WK^^ rl HK-^ Kj ^^^^Hj^R^P , ■-—^'f hB^e^^'I^ I^^M MHBg^ 3^ ^^^* ^BjQ^^^' ""^^k aj^-'^j^^r ^Kw^~^^ S^ISp^ >3)i^ ' ' ' >i^ Y^W /':^ ^ i?.j mm ^^.s W^ V ^'v)^^ yY) « ^< ^->>>^i. %^ ;,^. ^i^l^ ^,,<7 > , >> '> >,. ,^r^ *-v ''-^-' ,>9»': > ^>» j^.*^-^^> rr>>.-' >?■• >^)->g ,^ . ;;!»> ' - '^>-jS ^ yy. .', i^^l^ _ 1 \^, ■y iW--- -^ -Uk Vl VNTfc )r'"?- ""?l^ >i)»m 1^ : '3^ ^^>) 1^ >>_2 -^x:-^ I^B J ) ;) |\W ^ ^j "yv^ ^ ~£j[yT 1^^^ 9^^^\ \^y^v\ -yju^r^ ))B )>» ]» mi™ W.B. CLARKE &CARRUTH, Boolisellers, BOSTON, MASS. / Digitized by tine Internet Archive in 2013 Iittp://archive.org/details/ramblesreveries01tuck RAMBLES AND REVERIES. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN, AUTHOR OF "the ITALIAN SKETCH BOOK," AND "ISABEL OR SICILY." ^ DuJce. I would divide my days 'Twiit books and journeys. Leo. 'Twere well. To wander and muse at will Redeems our life from more than half its ill." NEW-YORK: JAMES P. GIFFING. NO. 56 GOLD STREET. 1841. Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1841, by JAMES P. GIFFING, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. S. ADAMS, PRINTER, 59 Gold Street, cor. of Ann. .V ADVERTISEMENT. The favor with which many of the following articles were recieved, as they appeared from time to time in the periodicals of the day, induced the belief that a col- lected edition would be acceptable to the public. They are accordingly presented in the form of a volume, which, it is hoped, will prove acceptable, at least to those who honored the author's previous attempts with such kind consideration. INSCRIBED TO OF NEW-TORK, With the sincere regard OP THE AUTHOR, CONTENTS SKETCHES. ■ -■' Page A Day at Ravenna, .... 3 The Cholera in Sicily, .... 15 The Capuchin of Pisa, .... 33 San Marino, ..... 43 Turin, ...... 61 Love in a Lazzaret, .... 72 Florence Revisited, .... 87 The Thespian Syren, .... 118 Modena, ..... 139 A Journey, ..... 149 Genoa, ...... . 157 Bologna, ...... 162 Lucca, ...... . 171 Leaf from a Log, ..... 178 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. Goldsmith, ..... 191 Pope, 218 Cowper, ..... 227 Shelley, : 240 Burns, ...... 262 Wordsworth, ..... 276 ▼i CONTENTS. Page Coleridge, • . 290 Mrs. Hemans, . 304 Characteristics of Lamb, . 316 MISCELLANY. The Bachelor Reclaimed, . 357 Hair, . • . 364 Eye-Language, . 371 Art and Artists, . . 383 The Weather, . 400 Manner, . , , . 408 Pet-Notions, . 416 Loitering, . . 421 Broad Views, . 431 SKETCHES. A DAY AT RAVENNA. Shall we go see the reUques of this town ? Twelfth Night. On a gloomy evening, I found myself crossing the broad plains contiguous to the ancient city of Ravenna. These extensive fields serve chiefly for pasturage, and their monotonous aspect is only diversified by a few stunted trees and patches of rice. Nearer the Adriatic, however, the eye is relieved by the appearance of a noble forest of pines, which extends for the space of several miles along the shore. The branches of these trees, as is common in Italy, have been, by repeated trimmings, concentrated at the top ; and most of them being lofty, a complete canopy is formed, beneath which one walks in that woodland twilight so peculiar and impressive. The effect is enhanced here, by the vicinity of the sea, whose mournful anthem or soothing music mingles with the wind-hymns of the forest aisles. As we emerged from a magnificent church that stands in the midst of this solitude, the interior columns of which were transported from Constantinople, no living object disturbed the pro- 4 A DAY AT RAVENNA. found repose of the scene, but a group of fine cattle, instinctively obeying the intimations of nature, and slowly returning to their domiciles. I found no difficulty in realizing that this scenery, when arrayed in the dreamy influences of such an hour, should prove congenial to the poetic mood, and wondered not that Byron, during his long residence at Ravenna, found so much pleasure in coursing through this quiet country, and along the adja- cent shore. The old city, like Venice, to whose triumphant arms, after so many fierce wars, it was at last subjected, rose from the marshes, and, although apparently at a consider- able distance from the sea, presents, even at the present day, abundant indications of its marine foundation ; and among them, the traveller observes with regret, the obliterating traces of a humid air, in the discolored and corroded frescos of the churches. One of the most valuable of these, however, has been singularly well pre- served, considering that it has withstood the combined effects of dampness and removal from its original posi- tion — a process involving no little risk. This beautiful specimen is at present fixed in the sacristy of the cathe- dral. It represents the angel visiting Elijah in the desert ; and dimmed as are its tints by time and moisture, no one can gaze upon the sweet face of the angel, radiant with youth, and contrast it with the calm, aged counte- nance and gray locks of the sleeping prophet, without recognizing that peculiar grace which marks the creations of Guido. Happily, some of the most ancient vestiges of art discoverable at Ravenna, exist in the more durable A DAY AT RAVENNA* O form of mosaics. Several of the churches, but particu- larly the baptistry, and the sepulchral chamber of Galla Placida, are completely lined with this curious species of painting, evidently of the most primitive order. But by far the finest antiquity, is the edifice called the Rotunda, which, like almost every similar relic in Italy, with equal disregard to taste and propriety, is fitted up as a modern church. This building is the mausoleum of Theodoric. It is without the walls, and approached through an avenue of poplars, whose yellow leaves rustled beneath our feet, or whirled in wild eddies over the grass. The cloudy sky and the solitude of the spot were also favorable to the associations of the scene. The form of the structure is circular, and the dome is considered a curiosity, being constructed from a single piece of marble. It is likewise remarkable, that all attempts to drain the water which has collected beneath the building, have proved fruitless. A flight of steps leads to the interior, which has long since been denuded of its ornaments; and the porphyry sarcophagus which surmounted the structure, and contained the ashes of Theodoric, has been removed, and imbedded in the walls of the old building supposed to have been his palace. I could not but remark, as I afterward noted this ancient urn, the singular combination which seems to attend memorials of past greatness. The side presented to view, was covered with the notices of public sales and amusements, a purpose which it bad evidently long subserved, while the mansion itself has been conveited iato a wine magazine. I* 6 A DAY AT EAVENNA. The fortifications of Ravenna, which were obviously constructed on no ordinary scale, have fallen into decay. Traces of but two of the many towers designated on the old charts, are discoverable ; and a city, whose obstinate and prolonged conflicts with the Venitian republic are alone sufficient to vindicate the warlike character of its ancient inhabitants, now furnishes the most meagre evidences of former activity and prowess. The few soldiers now seen in its deserted streets, serve not, alas ! to defend the town or enlarge its possessions, but minister to the ignoble purpose of draining its wretched inhabitants of their scanty resources. About three miles from one of the gates, a column commemorates the fate of Gaston De Foix. This brave knight, notwithstanding his extreme youth, had won so high a reputation for invincible courage and address, that he was intrusted with the command of the French troops, then struggling for the possession of Italy. WTien De Foix attacked Ravenna, it was vigor- ously defended by Antonio Colonna, who, in anticipation of his design, had entrenched himself with an effective force within the walls. After a warm conflict on the ramparts, the crumbling remnants of which still attest their former extent and massive workmanship, during which not less than fifteen hundred men perished in the space of four hours, the invaders were compelled to with- draw. At the instant the young commander was rallying his troops for a second assault, he was informed of the approach of the general army. They were soon fortified about three miles from the town, and the French warrior found himself in a situation sufficiently critical to damp A DAY AT RAVENNA. 7 the ardor of the best tried valor. Before him was his old enemy, of whose prowess he had just received the most signal proof, and near by, a fresh and vigorous army, while his position was utterly destitute of those accommo- dations requisite to recruit his forces, or afford the neces- sary provisions either for men or horses. In this exi- gency, he formed the resolution to force the army to a general conflict. Unfortunately for the Italians, the leader of their Spanish allies differed from the other officers as to the course expedient to be adopted ; the one party wishing to remain within the entrenchments, the other advocating a general rally and open attack. The former prevailed. The adverse armies continued to cannonade each other for a considerable time, and the balance of success was evidently in favor of the allied army, when the Duke of Ferrara brought his highly efficient artillery to bear from a very advantageous position in flank. So unremitted and annoying was the fire, that the allies were at length obliged to rush from their entrenchements, according to the sanguine wishes of De Foix, and try the fate of an open battle. On that memorable day, the eleventh of April, 1512, occurred the most tremendous action which for a long period had taken place on the war-tried soil of Italy. As one wanders over the mouldering bastions and solitary campagna of Ravenna, and pictures the spectacle which on that occasion was here beheld, the contrast between the retrospect and the reality is singularly impressive. The shock of the meet- ing of those two mighty bodies is described by the histo- rian of the period, as abounding in the awfully sublime. 8 A DAY AT RAVENNA. The action was sustained with a relentless fierceness, that soon laid the flower of both armies in the dust. More than once, the impetuous valor of the Spanish in- fantry threatened to decide the fortune of the day ; but the Italian forces were at length compelled to fly, leaving Cardinal de Medici, other illustrious prisoners, and all their artillery and equipages, in the hands of the enemy, besides nine thousand of their number dead upon the field. The French loss was computed as still greater. But the most lamentable event of the occasion, was the fate of their gallant leader. Flushed with victory, he pursued the panting squadrons of the fugitives with unre- mitted ardor, when, as he flew over the hard fought field, at the head of a thousand horse, he was surrounded and killed. There is something peculiarly touching in the fate of this young chieftain. He had scarcely attained the age of manhood, and was already regarded as the flower of the French chivalry. Glowing with theenthu- siastic, though mistaken zeal of the period, he had just led his soldiers to a victory eminently fitted to increase the fame of his arms. After a season of suspense, which must have appeared an age to his impatient spirit, he had met the opposing forces on the open field. Lang, des- perate, and dubious was the contest ; but at length his gladdened eye saw through the smoke of battle, the re- treating ranks of the enemy ; his enraptured ear caught, above the din of war, the victorious shouts of his soldiers. What visions of glory mu t have gleamed before his ima- gination, as he spurred his charger over the conquered field ! How sweet must have been the graiulaiions of A DAY AT RAVENNA. 9 bis country, heard in exultant fancy ! The lasting tro- phies of valorous renown were already won, and he was but in the morning of life. The wreath of chivalric honor, which his early ambition had pictured as a far-off boon, was already his. Yet, in that moment of triumph- ant emotion, when he felt the wreath of victory pressing his flushed brow, and heard, perhaps, the greeting of her whose smile would be the sweetest flower in his garland of renown, the fatal rally was made, and the gorgeous visions of gratified ambition were suddenly obscured by the mists of death ! He fell, not at the fearful onset, when despair of success might have reconciled him to such a fate ; nor in the midst of the struggle, when the influence of his example, or the desire of revenge, might have urged on his followers to yet fiercer effort ; but at the close of the fight, when the day was won, at the in- stant when the clouds of doubt broke asunder, and the joyful beams of success blessed his sight. At such a moment, fell the young and valiant Gaston de Foix. In the academy at Ravenna, there is the statue of a warrior carved in white marble. The name of the sculp- tor is not well authenticated ; but the work seemed to me remarkably well calculated to deepen the associations which environ the memory of the French knight. The figure is completely encased in armor, and sketched in the solemn repose of death. The visor of the helmet is raised, and the face presents that rigid expression, which we canaot look upon without awe. The very eye-lids are cut with such a lifeless distinctness, as to be eloquent of d eath. Thus, thought I, fell the veil of dissolution over 10 A DAT AT RAVENIV'A. the young soldier, whose bravery was here displayed. How affecting, with the story of his valorous energy fresh in the memory, to gaze upon such an image, and to feel that thus he became in the very hour of his triumph ! Erroneous as were then the ends of youthful ambition, yet is there enough of nobleness in the associa- lions of that epoch, to hallow its ornaments to our imagi- nation. Comparing them with the selfish and narrow ideas which too often mark the manners and demean the characters of our day, we must sometimes lament, that if the ignorance and barbarism of more warlike times have departed, so has also much of their high and almost uni- versal spirit of honor, gallantry and disinterestedness. Like most secondary Italian cities, Ravenna wears the semblance of desertion. At noonday, the stranger may often walk through streets deficient neither in spaciousness nor noble dwellings, and yet encounter no being, nor hear a sound indicative of life, far less of active prosperity. This was the case, to a remarkable degree, on the day of my visit, as it occurred during the month of October, when, according to the Italian custom, most of the nobility were at their villas ; and the sanitary restrictions established on account of the cholera then raging in some parts of the country, had greatly diminished the usual numbers of pass- ing travellers. In the piazza, at some hours of the day, there is a little life-like appearance, from the assemblage of buyers and sellers, and, at early evening, the princi- pal caffe exhibits the usual motley company collected to smoke and talk scandal, or to pore over the few journals which the jealousy of the government permits to find their A DAY AT RAVENNA. 11 way into the country. These restricted vehicles of conn- munication consist of little else than an epitome from the French journals, of the most important political and other passing events, collected and arranged with as little reference to order and connection, as can well be ima- gined. It is owing to the garbled and confused no- tions derived from these paltry gazettes, to which many even of the better class of Italians confine their reading, that there prevails in this country such profound igno- ranee of the most familiar places and facts. Some of the ideas existing in regard to the United States, afford good illustration of this remark. A retired merchant, who was travelling in very genteel style, once asked me if Joseph Bonaparte was still king of America. A monk of Genoa, who was my companion in a voiture in Lom- bardy, opened his eyes in astonishment when informed that it was more than half a century since we had ceased to be an English colony ; and another friar, whose ideas of geography were in rather a confused state, observed that he considered mine a very aristocratic country, judg- ing from what he had read of our president, Santa Anna. A young Tuscan, of respectable standing, inquired if one could go from Italy to America, without passing jhrough Madagascar ; and a signora of some pretensions begged in a very pathetic voice, to know.if we were much annoyed with tigers ! • Life, for the most part in these reduced towns, accords with the limited scope of the prevailing ideas. The morning is lounged away in listlessness ; the ride after dinner, and the convei^sazmie in the evening, being the 12 A DAT AT RAVENNA. only csfensible occupation, except during the carnivgl, when some theatricnl or other entertainment is gene- rally provided. Those ot" the resident nobility who can afford it. usually travel half the year, and economize the remainder. And if, among the better class, there are those whose range of knowledge is more extensive, or whose views are nobler, the greater part soon reconcile themselvps to a series of trifling pursuits, or idle dissipa- tion, as the appropriate offsets to their hopeless destiny. Sometimes, indeed, a rare spirit is encountered, superior to the ma^s, and incapable of compromising either prin- ciple or opinions, however objectless it may seem to cherish them ; and there are few more interesting cha- racters than are such men, in the view of the thoughtful philanthropist ; beings superior to their associates, and worthy of a better fate ; men who, amid degrading poli- tical and social circumstances, have the strength and ele- vation of mind to think and teel nobly, and seek by com- munion with the immortal spirits of the past, or by ele- vating anticipations, consolation for the weariness and gloom of the present. Occasionally, too, in such de- cayed cities, the stranger meets with those who, cut off from political advantages, and possessed of wealth, have devoted themselves to the pursuits of taste, and their palaces and gardens amply repay a visit. Such is the case with the eccentric Ruspini, one of the Ravenese nobility, whose gallery contains many valuable and inter- esting productions of art. At an angle of one of the by-streets of Ravenna, is a Email building by no means striking, either as regards A DAY AT RAVENiVA. 