young man, in a military undress, and whose exterior announced the
gentleman, met them. Lord S---- immediately recognised him as the
interrupter of his midnight journey. They proceeded into the interior
of the Coliseum. The stranger appeared visibly embarrassed by the
presence of the colonel. In half an hour he took his leave.
'What think you of my highwayman?' said Lord S---- to the colonel.
'Think!' said the latter; 'the fellow is a member of my own regiment.
He must be apprehended and punished.'
'My dear colonel,' said Lord S----, 'you forget that I am bound to
secrecy. No such thing shall be done.'
'But the interests of society'--said the colonel, who forthwith
uttered a long chapter on that much-abused subject.
'Society, my dear colonel, will never suffer by the reformation
rather than the punishment of a criminal. I am not one of those who
think myself specially commissioned to avenge the wrongs of society.
They who do, generally use the pretence as a cloak to their own ill
nature.'
The colonel finally permitted himself to be persuaded. But it was
highly probable the young man, finding himself discovered, would be
driven to phrenzy. He was probably then with his family. Lord S----
obtained his address from the colonel, flew to his house, where he
found the wretched man's wife distracted, his children in tears, and
himself preparing to go--he knew not whither.
Lord S---- dried up their tears, assured the lieutenant of his
forgiveness, nay farther, of his assistance. The lieutenant resigned
his commission, and accepted service in a foreign land, where, by
a vigorous renouncement of play, and consequent attention to his
profession, he finally rose to distinction.
Now I would by no means seriously advise any young man, however much
inconvenienced for money, to take to the highway, for there are few
persons in the world like Lord S----, and vast numbers disposed to
avenge 'the interests of society.'
* * * * *
MITFORD had long deserted No. 10 St. James' Square, and No. 7
Pall-Mall, for the more humble and smaller hazards of '5 Bury,' and
'10 King-street;' and though at each of these tables he could see the
spectres of ruined adventurers flitting round the scenes of their
destruction, and who were rather tolerated by the proprietors from
fear, than suffered from choice, yet example gave no lesson to our
hero, who, like thousands of others who had preceded him, hoped he
should be able to avoid the disasters which all others had found it
impossible to shun.
One fatal evening, he carried the whole of his funds with him,
determined to 'make or mar' his fortune. From five in the evening,
with various alternations of chance, he hung over the bank of _rouge
et noir_. Morning dawned, and saw him a beggar.
He quitted the pandemonium. Fevered, heart-sick, and agonized, he
rapidly traversed Pall-Mall, and plunged into Hyde-Park. The broad
and placid sheet of the Serpentine lay before him, reflecting the
early rays of the sun, and projecting back the shadows of the
thousand palaces which seemed to claim a fairy existence in its
waters.
A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps it had directed him there. Might
he not at once end all his troubles, and find quiet and a grave in
the stream on whose banks he now wandered?
But whatever might have been Mitford's other faults, that reckless
infidelity, which must always accompany the suicide, formed no
portion of his character. From the instructions of an affectionate
mother he had early imbibed those religious lessons, which, however
silent they may have remained amid the glare and gayeties of the
world, struck him with peculiar force in the midst of his desolation,
and he shrunk aghast from the thought of rushing into the presence of
his Creator, unabsolved by penitence, and bearing fresh on his soul
the impress of a mortal crime.
He turned toward his humble residence, with a throbbing brain. The
streets were already crowded, but Mitford heeded not the bustle which
surrounded him. The absolute, irretrievable, hopeless ruin into which
he had fallen, alone occupied his thoughts; and his eyes saw nothing
but the future misery to which he was doomed. The crowds turned to
gaze at him, as he rushed elbowing through them, and seemed to think
him some fugitive from a mad-house.
Arrived at home, he threw himself on his bed. The pent-up sorrows
of his nature gushed out in torrents of tears, and his agony found
a vent in audible sobs. But it has been wisely ordained that no
sorrow, however acute, no grief, however overwhelming, should prey
upon the mind with equal and continued fervency. The floodgates of
sorrow once opened, the mind, relieved from the oppression, re-bounds
from the cause in which its sorrows had their source; Pride comes to
the relief of Despair, and the siren Hope has yet another delusive
whisper to console.
