedantry is the principal defect in the oratory of Lord

Brougham. He has been well called the school-master. I do not deny his

extraordinary gifts as a learned debater, always caustic and

indefatigable; but these extravagant discourses are out of all

proportion, above all in the House of Lords, which treats all

questions in a summary way, and in some degree after the fashion of

the drawing room. It is a great want of tact not to suit oneself to

one's audience. The manner of Henry Brougham was much more suitable to

the House of Commons, where discussions are more full, and where one

is less prepared to come to an early conclusion; he still retains the

lawyer. He has never been able to throw off the violent and comic

gestures of the gown, storming and thundering, in reciting a date or a

section of a law. Without doubt his harangues fatigue him as much as

they do those who listen to him; he does not spare himself, bawling

and gesticulating without any regard to his own person; he bends and

twists himself like a posture master; he dances and leaps with his

words; he perspires and grows heated, but he leaves the hearer cold;

his is not the eloquence which inflames the blood.

I would censure Lord Brougham more severely as a writer than as a

speaker; for Lord Brougham is also a writer, and a good deal too much

of one. The melancholy activity which distinguishes him, pushes him on

incessantly to fill the reviews with his economical, political,

scientific, historical, and theological essays, and to heap up

pamphlet on pamphlet; if his writings were characterized by a finished

style or new ideas, the evil would not be half so great; there is,

however, eternally the same excessive flood of words; and on paper,

where they cannot evaporate, it becomes even more intolerable. Though

on his own part it has not been an interested speculation, I cannot

pardon him for having been the father of that leprous, cheap

literature, which, pretending to diffuse useful knowledge, has only

displayed false opinions, ignorance, and bad writing. In France, where

this disastrous invention has been so quickly perfected, there is good

cause to curse in all sincerity its author. It is not his fault

however, that the French have permitted their worthless laborers to

infect, as they have done, all their literary field, with these tares

which threaten to choke the promising harvest of their young poetry.

Let us examine Lord Brougham as a politician. Here we find him still

more imperfect. I acquit him of the charge of having offered his

support to the conservatives, on the condition of their securing him

his chancellorship; this is a calumny of his enemies. I wish he had

never had any thing to do with toryism. It is not his fault however,

that he has not again become a whig officer. It is said that it is the

whigs who object to his joining their ministry, and who have refused

him the seals. Experience has proved that he is less dangerous as an

enemy than as a friend. He is neither tory nor whig; nor is he a

radical; he is however at present among the radicals. He is of no

party, if it be not his own, the party of Lord Brougham.

The case of Lord Brougham ought to afford a salutary example to M.

Dupin, his friend. There are many curious analogies between these two

celebrated lawyers; they resemble each other strikingly in their

countenances, in their fortune, in their inconsistencies, and in their

extravagancies. M. Dupin does not preside more soberly over the

Chamber of Deputies, than Lord Brougham did over that of the Lords. He

is also a {644} lawyer who fills the speaker's chair, and speaks

himself much more willingly than he accords the permission to another.

I grant you that his eloquence is of better metal, more powerful, more

solid, more triumphant; that his blows are heavier and more mortal;

but should he ever succeed in reaching the power after which he

aspires, I doubt if his temperament will allow him to sustain himself

half the time that the petulance of our ci-devant chancellor remained

seated on the woolsack.

IANTHE.

BY MORNA.

Oh! if to die in life's young hours,

Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers;

While Hope still soars on tireless wing,

Where skies are bright with changeless Spring;

Ere Sorrow's tear has dimm'd the eye,

That late with rapture's glance was swelling;

Or Grief has sent the bursting sigh

In silence to its lonely dwelling:

Oh! if to part with this world only,

Where all is cold, and bleak, and lonely—

To welcome in those happier spheres,

The loved and lost of parted years;

If this give pain, or waken sadness,

Oh! who can tell the more than madness

Circling thro' life the hearts that bear

The chains that wounded spirits wear—

To live, and yet to feel thro' life

The aching wish, the ceaseless strife—

The yearnings of a bleeding breast,

To sink within the grave to rest;

To smile, when every smile must wear

The hue and coldness of despair;

To weep, or only strive in vain

To waken tears, that ne'er again

Shall cool the fever of that eye,

Whose fountains are forever dry:

When joys are gone, and hope has fled,

And friends are changed, and love is dead,

And we are doomed alone to wait,

And struggle with a bitter fate—

Left like some lone and towering rock,

To brave the ocean's battling shock,

'Till broken by some mightier wave,

That bears it to a lonely grave.

My early years, how coldly bright

The memory of their parted light

Falls round the heart, whose cords are broken,

Or, only strung to suffering's power,

When struck in grief's o'erwhelming hour,

Give back to sorrow's touch a token.

My sire, alas! they say he died

When in the flower of manhood's pride:

I stood beside that parent's bier,

And wondered why the big bright tear

Was coursing down my mother's cheek;

She took my hand, but could not speak—

I kiss'd her then, and sadly smiled,

Nor felt I was an orphan child.

My Mother! how the thoughts of years,

With all their smiles, and all their tears,

Rush with the memory of her name

Upon me—and I seem the same

Bright, careless child she looked upon,

And joyed to call her fair-haired son:—

Oh, I remember well the time

She led me to our favorite bower;

It was in Spring's sweet, sunny prime,

And just at sunset's dying hour,

When woods, and hills, and waters seem

Wrapt in some soft, mysterious dream—

When birds are still, and folded flowers

Their dark green lids are peering through,

Waiting the coming evening hours,

Within each bright cup to renew

The wasted wealth of morning dew—

When spirit voices seem to sigh

In every breeze that wanders by—

And thoughts grow hushed in that calm hour,

Beneath its soft, subduing power.

She knelt, and breathed to heaven a prayer,

“That God would guard that orphan there”—

Then turned, and with a faltering tone,

She took my hand within her own,

And said, “I ne'er should find another

To love me as she loved me then”—

And I could only say, “my Mother!”

And fall upon her neck again,

And bathe it with my burning tears—

The bleeding heart's most precious rain—

That I had hoarded there for years,

And hoped to never shed again;

Nor knew, alas! how soon the heart,

When all its early ties are parted,

Will link it to some kindred heart—

That wounded bird and broken-hearted

Are soonest won, and cling the longest

To those who seek their ruined wealth.

* * * * *

She died, and then, alas! I thought

My cup of suffering was o'erfraught—

No voice to cheer, when sorrow's power

Assailed me in her darkest hour—

No lip to smile, when hope was bright,

No eye to glad me with its light—

No heart to meet my throbbing heart—

No prayer to lift my thoughts above,

When murmuring tears were forced to start—

No Father's care!—no Mother's love!

Ye, that have known in life's young spring,

The fondness of a Mother's love,

Oh guard it, 'tis an holy thing,

A priceless treasure from above!

And when, on life's tempestuous sea,

Thy shatter'd bark by storm is driven,

'Twill be a beacon-light to thee,

A guiding star, by memory given,

To lead thy wandering thoughts to Heaven.

The Spring renews the leafless tree,

And Time may check the bosom's grief—

And thus it wrought a change on me,

But oh! mine hour of Spring was brief.

They are who tell us, “love's a flower, {645}

That only blooms in cloudless skies—

That gaily thrives in pleasure's bower,

But touched by sorrow, droops and dies.”

Not so was ours! we never loved

'Till suffering had our spirits proved,

And then there seemed a strange communion,

Sinking our souls in deathless union:

Such power hath love to render dear

The hearts that grief hath made so near,

That we had loved each other less,

Save for our very loneliness.

Her gentler spirit was not formed

To war with stern misfortune's storm,

And soon we felt, that day by day

She yielded to a slow decay,

Wearing unseen her life away.

And yet so sweet the smile that played

On lips that ne'er a sigh betrayed—

So calm the light that lingering slept

In eyes that ne'er for pain had wept,

We could not grieve, but only pray,

That when that light should pass away,

The faint, sad smile might linger yet,

And vainly teach us to forget.

She died! I know not when or where—

I never knew—for silent there

I stood, unconscious, strange and wild,

In all save thought and tears, a child;

For sorrow's channels then were sealed,

Or flowed too deep to be revealed.

I stood beside her grass-grown grave,

And saw the boughs above it wave;

And then I felt that I was changed—

That reason, late so far estranged,

Had won me from my spirit's madness,

To settled grief and silent sadness:

I placed bright flowers above her grave,

And nursed them with my warmest tears,

And for my grief a balm they gave,

The memory of departed years.

Ianthe! o'er thine early tomb

The Summer's winds are gently blowing,

And fair white flowers, the first to bloom,

Around thy narrow home are growing;

And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle,

Fit emblem of thy spirit's love!

And near it mourns the gentle turtle,

And I, how like to that lone dove!

While every leaf, and flower, and tree

Is fraught with memory of thee.

And oh! if true, who tell us death

Can never quench its purer fires—

That not with life's last faltering breath,

The soul's immortal love expires;

If heart meets kindred heart above,

Shall we not greet each other there?

Say, was not ours a deathless love?

Too deep, too strong for life to bear!

Then let us hope to meet again,

Ere long, in guiltless transport there,

With bliss for all the grief and pain

We here on earth were doomed to share,

And love on, through unending years,

Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears.

A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS:

_Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist_.

BY A YANKEE DAUBER.

Painting is welcome;—

The painting is almost the natural man;

For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,

He is but outside. These pencilled figures are

Even such as they give out.

_Timon of Athens_.

III.

Chagres—The Castle—Mine Host—No English and no Spanish for two—Mule

Riding—A Fit-out for Panama—Up in the World—The Stone Ladder—A Yarn.

It is now some weeks since I opened my note book, and I confess the

cause to be pure idleness alone. However, my pencil meanwhile has not

lain dormant, as my portfolio will convince you. After all, _cui

bono?_ Why should a fellow be expected to write a journal on

shipboard? The record of one day upon a voyage is the record of all

others. This day we see “a booby,” (an animal not rare, you will say,

on shore) the next, perhaps, a turtle, and on the next we may be

amused with a short skirmish between a whale and a sword-fish, or a

more deadly one between contending shoals of hostile sharks: then we

see “Cape Fly-away,” and after that we see——nothing!

Our voyage to Chagres, instead of five days, was extended to fifteen.

The pilots live on board, and make a point of lying out for a wind or

a tide, until they have laid in sustenance enough to last them while

another ship shall demand their services, and then convoy their

patient victims into port. But we got in at last, and were thankful.

The scenery here is surpassingly lovely, rich beyond any description

of which my pen or pencil is capable. I found great delight in being

once more on land, after my tedious passage—for I profess, without a

blush, to be a determined land-lubber, you are aware—and began to look

about me with as much greenness as a country boy on his first visit to

the Metropolis. With the exception of the old Gothic castles of my own

country, that at Chagres is the finest I have ever seen. It occupies a

great space of ground, and is remarkable for its strong and massive

walls, reaching to a great height, and commanding the whole town as

well as the river and coast. The prospect from this castle's walls is

full of the richest and most varied beauty.