13 its architecture or decorations. It is fronted by a gate of open iron-work, surmounted by a cardinal's hat — indicat- ing that the structure was raised or renovated by some church dignitary, a class who appear invariably scrupu- lous to memorialize, by inscriptions and emblems, what- ever public work they see fit to promote. A stranger might pass this little edifice unheeded, standing as it does at a lonely corner, and wearing an aspect of neglect ; but as the eye glances through the railing of the portal, it instinctively rests on a small and time-stained bas-relief, in the opposite wall, representing that sad, stern, and emaciated countenance, which, in the form of busts, en- gravings, frescos, and portraits, haunts the traveller in every part of Italy. It is a face so strongly marked with the sorrow of a noble and ideal mind, that there is no need of the laurel wreath upon the head, to assure us that we look upon the lineaments of a poet. And who could fail to stay his feet, and still the current of his wandering thoughts to a deeper flow, when he reads upon the enta- blature of the little temple, * Sepulchrum Dantis Poetce, V It is not necessary that one should have solved the mys. teries of the Divina Commedia, in order to feel the solemn interest which attaches to the spot where the bones of its author repose. It is enough to' know that we are stand- ing by the tomb of a man who, in early boyhood, loved y and cherished the deep affection then born, after its ob- ject was removed from the world, through a life of the greatest vicissitude, danger, and grief, making it a foun- tain of poetic inspiration, and a golden link which bound him to the world of spirits ; a quenchless sentiment, 2 14 A DAY AT RAVENNA, whose intensity vivified and hallowed existence. It is sufficient to remember, that we are near the ashes of a man who proved himself a patriot, and when made the victim of political faction, and banished from his home, wrapped himself in the mantle of silent endurance, and suffered with a dignified heroism, that challenges univer- sal sympathy and respect. It is sufficient to reflect that the people who had persecuted the gifted Florentine when living, have long vainly petitioned those among whom he ^ied, for the privilege of transporting his revered remains to the rich monument prepared for them ; and that a permanent professorship, to elucidate his immortal poem, is founded by the very city from which he was ignobly spurned. It is enough that we see before us the sepul- chre of a man who had the intellect and courage to think beyond and above his age, who revived into pristine beauty a splendid but desecrated language ; who fully vindicated his title. to the character of a statesman, a sol- dier, and a poet ; and in a warlike and violent age, had the magnanimity to conceive, and the genius to create, au imperishable monument of intellectual revenge. THE CHOLERA IN SICILY "The blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke." Hallech In the modern history of pestilence, there are few records which can parallel, for scenes of horror and cease- less havoc, the course of the cholera in Sicily during the summer of 1837. For many months previous to the outbreak of the disease, the commerce of the country had been essentially diminished, by a series of rigid and ab- surd quarantines ; and so obstinate are the people in their belief that the complaint is contagious, that they still persist in ascribing its appearance in their capital to the introduction of contraband goods from Naples, where it was then raging. Notwithstanding these pre- cautionary measures, no preparation was made in case they should prove unavailing, so that when the* dreaded enemy arrived, the ignorance and poverty of the lower orders, and the utter absence of remedial arrangements 16 THE CHOLERA. IN SICILY. ou the part of the governmeut, gave free scope to its awful energies. A still more shameful cause of the fatal triumph which it subsequently achieved, is to he found ia the pusillanimous conduct of the physicians and agents of police, many of whom fled at the first announcement of danger. For weeks the multitudinous precincts of the city presented naught but the trophies of disease and Geath. In many instances the bodies were thrown into the streets ; and not uufrequeutly from the carts which removed them, might be heard the groans of some poor wretch prematurely numbered among the dead. As a last resort, the galley slaves were offered their liberty upon condition of burying the victims ; but fev/ survived to enjoy the dearly purchased boon. The strength of the poor nuns finally became inadequate to transporting the rapidly increasing bodies to the gates of the convents, and these asylums were necessarily broken open by the becci. These wretches nightly made the circuit of the deserted streets, by the light of numerous fires of pitch, kept burning at long intervals, with a view of purifying the air. They sat upon the heap of livid corses piled up in their carts; stopping at each house where a light glimmering in the balcony indicated that their senices were required. Entering without cere- mony, they hastily stripped the body, and placing it on the cart, resumed their progress, generally singing as they went, under the influence of intoxication or unna- tural excitement. Arrived at the Campo Santo, their burdens were quickly deposited in huge pits, and the same course repeated until sunrise. It is remarkable, that THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. 17 of one hundred and fifty-six of those regularly employed in this way, but three fell victims to the cholera. The low situation of Palermo, surrounded as it is by high mountains, and built nearly on a level with the sea doubtless augmented the virulence of the disease. Du- ring several days in July, a strong sirocco wind prevailed ; and no one who has not experienced the suffocating and dry heat of this formidable atmosphere, can realize the complete lassitude it brings, both upon mind and body. Engendered amid the burning sands of Africa, even its flight across the sea chastens not the intensity of its heat* It broods over the fertile valley in which the Sicilian capital stands, with the still and scorching intensity of noon-day in the desert. The laborers crouch beneath the shadow of the walls in weary listlessness. The nobility take refuge on the couch or in the bath. The paper on the escritoir curls in jts breath like the sensitive plant at the human touch ; and vases of water are con- stantly filled beneath the piano-forte, that the thin case of the instrument may not crack asunder. The fresh ver- dure of the fields withers before it, and the solitary streets, at the meridian hour, proclaim its fearful presence. The occurrence of a sirocco soon after the advent of the cholera, greatly augmented its ravages. Literally might it be said, that the pestilence came on the wings of the wind ; and, unlike its course in other countries, it pri- marily attacked foreigners and the higher class of natives. But a few days prior to its appearance, I left Palermo for the other side of the island. The spring had been unusually fine. Daily excursions, at that luxurious 2* IS THE CHOLEKA IN SICILY. season, nowhere more redolent of beauty than in Sicily, had made me familiar with the rich scenery of the ' golden shell.' The same friends whose society enlivened these excursions, brightened the conversazione with pleasant intercourse and kindly interchange of feeling. It was with something of a heavy heart that, on a brilliant day, I gazed on the fast-fading outline of a prospect interest- ing from its intrinsic beauty, and endeared by habit and association. A young countryman, who had been my companion for many months, bade me farewell at the mole. We parted with many assurances of a pleasant meeting in a few weeks on the same spot, to enjoy together the festivities of St. Rosalia — the great national festival of the Palermitans, and one of the most splendid in Europe. As we glided out of the beautiful bay, my eye ranged along the palaces which line the Marina, till it rested instinctively upon the hospitable mansion of the American Consul — a gentleman whose home-taught pro- bity and application, and whose attachment to the princi- ples of his country and the persons of his countrymen never swerved during more than twenty years' residence amid the enervating influences of the South. I knew that in that mansion, there was at that hour a gathering of social spirits, and remembered the kindly pleasantry with which the host had interposed his consular authority to prevent my departure, in order that I might make one of the guests. I turned to Monreale, perched so pictur- esquely on the mountain range above the town, and gazed upon the bold promontory of Mount Pelegrino, rising like the guardian genius of the scene, in solitary TUE CHOLEKA IN SICILY. 19 grandeur from the sea. With the aid of a telescope, I could trace the neat promenade upon which I had so often walked, unconscious of the passage of time, as the tones of friendly converse soothed my ear, or the passing glance of beauty cheered my sight. And as we were rounding the last point and fast losing sight of every familiar object, I caught a glimpse of the ancient and noble dome of St. Guiseppe, beneath whose shadow was the dwelling of one whose melody had often stirred my weary pulse, and still rang sweetly in my memory. At length the distant mountains covered with mist, alone met my eager view. The night wind rose with a solemn wildness, and the gloomy roar of the sea chimed in with the shadowy tenor of my parting thoughts. But the idea of soon revisiting the pleasant friends and favorite haunts I was quitting, soon solaced me ; and the next morning, when I ascended to the deck, and found our gallant vessel cleaving the blue waters before an exhilarating breeze and beneath a summer sky, cheering anticipations soon usurped the place of unavailing regret. A few long summer days, and what a change came over that scene of tranquil fertility and busy life ! They whose smiling adieus seemed so significant of a speedy reunion, were no more. The youth whose manly beauty and buoyant spirits I had so often noted on the promenade and in the ball-room — the leader in every plan of social amusement, the first to start the humorous thought, and the last to prolong the joyous laugh ; he whose prime found every energy at the height of action, and life's plan widening with success ; and the fair 20 THE CHOLERA IX SICILY. creature to whose meek brow I was wont to look for the sweetest impress of woman's dignity, as her voice was attuned to the softest and most intelligent expression of woman's mind — all, as it were, struck out from the face ef the earth — gone from the freshest presence of Nature and the thoughtful scenes of an absorbing being, to the dark and solitary grave ! Of a population of one hundred and seventy thousand, according to the last census of Palermo, within the space of two months, thirty-seven thousand were swept off: and within the city, the number of interments in a single day, when the disease was at its height, amounted to three thousand five hundred. Appalling as is the bare mention of such details, they are less calculated to shock the imagination and sicken the heart, than many of the subordinate and contingent scenes attending the pesti- lence. There is such a mystery and superhuman des- tructiveness in the rise and progress of a fell contagion, that the mind is awed as at the solemn fulfilment of a divine ordination. But when the unrestrained and savage play of human passions mingles wdth the tragic spectacle of disease and death, absolute horror usurps the place of every milder sentiment, and we are I'eady to be- lieve that the pestilence has maddened the very seul, and despoiled humanity of her true attributes. To under- stand the scenes of violence and atrocity which w^ere almost of daily occurrence during the existence of the cholera in Sicily, it is necessary to remember the circum- stances and temperament of the people. Perhaps in no spot of earlh do the extremes of civilized and savage life THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. 21 SO nearly approach each other as in this rich and ancient island. Scattered over the kingdom, there are countless beings in a state of ignorance and poverty which, but for ocular proof, we should suppose could not co-exist with the indications of social refinement observable in the principal cities. These unhappy victims of want and superstition possess passions which, like the fires of iEtna, break forth with exhaustless energy, and when once aroused, lead to consequences which it is impossible to foresee or imagine. Crushed to the earth by exorbitant taxation, and every national feeling insulted by the galling presence of a foreign military, it is scarcely a matter of ^rprise that when the long- dreaded cholera appeared among them, aggravated in its symptoms by the climate, and every moment presenting the most har- rowing spectacles in the streets and by the way-side, they should readily adopt the idea that their oppressors had resorted to poison, as a means of ridding themselves of a superfluous and burdensome population. Nor are there ever wanting in every country, designing men, who, from the basest motives of self-aggrandizement, are ready and willing to inflame the popular mind even to frenzy, if, in its tumultuous outbreak, their own purposes are likely to be subserved. Such men are neither restrained by an idea of the awful machinery they are putting in mo- tion^or the thought of their eventual danger; desperate in their fortunes, they re-enact the scenes of Cataline, and few are the epochs or the communities which can furnish a Cicero to lay bare their mock-patriotism and bring speedy ruin upon their projects, by exposing their 22 THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. turpitude. Were an unvarnished history written of the outrages which took place in Sicily in the summer of 1837, it would scarcely be credited as a true record of events which actually transpired in the nineteenth cen- tury ; and while indignation would.be deeply aroused against the acts themselves, a new and more earnest pro- test would be entered in every enlightened mind against the barbarous abuses of political authority — the long, dark,' and incalculable evils for which despotism is accountable to humanity. In many places, the cry of '^ a poisoner !" was suffi. cient to gather an infuriated mob around any person attached to the municipal government, or up^p whom the absurd suspicions of the populace could with the slightest plausibility, fix. The unfortunate and innocent indivi- dual thus attacked, immediately found himself at the mercy of a lawless crowd, in whose excited faces, flushed with a stern and ferocious purpose, no hope of escape was to be read; he was frequently struck to the earth, pinioned, and dragged, by means of a long cord, through the streets, the revengeful throng rushing behind with taunts and imprecations. In more than one instance, the heart of the poor wretch was torn out be- fore the eyes of his friends. The fate of one of these unhappy victims to popular fury was singularly awful. He was one of the middle order of citizens — a class among whom was manifested more firmness and mutual fidelity, during the pestilence, than in any other ; for the nobility, pampered by indulgence into habits of intense gelfishness, and the lowest order, driven to despair by the THE CHOLERA IN SlClLY. 23 extremity of their sufferings, too often entirely forgot the ties of parentage and the claims of natural affection, chil- dren abandoning parents, and husbands wives, with the most remorseless indifference. But among that indus- trious class, in which the domestic virtues seem always to take the deepest root and to flourish with the greatest luxuriance, there were numberless unknown and unre- corded instances of the noblest self-devotion. It was tc this rank that the unfortunate man belonged, and his only daughter to whom he was tenderly attached, having been carried off by the cholera, in the hope of saving his own life and that of his two sons, they left the city and fled towards Grazia, a town in the interior. Before they reached their destination, the father was attacked by the disease, and it became necessary to seek refuge in the first convent. Here his sons nursed him for several days, until, being slightly affected with symptoms of the malady, the elder returned to Palermo in order to procure medi- cine and other necessaries. During his absence, an old woman whom they employed as a laundress, discovered in the pocket of one of their garments several pills com- posed of Rhubarb and other simple substances, which had been procured in the city to be used in case of emergency. She immediately displayed them to the peasants in the vicinity, declaring her conviction that the invalid was a poisoner. This evidence was sufficient. They rushed to the convent, drew the sick man from his bed, and beat him unmercifully. Meantime some of the party collected a quantity of straw and wood, and binding the younger son upon the pile, set fire to it before the father's eyes, whom, 24 THE CHOLERA. ^N SICILV. having again beaten, they also threw upon the flames, and burned them both alive. Soon after, the elder son returned, having received medical advice in Palermo which entirely restored him. Surprised at finding his father's room vacant, he inquired for his brother of a little boy, who replied by leading him to the spot where the charred remains lay ; his violent demonstrations of grief soon attracted attention ; his relationship to the two vic- tims was discovered, and nought but the timely interfer- ence of an influential individual residing near, saved him Irom sharing their fate. The cholera appeared in Syracuse early in July. About the middle of that month, strong indications were manifested on the part of the people of a disposition to revolt ; and the public authorities were convened to deliberate on the subject. There is no question that in this place the fears of the multitude were excited by de- signing men. The shop of a bread-seller was forcibly entered, and several loaves paraded about the streets as poisoned, doubtless with the express purpose of collect- ing a mob. This was soon accomplished, and the dis- aflected throng next proceeded to the residence of an apothecary, upon whom their suspicions fell, and, having taken him to the public square, murdered him. The Commissary of Police next fell a victim to their fury. The Intendant, hearing that the mob were approaching, made his escape by a by-lane, and applied to a boatman to convey him beneath the walls of the citadel. The boatman refused, and he was obliged to fly to the country. His pursuers, however, soon discovered the direction he THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. 