Thus fared it with Mitford. Fatigued with the grievous outpouring of
his soul, he slept.
* * * * *
WE have hitherto seen Mitford carried away by the frivolities of
fashion, and even culpably straying from the strict path of morality;
but it must not be imagined that his acquaintances consisted alone of
those giddy moths, who cease to flutter round the candle the moment
it ceases to blaze. Many of his father's friends, solid merchants
with well-ballasted heads, he still continued to cultivate; and he
formed some intimacies with families of sterling worth--whether we
count it in virtue or in pounds--among retired traders.
Let us now turn to more domestic matters. Some months had elapsed,
and Mitford had long ceased to be a desirable resident at any of
the fashionable hotels. There is no place in the world where a man
can live so long without money, as London; but it is necessary to
have a little, sometimes. Tavern-keepers, in this civilized age, are
audacious enough to expect payment for their mutton after it has been
eaten. So much for the march of democracy!
Refugiated in a suburban lodging, verging on that truly English
appellation, 'the shabby genteel,' he breakfasted at nine, and made
his exit at ten, exactly, leaving his landlady in considerable doubt
whether he was a moderate annuitant, a half-pay officer, a junior in
a banking-house, or an attorney's clerk.
While absent on one of these morning excursions, his laundress called
with his clothes. 'This makes five-and-thirty shillings as how Mr.
Mitford owes me.'
'And as how,' says the landlady, peering from the top of the stairs,
'he owes me for five weeks rent.'
'Strange he doesn't pay!' echoed the woman of suds.
That morning Mitford's evil star predominated. His tailor, his
wine-merchant, and his butcher, presented themselves together.
'We wants our money!' cries the trio in a breath.
On such occasions landladies are always curious. Ours adjusted her
hair, and asked them into her parlor.
'How much does he owe you?' asked she of the man of port and
champagne.
'Two hundred and eighty-six pounds, not to mention odd shillings and
pence.'
'My eyes! what a lot of money!' echoes the laundress; 'and all for
such outlandish stuff! I never drinks nothing but small beer, 'cept
it's a quartern o' gin.'
'And my bill,' said the Schneider, 'is three hundred pounds.'
'And mine,' cried the man of beef, 'is two hundred.'
'I tell you what, gem'men,' says the landlady, 'in my opinion you'll
never see a shiner; he owes me for five weeks rent.'
'I wish I could get my bottles back,' says the man of champagne.
'I'll never get my clothes,' says the man of measures.
'It's no use standing no nonsense,' says he of beef; 'a gem'man as
has got no money, is no gem'man, and dash my wigs! if he don't pay
me, I'll tell him so!'
'I'll seize his trunk!' says the landlady.
'And I'll keep his clothes!' said Suds, 'when I can get them again.'
'I'll have satisfaction!' says the man of beef, his hand reverting
insensibly to his steel; for in the mind of a butcher, satisfaction
is inseparable from slaughtering a sheep or lamb.
The trio finally agreed to call that evening, and not depart without
the wherewithal.
Poor Mitford unsuspectingly came home to dinner. Scarce had he
concluded, when the man of wine, of measures, and of beef, made a
simultaneous attack.
Now even when a man has money, to be dunned immediately succeeding
dinner, and forced to pay out a certain quantum of pounds, shillings,
and pence, is horridly provoking. What then must it be to a man who
has NO money? What must it have been to Mitford, who by no means
boasted the mildest of tempers--who was still more soured by recent
misfortune--and who had three of the noisiest of the genus 'dun' to
deal with?
We must not then be surprised, if the man of beef found himself with
a single leap from the drawing-room window at the street door; if the
Schneider made but two steps down the stair-case; and if the prompt
exit of the man of bottles was accelerated by an impetus to the
Hotentonian portion of his unmentionables.
That night Mitford interrupted the charitable predilection of his
landlady for his trunks, by discharging his 'little bill,' and the
following morning found him on his way to France.