Finding that our vessel was likely to be detained for some days at

Chagres, I determined to cross the Isthmus, and visit Panama. Owing to

the want of industry, or rather to the most consummate laziness, which

is a characteristic of the natives, I was three whole days endeavoring

to engage any one to carry me up the river. The consequence was that,

the river, in the mean time, having risen prodigiously, I was four

days and a half, including of course the four nights, on a route of

about forty or fifty miles! During this time I went on shore {646} at

night, sleeping on the ground with a billet of wood for my pillow, and

disturbed in my slumbers by droves of pigs, which as they rooted up

the soil around me, paid no sort of attention to my convenience.

Occasionally a horse would browse down to my couch, and reach his long

neck over me as I lay, to nibble a cornhusk or a yam on the other side

of my pillow—and as to the cows, they were perpetually snuffing at me.

I say nothing, though I felt much, of the musquitoes!

With what delight did I behold the landing place, which, after my

rough journey, was pointed out to me by my conductor. They who are

accustomed to travel in Europe and America, can have no idea of it.

Here I hastened to present my letters to Signor P——, a gentleman who

was to be my host while I staid. Our conversation was rather limited,

as you may readily conceive, when I mention that he could not speak a

word of my language, nor I a syllable of his, which was

Castillaña—(they never say ‘_Spanish_’ there.) But the language of

actions is often more eloquent than that of words—at least so thought

I, when my host ordered a comfortable repast to be placed before me,

consisting of fricasseed fowl, and Vermicelli soup, with a magnum of

generous claret. This was certainly a delightful exchange for my five

days fast upon half boiled rice and plaintains, as were my soft pillow

and quiet apartment a great improvement upon my nocturnal

accommodations while on the route.

Early the next morning I found myself mounted on the back, or to be

more exact, I should say something like a half mile _above_ the back,

of an animal which I had at first some difficulty in naming. In all my

life, (albeit something of an equestrian, as _you_ know,) I was never

so put to it to take an advantage of my knowledge of horsemanship.

Conceive me placed high above a tall raw-boned mule's back, (the

saddle one of the old Saracenic or Moorish pattern, fastened by a

multiplicity of strands, made of hair rope, to a ring tied to the

saddle by a single loop of leather,) and at the mercy of this single

string to guide not one of the gentlest of beasts, reminding the

reader of Peter Pindar of the ass, “with retrograding rump and

wriggling tail,” jumping alternately to each side of the street, and

occasionally turning round and kicking sidewise, like a cat in search

of her tail, or a dog vainly attempting to rid himself of the

_addendum_ of a tin-kettle! What a merry figure I must have cut!

My mule was a picture in himself. I have already called him

raw-boned,—and you may deduce his _coup d'œil_ from this attribute.

Add, however, the details of the beast, and you shall acknowledge that

he was _sui generis_. His ears stuck straight out to the front, sure

sign of wicked intentions, and the nose was curled into a thousand

ill-natured wrinkles. The horse-cloth was made like a hearth-rug,

heavy, matted, and thick, and on the top of that was placed a straw

pad about four inches thick, to prevent the pressure of the saddle

from hurting him. Surmounting this mountainous ridge was the saddle

itself, and such a one! It was the real demipique of the middle ages,

and was doubtless two hundred years old itself. The leather was

originally a bright tan-color, but was now grown black and glossy by

age and wear, and as hard as if made of iron. So hard was it that I

turned the edge of my knife, in endeavoring to cut a strap which gave

way during my ride. On this pyramidal pinnacle, which I have described

stone by stone, as it were, behold me seated. The reins are handed me

by the groom, who undertakes the whole guidance and direction of the

process of mounting, as any departure from his regulations in this

respect would result in the total overthrow of the whole mass upon

which the rider is doomed to sit. Being mounted, I discovered that the

stirrups were thrown over the saddle, and the strap connecting them

tied in a knot, beside which was another, formed by the tying of the

girth in a similar manner; this last being improved by the strap of

the crupper brought through a hole behind in the saddle and made fast

to the pommel. All these knots (reminding me of Obadiah's in “Tristram

Shandy,”) stood up in front and rear, and as there was no pad above as

there was below, to prevent the manifold injuries that were like to

result to the rider upon such an establishment, you may judge of the

consequences of riding a hard trotting mule, thus caparisoned, for

twenty seven miles. I shall carry the scars I got, to my grave, if I

survive to the age of Methusalem. The bridle was a rope of hair, as

was the halter beneath, and the bit—oh ye gods! what a bit! It weighed

at the very least ten pounds avoirdupois, and hung down full twelve

inches below the jaws of the mule. Lo, there was I, in a coarse straw

hat, and a queer cotton travelling toggery, with a pair of spurs, such

as John of Gaunt might have used, being made of brass, with a shank

six inches long, tied by a strap which first went round the foot, and

then three or four times round the leg, each spike in the rowel being

an inch and a half long, the whole forming a _tout ensemble_, worthy

of the pencil of George Cruikshank or Horace Vernet. As neither of

them are at hand, take the accompanying sketch, rudely done to the

life by my own pencil.

You will see by the foregoing description, the sort of animal and

equipments with which Signor P—— favored me. I assure you it is not in

the least caricatured, either as the figure or accompaniments are

concerned. The pencilling will give you an idea of the sort of road

upon which I travelled from Cruzes, the residence of my host, to

Panama. About halfway on, I stood upon a hill overlooking two oceans

at once. I saw on the one side the bay of Panama, and the Caribbean

sea on the other. As I proceeded, I came to a spot, where, for several

yards, the ascent is up a kind of stone ladder. It is in a narrow

pass, where, between two banks of twelve to eighteen feet in height,

there is a continued face of black rock, worn so smooth by a constant

run of water, as to afford the mules only the small holes made in the

crevices by their predecessors, as the means of ascent. As they

dragged themselves up in this manner by these rude steps, I could not

but admire the sure footedness of the animals. While on the open

ground, they are full of tricks, and are constantly trying to displace

their rider, but so soon as they find themselves in a difficult pass

like that I have described, they seem to say to themselves—“Come,

come, no fooling now—let's be steady,” and in a moment they are the

steadiest and soberest of animals.

This pass is called the Governor's Fall, from this circumstance. A

governor of the territory, in the times of the early Spaniards, was

ascending it, on his way to Panama, when his mule, less sure footed

than my own, fell backward with him, and killed him instantly. The

{647} anecdote startled me a little, as may be easily imagined,

related to me as it was on the very spot, and under circumstances

precisely similar to those under which it occurred. However, vanity

came to my aid, and prompted me to endeavor to perform what the

governor had so fatally failed in accomplishing, and my attempt was

successful.

IV.

Panama—A Scotsman—Architecture—A Gold Story—Tobago—A Beauty—The

Sketcher in Love—The way to live on Pine Apples—Snakes—A Perilous

Bath.

I arrived at Panama in eight hours, an astonishingly short time

considering the roads, and as there are no boarding or lodging houses

in the town, I made my way at once to the grand square, where I had a

letter of introduction to a braw Scot, Mr. McK——, who received

me like a brother Briton. His hospitality displayed itself in some

novel ways. As my luggage was still on the road, I was stripped and

bathed in brandy, to counteract the effects of a severe wetting I had

received on my journey, and equipped _cap à pie_ from the wardrobe of

mine host. He was very tall, and his linen trowsers hung around me “as

a purser's shirt upon a handspike,” to use a nautical simile of more

expressiveness than elegance. I was indebted to my new friend even for

the loan of a hat, mine having been substituted at Cruzes for a negro

hat to ride in. This last article of my travelling equipments seemed

to scandalize the good Panamians not a little.

It was a treat to me, living as I had been for six years in a new

country, to find myself once more among such stately ruins and antique

edifices, as the churches, monasteries, colleges and nunneries, which,

erected upon the first introduction of christianity into Southern

America, are still standing either in part, or entire. My portfolio

will show you with what warmth and enthusiasm I greeted them. The

ruins of the monastery of St. Francesco, and the college of the

Jesuits, are as beautiful specimens of architecture as can be

imagined. They were built with all that taste of design and

gorgeousness of finish, which the founders of them derived from the

Moors of Grenada. I spent much time in wandering among their massive

columns and fallen entablatures, their heavy lofty walls and

sculptured ruins.

The wealth of the town is not great at present, although I heard many

Panamians speak of the abundance which existed ten or fifteen years

ago, when sacks of gold were wont to lie like any other heavy

merchandize, all night in the principal street, with no one near to

watch them. No one thought of stealing, for no one wanted aught. It

was, in truth, “the golden age.” I, of course, as you will do,

probably, received this legend with some few reserved doubts of its

authenticity. As a _pendant_ to it, I was also informed of a curious

custom that at the same time prevailed in the Isthmus. In the dance,

if a gentleman wished to make himself acceptable to a lady, he would

take his hand full of small golden coin, and throw it among the circle

of spectators, (every one is admitted to the dances,) so that it

became a matter of fashionable boast among the fair ones, “I have had

so many pieces thrown for me,” etc. etc. But things are not now “as

they used to was,” and a Panamian is now apt to consider the

possession of a real regular immutilated doubloon a god-send: the

currency being in what they call _cut money_—that is, the large coin

cut or divided into bitts of the denomination of dollars, reals, &c.

&c.

While at Panama I made a trip to some of the Pacific Islands in the

neighborhood: the principal one I visited was Tobago, one of the most

curious and striking spots I have ever seen. The island is about eight

miles in length, and four or five in breadth, rising into a high hill

in the centre, thickly wooded, and yet there is not a tree upon the

island, that does not bear a fruit. I was there during a church

festival, and there was uninterrupted dancing the whole week. Some of

the women are very beautiful, and among them there was one to whom I

had nearly lost my heart during the short time I was at Tobago, so

transcendant was her beauty. I do not call it loveliness—it was

passion, (and so my fit was soon over.) She had no face—do you know

what I mean? it was all _feature_. Excuse a dauber's smacking of “the

shop.” And then what a model was she for the sculptor! A fine though

not a high forehead, upon which the jetty hair was most simply yet

tastefully parted; eyes large and dark as the hair; but with _such_ a

fire in them! Her nose was beautifully chiselled, and her disparted

lips disclosed teeth more white than pearl. Her form, so youthful was

she, was not developed, and figure, as such, she had none. But what

passion was in that soul! She crossed my path in the dance, at church,

on the island's beach, and every where it was the same—she was all

soul. I saw her angry, and I thought I would not rouse her for the

world; and then, _reveried_ I, what must she be, if in love! The

thought threw me into a brown study, out of which I awoke, and I soon

began to feel completely in love—but it was with the _pine_ apples of

Tobago! Never ate I such delicious fruit before as this, the abundant

product of the island I have described. For my own part I quite forgot

my Katinka, and gave myself up to the fascinations of a cheaper and

more easily accessible luxury. I used to consume, upon an average,

eight pine apples _per diem_, without fear of cholera, dispepsia, or

any of the train of “ills that flesh is heir to.” There was a place

they called “The Bishop's Bath,” formed in a rock by the constant

running of a stream of pure water, and sufficiently deep for a bath.

Here several of us were wont to meet every day and refresh ourselves

with the delicious coolness of the water—our host always despatching a

servant with a hamper of pines, as an accompaniment of our bath. Upon

our return a profusion of fruits awaited us: melons, pines, cocoas,

mangoes, &c &c. These we would eat from the table, or as we lay upon

our beds. All this was too luxurious for me, and I began to feel sure

that if I were to give myself up unyieldingly to the fascinations

around me, while at this island of Pomona, I should never be fit for

any thing else again as long as I lived.