25 had taken, and, following with bloodhounds, traced him to a cavern called the Grotto, whence he was drawn and dragged into the city, where, after suffering many outrages, he was murdered before the image of the patron saint. The next morning the Inspector of Police, his son, and several other citizens, lost their lives. An old blind man was seized upon, and threatened with death if he did not give up the names of his accomplices. To save his life, and doubtless prompted by some malicious persons, he gave a list of respectable citizens, most of whom were instantly seized and put to death. Meanwhile, similar sanguinary proceedings were making many of the minor towns of the island scenes of outrage and blood ; and as the populace of Syracuse grew emboldened by success, they published and circulated a proclamation addressed to their countrymen, commencing " Sicilians ! Trie cholera, that dreadful disease, which has so long been the terror of Europe, has at length found its grave in the city of Archimedes," &c. going on to attribute it to poison, and calling upon their countrymen to eradicate it by removing the government which introduced it. Towards the last of July, a report was spread in Catania, that Major Simoneschi, of the gendarmerie, had taken re- fuge in the monastery of the Benedictines, and that he was a distributor of the poisons which had desolated Na- ples and Palermo. A crowd collected under the direction of several individuals of the rank of lawyers, brokers and mechanics, who assaulted the monastery, but not finding the person they sought, soon dispersed. As no notice was taken of these proceedings by the civil authorities, 26 THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. the mob were encouraged, and, in the course of a few days, attacked the police and other public offices, in order to possess themselves of the weapons there deposited. On the same day, the manifesto of the Syracusans arrived, was immediately reprinted by the rebel Catanese and sent off to Messina with a band to excite a mob there also. The town, however, was then under the protection of a civic guard ; and all attempts to excite disturbances were vain. On the same evening, the Catanese arrested the Intendente, Procuratore Generale, and the commander of the gendarmerie, as persons suspected of distributing poi- son, and confined them under guard in the house of one of their nobility. They then formed a Council of Secu- rity, and raised the yellow flag in token of Sicilian Inde- pendence. The Intendente and Procuratore were forced to swear allegiance to the new government, and were then set at liberty — although their freedom was all but nominal, as they were kept under the strictest surveillance. The garrison, being small and inefficient, was soon dis- armed. An original manifesto was published, declarative of the good deeds and purposes of the rebels. The bells of the churches were taken from their towers to be mould- ed into cannon. The pictures of the royal family were collected from the various public edifices and demolished, the statue of Francesco torn from its pedestal, destroyed by order of the government, and the revolutionary stan- dard displayed in its place. The slight opposition with which these movements in Sicily were met by the representatives of the government, indicates the frail tenure by which Naples holds dominion THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. 27 over the island. And when at length measures were adopted to quell the disturbances, new scenes of horror succeeded. The Marquis Del Carretto was commissioned by the King to make the circuit of the island and inflict summary justice upon all implicated in the recent trans- actions. This officer appears to have been singularly fitted for his sanguiary vocation. Had the victims to martial law whom he caused to be sacrificed, been confined to the conspicuous among the mob, or even to such as had openly identified themselves with the violent deeds of the populace, we might consider him in some measure justified by the circumstances and occasion, in making such an example as would prevent the farther eff'usion of human blood. — But many an act of the most aggravated tyranny and cruel proscription perpetrated by Del Carret- to, under the pretence of restoring public order, will long be remembered with indignation. There is a class of educated Sicilians, and chivalrous youth, who have cherished the hope of effecting the inde- pendence of their country, by means and at a period alto- gether diff*erent from those, into which the pestilence pre- cipitated the fiery hearts of the less informed and the de- luded. In the midst of the various and contending revo- lutionary elements then convulsing Sicily, there were not a few noble, ardent, and truly patriotic spirits who saw in the course of events consequent upon the cholera, a still longer postponement of their dearest hopes — a still wider chasm yawning between anticipated and realized freedom. The unfitness of the mass for the boon of self-govern- ment was made appallingly obvious. The gradual, heal- 28 THE CHOLERA. IN SICILY. thy spread of liberal sentiment was suddenly checked. The government, long jealous and anxious for an occa- sion to inspire the people with fear, seized upon this mo- ment to remove the most influential advocates of free principles from the pathway of liberty. If the revolution- ists availed themselves of the cholera to excite the multi- tude against the government, the latter took no small ad- vantages of the excesses of the people to revenge them- selves upon the daring, intelligent and quiet promulgators of those truths which lie at the foundation cf all success- ful innovation. Many a gifted young man was sentenced to die in two hours, upon the bare evidence of having ut. tered or written some expression indicating his hostility to foreign dominion ; and not a small portion of the flow- er of the Sicilian youth were chased by a Neapolitan ves- sel of war beyond Elba — rending the air, as they flew before the breeze, with the glad strains of the Marsellaise. One of the King's manifestos threatened with death all who should believe in poisoning as the cause of the pesti- lence ; and his indefatigable deputy, who had volunteered to avenge his cause upon the wretched Sicilians, passed rapidly from city to city, holding levees for the adherents of the crown, giving balls to the loyal ladies, confiscating the estates of the refugees, and shooting, after the merest mockery of a trial, all recognized ring-leaders of rebellion and every one who could, under any pretence, be suspect- ed of being a liberal. One poor youth escaped death only by flight who had been seen to applaud some patriotic sentiment rather ve- hemently in the theatre ; and the name of one of the best THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. 29 educated and finest young men of the island was placed on the bloody list merely on the dying testimony of one of the victims, wrung from him by the hope of a reprieve. After the lapse of a few weeks, public order was re-es- tablished. The pestilence ceased. Del Carretto returned to Naples. But it will be long before the melancholy traces of these calamities will pass away from the island, or the solitary places be filled. The King has since vis- ited his subjects, and a reconciliation has been effected. Neither have their sufferings been wholly without political benefit to the Sicilians. Many privileges have been ac- ceded to the different communities. New commercial facilities have been afforded, onerous regulations abo- lished, and the quarantine system revised. Nor can the conduct of a part of the inhabitants have failed so as to impress the government as shall henceforth command for them more respect, and cause their just rights to be mora readily recognized.* One scene of which I was a witness, was alone calculated to produce no transient impression. As the news of the afflicting events which were deso- lating the other parts of Sicily, reached Messina, it threw the whole city into mourning. The arrival of the Palermo post was expected with an eager and painful interest visi- bly depicted upon the face of almost every passer; and at all hours of the day, the Marina was studded with groups whose anxious countenances indicated the one absorb- ing subject they were discussing. But on one occasion, the spectacle presented from the balconies, was by no ♦ Later accounts however indicate but too plainly a renewal of the most despotic and baneful policy. 3* 80 THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. means so quiet. A crowd had collected around the Health Offire, which rises directly from the water's edge, and were clamoring to the deputies sitting within, to send instantly away a brig of war which had that moment en- tered the port from Naples, where the cholera was then raging, having been sent by the King, with clothing for the troops, then quartered at Messina. The circle imme- diately around the building consisted of the lower orders of the Messinese — porters, boatmen and mechanics — their disordered vestments, shaggy beards and fierce ex- pressions, giving them not a little of a genuine revolu- tionary aspect. Behind these foremost actors in the scene, stood a multitude of the better class, regarding the movements of the rabble with simple curiosity or secret approbation. The members of the Board of Health thus found themselves in an awkward predicament. On the one hand, they feared to disobey the royal order to re- ceive the clothing, and on the other they were threatened with the vengeance of an exasperated populace. Their reply, however, was indecisive ; and so deep and vindic- tive a murmur followed its annunciation, that the fright- ened deputies deemed it best to effect their escape. With this view, they sprang from the back door and crowded into the boats which were drawn up on the beach, urging their owners to push off, and promising their adversaries in the rear that the obnoxious vessel should be forthwith sent away. It was ludicrous to see with what a compro- mise of dignity their escape was effected. Many of these worthies rushed into the water above their middle, in order to gain the boats. Their assurance of immediately com- THE CHOLERA. IN SICILY. 31 plying with the popular desire, was received with a shout of triumph, and the crowd eagerly watched their progress as they glided on towards the quarantine harbor. When about midway, however, they suddenly veered and moved rapidly towards the citadel, within vrhose protecting walls they were soon safely ensconced. The rage of the pec- pie when they found themselves thus deceived, was be- yond measure. They instantly attacked the deserted Health Office with clubs, stones and every obtainable mis- sile, and in a few moments it presented a ruinous and shattered appearance. Scores of boys, half-clad urchins, sprang through the windows like bees from a hive, bearing the records, account-books and files of papers connected with the establishment, which they deliberately tore into fragments, scattered to the winds or threw into the sea, which was soon whitened for yards around wiih the float- ing masses. In the midst of the destruction, it was curi- ous to observe the behavior of the leaders of the tumult. One of them carefully conveyed away several of the most valuable articles, and deposited them in the hands of a highly respectable and popular citizen among the , by- standers. Another took a silver lamp and threw it far out into the water, that it might be evident that their object was not to pilfer. One climbed to the front of the build- ing, and having calmly cut to pieces the inscribed marble tablet, touched several times the king's arms which were inscribed above and then kissed his hand, amid the re- spofisive shouts of the multitude ; by this salutation im- plying that they recognised the allegiance due to their sovereign, and aimed vengeance only at the deputies. 32 THE CHOLERA IN SICILY. He then posted a small engraving of the Madonna in the place of the marble slab, thereby indicating that for the preservation of the public health, they trusted wholly to Heaven. Meanwhile, another leading spirit had raised the royal banner at half-mast, at the opposite corner, to suggest that the king mourned over the mal-administra- tion of his officers. At length the municipal authorities fearing the consequences of further opposition to the public will, ordered the brig to depart, and presently she stood gallantly out of the harbor before a strong breeze. The exultation of the populace at the sight of this movement was without bounds. They abandoned the work of de- struction upon which but a moment previous they had been so sagely intent, and ran along the shore beside the ship, brandishing their sticks and shouting/i^ore / (away !) until she had doubled the adjacent cape and disappeared. It was a scene of no ordinary excitement ; the steady and swift course of the armed vessel silently gliding from the bay under a cloud of canvass, and the eager crowd with victory gleaming from their eyes, rushing on to hail her exit. Never was a popular triumph more complete. THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. *' Grey was liis hair, but not with age." Anon. For one inclined to a studious life, there is no more desirable residence, in Italy, than Pisa. The calls of plea- sure and society which so constantly assail the student in the capital cities, are far less numerous and exciting here. Boasting the oldest university in Tuscany, Pisa, with the downfall of her commercial importance, lost not the attractiveness which belongs to an ancient seat of learning. The reputation for military prowess, gained by her brave citizens in the crusades, and the maritime consequence she enjoyed in the primitive era, when small vessels only were in use, are distinctions which have long since ceased to exist. She sends forth no fleets of galleys, as of old, armed with bold mariners panting to destroy the Saracenic pirates. The Islands in the Medi. terranean, once tributary to her arms, now acknowledge another master. Bloody feuds no longer divide her citi- zens ; Dor has she ventured to dispute the empire of the 34 THE CAPUCHIN OP PISA. seas since the close of the twelfth century, when she suf- fered a memorable defeat in a naval combat with the Ge- noese, under Admiral Doria. So great was the number of her distinguished people who, in this and previous bat- tles, fell into the power of her formidable rival, that it was a common saying in that age, that, * whoever whould see Pisa, must go to Genoa.' The edifices upon the right bank of the Arno, many of them rich in architectural decorations, are built in the form of a sweeping curve admirably exposed to the sun. In these buildings are the best winter lodgings ; and the broad street forms a delightful promenade. Here the in- valids stroll at noon or evening, completely sheltered from the wind ; while about the adjacent bookstores the literati lounge in the sun, to con a new publication, or discuss some mooted point in science or belles-lettres. Sometimes on an autumn evening, when nature is in her balmiest mood, and the walk filled with students, the seve- ral bridges reflected in the river, and the are JMaj-m steal- ing on the breeze, the scene is delightfully significant of calm enjoyment. On a pleasant afternoon, as I noted this picture from beneath an awning which surmounted the door of a caffe, my eyes encountered those of a Capu- chin friar, who was sitting on the parapet opposite, occa- sionally enjoying the same pastime, but more frequently engaged in turning over the leaves of an old folio. The members of this fraternity, usually seen in Italy, are very unprepossessing in their appearance. Their brown robes generally envelope a portly person, and the rough hood falls back from a face whose coarse features bedaubed THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. 35 with yellow snuff, indicate mental obtuseness far more than sanctity. This Capuchin, however, had an eye which, at the first glance, seemed beaming with intelli- gence; but, upon inspection, betrayed an unsettled ex- pression, such as might pertain to an apprehensive or disordered mind. But the most striking peculiarity in the monk's appearance, as he sat with his cowl thrown back to enjoy the evening air, was the remarkable contrast be- tween a face decidedly youthful, and hair that exhibited the grey of sixty winters.. An effect was thus produced similar to that observed on the stage, when a juvenile per- former is invested with one of the heavy powdered wigs of the last century. It was as if youth and age were miraculously conjoined in one person. The adolescent play of the mouth, the freshness of the complexion, and the careless air, bespoke early manhood, and were in startling contradiction to the thick locks blanched almost to snowy whiteness. The friar noticed my gaze of curi- osity, and advancing towards me with a good-natured courtesy, proffered the curious volume for my inspection. It was truly a feast for a connoisseur in black-letter and primitive engravings — one of those parchment-bound church chronicles which are sometimes met with in Italy, filled with the most grotesque representations of saints and devils. The Capuchin it appeared, was an amateur in such lore ; and this his last prize, had just been bought of a broker in similar matters, who had long watched for him on the promenade as a sure purchaser^ of the worm- eaten relic. Most patiently did he initiate me into the mysteries of the volume, apparently delighted to find so 36 THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. atteutive an auditor. I observed that it was as an antiquity, and especially on account of the pictures, that he prized the book ; and my wonder was increased by the general knowledge and worldly wisdom displayed by this member of a brotherhood noted for their ignorance. Perhaps he interpreted my curiosity aright, for when we had turned over the last leaf, he proposed an adjournment to his con- vent, that I might view his collection of ancient tomes, an invitation I was not slow to accept. His cell was at the corner of the monastery, and commanded a fine view of the surrounding country on the one side, and of the river and city on the other. It was neatly furnished, and not without ornament. He pointed out several book- jshelves, and evidently enjoyed the surprise with which I read the titles of works usually found in the libraries of men of taste, but seldom known in the dormitory of the priest. At length, he raised them en masse, and what I had deemed a little library, proved but an ingenious imita- tion. Beneath the painted boards was disclosed the veri- table collection of the poor Capuchin — a few vellum, bound volumes, chiefly refering to the theology of his sect. I was not a little interested in the quiet humor thus displayed by this singular brother of a gloomy fraternity. His cheerful eye was at variance with the dark, rough robe, and coarse rope which bound him. His little room was furnished with a view to the enjoyment oi the occu- pant ; and, judging by the fine old Malaga with which he entertained me, not without the means of indulgence. I could not but fancy the feelings which must sometimes visit him as he gazed from his secluded nook upon the THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. 