* * * * *
CALAIS is the grand resource of those English who live to eschew
bailiffs. Sufficiently near to England to admit of a quick
correspondence, it at the same time presents moderate charges.
At Desseins Mitford met the celebrated Brummel, whom he found, in
dress and manners, nothing more than a gentleman should be. Oh,
Bulwer! how could you travestie one of the most perfect gentlemen
of modern times, by adopting, in 'Pelham,' that story of the
'Ruelles?'--'Do you call that thing a coat?' Brummel told Mitford
he intended to write a book, entitled 'Characters in Calais,' who
facetiously recommended him to prefix the substantive 'bad' to the
title, being most descriptive of the English society generally met
there.
One day Brummel was seated at table with Colonel Haubrey, of the
Grenadier Guards. He had a beautiful Mosaic music-box, which he
exhibited to the latter. It presented some difficulty in opening. The
colonel was about using his dessert-knife.
'I beg you to remark, colonel,' said Brummel, gently resuming his
Mosaic, 'that my box is not an oyster!'
On this occasion, he related a curious anecdote of the tenacity of
French duns.
'A literary friend of mine,' said he, 'making a temporary sojourn in
Paris, and sadly in want of remittances, was one day beset by his
boot-maker for a trifle of forty francs. He endeavored to soothe him,
but in vain; and as a _pis aller_, told the man of sole to 'go to the
devil!'
'Ah!' cried the enraged cobbler, 'you tell me to go to the diable! By
gar, I will make de scandale--de _grande scandale_! You shall see vat
I shall do!'
Straightway he posted himself at the foot of the stair-case, where
he related to every passer-by the indebtedness of my friend for his
boots. The man of intellect felt so indignant and annoyed at this
conduct on the part of the _cordonnier_, that forthwith taking his
last forty-franc piece from his escritoire, he threw it at the honest
artizan's head, bidding him be gone--not in peace, but with his
maledictions.
Brummel was a very fervent admirer of America, and descanted
largely on what might be expected from the more extensive diffusion
of British liberty through her means. 'It is only the illiberal
and unwise,' said he, 'who apprehend that the power of America,
transcendant as it must become, will injure Great Britain. On the
contrary, as the one increases in prosperity, the other certainly
must do so likewise. What would England be now, if America had
never been discovered? At most, a second-rate power. Suppose such
an operation to be possible, as that of cutting off Great Britain
from all intercourse with the United States? How many thousands
of her artizans must go without bread! How many of her commercial
establishments decay! What destruction of wealth, ruin of palaces,
and dock-yards! Such an event would occasion a scene of desolation to
be paralleled only by that of Nineveh and Tyre of old.'
For a mere man of fashion, Brummel entertained some clear ideas on
political subjects, by which ministers might have profited. Witness
his opinions on Canada.
* * * * *
BUT these opinions, with the remainder of Mitford's varied history,
we reserve for another number.
SUMMER EVENING.
WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.
BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.
Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's side
The parting sun-beams slowly melt away:
But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed,
That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak.
See how the horizon blushes--as the last
Declining, lingering radiance of day
Skirts the faint eves of heaven--while adown
The desert mountain darkness glides apace,
And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye!
Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs,
That seems to tell a tale of sympathy.
'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately saw
And felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom:
Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth,
And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene.
Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream,
To muse the solemn, silent hour away!
But, as I move, upon the verge of heaven
The full broad moon, amid a host of clouds,
That stand like broken battlements afar,
Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beam
Resplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour.
Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form,
And leave me to myself and darkness--yet
Anon she bursts her prison, and looks down,
Like one that feels her consciousness and pride.
Here, from this eminence that tops the rill,
My eye goes wandering to the village nigh,
Where many a taper glimmers: there, methinks,
Contentment cheers the bosom--peace and mirth
Entwine the heart, and give a charm to life.
Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamed
Amid the bright reflections of the day!
Ah! it hath vanished--shaded by the night,
It rises up unseen, and each fair mansion,
Save by the doubtful moon, is seen no more.