I enjoyed my rambles about the island very much at first, but soon

began to learn the old lesson of the thorn under the rose, the bitter

mingled with the sweet, the drop of poison in the cooling cup, &c.

Throughout New Grenada, there are thousands of snakes, the bite of

almost all of which is fatal. That of the black snake, the species so

common and so innocent in the United States, is as poisonous here as

the rattlesnake is there. So I soon began to confine myself to the

coast, and gave up rambling. I remember one occasion, upon which I

{648} got a deuse of a fright. I had been bathing, and had left the

water but about five minutes, when a gentleman, who was undressing to

go into the same bath, perceived and pointed out to me a small snake

swimming about in it, very much at his ease. We took the reptile out

and killed it on the margin of the basin. It was a small red snake,

marked with black rings, and its bite is instant death. It is a common

opinion that island snakes are harmless. It may be so—but I had rather

take the theory for granted without a practical illustration of it in

my own person.

We returned to Panama in time to witness the bull fights, which last

three or four days, in August, the anniversary of the revolution which

resulted in the independence of New Grenada. I must sharpen my pencil,

and nib my pen afresh to tell you of my amusement during those three

or four days.

* * * * *

SACRED SONG.

“Where are now the blooming bowers.”

Where are now the blooming bowers

That I saw in early May?

Where are all those fairest flowers

That were soon to pass away?

And the Loves my bosom nourished,

And the Joys that still came on?

Like those flowers, once they flourished,

Like those flowers, they are gone.

Fancy now no more shall borrow

Beams of beauty from the skies;

Hope no more, to soothe my sorrow,

Whisper, “brighter suns shall rise.”

Yet one thought my soul shall cherish,

For the word of God is sure,

And the heavens and earth shall perish,

But his mercy shall endure.

THE TWO SISTERS.

BY MADAME JULIE DELAFAYE-BRÉHIER.

[Translated from the French.]

... On a peu de temps à l'être (belle,)

Et de temps à ne l'être plus!

_Madame Deshoulières_.

In a parlor furnished with much taste, and from the half-opened

windows of which were seen the winding walks, and “alleys green,” of a

park, filled with magnificent and shady trees, two young ladies were

employing themselves in those delicate works, which have become the

portion of our sex, and which, whilst they appear to occupy the

fingers only, serve also to divert the mind in a pleasant manner, and

even to give a greater facility to the current of thought. One of the

females, either by chance or design, had placed herself opposite a

mirror, where she could not lift her eyes from her work, without

seeing herself reflected therein, adorned in all the brightness of a

beauty of seventeen years, who might have served as a model to the

sculptor, as a study to the painter. A rich profusion of black hair,

in the tasteful adjustment of which, Art had so nicely seconded the

gift of Nature, that it was scarcely possible to say to which its

elegance was owing, set off the snowy whiteness of the neck and face;

and I would add, (if I may once more be permitted to avail myself of

the superannuated comparison,) that the freshest rose could alone

compare its beauty with the carnation of her cheek and lip; to these

charms were added, a form of the most graceful proportions; and, all

that the youthful may borrow, with discernment, from the art of the

toilette, had been employed to increase, still farther, beauty already

so attractive.

Half concealed beneath the draperies of the window, near which she had

placed herself to obtain a more favorable light, the other female

pursued her occupation with undistracted attention; a certain gravity

appeared in her dress, in her countenance, and in her physiognomy

altogether. Her eyes were beautiful, but calmness was their chief

expression; her smile was obliging, but momentary; the brilliant hues

of youth, now evidently fading on her cheeks, less rounded than once

they were, appeared but as the lightest shadings of a picture;

sometimes, indeed, deepened by sudden and as transient emotion, like

the colors which meteors throw on the clouds of the heavens in the

evening storms of summer. The gauzes, the rubies, the jewels, with

which the young adorn themselves, were not by her employed merely as

ornaments; she availed herself of them, to conceal with taste, the

outrages of years; for the weight of more than thirty years was

already upon her; and the ingenious head dress with which she had

surmounted her hair, served to hide, at the same time, some silvery

tell-tales, which had dared thus prematurely, to mingle with her long

tresses of blond.

“There's broken again! look at that detestable silk!” said the younger

female, throwing her work on to a sofa; “I will not do another stitch

to day.”

She rose, and approaching the mirror before her, amused herself by

putting up afresh the curls of her hair.

“You want patience, Leopoldine,” answered her sister, looking on her

affectionately, “and without that will accomplish nothing. You will

require patience as well to conduct you through the world, as to

enable you to finish a purse.”

“I know the rest, my sister,” replied the younger, smiling. “Do you

forget that a certain person has charged himself with the duty of

teaching me the lesson? Ten purses, like that which I am embroidering,

would not put me out of patience so much as this silence of M. de

Berville. Can you conceive what detains him thus?” added she, seating

herself near her sister, “for, in fact, he loves me, that is certain,

and nothing remains but for him to avow the fact to my aunt Dorothée.”

“This looks very like presumption,” my dear Leopoldine, pursued the

elder sister, “and that is not good; what can it signify to you what

he _thinks!_ I hope your happiness does not depend on him.”

“My happiness? oh! doubtless not, but, in a word, Stephanie, he is a

suitable person, and if he will explain himself——”

“It will then be time to think of him; until then, my sister, I beg of

you to see in M. de Berville but an {649} estimable friend of our

family, an amiable man whose society we honor. A young person should

never hasten to give up her heart—above all, to one who has not asked

it.”

“Be easy on that subject, sister; I mean to keep a good watch over

mine; the venture of your heroine of romance will never tempt me; but

this is the fact, sister, I do not wish to remain an _old maid_.”

At these words, which Leopoldine spoke inconsiderately, the

countenance of Stephanie was flushed with a sudden crimson, and for a

moment shone with as beautiful a brightness as that of her young

sister.

“There is a condition worse than that,” answered the former, with

lively emotion; “it is, to have formed an ill-assorted union.”

“Indeed, my sister, I did not dream I should give you offence,”

replied the young female, much embarrassed, “but the world is so

strange! you know this yourself. Thus I cannot conceive how it is that

you have remained single.”

“If no one has wished to espouse me,” added Stephanie, smiling.

“What! In reality? Can such a thing be possible?”

“Assuredly, although I believe it is a case which rarely happens, and

I grant did _not_ happen to me, for I found many opportunities of

entering the married state, but not one which was suitable.”

“You were, perhaps, difficult to please?”

“I think not. Whilst yet young, about your age, my hand was sought by

one who lacked nothing but a fortune, or at least, an estate, capable

of supporting him in respectable society. Our parents, at that time,

deprived of the rich heritage which they have recovered since your

birth, refused him my hand, for a motive, which I have since, though

by slow degrees, learnt to appreciate, but which then rent my heart.

My thwarted inclination left me with an indifference as to marriage;

it was the way in which my youth resented its injury. I would have

none but a husband after my own heart; not finding such a one, I

resigned myself to be no more than an _old maid_, finding it more easy

to bear the unjust scorn and ridicule of frivolous people, than to

drag on to my tomb under a yoke, troublesome and oppressively heavy.”

“Do you not sometimes feel regret?”

“No, Leopoldine; that condition, which appears to you so frightful,

has its happinesses, as well as the other states of life. I have

shaped my resolution with a regard to the wounds of self-love, which I

have had to endure; I have called into my aid the arts and letters,

which it is so difficult for married females to cultivate with

constancy, without prejudice to their domestic duties; and lastly,

when by the death of our dear parents, I found myself in charge of

your childhood, in concert with our worthy aunt, my liberty became

doubly dear to me. Had I been a wife and mother, I should not have

been able to devote myself to you as I have done. Have I not had

reason, then, to remain unmarried?”

“Well, if I should tell the truth, Stephanie, after all you have said,

I should better like to be ill matched, than not matched at all.”

“This perverseness gives me pain, my child,” replied the elder sister,

“but I will believe that it is for want of reflecting on the matter

that you talk thus.”

An aged lady, the aunt of the two sisters, came in at this moment,

holding in her hand a closed parasol, which she used as a support. She

seated herself in an arm chair, resting her feet on a footstool, which

Leopoldine placed for her. After regarding for a while both her

nieces, with a look of complacency, she thus addressed them.

“They tell me that M. de Berville is at the entrance of the avenue.

For which of your sakes is it he honors us with so frequent visits?

For my own part, I am quite at a loss to say. The more I observe him,

the less I can divine his intentions.”

“You would be jocular with us, aunt,” answered Stephanie, “there can

be no doubt as to his choice; it is as if any one could hesitate

between a mother and her daughter.”

“But he has not explained his views,” rejoined the aunt, “and it is

very fine for you to make out you are old, my niece; I find you still

very young, compared with me.”

“You forget too, aunt,” added Leopoldine, in a lively tone, “that M.

de Berville is, to the full, as old as my sister. If merit alone was

sufficient, I should have reason to fear in her a dangerous rival; but

my amiable sister is without pretensions; she knows that youth is an

all-powerful advantage, although in reality a very frivolous one,

perhaps——”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the aunt, “take heed, my child; reckon not

too much upon that youth, nor even on the beauty which accompanies it;

I have seen strange things in my time; and a man capable of holding

himself neutral so long, is not one of those who may be subjugated

with a ruby, or caught by a well-disposed bouquet of flowers.”

A smile of incredulity passed upon the lips of Leopoldine, who was

about to make an answer in accordance with that smile, when M. de

Berville was announced. Although of an age somewhat too mature for a

_very_ young man, his dignified and elegant manners, his fine figure,

his distinguished intellect, his reputation as a man of honor,

together with his fortune, made him “a match” which no young lady

could deem unworthy; and I have made the reader already acquainted

with the favorable sentiments entertained towards him by the beautiful

Leopoldine. Stephanie entertained full as high an opinion of his

merits as her younger sister; it may be even, that being best able to

appreciate the estimable character of M. de Berville, she rendered to

it the most justice; but she received him simply as a mother who

believes she has met the future protector of her daughter, and

endeavored, by innocent means, to bring to a successful issue the plan

of happiness which she had secretly conceived. The aunt, piquing

herself on her skill in finesse, sat observant of the actors in that

scene, hoping to penetrate from their behavior, into their most secret

thoughts. As to Leopoldine, the veil of modesty, beneath which she

sought to conceal her real feeling, was not sufficient entirely to

conceal the joy of the coquette, rejoicing in the triumph of her

charms. Yet that joy and that triumph received some checks; for she

did not appear, even during that visit, to occupy exclusively the

attention of M. de Berville, as though she alone was the object he

came to visit. The conversation took a serious and instructive

turn—one little suited to the taste of the young and frivolous. They

discoursed of the sciences, the arts, and of {650} literature: I have

said that Stephanie had made these things a source of comfort and

recreation—that she had occupied her mind in such pursuits, not for

the purpose of display, but as a charm to her leisure hours; such a

companion as M. de Berville was well adapted to value rightly the mind

and the knowledge of Stephanie. She suffered herself to be drawn into

the current of the various topics of conversation with a pleasure very

natural; and Madame Dorothée plainly perceived that de Berville was

even more pleased than her amiable niece.