37 world he had renounced. When, at dawn, he has seen one of the many equipiiges start from the adjacent square, bearing hearts intent upon re-union with the loved in the place of its destination, or youthful spirits eager for the excitement and adventure of a distant tour, has he not sighed for a share in the blessed ministry of the affociions, or panted to throw himself into a more expanded sphere of experience? or, if sincerely deeming all earthly friend- ^hip vain, and all knowledge of the world unholy, in mu- sing at sunset over the richness, the silent and varying beauty of that lovely landscape, has he not momently caught the inspiration of nature's freedom, and felt that the breezes of heaven are not less chainless, by Beaven's ordination, than the spirit within him? The Capuchin understood and interrupted my reverie. *« Signer," said he, " I perceive you are surprised at the obvious want of harmony between my character and my destiny. You think the friar's garb does not altogeth- er become me, and wonder how it is that s > youthful a brow should be shaded by hoary locks. I will endeavor to explain the apparent anomaly, if you are disposed to listen to a brief recital. A Corsican by birth, I reached the age of sixteen without clearly understanding the word — responsibility. My life had flown on beneath the paternal roof, unmarked by vicissitude, unembittered by sorrow. My education was intended to prepare me for a naval life>^ and, as far as theoretical knowledge is important, perhaps it was not valueless. I had acquired, too, some dexterity in the management of such small craft as ply about the Mediterranean coast. But no duty had ever been im- 4 38 THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. posed upon me, which my own inclination had not sug- gested ; and if at times, I was deep in mathematical studies, or intent upon displaying my nautical skill when a storm had lashed our bay into a foam, it was my native love of excitement rather than any settled principle of ac- tion, which prompted my exertions. I was regarded as a spoiled child, and the rebukes to which I was, in conse- quence, subjected, aroused my indignation more deeply than corporeal punishment oflen does that of less ardent beings. On one occasion, when smarting inwardly from a taunting reproach my father had bestowed, I suddenly resolved to flee, if it were only to prove that I could de- pend upon myself, and be indeed a man. Such resolu- tions doubtless abound at that age, and are not unfre- quently acted upon. With a few louis-d'ors in my purse, I embarked for Marseilles, and after a few weeks' stay in that city, found myself without money or friends, and pre- vented by pride from revealing myself or my situation to any one. Want, however, was fast undermining my re- solution ; and one bright morning I walked towards the quay, hoping to discover some Corsican captain who would convey me home. As I stood near one of the docks, glancing over the shipping, I observed a man whose vest. ments were those of a dandy mariner, rapidly pacing the wharf. His keen gaze soon fell upon my person, and, at the next turn in his promenade, he abruptly clapped me on the shoulder, and, pointing to a neat brig with Sardin- ian colors in the offing, asked my opinion of her build and appearance. As I had been an observer of vessels ftom early boyhood, I answered him with frankness, intro- THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. 39 ducing some technical phrases, which seemed to convince him that I was no novice in such matters. When I had concluded ; ^ my lad,' said he, ' I am the supercargo of that craft. Ask no questions, navigate her to Corsica, and (his is your's,' shaking a purse before my eyes. Without hesitation I accepted the proposal. Mindful of my immediate necessities, and elated at the idea of en- tering our harbor the recognised commander of so fine a vessel, I banished all doubts of my capacity, trusted to for- tune to carry me safely through the enterprise, and spring- ing with alacrity after the supercargo, into a boat, soou stood with all the pride of youth mantling in my cheek, upon the quarter deck of the Maria Teresa. Several Jews were clustered about the mainmast, awaiting our arrival to secure their passage. They offered to make up what was deficient in the cargo, by shipping several cases of liqueurs, and agreeing to pay liberally, the bar- gain was soon closed. It was arranged that we should sail at sunset ; and leaving the supercargo at his desk in the cabin, I hastened on shore to atone for my recent ab- stinence. The commencement of our voyage was highly prosperous. After several days, having been blest with clear weather, and favorable, though light breezes, I be- gan to congratulate myself upon my success, when, one afternoon, there appeared along the horizon, indubitable tokens of a coming storm. I knew not precisely where we were, though I hal concealed my doubts on the subject ; and as night approached, a strange feeling of melancholy came over me. I leaned over the bulwarks, watching the ominous masses of clouds, and listening to the heavy and 40 THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. solemn swell of the sea. All at once, a sense of the re- sponsibility I was under, began to oppress me. Misgiv- ings crowded upon my hitherto resolute mind ; and, at length, a presentiment of evil took entire possession of my fancy. Inexperienced, and prevented by false pride from exposing my fears, I bitterly repented of the task I had undertaken. I felt, however, that it was now too late to retreat, and observing an old sailor casting an eye of curiosity upon my anxious countenance, I suddenly de- termined at all hazards, to maintain the character 1 had as- sumed. The wind increasing, before'dark every thing was snug on board, and at midnight it blew a tempest. The hrig, heavily laden as she was, ploughed wearily through the wa.ves,^ every timber creaking as she flew before the wind. Sometimes it seemed impossible she should rise after a plunge so convulsive, and a pause so awful. My heart beat with agonizing suspense, till I felt the quivering fabric slowly lifted again on the billow, to dive once more madly on her way. The mast fell with an awful crash, and^ for a second, the crew stood astounded, as if the ves- sel herself had burst asunder ; but, when the extent of the mischief was discovered, they worked on assiduously as before. We were scudding under a reefed jib, and I stood braced sigainst the companion-way, awaiting, with mingled feelings of awe, perplexity, and hope, the crisis of the storm. Encouraged by the firm bearing of our gallant bark, I began to think all would eventuate happily, when a flash of lightning revealed to me the old mariner on his knees by the forecastle, the other sailors standing in terror and dismay about him, and the Jews huddled to-. THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA. 41 gether apart, regarding them with looks of fear, which even the raging elements seemed not to divert. At the same moment a strong smell of sulphur filled the atmos- phere. Conceiving a thunderbolt had struck the brig, and scarce knowing what I did, I rushed forward, and seizing the foremost Jew with a savage grasp, 'base Is- raelite !' cried I, ' are you the Jonah ]' Trembling, he sunk upon his knees, and implored me for the love of Abraham, to spare his life, confessing they had stowed a quantity of aqua fortis in the hold. The mystery was explained. The jars of sulphuric acid had broken in the heavings of the vessel, and their contents mingling with the silks and woollen stuffs, produced combustion. The sailors already abandoned themselves to despair. In vain I ordered, supplicated and reviled. They lay in su- pine misery, calling upon the Virgin, and giving them- selves up as lost. O the excitement of that hour ! Years appeared concentrated in moments. I seemed endowed with an almost sup'ernatural energy, and firmly resolved to stretch every nerve and sinew for preservation. With no assistance but that of the cabin boy, who alone listened to my orders, I threw off the hatches. A tremendous cloud of steam rolled up in thick volumes. Half suffo- cated, we proceeded to throw boxes and bales into the sea ; saturated with the acid, they fumed and hissed as they struck the water. Our hands and clothes were soon ter- ribly scorched; yet with breathless haste we t iled on, while the lightning flashed with two-fold vividness, and the gale raged with unabated fury. The sailors finally came to our aid ; and after many hours of incessant ex- 4* 42 THE CAPUCHIN OF TISA. crtion, the traces of fire were removed, and we sunk ex- hausted on the deck. The darkness was intense, and as we lay, still tossed by the tempest, a new and horrible fear entered our minds. We apprehended that we were drifting towards the Barbary coast, and should be thrown on shore only to be cruelly murdered. The horrors of such a fate we could too easily imagine, and with tortu- ring anxiety, awaited the dawn. It was then that I vowed, if my life was spared, to dedicate it to St. Francis. The horrible scene of that night had revolutionized my nature. The danger passed lilie a hot iron over my soul. My previous life had been a pastime. This first adventure was replete with the terrible, and its awful excitement penetra- ted my heart. An age seemed to exhaust itself in every passing moment of our painful vigil. We gazed in silent suspense towards the east. There an ebon mass of va- por hung, like a wall of black marble. At length, a short, deep, crimson gush, glowed through its edge. Slowly the sun arose, and displayed to our astonished and gladdened eyes the farthest point of Sardinia. How we entered the harbor unpiloted, was a mystery to us as well as the hospitable inhabitants. From the vessel we hurried to the church, to render thanks to the Virgin for our deliver- ance. I threw my cap upon the pavement, and knelt at the first shrine. My companions uttered an exclamation of surprise. The intense care and apprehension of that night of terrors, had sprinkled the snow of age am.id my locks of jet." SAN MARINO. " With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat, And watches from the shore the lofty ship Stranded amid the storm." Wallenstein^ ' The ancient Via Emilia is still designated by an ex- cellent road which crosses Romagna in the direction of the Adriatic. It traverses an extensive tract of fertile land, chiefly laid oat in vineyards. As we passed through this rich and level country, the occasional appearance of a team drawn by a pair of beautiful grey oxen and load- ed with a reeking butt of new wine, proclaimed that it was the season of vintage. But autumn was not less pleas- ingly indicated, by the clusters of purple grapes suspended from cane-poles at almost every cottage-window, and by the yellow and crimson leaves of the vines, that waved gorgeously in the sun as far as the eye could reach, like garlands with which departing summer had decorated the fields in commemoration of the rich harvest she had yielded. The single companion who shared with me the open carrriage so well adapted for such a jaunt, was a 44 SAN MARINO. large landed proprietor in the neighboring district, and, being quite familiar with every nook and feature of the surrounding country, he endeavored to amuse me by pointing out all objects of interest with which we came in view. Here was a little chapel under whose walls a notorious thief concealed an imme«se treasure, and when the term of his imprisonment had expired, returned and disinterred it. There was the Devil's bridge, so called because it is said to have been built in a single night. This veteran beggar, distinguished from the mendicant group of the village by the erect air of his emaciated figure, was a soldier under Napoleon, and has now roam- ed back to his native town, to live on the casual alms of the passing traveller ; while that stout and welLclad man who succeeded, with the loss of a thumb, in arresting a formidable bandit, is living snugly on a pension. The shallow stream over which we are now passing is believed to be the Rubicon. Yon gay contadina with large silver ear. rings, whose laugh we hear from the chaise behind, is a bride on her way from church ; and that white and flower-decked crib which a peasant is carrying into his cottage, is the bier of a child. It was only at long inter- vals that the agreeable though monotonous scenery was varied to the view, and within the precincts of the towns scarcely a single pleasing object could the eye detect, to counteract the too obvious evidences of human misery. In all the Papal villages, indeed, the same scene is pre- sented. At every gate the traveller is dunned for his passport by an Austrian guard, whose mustaches and cold northern visage are as out of place in so sunny a region, SAN MARINO. 45 as would be an orange-grove amid the sands of Cape Cod, or annoyed by the wretched inheritor of one of the noblest of ancient titles — a Roman soldier, clad in a loose, brown, shaggy coat, who after keeping him an hour to spell out credentials which have been read a score of times since he entered the territory, has the effrontery to ask for a few biocchi to drink his health at the nearest wine-shop. When, at length, one is allowed to enter and hurry through the dark, muddy streets, no sign of enter- prize meets the gaze, but a barber's basin dangling from some doorway, a crowd collected around a dealer in vege- tables, or, if it be a fesia, a company of strolling circus- riders, decked out in tawdry finery, cantering round to collect an audience for the evening. No activity is manifested, except by the vetturini who run after the car- riage, vociferating for employment, and the paupers who collect in a dense crowd to impede its progress. In the midst of such tokens of degradation, planted in the centre the square, rises a statue of some pope or archbishop in bronze or marble, with tall mitre and outstretched arm ; and, as if to demonstrate the imbecility of the weakest and most oppressive of Italian governments, around the very pedestal are grouped more improvidents than would illl a hospital, and idle, reckless characters enough to cor- rupt an entire community. There is something peculiar- ly provoking in the appearance of these ugly, graceless statues, which are so ostentatiously stuck up in every- town throughout the Pontifical states — the emblem of a ruinous and draining system, which has reduced these liaturally fertile localities to their present wretchedness^ 46 SAN MARINO. towering, as it were, above the misery it has occasioned. The inclined head, and arm extended as if in the act of blessing, is a benignant, humble posture, in ridiculous contrast to the surly soldiery and countless mendicants, who seem to constitute the legitimate subjects of Papal favor. Rimini is one of the most ancient of these ap- pendages to the Roman states, and boasts of a few an- tiquities, with which the traveller can beguile an hour, whilesome of the excellent fish from the adjacent bay, are preparing for his supper. Upon the principal piazza, a large palace, which presents nothing without but a broad front of mutilated brick-work, and within is newly fitted up in modern style, is pointed out as the former dwelling of Francesca di Rimini, whose singularly melancholy story constitutes the most beautiful episode of Dante's Inferno, has been dramatized by Silvio Pellico, and forms the sub- ject of one of Leigh Hunt's most graphic poems. If the visitor endeavors to recall to his mind the knightly splen- dor which, at that epoch, the scene before him presented, and a strain of martial music swell upon the air as if to aid his fancy, the illusion is quickly dispelled when, in- stead of a company of gallant courtiers, an Austrian re- giment in plain uniform winds in view, marching from the parade ground to their quarters. On a fine October morning, I resolved to escape awhile from scenes thus darkened by despotism, and make an excursion to a spot still hallowed by the presence of freedom. The approach to San Marino is through a pleasant and fertile country, and a small bridge indicatps the line which divides the republican territory from Rimini. After crossing this SAN MARINO. "47 boundary, the road becomes more hilly, and the aspect of the surrounding fields more variegated, displaying nu- merous small oaks and elms, clumps of olive trees, and patches of yellow cane. In many spots, well-clad and hardy. looking women were breaking the glebes in the newly-ploughed land, to prepare it for the reception of grain or vines. Nothing can be more picturesque than the site of the town. It is built upon the summit of a hill which presents an almost perpendicular cliff to the ap- proaching traveller, the rocky face of^vhich is relieved by a grove of chesnuts whose autumn-tinted leaves waved in umbrageous masses among the grey stones. As we draw near, it struck me as a most appropriate eyry for the *' mountain nymph, sweet liberty." The very air seem- ed instinct with freedom, and every step along the wind- ing road to bring us to a region of more elevated and bracing influences. As we thus approach, let us trace the history of a spot which, amid the countless vicissi- tudes that involved in ruin every other community in Italy, preserved through so many centuries, the name and privileges of a republic. The remarkable mountain upon which the town of San Marino is built, was anciently called Titano, perhaps in reference to certain gigantic bones found buried there, but more probably in allusion to its isolated position as if thrown on the plain by one the fabulous giants of antiquity. It retained this primitive appellation until the ninth century. On one side, it presents a beautiful line of hills rising in picturesque gradation, and on the other, a dissevered cliff surmounted by an abrupt wall of 48 SAN MARINO. rock. The soil is argillaceous and abounds in sulphur, petrified shells and valuable mineral springs, some of which enjoy considerable celebrity for their sanative quali. ties among the inhabitants of the surrounding districts. This spot thus favored by nature, might have remained unknown to fame, had not a certain Dalmatian by the name of Marino, a lapidary, come to Rimini, and having occasion to visit Titano, where he discovered abundant materials for his art, found it no less adapted to afford a retreat from persecution and a fit retirement for a tranquil, free, and religious life. Favored by the archbishop of Rimini, he established himself on the mountain, and was resorted to on account of his benevolence and piety, till the number of the faithOil who became attached to the place induced the formation of a settlement and the erec- tion of a church. Marino was believed to work miracles, and soon became renowned. By the eleventh century, agreeable to the universal system of defensive structures forming throughout Italy, the republic was in a measure fortified by the rearing of a castle. The zeal of the people in effecting this object is no small evidence of their at- tachment to freedom, which is not less signally indicated by the remarkable and at that period unique inscription placed upon their church — divo. marino. patrono. et LiBERTATis AUCTORi. Duriug the succeeding age, in consequence of the increasing population, the inhabitants of II Castello, as the summit was called, divided, a por- tion descending to the first table land now called II Borgo. About this time, rose into power some of those .mighty families who so long and fiercely tyrannized over Italy. SAN MARINO. 