Hushed is the voice of nature: to her nest
The solitary bird hath gone--and naught
Save the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad.
The meadow, but an hour ago alive
With grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blithe
The gentle music of the ploughman's whistle,
Lies cheerless and asleep--a lonely waste!
Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round which
The night-winds moan, let me indulge my soul--
For to my soul 'tis sweet to linger here.
Turn up thine eye to yon bright vaults of heaven,
All studded o'er with gems of light serene,
That glimmer through the mistiness of night:
See how they travel--their unceasing round
Weaving harmonious--and rejoiced to do
The will of their Creator: 'Ah!' they say--
For, to the poet's ear they speak aloud--
They say: 'proud man is but a reptile thing,
Lowly and dark--and still with head erect,
Presumes to challenge his almighty Lord,
And dares disclaim allegiance to his will.
We, dressed in glory bright as heaven itself,
Supremely lifted from those humble walks,
To journey through interminable space,
Stoop with submission to the hand that traced
The pathway of our orbs, and love to twine
A wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.'
Such is the language which those stars address
To melancholy man, while from the heath
Accordant voices rise. Lo! it is night--
Extinguished is the brilliant orb of day,
And none is left, save those bright stars above,
To cheer the solitary world. So thou,
Unthinking man! shall one day see thy life
Extinguished by the chilly touch of death.
But still upon thy grave a light shall stream--
And 'tis the torch of _Hope_ enkindled there
By meek Religion, to watch o'er thy dust,
Which life again shall animate and warm.
To-morrow, and the sun shall rise sublime,
Painting the face of nature; and each scene,
Tinged by its golden beams, shall glow and laugh,
Fraught with new life: so thou shall lay thee down
Within the midnight chambers of the tomb,
And darkness shall encompass thee awhile;
But then the light of Immortality,
Bursting into the cold recess, shall shine,
And wake thee from thy slumbers: thou shall rise,
And, robed in never-fading glory, live,
And rest thee on the bosom of thy GOD.
RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.
NUMBER ONE.
EVERY age and every community have their peculiar moral and religious
symptoms, under the action of the Christian system. So also every
separate form of Christianity hath its own characteristic features.
Doth not the Roman Catholic religion differ from the Protestant?
Doth not Protestant religion in Germany differ from that which
passes under the same name in Great Britain? Presbyterianism in
Scotland from Episcopacy in England? English Episcopacy from
Dissent? Christianity in Great Britain from Christianity in America?
Congregationalism in New-England from the Presbyterianism of the
middle and southern states? The two latter from Wesleyanism? The
Baptists from all three? Unitarianism from the four? And American
Episcopalianism from each of this tribe? We might descend to other
specifications, were it needful. It is enough for our purpose, that
they are suggested.
It is interesting as well as pleasant to suppose, that the actual
experiment of the different and successive modes, or developments, of
the divine economy of redemption, as they transpire in human society,
operates as a sifting of their qualities as excellent or otherwise;
and that the good gradually combine and become permanent, while
the faulty, by the same gradual process, become obsolete. Human
frailties have ever found their way into Christian institutions, and
pervaded more or less all Christian enterprises; but the proof of
time invariably determines their character before the public, and
causes them to be severed from such connection--to be ejected from
such society--and consequently, to lose their influence, while that
which is excellent abides. Faults almost innumerable may be traced
in the history of the Church; but the candid reviewer, occupying
our present position, can separate the good from the bad. We are
more immediately concerned, however, to observe the character of
_American Christianity_--especially those parts of it which have been
most prominent and influential, and which have generated what may be
called the religious spirit of the age in our own quarter. It cannot
be denied, that there is something peculiar in American religion.
First, religion here has been uncommonly energetic. Next, it has
assumed some striking peculiarities in its modes of operation. There
has been a disposition to lay aside old forms, and to put on new
ones; to make experiments; and the business of _experimenting_ has
been pushed so far as to bring the public mind to a pause. It may be
profitable, therefore, in the temporary and comparative quiet of this
hiatus, to interpose a little philosophical inquiry.