Proud of her youth and beauty, Leopoldine had disdained

instruction—neglecting, for childish gaiety, the lessons of her

masters and the recommendations of her sister; music and dancing were

the only arts that she would consent to cultivate; those, because they

might serve to make her shine in the world. Incapable of taking part

in the interesting conversation which was going on before her, ennui

began to show its effects on her charming figure—moodiness took

possession of her spirits, and fits of yawning, ill suppressed,

threatened each moment to betray her. M. de Berville, altogether

occupied in the pleasure he was enjoying, perceived it not, but

Stephanie, guessing the misery of her sister, contrived adroitly to

introduce the subject of music; and, thereupon, begged of her sister

to sit down to the piano. She knew that her sister's voice was

considered remarkably fine by M. de Berville, and hoped by this means

to recall his attention to her, but the old aunt thought she could

perceive that M. de Berville found need to task all his politeness to

hide the disagreement he felt to the proposition; and Stephanie

herself discerned much of coldness in the compliments which he

addressed to the pretty songstress.

Botany is a science peculiarly suitable to females who reside in the

country; it is a source of ingenious discoveries, and of pleasures

equally elevated and delightful. Under the shade of trees, or the

fresh greensward, on the banks of the river and the brook, and on the

sides of the rock, are its charming lessons inscribed. M. de Berville

loved the science, and offered to teach it to the two sisters; they

accepted the offer, the elder from taste, the young Leopoldine from

coquetry, seeing no more in it than an opportunity of displaying her

lightness and her gracefulness, in running here and there over the

grass, to gather the flowers. She insisted upon one condition,

however, which was, that they should only go out in the mornings and

evenings, so as not to expose their complexions to the heat of the

sun. Stephanie approved of these precautions. The care taken by a

female to preserve her personal advantages has in it nothing

blameable, and Stephanie was the first in setting the example of this

to her sister; but on more than one occasion, the desire to possess

herself of some flower, rare or curious, carried her above the fear of

darkening her skin a little; whilst Leopoldine, the miserable slave of

her own beauty, could not enjoy any of the pleasure freely and without

fear. One circumstance—and it is of a grave character—will show to

what an extent she was capable of sacrificing every thing to her

frivolous vanity.

A burning state of the atmosphere was scorching up all nature; the sun

at its highest point of splendor, presented the image of that

celestial glory, before which the angels themselves bow down and

worship; the withered plants bent beneath the solar ray; the birds

were silent in the depth of the wood; the locust alone, interrupted by

his shrill cry, the silence of creation. Bathed in sweat, the reaper

slept extended on the sheaf, whilst the traveller, in a like repose by

the side of some shaded fountain, awaited the hour when the sun,

drawing nearer to the horizon, should permit him to continue his

journey.

In an apartment, from which the light and heat were half excluded,

surrounding a table covered with plants, Stephanie and Leopoldine were

listening to M. de Berville, whilst he explained to them the ingenious

system of Linnæus, or the more easy system, the “great _families_” of

Tournefort, when a letter was brought in for Madame Dorothée, who was

engaged in reading.

“Sad news! sad news!” she exclaimed, addressing her nieces. “Our

excellent neighbor, Madame Rével, has met with a horrible accident; it

is feared that her leg is broken.”

“Good heavens! can such an accident have happened?” cried Leopoldine.

“And yesterday she was so well! We will go to see her to-morrow

morning. Shall we not, Stephanie?”

“To-day rather, Leopoldine, to-day. Let us not defer for an instant

the consolation which it may depend on us to impart to her.”

“Well, then, this evening, after the sun has set.”

“No, no, let us set out immediately, and we will pass, beside her, the

rest of the day; M. de Berville will, I know, excuse us.”

“Impossible!” answered Leopoldine, “go out, so hot as it is! it would

be wilfully to seek a _coup de soleil_, which would make us perfect

blacks for the rest of the summer.”

“We can shield ourselves with a veil—with our parasols——”

“I should not feel myself safe in a sack; and for nothing in this

world would I leave this house till the day is over.”

“You forget, Leopoldine, with what courage Madame Rével came from her

house alone, on foot, in the middle of a December night, in spite of

the frost and the snow, to attend you when you had the measles,

because they told her you had expressed a wish to see her instantly.”

“Well, sister, I would sooner confront a cold north wind than the

sun.”

“The heat can no more be stopped than the cold, Leopoldine.”

“Nothing is so frightful as a black skin.”

“Sister, though I knew I should become as black as an African, I would

not leave our friend without consolation at such a time; I will go

with our servant girl; believe me, you will hereafter be sorry you did

not follow my example.”

“Permit _me_ to accompany you, Miss,” said M. de Berville, taking his

hat.

“Really,” answered Stephanie, “I do not know that I ought to consent

to it; an hour's walk beneath a burning sun——”

“I fear not the sun any more than yourself,” interrupted de Berville,

“and perhaps the support of my arm may not be altogether unserviceable

to you.”

Leopoldine permitted them to depart, in spite of the reproaches with

which her conscience now addressed her. She remained at home, sad and

humiliated, {651} arguing within herself, that M. de Berville ought to

have joined her in endeavoring to prevent Stephanie from going, whom,

for the first time, she secretly accused of wishing to appear virtuous

at her expense. Madame Dorothée very shortly added to her discontent,

by reflections which her niece was far from wishing to hear.

“Don't reckon, Leopoldine, upon having made any impression on M. de

Berville,” said she; “decidedly, the more I observe him, the more I am

assured he does not dream of marrying _you_.”

“With all the respect which I owe to your sagacity, aunt,” responded

Leopoldine, in a peevish tone, “permit me to be of a different

opinion: it is impossible but that the assiduities of M. de Berville

must have some object, and as to that object there cannot be any

doubt. If he delays to make it known, it is because he wishes to

_study_ me, as my sister says. I do not think I have any cause for

alarm on the subject.”

“Suppose it should be of your sister he thinks——”

“She would be nearly the last he would think of,” exclaimed the young

maiden, breaking out into a fit of immoderate laughter. “What! a

_young_ damsel of thirty-two, who has gray hairs, wrinkles, (for she

has wrinkles round the eyes—I have seen them plain enough;) a young

lady in fact, whom people take to be my mother! what an idea! But I

see what has suggested it; it is that promenade at noonday—a mere act

of politeness, at which M. de Berville was, I doubt not, enraged at

heart.”

“Not so; that circumstance has only weight from that which preceded

it. I grant, my dear niece, that there is between you and your sister

a difference of fifteen years; and that certainly is a great

difference; you dazzle at first sight; but only whilst they regard her

not. M. de Berville was in the beginning charmed by your graces; but

if I am not deceived, it is not those which retain him here. You have

been to him as the flambeau which conducts into the well illuminated

hall, which instantly makes pale, by outshining, the light of the

flambeau. Pardon me for the comparison.”

“That is to say, it is by me he has been drawn to my sister, and now

she has eclipsed me.”

“She cannot eclipse you in beauty, nor youthfulness; but her mind, her

knowledge, the qualities of her heart, appear perhaps advantages

sufficiently precious to cause to be forgotten those which she lacks;

and I shall not be astonished to hear that M. de Berville had taken a

liking to, and had actually espoused her, in spite of her thirty-two

years.”

“If he is fool enough to prefer my sister to me, I——Away with such an

absurd thought; it is impossible,” added Leopoldine, casting at the

same time, a glance towards a mirror.

In spite, however, of the very flattering opinion which she

entertained of herself, a jealous inquietude had crept into her heart,

and she examined more attentively her sister and M. de Berville when

they returned together. The accident which had befallen Madame Rével

was found to be less serious than it was at first thought to be; the

limb was not broken; but through the satisfaction which she felt on

this account, Stephanie exhibited in her countenance an expression of

uneasiness which was not usual with her. The two sisters were at

length alone together, when Leopoldine questioned Stephanie as to the

cause of her apparent agitation.

“I feel, I confess, a surprise, mixed with chagrin,” she replied. “M.

de Berville, whom I so sincerely desired to see you accept as a

husband—who appeared to come here only on your account——”

“Well, sister!”

“He has offered me his hand.”

“I don't see any thing that there is so _very_ sad in all this,”

responded Leopoldine, dissimulating, (for she was choaking with rage)

“if M. de Berville likes _old maids_, it is not me, certainly, that he

should choose.”

“This it is, which is to me a matter of sadness,” continued Stephanie,

“that rivalry, which was as little wished for as foreseen, will, I

fear, alienate your affection from your sister, since you can already

address me in words of such bitterness.” And the tears suddenly

inundated her face.

At sight of this, Leopoldine, more frivolous than insensible,

convinced of her injustice, threw herself into the arms of Stephanie.

“Pardon me, my kind sister, I see well that it is not your fault, but

you must also agree that this event is humiliating to me; for, in

truth, I was the first object of his vows: that man is inconstant and

deceitful.”

“No, Leopoldine, that is unreasonable. Attracted by the advantages

which you have received from Nature, he had hoped to have found in

you, those also which you would have acquired, if my counsels could

have had power to persuade you. Your want of information, your

coquetry, the ridiculous importance you attach to your beauty, have

convinced him that you could not be happy together. What do I say? You

never can be happy with any one, unless you come to the resolution to

count as nothing those charms so little durable, which sickness may

destroy at once, and which time, in its default, is causing every

instant to disappear. To adorn her mind, mature her reason, form her

heart, are all things which the young female should not neglect to do,

whether homely or handsome. That beauty, on which you have reckoned

with so much confidence—to which you have sacrificed the sacred duties

of friendship—in what way has it benefitted you? One who is neither

young nor beautiful has carried away your conquest, although she,

perhaps precisely, _because_ she dreamed not of doing it. Profit by

this lesson, so as, during the beautiful years which remain to you, to

instruct and correct yourself. Another Berville will, I hope, present

himself, who, won like the first, by your external graces, shall

recognize, on viewing you more nearly, those good qualities, more

surpassingly beautiful.”

Leopoldine opened her soul to her sister's persuasions; she followed

her counsels with docility, and soon reaped the benefits. Stephanie

became Madame de Berville, and continued to act as a mother to her

sister till she too was married. The sufferings and the fatigues of

maternity were not slow, when they came, in effacing the remarkable

beauty of Leopoldine; but there remained to her so many precious

qualities, so much of solid virtue—of the graces of the mind, that the

loss of personal charms were scarcely perceived, and the young wife

was neither less cherished by her family, nor less courted by the

world, than if her beauty had been an abiding charm.

{652}

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

BY JOHN C. McCABE.

Sweet Muse, I remember, when first to thy spell

My young heart submitted—how bright was the dream!

How I trembled with joy as thy murmurings fell

On my ear, like the flow of a star-litten stream!

This world is too cold for the spirit of song,

'Tis the child of a purer and holier sphere;

It should live where oppression, nor malice, nor wrong,

Dare wring from the dim eye of misery a tear.

It should dwell where 'twas born—in the deeply blue skies,

When from chaos our world sprang to beauty and light;

When the “stars of the morning” in joyous surprise,

Struck their harp strings of fire so holy and bright.

It should dwell where the Cherubim strike their bold lyres—

It should live where the Seraphim songs find their birth;

It should breathe where the presence of Godhead inspires,

But never, oh never, be dweller on earth.

For the heart where it lives is cold poverty's slave,

And those whom it blesses, are curst by the world;

And its votary unhonored is borne to that grave

At whose mound are the dark shafts of calumny hurl'd.