49 From its very infancy, the republic was surrounded by these despotic rivals, especially the Feltreschi, Malatesti and* Faggiuoli, and, although frequently involved in the most trying dilemmas, preserved its love of liberty and its actual independence. In the twelfth century, when the warfare between the adherents of the Emperor and the Pope, convulsed ihe Italian states, although San Marino was in a much happier condition to enjoy the benefits for which some contended in the struggle, it was long before the demon of faction invaded the peaceful precincts of the republic. The archbishop Ugolino gave the spirit of party, birth. He was a violent Ghibelline. His ardor in the cause attached many to him, and when the people subsequently purchased of the neighboring barons land to accommodate their increasing population, he succeeded by means of priestly influence, in becoming a distinct party in the contract, evidently with a view to obtain some feudal authority and join temporal to spiritual power. Thesame attempt was made, on a similar occasion, by his successor. The inhabitants were well identified with the Ghibelline party, and when it was overthrown in Ro- magna, afforded a secure asylum to its members and most illustrious leader in that region. Toward the close of the century, while Hildebrand reigned, Teodorico, the bishop, proceeded to levy certain church tributes upon all the provinces, including San Marino. Upon the repub- licans asserting their independence, an examination of their claims to the distinction resulted in his withdrawing the demand, and acknowledging by a public decree, the entire liberty of the republic. This is one of the earliest 6 50 SAN MARINO. recorded testimonies to the original liberty of San Marino, and is the more remarkable from having occurred at a period when the authority of the church was so profound- edly reverenced, and her officers so unwearied and impor- tunate in their exactions. A like attempt to impose taxes was made soon after by the neighboring podestas, and upon a similar refusal being returned by the republic, the subject was referred to a solemn trial, according to the practice of ihe times. At this examination, it appears that not only were the facts of their history questioned, but the leading men catechized even upon the metaphysical "basis of their rights, being asked *' what is liberty ?" and sundry other abstract problems ; but their historian, with characteristic partiality perhaps, declares that the honest republicans were not in the least puzzled or confounded, but exhibited an extraordinary strength and clearness of purpose, as well as a singular unanimity of feeling, on this memorable occasion. The result, however, was a declaration against them, and a formal assertion of the right to tax on the part of the church and other authorities. Whether this right was ever enforced is very doubtful, but from the endeavor never being repeated, the inference is that the parties either from respect to the people or from motives of policy, were content with merely asserting their claims. The simple majesty of its political charac- ter seems to have proved remarkably efficacious, even at this early period, in securing for San Marino a degree of consideration wholly disproportionate to its diminutive size. Early in the fourteenth century, the supreme magis- SAN MARINO. 51 trate's title of Consul was changed to that of Captain or Defender, and because of the abuse of the latter in Italy, the former was ultimately alone retained. At this pe- riod commenced a series of difliculties with Rimini, in- duced by clashing interests and rival jealousies. The annalist of the epoch is at great pains to show, that the connection between the various powerful families of the neighboring territory and the republic, was simply a mu- tual league implying no subjection. This assertion is confirmed by the singular fidelity manifested by the people towards friendly barons. The threat of excommu- nication failed to make them abandon a certain feudal lord, who fled to their citadel to escape the vengeance of Pope John. It is proved also, by several existing docu- ments, that their relations with the Feltreschi and other distinguished families who have been supposed to have exercised feudal authority over San Marino, were merely those of friendly alliance. Thus they appear to have been wholly exempt from temporal dominion, and as to spiritual, the assumption of cardinal Andrimini, in 1M68, was withdrawn by solemn decree, and the bishop obliged to disclaim publicly any intention of seeking authority. Soon after, a more insidious enemy to the republic arose in one of its own citizens, Giacomo Pelizzaro, who plot- ted with the Pode^ta of Brescia and the archbishop of Montefelire, to deliver San Marino into their hands. His plan was happily discovered before its execution. He confessed and suffered death as a traitor. During the succeeding era of private and bloody feuds, San Marino, allied to Count Guido, was more fortunate 52 SAN MARINO. than the rest of Italy in escaping (he clangers of this and other alliances, by means of which, treachery or the exi- gencies of the times could have so easily procured the re- public's ruin. A war with Sigismondi Pandolfo, Signore of Rimini, ended in his downfall and an increase of their territory, attested to them in 1463. Now, too, we find the alliance of the little state sought by the larger and su- perior principalities of Italy, a fact only to be accounted for by the reputation it enjoyed for the character of its institutions. In 1491, during one of those fitful intervals of peace which occasionally blessed that age of war and turbulence, among the meliorations of the civil code, we find statutes enforcing the immediate payment of public debts, the proclamation of criminal sentences, (he obliga- tion of the captains to procure as far as possible treaties of peace and good fellowship, and prohibiting the flogging of children under four years of age. At this time, some of the warriors from San Marino gained much renown in the battles of the age, and several men of distinguished talents arose, among v;hom were tvvo of the earliest com- mentators of Dante. The republic appears to have been singularly favored in her diplomatic agents. Her ambas- sadors were most wisely selected, and to the firmness and wisdom which marked their proceedings is to be as- cribed the almost miraculous escape of the state from em- broilments with other powers, and accounts, in no small degree, for the remarkable esteem she gained in Italy. A most dangerous era for 9an Marino was the time of the infamous Caesar Borgia, and for a limited space she placedherself under the protection of the Ducadel Valen- SAN MARINO. 63 tino. Continuing, however, to enjoy the amity of the il- lustrious house of Urbino, she maintained to an almost incredible extent, the favor of the church, and afforded a re- fuge, often at great risk, to the many persecuted victims of all parties. The spirit of faction and the priestly preten- sions which have ever been the bane of the Italian states, too soon, however, induced a fatal dereliction from the primitive patriotism and honest attachment to freedom. Another cause of this decline, may be found in the influence of some of those who sought an asylum within the limits of San Marino. Refugees from all parties, they natural- ly brought and disseminated much of the perverse and ex- citing spirit of the times, among the less sophisticated in- habitants. For these and other reasons, the commence- ment of the seventeenth century found the people more exposed than they had been to the subjection which the agents of the Romish church so constantly and insidious, ly endeavored to effect. An intriguer, according to his- tory, combining all the low cunning, ambition and ready talent necessary to promote this object, soon appeared. Alberoni being legate in Romagna, undertook to befriend certain men who were suffering under the just awards of the tribunal of San Marino. The republic, from the deep conviction of the bad results produced by allowing justice to be impeded by priestly intervention and coramenditizie, which custom had been grossly abused at that period, made rigid enactments against it ; notwithstanding- which, the haughty prelate insisted upon the privilege. The re- publicans vainly explained and remonstrated ; yet boldly maintained their rights. Alberoni, by way of revenge, 6* 64 SAN MARINO. caused certain of their citizens to be imprisoned in Rimini, and by cutting off their communication with the surround- ing country endeavored to produce a famine. At the same time, his efforts were unremitted to seduce the most ill-disposed of the citizens, and he succeeded in securing the cooperation of many traitorous abettors. Misrepre* senting them to the Pope and sacred college, and abusing the authority vested in him by the pontiff, he artfully in- duced thut ruler to exert a special commission in his fa. vor, and under its shield endeavored to annex San Marino, as forfeited, to the papal territory. At length, every thing being prepared for the consummation of his vile project, on the twenty-fourth of October, 1739, attended by a band of his satellites, he passed through the Borgo, and was even cheered by some of the infatuated citizens. He entered the sacred temple dedicated to Liberty and their Saint, where he smoothed over with subtle words the nefariousness of his scheme ; and Capitano Giangi thus acknowledged his concurrence : " JVel di primo di Ottobre giurai fedeltd al mio legittimoprincipe della Repu- blica di San Marino ; quel giuramento confenno j cosi giuro,^^ Giuseppe Onofri repeated the same oath ; but, Gi- rolamo Gori using the words of the Saviour — " let this cup pass from me " — protested that he had not made one mark of shame upon the face of the protecting saint, but would ever exclaim ^' Evviva San Marino, evviva la Liberia!'^ These words uttered with enthusiasm, were caught and repeated, until they resounded through the holy editice, re-awakening the dormant patriotism of the people and striking fear into the heart of the usurper. The functions were abruptly'' SAN MARINO. 65 closed and a scene of disorder ensued. Before Alberoni left the church, he threatened the rebellious with death. The faithful remained to concert measures for the safety of their country. Perceiving that an immediate appeal to force would be useless, they determined to represent the case to the Pope and calmly await the result, meantime using every means to reanimate the drooping spirit of their fellow-citizens. Notwithstanding the age and im- becility of Clement XII., he was just and benevolent, and upon being informed of the facts, indignantly declared that he had vested no authority in the legate to attempt ob- taining any ascendancy over the people of San Marino, nor to interfere with their rights — but simply to exert a spiritual influence and protection. To contravene the base assumption of Alberoni, he despatched Monsignor Napolitauo, afterwards Cardinal, with power to re-establish the good fame of the papal court, and secure justice to the people. Between the usurpation of Alberoni and the re- stitution of the republic, there was, however, an interreg- num of three months and a half. San Marino was re- stored on the fifth of February, the day of the sacred vir- gin Agatha. Shouts, prayers, tears of joy, and jubilee in every form, announced the happy event ; and the day has since been observed as a festival. Alberoni's defence of his conduct gave rise to some curious literary dis- cussion. The event redounded to the improvement of the people, operating as an effectual check upon the pas- sion for intrigue, and to the honor of Clement, to whom a monument was erected by the grateful republicans. When the modern conqueror of Europe drew near the 66 SAN MARINO. confines of the small but honored state, he respected its liberties. Receiving most graciously the ambassadors from San Marino, in an elegant address, he alluded to the singular preservation of their freedom, and promised his protection ; at the same time offering to enlarge their pos- sessions, and tendering, as an indication of his respect and good will, a present of two field-pieces. Monge, the ambassador, made an eloquent reply, gratefully acknow- ledging the courtesy of Napoleon and applauding his for- bearance. The people declined his offers and present ; but in commemoration of the occasion, added the 1 2th of February, 1797, as another joyous anniversary, to the re- public's calendar. The original government was simply paternal. The laws sprang from necessity, were improved by experience, and modified from time to time, according to the circum- stances and wants of the people. Two captains, one from the signors and one from the citizens at large, are elect- ed every six months. No individual can be re-elected oftener than once in three years. Thus all deserving the honor, serve in turn. No prejudice exists with respect to age, very young men being frequently chosen when of great promise or proved worth. It is only indispensable that the captains should be natives of the republic. The legislative body consists of a council of seventy and another of twelve. A judicial magistrate is also elected triennially by the council. The state includes a circuit of twenty-five miles, and its present population is between six and seven thousand. , Such is a brief sketch of the history of San Marina. SAN MARINO. 67 Its long imrpunity from conquest and despotism and the remarkable perpetuity of its institutions, are doubtless owing, in no small measure, to its insignificant size and almost impregnable position. Still the place cannot but possess a singular interest in the view of a pilgrim from the New World, especially when its present condition is contrasted with that of the rest of Italy, and more particu- larly of the surrounding territory. A few humble domi- ciles scattered along the lower ridge of the mountain, and separated by a narrow and rugged street, constitute " 11 Borgo." Thence, ascending by a circuitous path, we soon arrived at a larger collection of houses which form the capital of the republic. It differs not essentially from similar Italian towns, except that the streets are nar- rower and more straggling. The new church, just com- pleted, is a pretty edifice built of travertina, excavated near by, after the design of Antonio Sara. The twelve apostles in stucco, placed in niches, ornament the inte- rior, and near the altar is a handsome marble statue of Saint Marino, recently executed by a Roman Sculptor. He is represented holding a scroll, upon which the arms of the republic (three towers surmounted by as many pens, significant of the union of strength and wisdom) are sculptured in bronze, with the word Libertas. This edifice continues as in ancient times, the place of elections as well as of worship. There is a little theatre where diUetanti occasionally perform. I was at some pains to enter this miniature temple of Thespis, for the sake of standing in the only theatre in Italy exempt from censorship, and where, although the audi- 68 SAN MARINO. ence is small and the spot isolated, free expression is given to any sentiment or opinion which the people choose to utter or applaud. Crossing a grass<-gfown and solitary court near the walls, where four or five cisterns alone gave signs of the vicinity of man, we entered a small and time-worn building ornamented by an old tower and clock, and ascending a narrow flight of steps, were ushered into the council-room. A few wooden seats scattered over the brick floor, upon the back of which are rudely painted the arms of the re- public, surround an ancient chair covered with crimson velvet, placed beneath a canopy of the same hue. A mu. tilated picture of the Holy Family by Giulio Romano, and a bust of their favorite ambassador, Antonio Honup- hrio, are the only ornaments of which the apartment boasts. I had lingered, but a day or two previous, in the magnificent halls of some of the Bolognese nobility, where the silken drapery, rich marbles and splendid works of art, weary the gaze. But this plain and unadorned cham- ber possessed an interest which their profuse decora- tions failed to inspire. It bespoke narrower resources but a richer spirit. The presence of freedom seemed to hallow every sunbeam that played upon the undecked walls. Nor have mightier principalities disdained, in our day, to recognize the little republic. Among its archives are many communications from the several Ital- ian governments, the late king of Spain, and the present king of France. Not long since, a prior being discover- ed manifesting a disposition to intrigue beyond his ap- propriate sphere, was bound, conducted to the confines SAN MARINO. 