Not to detract at all from the highly meritorious character of our
forefathers, it will be obvious to the observer of the past, that the
religious spirit of those who have had most influence in forming the
religious character of this country, was of the puritanical school.
Thus far in this statement we are innocent, and hope that no ghost
will start up before he is called. Nevertheless, we begin to imagine
a stirring in the graves. But we intend not to disturb the dead. We
revere and laud that high Providence, which transplanted so much
conscience--so much fear of himself--into these wilderness realms,
and whose spirit has made this former wild abode to bud and blossom
like the rose, morally and physically. We have some respect even for
puritanism in 'its straitest sect;' but in some of its forms, it was,
in our opinion, rather _too_ strait.
Doubtless the puritanism of England was well provoked. But it _was_
provoked. The peculiarities of its mood were the legitimate product
of oppression; and its natural offspring, Dissent, has been nourished
by the same cause. The puritans were aggrieved, and they came here
for comfort. They might have been blessed with a Cromwell for a king,
if an order from government had not thrown a barrier in his path of
emigration through the sea, and destined him for a higher and more
sublime purpose, whether for good or for evil. Certainly it was not
for good, in the estimation of those who had the ill luck to keep him
back by their own measures. They dreamed not, they were favored with
no prophecy, of the work assigned to him. The reign of puritanism
in England stands forth on the page of history as a singular and
instructive drama, not to say tragedy. Doubtless there was much
virtue in it; but the sublime of its enactments was so closely allied
to the ridiculous, that the reader who weeps must also be prepared to
laugh.
America was a better field for puritanism. It was a congenial soil.
And beyond all question, here it has earned an honorable distinction,
and won laurels. Though it believed in witches, and hung them,
(poor creatures!) it believed in God as well as in the devil.
Though it banished Roger Williams, and interdicted the Quakers, it
had this good reason: 'We came here to be by ourselves. Pray don't
disturb us, when the land is so wide!' They who had experienced
intolerance, might have some excuse for practising it--especially,
as their theory and purpose was to have a community adhering to one
catechism. They had taken and occupied vacant ground, (Indians are
not counted,) for the sake of peace; and they thought the best way
to maintain it, was to keep away dissentients from their opinions.
Nevertheless, dissentients came in, and disputes have prevailed. But
the spirit of the puritan fathers also prevailed. That spirit, with
certain modifications of time and chance, has pervaded New-England
society, and, to a great extent, our land. Like the Scotch, who are
never at home till they get abroad, the sons of New-England have
also been rather 'curious.' They have spread out to the north, to
the east, to the west, and to the far west, and sent school-masters,
as well as pedlars, to the south. They have subdued the wilderness
in all directions; they have built and peopled our great cities and
flourishing towns at the north and west; their bone and sinew have
sustained our agriculture; their enterprise built our manufactories;
and their love of gain has pushed our commerce to the ends of the
earth. First in religion, especially in the commendable quality of
zeal, and first in schools and colleges, they have been chief in
influence throughout all our borders. Alas for the Presbyterian
church! (for _their_ sakes we say it,) the Congregationalism of
New-England governs it. They must emancipate themselves as best they
can. It is not for us to say which is the better of the two.
Now be it known--such at least is our philosophy--the religious
novelties of the age, on our side of the water, owe their being
to the New-England spirit, and had their germ in puritanism. The
straitness of this excellent sect was too strait to last always.
Children, kept so close on Sunday as to run themselves out of
breath when let loose at sun-down, were very likely to relax that
kind of discipline when they came to be parents. The blue-laws of
Connecticut, once thrown off, were naturally supplanted by a more
generous code. The Saybrook Platform has been thrown into the garret,
or buried beneath the wreck and dust of some other deposit of old
rubbish. Who can find a copy? And as for the Westminster Catechism,
what pastor of New-England now assembles the children of his parish
in the old school-house once a quarter to hear them recite this
elaborate and comprehensive body of divinity, from beginning to end,
as was the universal custom of olden time? These blessed days of
New-England have gone by. The fathers are dead. A new generation, new
laws, new customs, and a different set of manners, have succeeded.