Then, farewell, dear soother of many an hour!

And, farewell sweet visions indulged in so long,

Like the banish'd bird quitting its favorite bower,

I leave yet lament thee, sweet spirit of song!

_Richmond, Va. 1836_.

MY BOOKS.

On the south side of my house, and communicating with my chamber, is a

little room about twelve feet square. The two windows in its southern

wall open a pleasant prospect to the eye. Immediately below lies my

little garden; beyond are the grounds of my richer neighbors,

presenting an agreeable medley of woods and meadows; about half a mile

farther, a small river meanders through a fertile valley, beyond which

a beautiful stretch of rich and thickly settled country is bounded at

the distance of three or four miles by a range of low hills. This

little apartment, which is one of the most cheerful in the house, is

my favorite resort. Here are my books, and it passes by the various

names of the Library, the Study, and the Book Room. The greater part

of three sides of the room is hidden by the shelves containing my

literary treasures; and perhaps I rather underrate their number when I

say that I own two thousand volumes. This is a great number for a man

of my limited means to possess, but upwards of forty years have been

spent in their collection. About fifty or sixty of the most valuable I

am indebted for to several departed friends, who have thus remembered

me. These which I have placed upon three shelves in a corner, are

amongst those I prize most highly. Many of them I have picked up at

auctions at sundry times, for sometimes not a tenth of their value,

and the stalls which are to be found in the streets of some of our

principal cities have supplied not a few. They are of all sizes,

shapes, and ages, and a regiment of Fantasticals has more pretensions

to the title of an uniformed body than they have. I have not attempted

classifying them according to their subject matter, thinking their

numbers too few to need it. They are rather grouped, as indeed the

shelves require, according to their sizes. There are, however, few of

them upon which I could not lay my hands as readily as if assisted by

a formal arrangement. Sundry gaps here and there, which have existed

for many long months, and some of them for years, show that my

acquaintances (I will not call them my friends,) have been equally

expert in laying their hands upon them. Who has the first volume of my

Knox's Essays? Why does he not call for the second? I can assure him

that I at least do not think, to borrow the auctioneer's phrase, that

“each volume is complete in itself.”

Whilst I am proud of calling myself master of many rare and curious

tomes, on the other hand, I must confess, that many works of what are

entitled the British Classic Authors are not to be found upon my

shelves. I do not possess a single volume of Sterne's works, looking

upon him as a disgrace to his cloth, and a hypocritical whiner

concerning a sensibility which his life testified that he was far from

really feeling; nor do I think that there is enough Attic salt in his

writings to preserve his grossnesses from being offensive. For the

same reason I have not a complete copy of Swift. Of those selections

from the works of popular authors commonly styled their “Beauties,” I

have not, I think, half a dozen volumes; and I have very few of the

works of the minor poets, being somewhat of Horace's opinion

concerning middling poets. But such as it is, my little stock of books

is dear to me, and I purpose in the present paper to say something of

a few of the volumes.

That quarto standing in the corner of one of the lower shelves, which

time has deprived of half its cover and the greater part of a

frontispiece representing the Council of Trent, is a work published in

the year 1692, and entitled the “_Young Student's Library_, containing

extracts and abridgements of the most valuable books published in

England, and in the foreign journals, from the year sixty-five to this

time; to which is added, a new essay upon All Sorts of Learning,

wherein the use of the Sciences is distinctly treated on—by the

Athenian Society. Also, a large Alphabetical Table, comprehending the

contents of this volume, and of all the Athenian Mercuries and

Supplements, &c. Printed in the year 1691. London: printed for John

Dunton, at the Raven in the Poultry.” This may be looked upon as one

of the oldest specimens of the periodical review. The essay upon All

Sorts of Learning, is divided into sections treating of Divinity,

History, Philosophy, Law, Physic and Surgery, Arithmetic, Poetry,

Painting, Geometry, Astronomy, Navigation, &c. &c.—each section

followed by a copious list of the most approved works upon the subject

more particularly treated of. An arrangement somewhat similar to that

of the subjects above enumerated, appears to have been followed in the

Young Student's Library, which opens with reviews of the works of Dr.

Lightfoot, Dr. Barrow, and Bishop Usher. Near the beginning of the

volume, is a notice {653} of a work published in Rotterdam, and

entitled “The Accomplishment of Prophecies, or the Deliverance of the

Church Near at Hand,” by a Mr. Jurieu, the first sentences of which

will give us an idea of the paucity of readers one hundred and fifty

years ago compared with their number at present. “_This work has made

such a noise, that there are two thousand copies disposed of in four

or five months,_ and yet there are but a very few gone into France,

which would have taken off a great many if it were suffered that it

might be disposed of there, this considerable part of Europe being

almost nothing, by report, in respect of the bookseller's trade: _one

would think that the first edition should have sufficed_—nevertheless,

there was soon occasion for the second, and it is that which

occasioned Mr. Jurieu to add to this work the additions which are to

be marked.” If we suppose that only one hundred copies went to France,

there remain nineteen hundred copies for the readers of the rest of

Europe, and the disposal of these in four or five months is evidently

looked upon as a great sale, and one which was likely to suffice. How

would the Athenian Society have stared, to learn that in a century and

a half a book would not be considered popular if two thousand copies

were not sold in a week in the city where it was published. There is

an interesting paper near the close of the book, concerning a work

entitled “The Education of Daughters, by Mr. Feuelon, _Abbot_,

according to the copy printed at Paris. Md. by Peter Alouin, 1687, in

twelves.” The Abbot seems to have been a man of much good sense, as

will appear from a few extracts from the review. “This is a matter of

one of the most grave and important concerns of life. Mr. Abbot

Feuelon concerned at the negligence wherewith virgins are educated,

thought he could not better consecrate his cares than to the

instruction of this fair sex. Fathers, in reference to public good, or

by a blind inclination to young men, abandon their daughters almost

without giving them any education—_notwithstanding_, saith he, _they

are destined to fulfil the duties which are the foundations of human

life, and which decide that which most nearly concerneth mankind._

There is then nothing more important than the precepts that are given

us here. And indeed the source of men cannot be too pure. But the

difficulty of succeeding is greater than is imagined. For if to give a

good education to young women be to be removed entirely from the

world, to apply them to what concerneth housewifery and

house-government, it is to be feared that their restlessness and

natural curiosity will push them upon other impertinent

accomplishments.... Some pretend also that it is not less dangerous to

let maids take pleasure in reading and frequent conversation, fearing

they should fall into the extremities of the learned and knowing

women, who never come down from heroism and refined wit.”

Blue-stocking ladies were not more popular formerly than now. Mr.

Feuelon recommends the _suaviter in modo_ as follows. “After that,

coming to a more advanced age, he saith, that nothing backwards young

women so much as the bad humors of those mothers who make perpetual

lessons, and render virtue odious by too much preaching on't: Wisdom

ought not to be shewn to this age but under a smiling countenance, and

under a pleasant image. The most serious occupation ought to be

seasoned with some honest pastimes; and a familiar and open conduct

makes more progress than a more severe education, and a dry and

absolute authority. Notwithstanding it's the common injustice of

mothers, who taking always an austere and imperious countenance, judge

not of pleasures but by the sorrow and care of their age, instead of

judging thereof by the joy and sportings they had in times past. It

falleth out often, that they cry out against pleasures because they

themselves cannot taste of them. Howbeit, we cannot be old as soon as

we come into the world; and Mr. Abbot Feuelon condemneth these

constraining formalities, and these dim ideas of virtue, which render

it sad and tedious to young women. Notwithstanding, continueth our

author, as they are destined to moderate exercises, it is good to give

them a slight imploy, for idleness is an unfathomable source of

troublesomeness; and besides, the wandering imagination of a young

woman turns itself easily towards dangerous objects. Therefore also he

will not have them to accustom themselves so much to sleep, because

that mollifies the body, and exposes the mind to the rebellion of the

senses.

“Mr. Abbot Feuelon condemns utterly romances, because, according to

him, young women fall into passions for chimerical intrigues and

adventures. Being charmed with what they find tender and marvellous in

them, what a distaste is it to them to abase themselves unto the

lowest part of housewifery, and to this ordinary life we lead? He is

not yet altogether against their learning some languages, but he

rejects the Italian, because its only proper to read dangerous books,

and he prefers the Latin tongue by reason of the DIVINE OFFICE. But

without mentioning other inconveniences, he forgot that Ovid and

Martial are poisoners far more pernicious than Amintas and Pastor

Fido; for besides the obscenity of Martial, there is in Ovid all that

love can inspire most tender, most ingenious, and most delicate. In

truth, it were a thing to be wished for, that the modesty of a young

woman should make her ignorant of all things that concern love; but it

is convenient enough to know it in order to prevent it as much as

possible. At least it was the advice of Madame de Chartres, a grave

authoress in these matters, and which well may be opposed to Mr. Abbot

Feuelon. The greatest part of mothers imagine (saith the author of the

Princess of Cleves) that it is sufficient not to speak of gallantry

before young persons, to make them keep from it. On the contrary,

Madame de Chartres often depainted love to her daughter. She would

tell her what there was pleasing in it, the more easily to persuade

her of the misfortunes whereinto engagements lead us.

“This conduct hath something in it very acute. For nothing is more

dangerous than to expose a young woman to know love by an interested

person's mouth, who far from making her observe the troubles that

follow this passion, hath no greater care than to hide them from her.

So that it is very hard that a young person should resist love, whilst

never hearing mention made of it, she begins to know it by that which

is taking in it: and how shall she defend herself from a passion which

only promisseth sweetnesses, and which offers such pleasing baits!”

It appears that there is a chapter devoted to the faults of young

women. “Mr. Abbot Feuelon says that they must be corrected for those

tears they shed {654} so cheap,” and that “they have always been

reproached with a marvellous talent of speaking;” but he endangers the

cure of the first offence, by admitting that “a handsome woman, when

she is in tears, is by the half more handsome.” The reviewer states

that the Abbot does not spare them for those “precipitate decisions of

the curious ladies, which so much displease men of good judgment. A

poor man of a Province, saith he, will be the ridicule of five or six

_a-la-mode_ ladies, because his peruke is not of the best make, or

because he wants a good grace, though he hath an upright heart, and a

mind just and solid: when a courtier is preferred, whose whole deserts

consist in fashions and cooks, and who hideth a low heart and false

mind under an exterior politeness.

“Finally, he inveighs mightily against the vanity of women, their

violent desire of pleasing, and the passion of dressing themselves,

which they make their most important business. He pretends that this

haughtiness draws after it the ruin of families, and the corruption of

manners; and he neatly decides _that Beauty is noisome, if it doth not

advantageously serve, to marry a young woman_”—which sentence the

reviewer pronounces to be a little rigorous, and refutes at

considerable length.

Farther on is a notice of a work entitled “A Treatise of the

Excellency of Marriage; of its Necessity, and the Means of Living

happily therein: where is an Apology made for Women against the

Calumnies of Men. By James Chausse, Master of the Court Rolls. Printed

at Paris—1685,” a work which might be advantageously republished at

the present day. Mr. Chausse appears to have had a very exalted

opinion of the married state, as the following passage must testify.