69 and banished. The only organized force is the militia, who are bound to second tlie executive and judicial magis- trates. The people, however, are distinguished for their probity and peaceful habits. Most of them are engaged in agriculture. The only peculiar trait observable among them, is an inflexible attachment to their peculiar insti- tutions and an earnest spirit of freedom. But recently, an archbishop whose province of duty properly embraced two towns, one of which was San Marino, abandoned the latter in disgust, because he could not induce the people, on public ocasions, to salute him before their own rulers. Every half-year, they go in a body to the church, and de- posite their vote for captains in a silver vase. The result of the election is made known at evening, and they ac- company the successful candidate home, with torches. Before leaving the town, I ascended to the old castle. The walls command a most extensive and beautiful pros- pect, embracing the plains of Lombardy, a broad sweep of wild, undulating hills, the mountain of Anconaand the waters of the Adriatic. It was a delightful pastime to sit in the pleasant sunshine of autumn, and gazing from this little spot of free earth over such a landscape, let the imagination luxuriate amid the thrilling associations of the scene. We ftund but one occupant of the prison. The <:;ate was opened by a pretty blue-eyed woman, the wife of the gaoler, who follows the trade of a cobbler in the belfry of one of the three towers. There is one horrid dungeon where a traitor priest suffered a long imprison- ment ; but the number of available cells is only three — which speaks well for the general character of the people. 60 ' SAN MARINO. When, on our return, we reached the little bridge which divides the republican territory from Rimini, a venerable woman was leaning upon the parapet, her grey hair flutter- ing in the wind, in earnest conversation with a hardy stripling who stood at a short distance from her. He was a political fugitive who had found safety within the bounds of San Marino, and she was his mother just arri- ved from a town in the vicinity to visit him. The inci- dent excited a pleasing train of reflections. San Marino has rendered no small service to the cause of liberty, by sheltering the many unfortunate victims of unsuccess- ful revolution. For such she has ever a welcome. The pope has been obliged to compromise with the re- publicans, by agreeing that refugees from his terri- tory may travel unmolested for a certain period, with a passport from the authorities of San Marino. This ar rangement has been eminently serviceable in protecting the persons and rights of the liberals, and excited much gratitude and respect towards the state. The setting sun gleamed upon the summit of the mountain, as I turned back to take a farewell glimpse of this little nestling-place of freedom. I remembered the contented and happy looks of the peasantry, and recalled the testimony they all so cordially bore to the superior privileges they enjoyed. I mused upon the remarkable preservation of that isolated spot amid the unhappy destinies of the land. 1 strove to impress the picturesque locality upon my memory ; and pleased my heart with the thought that there was still one little green leaf in the withered crown pf Italy. TURIN " Embosomed by the hills, whose forms around Stand sentinei'd with grandeur." Anon. One of the circumstances which gives the traveller ra- iher painful assurance of his approach to the northern confines of Italy, is that he finds himself once more en- sconced within that most comfordess of all locomotives, except the lettigu of Sicily, — a Diligence. The strag- gling, untrimmed horses, and harlequin-looking postilions bobbing up and down most pitifully ; the constant crack- ing of the whip, and the lurching and shivering of the clumsy fabric, are but the exterior graces which the vehicle boasts. At night, the roof within is often hung with baskets of provisions, and countless hats and bon- nets which dangle most disturbingly in the face of the sleeping passenger ; and when he has, at length, lost himself in a pleasant dream, and commenced an imagin- ary colloquy with some fair object left at the place of his last sojourn, a sudden jolt pitches him upon his neighbor, or an abrupt stoppage of the ponderous machine, rouses 6 62 TURIN. him to a sense of stiffened joints, yawning ostlers, and an execrating conducteiir. It is, however, well that one leaving ihe dreamy atmosphere of the South, should be thus initiated into a more practical habit, and have the radiant mists of imagination dissipated from his brain. The Diligence is an excellent preparatory symbol of the more utilitarian regions and prosaic localities, towards which his pilgrimage tends. From the corner of one of these minature arks — despite the grumbling of an old lady by my side, the nap of whose lap-dog I disturbed, and the angry chattering of a parrot, whose pendant cage was vi- brating overhead — I succeeded, one afternoon, in with- drawing myself sufficiently, to look from the window over the surrounding fields. They presented a broad level plain, covered with fresh green grain, which a band of women, whose heads were enveloped in red cotton hand- kerchiefs, were assiduously reaping. The air was still, and the sky cloudy. A few trees, chiefly small poplars and mulberries, rose here and there along the road. And yet, meagre as was the natural scenery, it was a spot abounding in interest. Thirty-eight years before, it was the arena where contending armies battled for the posses- sion of Italy, and men were mown down as the grain, then waving over their graves, fell beneath the sickles of the reapers. It was the plain of Marengo. Near yonder plantation of vines, Desaix took up his position. Across these fields the French line sti etched imposingly away. And when the Austrians were so incautiously pursuing their success, it was in the midst of this now deserted level, that Napoleon met his brave ally, who, rushing forward TURIN. 63 at his bidding, met, almost immediately, his death. It was hence, too, that the brave Melas, then more than eighty years of age, considering the day won, and over- come with fatigue, retired to Alexandria, only to hear in a few hours, of his army's defeat. After this celebrated battle, Turin became the metropolis of the French depart- ment of the Po, and fourteen years after was restored to Sardinia. It is not surprising that the young mind of Alfieri was greatly impressed on entering this city. Its broad, clean streets radiating from a common centre ; its airy arcades forming, like the passages of the French me- tropolis, most agreeable promenades, and its cheerful as- pect may well captivate a stranger's eye. One scarcely realizes, at Turin, that he is within the precints of an Ita- lian city. There is a modern look about the buildings, an elegance in the shops and caff^s, and altogether an air of life and gayety, which brings Paris forcibly to mind. Indeed, the proximity of this capital to France, neutrali- zes, in no small degree, its Ausonian characteristics. The language is a mixture of French and Italian ; and Goldoni found the taste here so strong for the French stage, that, during his visit to Turin, he composed his co- medy of Moliere, to avail himself of the attraction of that author's name. There are few finer public squares in Europe than the Piazza del Castello, and no more beautiful prospect of its kind than that from the church of La Superga, where the bones of the Sardinian kings re- pose. The small number of paupers, and the frequent instances of manly beauty among the military officers, are peculiarly striking. Sometimes, beneath the porches, 64 TURIN. a procession of nuns, poorly but neatly clad, is encoun- tered, with garlands and tapers, headed by a fat priest chanting the burial service. The neighborhood of the Alps is disagreeably indicated by the number of women seen in the streets with goitres. They come, for the most part, from the base of Mt. Cenis and Susa, where this disease is very common, and still attributed by the common people, to the chill the throat constantly receives from the extreme coldness of the water. We are remind- ed of old Gonzalo's query in the Tempest : — ' Who would believe that there were Mountaineers dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at them wallets of flesh V Turin is the coldest city in Italy. The circum- adjacent mountains are scarcely ever entirely free from snow. As one looks upon them, frequently surmounted by variegated clouds, or, in dull weather, bathed with the yellow gleam of the struggling sunbeams playing on their white scalps, with here and there a dark streak where the snow has melted away, the appropriateness of the name of this section of Italy becomes more apparent — ^9ie di monte — foot of the mountains. I found an unusual number of priests reading in the University library, and not a few peasants seated at the readiuii desks — a note-worthy and pleasant circumstance. It is interesting, when wandering about the precincts of this institution, to remember that it was the scene of that mis-education, of which Alfieri has drawn so vivid a pic- ture in his autobiography. It was here that so many of his young days were wasted in wearisome sickness ; where he was bribed or threatened into labors for his stu» TUBIN. 65 pid but powerful school mate ; where he looked so long upon the adjacent theatre, which he was only allowed to enter five or six times a year, during carnival; and where he suffered so long from the tyranny of a capricious and pampered valet. In Turin, the stern tragedian first knew the sweet delights of poetry in his stolen and secret com- munion with Ariosto and Metastasio. Here he laid the foundation of those dissipated habits which, he had the rare moral courage to vanquish — suddenly vaulting from the low level of a life of pleasure, to the most determined and assiduous career that genius and industry ever achieved. Here, too, his ardent soul first experienced the delicious excitements of music, horsemanship, and love — those inspiring resources of his after years. The exhibition of the stranger's passport at Turin, is sufficient to introduce him to the Royal Gallery. It is interesting chiefly for its specimens of the Vandyck school — those expressive portraits which have so long formed the study of artists, and ever charmed that large por- tion of the curious who delight in observing the 'human face divine.' There is one of Carlo Dolce's most charac- teristic Madonnas, full of the mildness, soft coloring, and timid execution which belong to his heads. That class of woman's admirers, who would fain make the standard of her attractiveness proportionate to the absence of any strong traits, should collect the female faces portrayed by this artist. A short time spent in contemplating such an array, would convince them of the absolute necessity of elevating their ideal of the sex, if they would have the gpell of their graces perpetuated. But the picture which 6* 66 TURIN. chains the attention in this gallery, is one of Murillo's master-pieces. Some of the biographers ot the Spanish limner, seem to lament that his purpose of visiting Italy was never fulfilled. It would certainly be a cause of just regret, if the obscurity of his lot had doomed him for life, to paint nothing but banners for exportation, and fruit pieces for immediate sale ; but since scope was given to his genius at the Escurial, and it was encouraged to a free and happy developiuent at home, we cannot but deem it a happy destiny that prevented him from ever leaving his native country. There is no little error in the preva- lent notion, that a true painter, so constituted by nature, is necessarily to improve by a visit to Italy. On the con- trary, numerous instances might be cited, where such a course has been fatal to the individuality of the artist's style. His real force is thereby often sacrificed to a false manner. Servile imitation frequently supersedes originality. He ponders the works of the old masters too often, only to adopt certain of their peculiarities, instead of being quickened to put forth what is characteristic in himself. Such has, in many cases, been the result with regard to young votaries of art among us, who after giving certain proofs of talent, have gone abroad only to bring home an improved taste, perhaps, but not seldom a far inferior execution. Murillo was a genuine child of na- ture. He painted, as Goldsmith wrote, from individual inspiration. Who laments that his style is not so elevated as that of Raphael, nor so graceful as that of Correggio ? If it were one or the other or both, he would not be Mu- rillo. What we love in him, is his singular truth to TURIN. 67 nature — so fresh and vivid in expression — such a unity of coloring, such a semblance of life ! When one stands before his Mother and Child, in the Palace at Florence, does it require much imagination, momentarily to fancy, that the infant is springing from the bosom of its mother into our arms ? There is an almost perceptible motion in its posture, and a look of recognition in its eyes, that haunts us at every step. How often does the traveller in Italy — he who is wedded to that inexpressible charm in life, society and art, which we call nature — lament the paucity of Murillo's paintings ! How often does he sigh for ajourney into Spain, that he may behold more of them ! The picture of which Turin boasts, represents Homer with the laurel wreath straggling round his head, as an impvovisatore, and an amanuensis recording his song. The bard appears like a fresh portrait of one of those blind old men so often seen in southern Europe. The singular blandness of such countenances who has not noted ? They wear a pensive, but peaceful expression, as if sweet thoughts were cheering their darkness. The light of poetry hovers round the brow. We feel that al. though bereft of vision, the bard sees. The deep things of life are unveiled to his inward gaze. And, then, how plainly the other figure listens ! We soon cease to la- ment the blindness of the minstrel, in regretting that he is dumb. A son of Carlo Botta, the historian, follows the profes- sion of an engraver in this capital. It is but recently that his justly renowned parent died in poverty at Paris. Five hundred copies of his works, in sheets, were given, 68 TURIN. as the only recompense in his power to afford, to the phy- sicians who attended his wife in her last illness. This adds one more to the countless anecdotes illustrative of the melancholy lot of authors. But in this instance, the high merit and estimable qualities of the individual, enhance the pain with which every feeling mind must contemplate his fate. It would be a pleasing thought if we, the pecple of a free and prosperous land, had contributed to the com- fort of one in his declining years, who, when in the full vigor ofhis intellect, devoted himself, most enthusiastical- ly, to recording the history of our Revolution. The de- tails of the war ofindepender.ee are chiefly known on the continent through the history of Botta. No single work has served so effectually to establish the fame of that glo- rious event in the minds of Italians. One of the first questions they ask a comer from the New World is, if he has read La Guerra Americana by Carlo Botta? The work is a beautiful monument of the sympathy of one of the gifted of that nation in the cause of freedom ; and happy would it have been, had our government added to the honorary title of citizen, the means of smoothing the venerable historian's passage to the grave. Atsother of his sons is travelling in Arabia, for the Jardin des Plantes. The father's last literary eff*ort was a transla- tion of a voyage round the world bj an American ca; tain, of whom this son was a companion. The latter is about publishing it, and the proceeds, with the hon- rable name he boasts, will constitute his paternal heritage. I could not leave Turin, without seeing the author of Le Mie Pri§;ioni. That beautiful and affecting record TURIN. 69 of human suffering has spread the name of Silvio Pellico over the civilized world. The despots of Europe have endeavoied in vain to prevent its entrance into their ter- ritories ; being well aware, that no harsh invectives Against tyranny, no panegyrics in praise of free institu- tions, however eloquent and insidious, possess a tithe of the power to arouse men to a sense of their rights, which lives in such a calm and simple narrative of one of the victims of their cruelty. How many honest bosoms have glowed with indignation at the picture this amiable and gifted Italian has painted, of his tortures under the leads of a Venetian prison, and amid the cold walls of the Spielberg fortress! How many have admired the re- sources of intellect, philosophy, and affection, by which the unfortunate prisoner made even captivity cajitive ! His correspondence with his fellow sufferer, his league of amity with his keeper, his reading, poems, and reve- ries — how do they shed a halo of moral brightness around the gloom of his dungeon ! His hope deferred, his ago. nizing suspense, and, at length, his liberation and happy return to the bosom of his family — all related with so much truthfulness and feeling, — what an interest have they excited in behalf of the innocent object of such cruel persecution! Sharing this sentiment, 1 was not a little disappointed to find that Pellico was absent from the group of Piedmoutese literati, who convene every eve- ning at one of the caff^s. An abb^, his friend, informed me, that the illness of his father confined Silvio almost constantly at home. Every one remembers the deep af- fection with which he always alludes to his parents. I 70 TURIN. found that the strength of this sentiment was not exagger- ated in his memoirs. His father was rapidly declining with age, and the son only left his bed-side for a few moments to breathe the fresh air. At one of these inter- vals, I paid him a visit. Pellico is now about thirty-eight years of age, small in stature, and wears glasses. His complexion is deadly pale, blanched by the blighting sha- dow of a dungeon. His brow is broad and high, and his expression serious and thoughtful. He was courteous and affable, spoke with deep emotion of his father, and seemed much gratified at the interest his work had exci- ted in America. Notwithstanding the immense number of copies of Le JMie Frigioni which have been sold on the continent, and that it has been translated into so many languages, the author has derived no pecuniary benefit, except the two thousand francs he received from the -original publisher at Turin. He is at present patron- ized by a rich and liberal Marchesa, who has made him her librarian. He dines almost daily at her table, but resides with his parents. It must be confessed, that the sufferings of Pellico have, in no small measure, subdued his early enthusiasm. Some of the young advocates of liberal principles, in Italy, profess no little disappoint- ment, that one who was so near becoming a martyr to their cause, should have turned devotee. They are dis- pleased that Pellico should now only employ his pen upon Catholic hymns and religious odes. Such objectors seem not to consider the extent and severity of the trials to which the mind of the author has been exposed. They appear, too, to lose sight of the peril of his situation. It TURIN. 