He says, that “the most favorable judgment of the wisest about a

single life is, that 'tis a virtue neither good nor bad, and that

being without action, it is a kind of vice. He maintains that God made

two sexes in nature, to shew they cannot subsist without being joined

together; he sends us to learn of the animals, amongst which the

mutual love of males for females, and females for males, is common to

every individual. After this he considers men as men in a state, in a

family, and in a church, and he says that in all these regards they

are obliged to marry—because, adds he, 'tis necessary to endeavor to

preserve their own kind, as they are citizens to the republic,

successors to their families, and servants to the church; he speaks

very large upon these three duties, and considering the beauty and

perfections of man, he is wrapped up in admiration, and says, can

there be any thing more noble than the ambition of producing creatures

so perfect? He asks, if it is possible that we should be so much moved

with the glory of making a fine book, drawing a beautiful picture, or

a handsome statue, and should not be sensible of the glory of making a

man? This appears so noble and admirable, that all men that we read of

in Scriptures have thought themselves very happy in it, as Ibstan and

Abdan, of which the first had thirty sons and thirty daughters, and as

many sons and daughters in law; and the second had forty sons, and

thirty grandsons, whom he saw altogether on horseback. ‘O God, (cries

he out) can any thing be added more to the happiness of a father—can

any thing be seen more memorable in the life of man!’ In my opinion,

it exceeds all the acts of Cæsar and Alexander—such an increase is

more noble than any act that can be found in history. Hence he

supposes that Augustine had acquired more glory, if instead of leaving

so many books, he had furnished the world with thirty children; and he

would persuade us that the invention of Archimedes and Des Cartes are

trifles in comparison of the exploits of a simple country fellow, who

helps to people the world by lawful means; I say lawfully, for the

author thinks no offspring good that is not from marriage. He

fortifies his proofs as much as possible, and goes back to the ancient

Jews, observing that marriage being one of these things that generally

happen sooner or later, it is better to engage ourselves in happy

time, than after a thousand declamations against it, whilst we are

hurrying on to old age, when marriage can produce nothing but

vexatious consequences.”—Then follows a dissertation upon the second

marriages of widows, too long for me to quote.

The work of Mr. Chausse was written to persuade a gentleman, for whom

he had a high regard, to marry; and he takes up all the possible

objections he could think of in the following order. First, all those

founded upon the conduct of women; second, those upon the nature of

marriage itself; and third, the objection that marriage is an

unsupportable yoke. Under the last head, the author gives the

following directions for making a good marriage. “First, after having

recommended ourselves to God, who presides in a more particular manner

over that state, we make a choice of such a person as pleases us, and

who has an agreeable temper. It would not be unpleasing to have her

handsome; but since 'tis not very common to find such a one, we ought

to be contented if she please us, whether she does others or no; and

that 'tis not always advantageous for the wife to please all the

world: but 'tis not sufficient to be pleased with her beauty, except

there be a sympathy in humors. The author advises us to study the

genius of those we design to marry, that we may the better succeed, in

spite of the address that some make use of to hide their weakness; he

adds, for the better security, that we may choose one that is young,

and resides near our own habitation. In the first place, he advises to

a choice in a well ordered family, and to observe the equality of

condition and fortune, and to take care that she has no such

pre-engagements as may make her marry him by constraint.” (This latter

matter the young ladies now take care of themselves.)

The following is the conclusion of the review. “'Tis a good

observation that the author, who in his book exhorted men to marry,

says not a word to persuade virgins to the same. He well foresaw that

this silence would surprise some of his readers—therefore he has put

them out of pain in the preface, by acquainting them that virgins are

sufficiently convinced of the necessity of marriage, therefore want no

exhortations thereto; 'tis certain, says he, that though a virgin

never proposes marriage, because of her modesty, there is nothing she

so passionately wishes for; her heart often gives her mouth the lie;

she often says I will not, when sometimes she dies for desire.”

My limits will not permit my quoting from any other reviews in the

work, though much instructive and entertaining matter might be culled

therefrom. I must, however, give a few specimens of the Alphabetical

Table at the end of the work, which will give us some idea {655} of

the questions which “the wisdom of our ancestors” was occupied with:

Adam and Eve, whether they had navels?

Apprentice, whether loses his gentility?

Angels, why painted in petticoats?

Adam and Eve, where had they needles?

Ark, what became of it after the flood?

Babel Tower, &c. what was the height of it?

Bugs, why bite one more than another?

Born with Cawls, what signifies it?

Brothers born two in one, had they two souls?

Balaam a Moabite, how could he understand his Ass?

Clergy's Wives and Children, why unhappy?

Females, if went a courting more marriages than now?

Hairs, an equal number on any two men's head?

Husband, whether lawful to pray for one?

Kings of England, can they cure the evil?

Lion, whether it won't prey upon a virgin?

Mermen and Mermaids, have they reason?

Marriage of a young man and an old woman wholesome?

Marry, which best a good temper or a shrew?

Negroes, shall they rise so at the last day?

Phœnix, why but one?

Peter and Paul, did they use notes?

Queen of Sheba, had she a child by Solomon?

Queen of Sheba, if now alive, whither she?

Salamander, whether it lives in the fire?

Swoon, where is the soul then?

Wife, whether she may beat her husband?

Women, if mere machines?

Women, whether not bantered into a belief of being angels?

Women, whether they have souls?

Women, when bad, why worse than men?

Here is a volume of Almanacs—poor Richard's Almanacs, published by Dr.

Franklin for so many years, and enriched with his moral and economical

maxims. Many of the prefaces are amusing, and I shall give you three

or four. Here is that to the Almanac for 1744.

“_Courteous Reader_—This is the twelfth year that I have in this way

labored for the benefit—of whom?—of the public, if you'll be so good

natured as to believe it; if not, e'en take the naked truth—'twas for

the benefit of my own dear self—not forgetting in the meantime our

gracious consort and dutchess, the peaceful, quiet, silent lady

Bridget. But whether my labors have been of any service to the publick

or not, the publick I acknowledge has been of service to me. I have

lived comfortably by its benevolent encouragement, and I hope I shall

always bear a grateful sense of its continued favor.

“My adversary, J——n J——n, has indeed made an attempt to _outshine_ me

by pretending to penetrate _a year deeper_ into futurity, and giving

his readers _gratis_ in his Almanack for 1743, an eclipse of the year

1744, to be beforehand with me. His words are, ‘The first day of

_April_ next year, 1744, there will be a GREAT ECLIPSE of the sun; it

begins about an hour before sunset. It being in the sign Aries, the

House of Mars, and in the Seventh, shows heat, difference, and

animosities between persons of the highest rank and quality,’ &c. I am

very glad, for the sake of those persons of rank and quality, that

there is _no manner of truth_ in this prediction: they may, if they

please, live in love and peace; and I caution his readers (they are

but few indeed, and so the matter's the less) not to give themselves

any trouble about observing this imaginary great eclipse; for they may

stare till they are blind without seeing the least sign of it. I might

on this occasion return Mr. J——n the name of _Baal's false prophet_ he

gave me some years ago in his wrath, on account of my predicting his

reconciliation with the _Church of Rome_, (though he seems now to have

given up that point) but I think such language between old men and

scholars unbecoming; and I leave him to settle the affair with the

buyers of his Almanack as well as he can, who perhaps will not take it

very kindly that he has done what in him lay, (by sending them out to

gaze at an invisible eclipse on the first of April) to make _April

fools_ of them all. His old threadbare excuse, which he repeats year

after year about the weather, ‘that no man can be infallible therein,

by reason of the many contrary causes happening at or near the same

time, and the unconstancy of the summer showers and gusts,’ &c. will

hardly serve him in the affair of _eclipses_, and I know not where

he'll get another.

“I have made no alteration in my usual method, except adding the

rising and setting of the planets, and the lunar conjunctions. Those

who are so disposed, may thereby very readily learn to know the

planets and distinguish them from each other.

“I am, dear reader, thy obliged friend,

R. SAUNDERS.”

The Almanack for 1746 opens with the following poetical preface.

Who is poor Richard? people oft inquire

Where lives? what is he—never yet the higher.

Somewhat to ease your curiositie

Take these slight sketches of my dame and me.

Thanks to kind readers and a careful wife,

With plenty blessed I lead an easy life;

My business writing; hers to drain the mead

Or crown the barren hill with useful shade;

In the smooth glebe to see the ploughshare worn

And fill my granary with needful corn;

Press nectarous cider from my loaded trees,

Print the sweet butter, turn the drying cheese.

Some books we read, though few there are that hit

The happy point where wisdom joins with wit,

That set fair virtue naked to our view

And teach us what is decent, what is true.

The friend sincere and honest man with joy,

Treating or treated oft our time employ.

Our table neat, meal temperate, and our door

Opening spontaneous to the bashful poor.

Free from the bitter rage of party zeal

All those we love who seek the public weal,

Nor blindly follow Superstition's lore,

Which cheats deluded mankind o'er and o'er.

Not over righteous, quite beyond the rule,

Conscience-perplexed by every canting tool,

Nor yet where folly hides the dubious line,

Where good and bad their blended colors join,

Rush indiscreetly down the dangerous steep,

And plunge uncertain in the darksome deep.

Cautious if right; if wrong, resolved to part

The innate snake that folds around the heart;

Observe the mean, the motive and the end,

Mending ourselves or striving still to mend.

Our souls sincere, our purpose fair and free

Without vain-glory or hypocrisy:

Thankful if well, if ill we kiss the rod,

Resign with hope and put our trust in _God_.

The preface for 1747 is as follows.

_Courteous Reader_,—This is the fifteenth time I have {656}

entertained thee with my annual productions; I hope to thy profit as

well as mine. For besides the astronomical calculations and other

things usually contained in Almanacks, which have their daily use

indeed while the year continues, but then become of no value, I have

constantly interspersed _moral_ sentences, _prudent_ maxims, and

_wise_ sayings, many of them containing _much good sense in very few

words_, and therefore apt to leave _strong_ and _lasting_ impressions

on the memory of young persons, whereby they may receive benefit as

long as they live, when the Almanack and Almanack maker have been long

thrown by and forgotten. If I now and then insert a joke or two that

seem to have little in them, my apology is, that such may have their

use, since perhaps for their sake light airy minds peruse the rest and

so are struck by somewhat of more weight and moment. The verses on the

heads of the months are also generally designed to have the same

tendency. I need not tell thee, that not many of them are of my own

making. If thou hast any judgment in poetry, thou wilt easily discern

the workman from the bungler. I know as well as thou, I am no _poet

born_, and indeed it is a trade I never learnt nor indeed could learn.

If I make verses, 'tis in spite of nature and my stars I write. Why

then should I give my readers _bad lines_ of my own, when good ones of

other people are so plenty? 'Tis, methinks, a poor excuse for the bad

entertainment of guests, that the food we set before them, though

coarse and ordinary, is _of one's own raising, off one's own

plantation, etc._ when there is plenty of what is ten times better to

be had in the market. On the contrary, I assure ye, my friends, that I

have procured the best I could for ye, and much good may't do ye.

I cannot omit this opportunity of making honorable mention of the late

deceased ornament and head of our profession, MR. JACOB TAYLOR, who,

for upwards of forty years, (with some few intermissions only)

supplied the good people of this and the neighboring colonies with the

most complete Ephemeris and most accurate calculations that have

hitherto appeared in America. He was an ingenious mathematician, as

well as an expert and skilful astronomer, and moreover no mean

philosopher, but what is more than all, he was a PIOUS and HONEST man.