71 is only by retirement and quiet, that he can hope to en- joy in peace, the privilege of watching over and consoling the last years of his parents. Jealous eyes are ever upon him. Few are the spirits which would not be unnerved from their native buoyancy, by such a tragic experience as he has known ; few the hearts that would not, at the close of such sufferings, fall back upon themselves, and cherish serenity as the great boon of, existence. When I received his kindly-uttered buon viaggio^ and followed his retreat- ing figure as he went to resume his station by his father's bed-side, I could not but feel that the tyranny of Austria had nut yet exhausted itself upon his nature — that his spir- it had not wholly rebounded from the repression of despot- ism ; but I felt, too, that he had nobly endured enough to deserve universal sympathy, and be wholly justified in ap- plying to himself the sentiment of Milton : * They also serve who only stand and wait,' LOVE IN A LAZZARET. ' The cell Haunted by love, the earliest oracle.' Byron. The surface of the sea assumed the crystalline quiet- ude of a summer calm. The dangling sails flapped wearily ; the sun slept with a fierce and dead heat upon the scorching deck ; and even the thin line of smoke which rose from Stromboli, appeared fixed, like a light cloud, in the breezeless sky. I sought relief from the mo- notonous stillness and oflTensive glare, by noting my feUow passengers, who seemed to have caught the quiescent mood of surrounding nature, and resigned themselves to listless- ness and silence. Delano was lolling upon a light set- tee, supporting his head upon his hand, and with half, closed eyes, thinking, I well knew, of the friends we had left, a few hours before, in Sicily. Of all Yankees I ever saw, my companion most rarely combined the desirable peculiarities of that unique race with the superadded graces of less inflexible natures. For native intellgence LOVE IN A LAZZARET. 73 and ready perception, for unflinching principle and manly sentiment, his equal is seldom encountered ; but the idea of thrift, the eager sense of self-interest, and the iron bond of local prejudice, which too often disfigure the unal- loyed New-England character, had been tempered to their just proportion, in his disposition, by the influence of travel and society. On the opposite side of the deck, sat a young lady, regarding with a half-painful, half devoted expression, a youth who was leaning against the compan- ion-way, ever and anon glancing at the small yellow slip- pers that encased his feet, while he complacently arranged his luxuriant mustaches. These two were affianced; and by a brief observation of their mutual bearing, I soon inferred the history of the connection, and subsequent knowledge confirmed my conjecture. The Prince of had paid his addresses to the eldest daughter of the Duke de Falco, with a view of replenish- ing his scanty purse ; and by dint of some accomplish- ments and much plausibility, had succeeded not only in obtaining the promise of her hand, but in winning the priceless, but alas ! unrecompensed boon of her affec- tion. Often, in the course of our voyage, when I marked her sudden gaze of disappointment, as she sought in vain for a responsive glance from her betrothed, 1 could not but realize one fruitful source of that corruption of man- ners which characterizes the island of their birth. And not unfrequently, as I saw the parental pride and tender- ness with which the old man caressed his children, have I wondered that he could ever bring himself to sacrifice their best happiness to ambitious designs. Yet the histo- 7 74 LOVE IN A LAZZARET. ry of every European fiimily abounds in such dark epi- sodes. The daughters of the South open their eyes upon the fairest portion of the universe, and during the unso- phisticated years of early youth, their affections, precoci- ously developed by a genial clime and ardent tempera- ment, become -interested in the first being who appeals to their sympathies, or captivates their imagination. The claims of these feelings, the first and deepest of which they are conscious, if at all opposed to previous pro- jects of personal aggrandizement, are scorned by their natu- ral guardians. And yet when the warmest and richest at- tributes of their natures are thus unceremoniously sacrificed to some scheme of heartless policy, it is deemed wonder. ful that in the artificial society thus formed, principle and fidelity do not abide ! ^Vhat is so f?acred in the rstima- tion of youth, as a spontaneous sentiment? And when this is treated with cold sacrilege, what hallowed ground of the heart remains, on whichVirtue can rear her indestruct- ible temple ? '1 he elder children, however, are generally the victims of this convent al system, and when its main object is accomplished, the others are often left to the exer- cise of their natural freedom. "\^'ith this consoling reflec- tion, I turned to the second sister, who w^as reading near by, under the shadow of a light umbrella, which a young Frenchman held over her head. IS ever were two coun- tenances more in contrast, than those of the donna Paoli- iia, and ilMonsieur Jacques. There were certain indica- tions in the play of her mouth and expression of her eye, that, youthful as she was, the morning of her life had been familiar with some of those deep trials of feeling, the efliect LOVE IN A LAZZARET. 75 of which never wholly vanishes from the face of woman. His physiognomy evinced both intelligence and amiabil- ity, and yet one might study it for ever, and not feel that it was animated by a soul. Upon a mattress beneath the awning, her shoulders propped up by pillows, and her form covered with a silk cloak, reposed the youngest, and by far the most loyely, of the sisterss. Angelica had seen but sixteen summers, notwithstanding the maturity of ex- pression and manner so perceptible above the child-1 ke demeanor of girlhood. Her dark hair lay half unloosed around one ofthe sweetest brows, and relieved the richbloom of her complexion, as she dozed, unconscious of the admi- ring gaze of a Neapolitan officer, who stood at her feet. I had scarcely time to notice the exquisite contour ot her features, when she started at an observation of her sister, and the smile and voice with which she replied, redoubled the silent enchantment of her beauty. At a distance from us all, as if to complete the variety of the party, stood an Englishman, whose folded arms and averted gaze suffi- ciently indicated that, for the time at least, he had enveloped himself in the forbidding cnantle of his nation's reserve. At sunset, a fresh breeze sprang up, and the spirits of ourlittle party rose beneath its invigorating breath. I have often had occasion to observe the admirable facility wiih which travellers in some parts of Europe assimilate. It. alsvays struck me as delightfully human. One may traverse the whole extent of the United States, and all the while feel himself a stranger. If a fellow traveller engage him in conversation, it is probably merely for the 76 LOVE IN A LAZZARET. purpose of extracting information, satisfying curiosity, or ascertaining his opinions on politics or religion, objects so intrinsically selfish, that the very idea of them is sufficient to repel any thing like the cordial and frank interchange of feeling. This is perhaps one reason why our people have such a passion for rapid journeys. One of the chief pleasures of a pilgrimage is unknown to them ; and it is not wonderful that men should wish to fly through that worst of solitudes, the desert of a crowd. In the old world, however, and especially in its southern regions, it is deemed but natural that those who are thrown together within the precincts of the same vessel or carriage, should maintain that kindly intercourse which so greatly en- hances the pleasures and lessens the inconvenience of travel. In the present instance, a score of people were collected on board the same craft, and destined to pass several days in company, strangers to each other, yet alike endowed with common susceptibilities and wants ; what truer philosophy than to meet freely on the arena of our common humanity ? Fortunately, we had all been long enough abroad, to be prepared to ad 'pt this course, and accordingly, it was interesting to remark, how soon we were at ease, and on the friendly footing of old acquaintances. There was a general emulation to be disinterested. One vied with the other in offices of cour- tesy, and even the incorrigible demon of the mnl ftnr mer was speedily exorcised by the magic wand of sympathy, I was impressed, as I had often been before, by the fact that the claims of a foreigner seemed to be graduated, in the estimation of the natives, by the distance of his coun- LOVE IN A LAZZARET. 77 try. Delano and myself, when known to be Americans, soon became the special recipients of kindness ; and the ten days at sea passed away like a few hours. We walk- ed the deck, when it was sufficiently calm, with our fair companions, in friendly converse ; and leaned over the side, at sun-set, to study the gorgeous cloud-pictures of the western sky. We traced together the beautiful sce- nery of the isles in the Bay of Naples, and the night air echoed with the chorus of our songs. And when blessed by the moonlight, which renders transcendant the beauty of these regions, our vigils were interrupted only by the ri- sing sun. Even when the motion of the vessel interfered with our promenade, forming a snug circle under the lee, we beguiled many an evv^niug with those gamesome trifles, so accordant with the Ilalian humor and vivacity. Two of these sports, I remember, were prolific occasions of mirth. The president appoints to each of the party a procuratore, or advocate, and then proposes certain que- ries or remarks to the different individuals. It is a law of the game, that no one shall reply, except through his advocate. But as the conversation becomes animated, it is more and more difficult to observe the rule ; many are taken off their guard by the ingenuity of the president, and commit themselves by a gratuitous reply, or neglect of their clients, and are accordingly obliged to pay a for- feit. Another is called dressing the bride. Th(3 presi- dent assigns to ail some profession or trade, and after a preliminary harangue, which affords abundant opportuni. ty for the display of wit, calls upon his hearers to make a contribution to the bridal vestments, appropriate to their 7* 78 LOVE IN A LAZZARET. several occupations. As these are any thing but adapted to furnish such materials, the gifts are incongruous in the extreme; and the grotesque combination of apparel, thus united upon a single person, is irresistibly ludicrous. The point of the game is, to keep from laughing, which, from the ridiculous images and odd associations present- ed to the fancy, at the summing up of the bridal adorn- ments, is next to impossible. The consequence is, a series of penances, which, by the ready invention of the leader, who is generally selected for his quick parts, in their turn augment the fun to which this curious game gives birth. On arriving at our destination, we were condemned to perform a quarantine of fourteen days, according to the absurd practice but too prevalent in Mediterranean ports. Seldom, however, are such annunciations so complacently received by voyagers wearied with the con- finement of ship-board, and eager for the freedom and va- riety of the shore. In spite of the exclamations of disap- pointment which were uttered, it was easy to trace a cer- tain contentment on many of the countenances of the group, the very reverse of that expression with which the unwilling prisoner surrenders himself to the pains of du- rance. The truth was, that for several days the inter- course of some of the younger of our party had been verg- ing upon something more interesting than mere acquaint- ance. Angelica had fairly charmed more than one of the youthful spirits on board ; and there was an evident unwil. lingness on their part to resign the contest, just as it had reached a significant point of interest. Being fond of LOVE IN A LAZZARET. 79 acting the spectator, I had discovered a fund of quiet amusement in observing the little drama which was en- acting, and nothing* diverted me more than the apparent perfect unconsciousness of the actors that their by-play could be noted, and its motives discerned. My sympa- thies were naturally most warmly enlisted in behalf of poor Delano, notwithstanding that, after exhibiting the most incontestible symptoms of love, he had the assu- rance to affect anger toward me, because I detected mean- ing in his assiduous attentions to the little syren. The place of our confinement consisted of a paved square, or rather oblong, surrounded with stone buildings. Within the narrow limits of this court, were continually moving to and fro the occupants of the adjacent rooms, stepping about with the utmost caution, now and then starting at the approach of some fellow-prisoner, and crying largo ! as the fear of contact suggested an indefi- nite prolongation of their imprisonment. Occasionally old acquaintances would chance to meet, and in the joy of mutual recognition, forget their situation, hasten to- ward each with extended hands, and perhaps be prevented from embracing only by the descending staff* of the watch- ful guard. It was diverting to watch these manceuvres, through our grated windows ; and every evening we failed not to be amused at the in-gathering, when the chief senti- nel, armed with a long bamboo, made the circuit of the yards, and having collected us, often with no little diffi- culty, like so many stray sheep, ushered us with as much gravity as our sarcasms would permit, to our several quarters, and locked us up for the night. The variety of 80 LOVE IN A LAZZARET. nations and individuals thus congregated within such narrow bounds, was another cause of diversion. Opposite our rooms, a celebrated prima donna sat all day at her embroidery, singing, sotto voce, the most familiar opera airs. Over the fence of the adjoining court, for hours in the afternoon, leaned a Spanish cavalier, one of the adhe- rents of Don Carlos, whom misfortunes had driven into exile. A silent figure, in a Greek dress, lounged at the door beneath us, and at the extremity of the court, a Turk sat all the morning, in grave contemplation. With this personai!,e we soon opened a parley in Italian, and I was fond of eliciting his ideas and marking his habits. He certainly deserved to be ranked among nature's philoso- phers. After breakfapt, he regularly locked the door upon his wives, and took his station Uj)on the stone seat, where, hour after hour, he would maintain so motionless a position, as to wear the semblance of an image in Eastern costume. His face was finely formed, and its serious aspect and dark mustaches were relieved by a quiet meekness of manner. He appeared to consider himself the passive 'creature of a higher power, and deemed it the part of true wisdom to fulfil the requisite functions of nature, and, for the rest, take things as they came, nor attempt to stem the tide of fate, except by imperturbable gravity, and perpetual smok- ing. He assured me that he considered this a beautiful world, but the Franks (as he called all Europeans,) made a vile place of it, by their wicked customs and silly bustle. According to his theory, the way to enjoy life, was to go through its appointed offices with tranquil dignity, make no exertion that could possibly be avoided, and repose quies- LOVE IN A LAZZARET. 81 cent upon the decrees of destiny. And yet Mustapha was not without his moral creed ; and I have seldom known one revert to such requisitions with more sincere reverence, or follow their dictates with resolution so apparently invinci- ble. * There is but one difference/ said he, Vhen this became known to the Mode- nese government, he was informed that if he did not re- turn to his native state, his property would be confiscated ; while it was well known that on his re-appearance within the precincts of the duchy, his head would pay the forfeit of his attachment to freedom. He was, therefore, soon joined by his family, and long continued to perform his duties with distinguished success at Florence. By a spe- cies of compromise, his wite enjoys a limited portion of her just income, by residing most of the year upon her es- tates, the remainder going to increase the ducal treasury. The husband had died a short time previoiss, and his widow was then returning from one of her annual so- MODENA. 145 jourii3 amid the scenes of her former happiness, a requisi- tion to which parental love led her to submit, in order to preserve the already invaded rights of her fatherless chil- dren. The general policy of the Duke of Modena accords with this spirit of petty tyranny. He is now carrying in- to execution many costly projects, some of which, indeed, tend to embellish the city ; but the means to defray them are provided by taxes as contrary to the spirit of social ad- vancement, as they are onerous and unwise. It is suffi- cient to mention the tribute exacted from all foreign ar- tists, who execute works at the quarries of Carrara, a meas- ure utterly unworthy an enlightened European ruler in the nineteenth century. The countenance of this prince struck me as altogether accordant with his character ; and the manifest servility of the vocalists at the court opera-, was something new and striking even in Italy. It was not a little annoying, too, to hear in that splendid sparti- to of the Puritani — Suoni la tromba, e intrepido lo pugnerai da forte ; Bello e affrontar la raorte ^ Gridando liberta — which thrills like the spirit of freedom, through the very heart, the word loyalty substituted for liberty. The ducal palace of Modena is truly magnificent. Un- fortunately the grand saloon has proved unfit for the fes- tive scenes it was designed to witness, from the power- ful echo produced by its lofty and vaulted ceiling. Music, and even the voice when slightly elevated, awakens such a response as to create anything but an harmonious im- 13 146 MODENA. pression. The walls of the splendid range of apartments, of which this elegant hall constitutes the centre, are adorned with beautiful frescos, and lined with the richest paintings. Among the latter, is a fine crucifixion by Guido, and the death of Abel by one of his most promis- ing pupils. I examined this picture with interest when informed that the author died very young. The meek beauty of Abel's face, bowed down beneath the iron hold of the first murderer, whose rude grasp is fiercely fixed upon his golden hair, while the hand of the victim is laid deprecatingly upon his brother's breast, abounds in that expressive contrast which is so prolific a source of true effect in art, and literature and life. The pleasing im- pression derived from dwelling upon the numerous inte- resting paintings here collected, is somewhat rudely dis. pelled when one emerges from th^^ palace into the square, and sees the soldiers parading before the gate, and artille- ry planted in the piazza, and turns his thoughts from the ennobling emblems of genius, to the well appointed ma- chinery of despostism. In a chamber of the ancient tower, is preserved the old wooden bucket which is said to have been the occasion of a war between Bologna and Modena. It is suspended by its original chain from the centre of the wall, and is regarded as a carious and valuable relic, having been im- mortalized by Tassoni in his celebrated poem La Secchia Rapita. My memory, however, was busy with another trophy memorialized in modern poetry. I remember hearing a gentleman who had won some enviable laurels in the field of letters, declare that the most gratifying I MODENA. 