_Requiescat in pace._

I am thy poor friend to serve thee,

R. SAUNDERS.

The _science_ of astrology is very happily ridiculed in an ironical

commendation of it in the Almanack for 1751.

“_Courteous Reader_,—Astrology is one of the most ancient sciences,

held in high esteem of old by the wise and great. Formerly no prince

would make war or peace, nor any general fight a battle; in short, no

important affair was undertaken without first consulting an

Astrologer, who examined the aspects and configurations of the

heavenly bodies, and marked the lucky hour. Now the noble art (more

shame to the age we live in) is dwindled into contempt; the great

neglect us; empires make leagues and parliament laws without advising

with us; and scarce any other use is made of our learned labors, than

to find out the best time of cutting corns and gelding pigs. This

mischief we owe in a great measure to ourselves; the ignorant herd of

mankind, had they not been encouraged to it by some of us, would never

have dared to depreciate our sacred dictates; but Urania has been

betrayed by her own sons; those whom she had favored with the greatest

skill in her divine art, the most eminent Astronomers among the

moderns, the _Newtons_, _Halleys_ and _Whistons_, have wantonly

contemned and abused her contrary to the light of their own

consciences. Of these, only the last named, _Whiston_, has lived to

repent and speak his mind honestly. In his former works he had treated

_judicial astrology_ as a chimera, and asserted that not only the

fixed stars, but the planets (sun and moon excepted) were at so

immense a distance as to be incapable of any influence on this earth,

and consequently nothing could be foretold from their positions; but

now, in the memoirs of his life, published 1749, in the eighty-second

of his age, he foretells, page 607, the sudden destruction of the

Turkish Empire and of the House of Austria, German Emperors, &c. and

Popes of Rome; the Restoration of the Jews and commencement of the

Millenium, all by the year 1766, and this not only from Scriptural

prophecies, but (take his own words) ‘from the remarkable

_Astronomical_ signals that are to alarm mankind of what is coming,

viz. the Northern Lights since 1715, the six comets at the Protestant

Reformation in four years, 1530, 1531, 1533, 1534, compared with the

seven comets already seen in these last eleven years, 1737, 1739,

1742, 1744, 1746, and 1748—from the great annular eclipse of the sun

July 14, 1748, whose centre passed through all the four monarchies

from Scotland to the East Indies—from the occultation of the Pleiades

by the moon each periodical month after the eclipse last July, for

above three years visible to the whole Roman Empire—from the comet of

A.D. 1456, 1531, 1607 and 1682, which will appear again about 1757

ending, or 1758 beginning, and will also be visible through that

Empire—from the Transit of Venus over the Sun May 26, 1761, which will

be visible over the same Empire: and lastly, from the annular eclipse

of the sun March 11, 1764, which will be visible over the same

Empire.’ From these Astronomical signs he foretold those great

events—that within sixteen years from this time, ‘the Millenium or

1000 years reign of Christ shall begin; there shall be _a new heaven_

and _a new earth_; there shall be no more an infidel in Christendom,

nor a gaming table at Tunbridge!’ When these predictions are

accomplished, what glorious proofs will they be of the truth of our

art! And if they happen to fail there is no doubt that so profound an

Astronomer as Mr. Whiston, will be able to see _other_ signs in the

heavens, foreshowing that the conversion of the infidels was to be

postponed and the Millenium adjourned. After these great things, can

any man doubt our being capable of predicting a little rain or

sunshine? Reader, farewell, and make the best use of your years and

your Almanacks, for you see that according to _Whiston_, you may have

at most but sixteen more of them.

R. SAUNDERS.

_Patowmack, July 30, 1750._”

“_Great Events from Little Causes_,” is the title of a translation

from a French work, published in Dublin in 1768. We may easily imagine

how interesting such a work well executed must prove. It contains

between fifty and sixty anecdotes from ancient and modern history. Had

I room, I could copy nearly half the book without fearing to tire my

readers, so true is it that “truth is strange, stranger than fiction.”

From Roman {657} history, we have the overthrow of the regal

government of Tarquin traced back to Collatinus' praise of his wife

Lucretia, the abolition of the Decemvirate to the passion of Appius

Claudius for Virginia, and the raising of the Plebeians to the

Consular Dignity to the jealousy of a woman against her sister. We are

reminded that the discovery of Cataline's conspiracy was owing to the

disgust of Fulvia towards her lover, and that the ugliness of another

Fulvia occasioned a civil war between Antony and Octavius. Among the

passages from modern history are the following.

“_A quarrel which arose between two men of mean condition, the one a

Genoese and the other a Venitian, occasions a terrible war between the

Republics of Venice and Genoa, about the year 1258._

“Genoa withdrew itself from the dominion of the successors of

Charlemagne, and in spite of all the troubles and divisions with which

she was agitated, as well as intestine civil wars, she preserved her

liberty. Europe, then peopled by Barbarians, was ignorant of the

advantages of commerce; Genoa built ships and brought into Europe the

productions of Asia and Africa; she amassed immense riches and became

one of the most flourishing cities of the world. Venice followed her

example and became her rival.

“These two republics, whom commerce made known to all nations, soon

had establishments in all parts of the known world. They had a

considerable one in the city of Acre, which, on account of its

situation and largeness of its harbor, was very commodious to those

who traded along the coast of Syria. The Genoese and Venitians had

between them more than one-third of the city, where they lived subject

to the laws of their respective countries.

“Neither the difference of customs nor even interest itself, which

among merchants is an astonishing circumstance, occasioned any discord

between them. They lived many years in as perfect an union as if they

had been of the same nation and of joint interests. But if the

ordinary motives of division among men were not capable of disturbing

these two nations, we shall see them in arms against each other from a

trifling and at the same time a very singular cause. Two men of the

very lowest condition, the one a Genoese and the other a Venitian, who

were no other than porters to the merchants fell out about a bale of

goods which were to be carried. From words they came to blows. The

merchants who at first gathered round them only by way of amusement to

see the battle, at length took part in the quarrel, each assisting

their countrymen. They grew warm and fought together; so that much

blood was spilt and a deal of damage done on both sides. Complaints

were soon carried to Genoa and Venice. The magistrates of each

republic agreed that satisfaction should be made for the damage,

according to the estimation of several arbitrators appointed for that

purpose. The Genoese being condemned to make a more considerable

reparation than the Venitians, delayed to furnish what was demanded of

them. The Venitians piqued at the unfaithfulness of the Genoese,

resolved to do themselves justice; and having surprised all the

Genoese vessels which were in the port of Acre, set them on fire. The

Genoese would have retaliated this injury on the Venitians, but the

latter were on their guard and prevented them; a battle however ensued

much more bloody than the first. Genoa and Venice resolved to support

their merchants; they each fitted out a considerable fleet; that of

the former was beaten, and the Genoese were obliged to abandon their

settlements at Acre: the Venitians razed their houses and forts and

destroyed their magazines. The Genoese irritated at this defeat, used

their utmost efforts to put their fleet again into a condition to

attack the Venitians. Every citizen offered to venture his person and

fortune to revenge the outrage committed against his country. The

Venitians informed of these preparations neglected no precautions to

oppose them. The sea was covered with ships, an engagement ensued,

much blood was spilt, and many brave citizens lost on both sides. In

short, after a long and cruel war, in which the two republics reaped

nothing but shame for having entered into it, they made peace.”

“_The boldness with which wine inspired a shoemaker at Genoa,

occasioned the government of that republic to be changed._

“All republics have been torn by civil wars: ambition hath ever

kindled discord therein. In the history of those states we see

continually the nobles assuming more than their rights, and by their

injustice exhausting the patience of the people, who arming themselves

at the instigation of an ambitious person and guided by rage alone,

brave the laws and commit the most terrible disorders.

“Genoa was not exempt from these evils; we meet with nothing in the

writers who have transmitted its history, but troubles and calamities:

it is a chain of revolutions. Towards the middle of the fourteenth

century, the people, impatient under the tyranny of the nobility,

murmured. There were some among them who sacrificed the welfare and

tranquillity of the public to their ambition and to their interest:

they took advantage of the discontent of the people, and irritated

them by seditious discourses; they took up arms, and the nobility, to

avoid the blows with which they were threatened, promised to grant

whatever should be demanded of them.

“The populace were desirous that an _Abbé of the People_ should be

elected. His office was to sustain the interests and liberties of the

people, and to counterbalance, in a great measure, the authority of

the _captains_, who were then the magistrates of the republic.

“An assembly was accordingly held for the election of an _Abbé of the

People_. Vast numbers went to the place of meeting, and every one gave

his voice; but as they all spoke at once nobody was understood. The

tumult increased, the people began to grow warm, and were ready to

proceed to blows; when a shoemaker, who at that instant was just come

from a drinking house, passing by the assembly, mixed among the crowd,

and getting upon a little eminence that fell in his way, being

emboldened by the fumes of the wine, he bawled out as loud as he was

able, ‘Fellow citizens, will you hearken to me?’ This invocation

struck their ears, and immediately all eyes were fixed upon him; and

the Genoese who were about to tear each other to pieces, all joined in

a hearty laugh. Some bade him hold his peace, others encouraged him to

speak on, and others again threw dirt at him; all laughed. This

orator, without being in the least disconcerted, said, ‘I think myself

obliged to tell you that you ought to {658} nominate to the dignity of

_Abbé of the People_, an honest man; and I know of none more so than

Simon Boccanegra. You ought to appoint him.’

“Simon Boccanegra was a perfectly honest man; the amiableness of his

character, his generosity and many other virtues had procured him the

love and esteem, both of the nobility and commonalty. He was one of

the principal families among the citizens, and his relations had

filled with universal applause the dignities of the republic. The

person who first occupied the place of _Captain of the People_ was one

of his ancestors.

“In short, his merit occasioned them to pay attention to the

shoemaker's harangue. The name of Boccanegra became the general cry;

every one insisted upon his being elected _Abbé of the People_, and

they presented him with the sword, which was the mark of his dignity:

but he returned it, saying, that he thanked the people for the good

will they had shown him, and that as none of his ancestors had been

Abbé of the People, he would not be the first who should introduce

that office into his family. He was willing to avail himself of the

humor into which he found the speech of the shoemaker had thrown the

people to attain the lead in the republic.

“The people who are seldom moderate in their affection any more than

in their hatred, immediately cried out, ‘Boccanegra, Lord of Genoa.’

This artful ambitious man said he was ready to submit to the will of

the people, to be _Abbé_ or _Lord_ according as they should ordain.

This feigned humility pleased the people, as he expected; they

repeated Lord Boccanegra! and he was proclaimed perpetual Doge. So

that the speech of a drunken shoemaker occasioned the government of

Genoa to be transmitted from nobles to the people, and a single man to

become sole master in the state.”

With the headings of a few other examples I shall conclude.

“The severity of an Empress to her daughter was the occasion of

Attila's ravaging Gaul and Italy, and of the foundation of the city of

Venice.”

“The inability of a person who had lost a considerable sum at dice to

pay the same immediately, was the cause that the Vandals settled in

Africa, went to ravage Italy and sack Rome.”

“The assassination of Chilperic, king of France, was occasioned by his

giving Fredegonde his wife, a blow with a switch in play.”

“A repartee of the Empress Sophia, consort of Justinian II, is the

cause of the Lombards invading Italy and establishing themselves

there.”

“The kingdoms of Naples and Sicily were established in consequence of

a duel fought by two Norman barons.”

“The beauty of a young Turk who lived at Antioch is the occasion of

cruel wars between England and France.”

“A yellow goat occasions the death of three Khans of the Tartars, and

the destruction of several cities.”

“Francis I, king of France, having promised a lady, of whom he was

enamored, to meet her at Lyons in the month of March, occasions him to

lose the battle of Pavia, himself to be made prisoner and reduces

France to the brink of ruin.”

“The love of Margaret, duchess dowager of Burgundy, for a young Jew,

occasions Brittany to be re-united to France, and England to be rent

by civil wars.”

“A blow with a cane, being given by a German to a Genoese, who was

looking at the carriage of a mortar-piece, which was broken in one of

the streets of Genoa, occasions the Austrians to be driven from that

city, and the republic of Genoa to recover its liberty.”

In view of such things, may we not say with a poet whose name I have

forgotten—

“Think naught a _trifle_ though it small appear,

Small sands the mountain, minutes make the year,

And trifles life; your care to trifles give,

Else you may die ere you have learned to live.”

_Editorial._[1]

[Footnote 1: Some misapprehensions having arrisen, it may be as well

to state that _all after_ this word “Editorial,” is strictly what it

professes to be.]

To the Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Sir_,—In your August number (page 573) is a quotation from Mr.

Burke's speech to the Electors of Bristol, upon the subject of

instructions from constituents to their representatives. Will you

oblige me by giving another passage or two from that speech, which

will show how inapplicable Mr. Burke's remarks are to our country.

Immediately after the word “arguments,” at the end of your last

quotation, Mr. Burke proceeds thus:

“To deliver an opinion is the right of all men; that of constituents

is a weighty and respectable opinion, which a representative ought

always to rejoice to hear, and which he ought always most seriously to

consider. But _authoritative_ instructions, _mandates_ issued, which

the member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, to vote and to

argue for, though contrary to the clearest conviction of his judgment

and conscience, these are things utterly unknown to the laws of THIS

LAND, and which arise from a fundamental mistake of the whole order

and tenor of our CONSTITUTION.

“Parliament is not a _congress_ of ambassadors from different and

hostile interests, which interests each must maintain as an agent, and

advocate against the other agents and advocates; but Parliament is a

deliberative assembly of _one_ nation, with _one_ interest, that of

the whole; where, not local purposes, not local prejudices ought to

guide, but the general good, resulting from the general reason of the

whole. You choose a member indeed, but when you have chosen him, he is

not a member of Bristol, but he is a member of _Parliament_.”

This theory of each member's representing not those who chose him, but

the whole nation, gave rise to what was called _virtual_

representation, when the people of America complained that they had no

representatives in Parliament. Is it not evident, that under our

CONSTITUTION, if every member represents his own constituents, _all_

will be represented? It was different indeed under the rotten borough

system of England, now happily exploded. Mr. Burke was elected to

Parliament, but having voted, under pretence of consulting the general

good, for many measures obnoxious to the people of Bristol, he was

defeated when he attempted to be re-elected. The making of loud

professions of interest in the public welfare, and desire for the

general good, accompanied by a neglect of immediate duties, reminds

one of professions of universal philanthropy from the lips of a bad

husband and a bad father.

Yours respectfully,

Q. V. Z.

{659} [Our correspondent, in supposing Mr. Burke's remarks

“inapplicable to this country,” seems to be misled by the word

“congress.” Had not this term been appropriated to our National

Assembly the paragraph would have escaped attention. The whole is

applicable, we think, fully, even to “Congress” itself. Write “our

General Legislature” in place of “Parliament,” “assembly” instead of

“congress,” for “Bristol” read “Virginia,” and we see no difficulty

whatever.

Our general legislature is not an assembly of ambassadors from

different and hostile interests, which interests each must maintain as

an agent, and advocate against the other agents and advocates; but our

general legislature is a _deliberative_ [Mr. B. has italicized

deliberative] assembly of _one_ nation, with _one_ interest, that of

the whole. You choose a member indeed, but when you have chosen him,

he is not a member of Virginia, but a member of our general

legislature.

We can see no inapplicability here, nor is a word of the paragraph to

be denied, when made referrible to us. Mr. Burke, we apprehend, wished

simply to place a representative and _deliberative_ assembly,

consisting of delegates from various sections of _one_ nation, in

contradistinction to a meeting of ambassadors from a number of

distinct and totally hostile powers. In the former case, supposing the

judgment, rather than the will of the people, to be _represented_, he

allows of no “authoritative mandates” from the constituent to the

representative—in the latter instance, and in such instance alone, he

can imagine the binding power of letters of instruction from home,

upon the ambassadors assembled.

In regard to the “making of loud professions of interest in the public

welfare, and desire for the general good, accompanied by a neglect of

immediate duties”—we conceive that, in the case of Burke, or in any

similar case, if the passage of a law is to operate for the general

good, yet for the individual harm of the Senator's constituents, then

the Senator has but one “immediate duty”—to vote for it.]

CRITICAL NOTICES.

PHILOTHEA.

_Philothea: A Romance. By Mrs. Child, Author of the Mother's Book, &c.

Boston: Otis, Broaders & Co. New York: George Dearborn._

Mrs. Child is well known as the author of “Hobomok,” “The American

Frugal Housewife,” and the “Mother's Book.” She is also the editor of

a “Juvenile Miscellany.” The work before us is of a character very

distinct from that of any of these publications, and places the fair

writer in a new and most favorable light. Philothea is of that class

of works of which the Telemachus of Fenelon, and the Anarcharsis of

Barthelemi, are the most favorable specimens. Overwhelmed in a

long-continued inundation of second-hand airs and ignorance, done up

in green muslin, we turn to these pure and quiet pages with that

species of gasping satisfaction with which a drowning man clutches the

shore.

The plot of _Philothea_ is simple. The scene is principally in ancient

Athens, during the administration of Pericles; and some of the chief

personages of his time are brought, with himself, upon the stage.

Among these are Aspasia, Alcibiades, Hippocrates, Anaxagoras of

Clazomenœ, Plato, Hermippus the comic writer, Phidias the Sculptor,

Artaxerxes of Persia, and Xerxes his son. Philothea, the heroine of

the tale, and the grand-daughter of Anaxagoras, is of a majestic

beauty, of great purity and elevation of mind. Her friend, Eudora, of

a more delicate loveliness, and more flexile disposition, is the

adopted daughter of Phidias, who bought her, when an infant, of a

goat-herd in Phelle—herself and nurse having been stolen from the

Ionian coast by Greek pirates, the nurse sold into slavery, and the

child delivered to the care of the goat-herd. The ladies, of course,

have lovers. Eudora is betrothed to Philæmon. This Athenian, the son

of the wealthy Cherilaus, but whose mother was born in Corinth, has

incurred the dislike of Aspasia, the wife of Pericles. She procures

the revival of an ancient law subjecting to a heavy fine all citizens

who married foreigners, and declaring all persons, whose parents were

not both Athenians, incapable of voting in the public assemblies, or

of inheriting the estates of their fathers. Philæmon, thus deprived of

citizenship, prevented from holding office, and without hope of any

patrimony, is obliged to postpone, indefinitely, his union with

Eudora. The revival of the obnoxious law has also a disastrous effect

upon the interests of Philothea. She is beloved of Paralus, the son of

Pericles, and returns his affection. But in marrying, she will bring

upon him losses and degradation. Pericles, too, looks with an evil eye

upon her poverty, and the idea of marriage is therefore finally

abandoned.

Matters are thus situated, when Philothea, being appointed one of the

Canephoræ, (whose duty it is to embroider the sacred peplus, and to

carry baskets in the procession of the Panathenaia,) is rigidly

secluded by law, for six months, within the walls of the Acropolis.

During this time, Eudora, deprived of the good counsel and example of

her friend, becomes a frequent visitor at the house of Aspasia, by

whose pernicious influence she is insensibly affected. It is at the

return of Philothea from the Acropolis that the story commences. At

the urgent solicitation of Aspasia, who is desirous of strengthening

her influence in Athens by the countenance of the virtuous, Anaxagoras

is induced to attend, with his grand-daughter, a symposium at the

house of Pericles. Eudora accompanies them. The other guests are

Hermippus, Phidias, the Persian Artaphernes, Tithonus a learned

Ethiopian, Plato, Hipparete the wife of Alcibiades, and Alcibiades

himself. At this symposium Eudora is dazzled by the graces of

Alcibiades, and listens to his seductive flattery—forgetful of the

claims of Hipparete, the wife of Alcibiades, and of Philæmon, her own

lover. The poison of this illicit feeling now affects all the action

of the drama. Philothea discovers the danger of her friend, but is

sternly repulsed upon the proffer of good advice. Alcibiades is

appointed a secret interview by Eudora, which is interrupted by

Philothea—not however before it is observed by Philæmon, who, in

consequence, abandons his mistress, and departs, broken-hearted, from

Athens. The eyes of Eudora are now opened, too late, to the perfidy of

Alcibiades, who had deceived her with the promise of marriage, and of

obtaining a divorce from Hipparete. It is Hipparete who appeals to the

Archons for a divorce from Alcibiades, on the score of {660} his

notorious profligacy; and, in the investigations which ensue, it

appears that a snare has been laid by Aspasia and himself, to entrap

Eudora, and that, with a similar end in view, he has also promised

marriage to Electra, the Corinthian.

Pericles seeks to please the populace by diminishing the power of the

Areopagus. He causes a decree to be passed, that those who denied the

existence of the Gods, or introduced new opinions about celestial

things, should be tried by the people. This, however, proves injurious

to some of his own personal friends. Hermippus lays before the

Thesmothetæ Archons an accusation of blasphemy against Anaxagoras,

Phidias, and Aspasia; and the case is tried before the fourth assembly

of the people. Anaxagoras is charged with not having offered victims

to the Gods, and with having blasphemed the divine Phœbus, by saying

the sun was only a huge ball of fire,—and is condemned to die. Phidias

is accused of blasphemy, in having carved the likeness of himself and

Pericles on the shield of heaven-born Pallas, of having said that he

approved the worship of the Gods merely because he wished to have his

own works adored, and of decoying to his own house the maids and

matrons of Athens, under the pretence of seeing sculpture, but in

fact, to administer to the profligacy of Pericles. He is also adjudged

to death. Aspasia is accused of saying that the sacred baskets of

Demeter contained nothing of so much importance as the beautiful

maidens who carried them; and that the temple of Poseidon was enriched

with no offerings from those who had been wrecked, notwithstanding

their supplications—thereby implying irreverent doubts of the power of

Ocean's God. Her sentence is exile. Pericles, however, succeeds in

getting the execution of the decrees suspended until the oracle of

Amphiaraus can be consulted. Antiphon, a celebrated diviner, is

appointed to consult it. He is absent for many days, and in the

meantime Pericles has an opportunity of tampering with the people, as

he has already done with Antiphon. The response of the oracle

opportunely declares that the sentences be reconsidered. It is

done—Phidias and Anaxagoras are merely banished, while Aspasia is

acquitted. These trials form perhaps the most interesting portion of

the book.