147 tribute he ever received, was the unaffected admiration with which a country lass regarded him in a stage-coach, after discovering that he was the author of a few verses which had found their way into the reader used in the public school she attended. This class book was the first work which had unveiled to the ardent mind of the maid- en, the sweet mysteries of poetry, and this particular piece had early fascinated her imagination, and beea transferred to her memory. In expressing her feelings to the poet, she assured him that it had never occurred to her that the author of these familiar lines was alive, far less that he was so like other men, and, least of all, that she should evor behold and talk with him. It seemed to her a very strange, as it certainly was a delightful coincidsnce. And such is the universal force of early associations, that we all more or less share the feelings of this unsophisticated girl ; and in a country where education is pursued on a sys- tem which is prevalent with us, many minds derive impres- sions from school-book literature, which even the more ripened taste and altered vi^nvs of later life, cannot efface. Often have I thus read- with delight one of the prettiest sketches in Roger's Italy — " If ever you should come to Modena, Stop at the palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini ; The noble garden terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you, but before you go, Enter the house — forget it not I pray, — And look awhile upun a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youtli," &c. 148 MODENA. Little did I think in the careless season of boyhood, that the opportunity would ever be afforded me of follow- ing the poet's advice. Yet here I found myself in Mo- dena, and it seemed to me like an outrage upon better feeling, as well as good taste, not to adopt the pleasant counsel that rang in my ears, as if the kind-hearted bank- er poet inclined his white locks and whispered it himself. I lost no time, therefore, in inquiring for this interesting picture, but in vain. By one of the thousand vicissitudes which are ever changing the relics of Italy to the eye of the traveller, Ginevra's portrait had been removed from its original position. The oldest cicerone in the place assured me that he had ineffectually endeavored to trace it. It was evidently a sore subject with him. 'Many an English traveller, signer,' said he, wealth reflected." Rogers- * The beauty of an Italian sunset has not beenexagger- ated either by the pencil of Claude, or the pen of the po- ets,' I musingly affirmed, while loitering down a long curv- ing declivity, in (he twilight of a warm summer evening. The farthest range of hills my eager vision could descry, were bathed in a rich purple, occasionally verging to a dark blue tint, the adjacent sea glowed with saffron hues, while the horizon wore the aspect of molten gold, fading to- wards the zenith, to a pale amber. The pensive whistle of the vetturino came softened by the distance to my ear. Be- fore me was the far-stretching road, and around the still and lonely hills. A few hours previous, we had left the little town of Borghetti, and on the ensuing day, anticipa- ted repose within the precincts of that city, which enriched with the spoils of a splendid commerce and brilliant mari- time adventure, so long boasted the title of superb ; that city whose neighborhood gave biith to Columbus, and who prides herself, in these more degenerate times, in having produced the prince of fiddlers. The wide sweep- ing chain of the Appeniues we had traversed, is covered 14 158 GENOA. with rough bushes, the most meagre vegetation, and so rock-ribbed as to have rendered the construction of the road an enterprise of extreme difficulty. For a long dis- tance there is no sign of life, but the venerable looking goats clambering about in search of subsistence, and the children that tend them, whose air and faces are painfully significant of premature responsibility. Sometimes we came in sight of the sea, calm as crystal, and dotted with a few distant sails. It was easy to realize the bleak and dangerous ride to which the traveller is here exposed in winter. But the succeeding morning displayed a new and richer vegetation. Aloes and fig-trees, remind one of Sicily, a [resemblance which the vicinity of the Medi- terranean enhances. The first part of th*e day's ride, lies along the margin of the water, and afterwards chiefly over verdant hills, which often slope down to the shore. The gulf of Sesto, as you withdraw from it, appears singularly graceful. Its beach has a most symmetrical curve. So placid was the water, that the town of St. Margueritto, seen from above, was perfectly reflected as in a mirror, and the picture resembled a miniature Venice. The scenery throughout the ride, is remarkably variegated ; and the garniture of the country sufficiently blended between ve- getable gardens, olive and fig orchards, and wild trees to render it pleasingly various. Several grottoes are pass- ed which are plastered over interiorly, in order to prevent the springs from dripping ; but the lover of the pictur- esque, cannot but wish they had been left rough-hewn like those of the Simplon. From the last of these, Ge- noa is seen far below on the borders of the sea. The GENOA. 159 view is not comparable with that on approaching it by wa- ter. It gives no idea of majesty. Clusters of lemon and orani^e line the remainder of the way, as well as innu- merable villas admirably exposed to the sea-breeze, but as usual, lacking the vicinity of trees — a charm which rural taste can scarcely consent to yield, even though the defi- ciency is supplied by inviting verandahs. There are decided maritime features, even upon first entering Genoa. The mixed throng, the sun-burnt faces, the garb and even the manners of the lower order, imme- diately bespeak a sea-port. From the extreme narrowness of the streets, much of the actual beauty and richness of th^city is hid from the gaze. Even the numerous pala- ces do not at first strike the stranger, situated as they fre- quently are, in thoroughfares so confined as to aff'jrd no complete view of their facades. Many a pietty garden and cool arbor is placed upon a roof so lofty, or a terrace so secluded, as to be wholly concealed from observation, yet affording retired and delightful retreats, overlooking the bay, and do less attractive to the meditative recluse or the secret lovers, from being far above the crowd and out of sight of the curious, — the country in the very heart of the city, a garden independent of territory ! Many of the peculiarities of Genoa, are fist losing themselves in modern improvements. The streets are widening ev- ery year, and carriages, once quite unknown, are coming daily in vogue. There is something here congenial with the alleged sinister tastes of the Italians. The finest caf- p is in an obscure street. One is continually stumb- ling upon luxurious arrangements, and agreeable nooks, 160 GENOA. where he least expects them ; and the narrow lanes, the hue of the marble, and the marine odors bring constantly to mind the rival republic of the Adriatic. The churches are far more rich in frescos ond marble, than any other work of art. In that of the Scuola Pia, however, there are some exquisite basso-relievos by a Genoese. In one of them the face of Mary is very sweet and graceful. The palaces are the chief attraction of Genoa. In one we ad- mire the profusion of gold and mirrors, with which the lofty saloons are decorated ; in another the magnificent stair-case ; here the splendid tints of the marble floor, and there the fine old family portraits. These noble and princely dwellings, eloquently speak to the stranger of Wie wealth, luxury and taste, which once prevailed here; nor judging by one example, should I imagine that their em- pire had ceased. Having occasion to seek an old baron well known for his liberal taste, after roaming over his immense garden, till weary of peeping into arbors and temples, I found him in a* cool grotto at breakfast with a party of artists. His beautiful domain was once an an- cient fortress. All the earth was transported thither, and he has spared no pains to make it a paradise. On every pretty knoll he has placed a bovver or statue. Busts of departed sages are reared beside murmuring fountains. One liitle building is appropriated to his library ; another to scientific apparatus. One terrace rises above another, bedecked with rose bushes and fragrant shrubs. From this point you behold a beautiful vista, and from that look down upon the public walk, around upon the city, or far awav on the wide blue sea. I would not recommend an GENOA. 161 asthmatic person to live in Genoa. There is too much climbing necessary in perambulating the streets. The women are often pretty and have in general a Spanish look. Formerly they universally wore the long and graceful white muslin veil flowing backward as the Milanese did the blvick. Many have now adopted the more artificial style of French costume. The faccliini are uncommonly im- pertinent, and the people for the most part, very saving and quiet, rather proud and generally industrious. Ge- noa now exports little but silk or velvet, although she continues to furnish the best mariners in the Mediterrane- an. The Sardinian flag is often seen in the Brazils, and West Indies, though rarely in the East. Among the by-way oddities of the place are the numer- ous parrots and little naval ofl[icers arrayed in the cos- tume of adults, although sometimes only nine years old. In the street of the jewellers, there 's a very pretty Mado- na about two centuries old, the painter of which was kill- ed by his master from jealousy. The jewellers have been offered large sums for this picture, but, considering it as their guardian saint, they will not part with it on any terms. In one of the thoroughfares a tablet perpetuates the infamy of two traitors ; and at an- other angle, as if to atone for the shameful record, an inscription upon an ancient palace, sets forth that it was the gift of Genoa to the brave Admiral Doria, in acknowledgement of his courage and patriotism. Opposite to this interesting monument is the church where the bones of the gallant hero are said to repose. 14* BOLOGNA. What solemn spirit doth inhabit here, What sacred oracle hath here a home ? Gait. Italy is a land of contrasts. Its various cities are not only characterized by diversity in the schools of painting and architecture ; but the natural scenery, the clitnate and the dialect and manners of the people are, alone, sufficient strongly to identify the different towns. It is not a little surprising in the view of one habituated to the facili- ties of communication existing in England and the United States, to witness such striking contrasts between places separated by a space of only one or two hundred miles ; and it is to be explained only by recurring to the original distinctions of the different republics, and to the absence of those motives for frequent intercourse whic h operate so powerfully to equalise and assimilate commercial districts. This contrariety is nowhere more observable than between Florence and Bologna. We leave a city seated in the midst of hills, over whose broad slopes, dotted with BOLOGNA. 163 gnarled, grey olive trees, are scatt n-ed innumerable villas ; where our eyes have grown familiar with the airy architec- ture of the bridsjes, the massive dome of the cathedral, and the graceful lightness of the campanile ; where fio ver. girls, loitering pedestrians, and gay equipages give life and variety to the scene, in spite of the gloomy style of the palaces, and the unfinished facades of the churches. A few hours are passed in winding amid the Appenines, and we walk the streets of a capital, where long lines of porticos shade the thoroughfares, were a half-barbarous accent destroys the sweetness of the language, and a cer- tain moroseness marks the manners of the people. There is certainly a kind of natural language in cities as well as in individuals, an inexplicable influence, which produces a spontaneous impression upon our minds. Otherwise, why is it that so many continental sojourneis feel perfect- ly at home in the Tuscan metropolis, and quite out of their element in many other cities of Italy, boasting more interesting society, and a more agreeable round of amuse- ments ? In the passage of the Appenines, a lover of mountain scenery will not be without the means of enjoy- ment. The picturesque defiles and wild ranges, the barren peaks and fertile slopes, the pebly dells and broad undulations, though on a comparatively small scale as re- gards grandeur, are yet sufficiently pleasing to yield that sweet charm to the imagination which such scenery is fit- ted to inspire. The only remarkable object of natural curiosity encountered in the route is a species of volcano. It was a beautiful evening when we left the miserable village where we were to lodge, and sought this singular spot. 164 BOLOGNA. We were in the very midst of the Appenines. The air was cool and bracing, and over the western horizon, lin- gered the rich, rosy glow that succeeds a fine sunset, as if the portals of heaven were half-opened to the longing gaze. Along the rocky path above us, several peasant girls were carrying vases of water on their heads from a favorite spring, singing as they went, and their clear voices came with a kind of wild melody to our ears. The whole scene was calculated to convey that soothing idea of the repose of pastoral life, which, at intervals, fascinates even those least inclined to solitude. We found the ob' ject of our search in the midst of a stony soil. Flames, evidently of ignited gas, issued from the ground in a cir- cle of about ten feet in diameter. About the centre, the largest flame was red, and burned steadily ; but the others were of a pale violet color and quivered incessantly, seem- ing to creep along the ground as the night breeze swept over them. In truth the appearance of the fire was pre- cisely that which we might imagine of the magic circle of some ancient sorcerer ; and the dreary loneliness of the spot seemed finely adapted to the idea. The flames burn more brightly after a rain, but no one in the neighborhood, recollects any particular change in the volcano. It has never been known to disgorge sulphurous matter, or ex- hibit any diflTerent phenomena than at present ; but ever burns with a constant and apparently inextinguishable fire. Porticos line all the principal streets of Bologna ; and however convenient their shelter may prove to a pedes- trian on a rainy day, it requires no little time for the BOLOGNA. 165 Stranger to become recouciled to the sombre impression they prodace. The most extensive line of these arches is that which leads from the city to the Church of St. Luke, a distance of three miles. The promenade on a fine day, displays at every turn, beautiful views of the sur. rounding plains; and the elevated position of the temple of the patron saint of the Bo'.ognese, approached by such a noble range of porticos, strikes the traveller as a well coii' ceived idea. The passion for this style of building has extended to many of the adjacent towns, and the three first tiers of t le spacious threatre of Bologna present the same favorite form. The gloomy aspect of this species of street architecture, is enhanced by the solitude that prevails in mmy parts of this extensive town ; — and late in the evening, when ihe lamps shed a dazzling light at intervals through the long and silent vistas of the less fre- quented ways, a scenic effect is produced favorable to ro- mantic impressions. I remember being struck, upon en- tering the city after night-fall by one of its most solitary gates, with the picture formed by a decrepid and withered Old woman, seated at the loot of one of the pillars of a dark portico, roasting chesnuts. The lurid glare of her charcoal fire shot up, in fitiul flashes to the top of the arch, bringing her haggard features i ito strong relief, while all around was involved in deep shade. Perhap 5 the most impressive of the traveller's experi- ence in this unprepossessing city, is the view from the summit of the old leaning tower in the piazza, and two or three of the faces depicte.l on the inspired canvass of the old masters in the academy. The eye of RaphaePs 166 BOLOGNA. St. Cecilia, the expression of some of the figures in the celebrated "Massacre of the Innocents," and especially the upturned and beaming look of Guido's Magdalen crouch- ed at the foot of the cross, haunt the imagination long after the eye has ceased to behold them. Sir Joshua Reynolds always urged his scholars to make a loBg so- journ at Bologna. The most annoying feature in the present aspect of this city, is the presence of the Austrian troops, sputtering their gutturals in the caff^s, parading beneath the arcades, and drawn up in files in the saloon of the theatre. Everywhere one encounters the insig. nia of military despotism, and, perhaps, to a liberal mind the most painful associations are derived from the ap- pearance of some of the fine looking Swiss officers — sons of the mountains and recipients of nobler political influ- ences than their fellows, and yet content to be the hire- ling oppressors of a foreign soil. One of the richest palaces in Bologna, belongs to Bac- ciochi, who espoused the sister of Napoleon, and there is scarcely one of its splendid apartments unadorned with some memorial of his person or life. Here is a portrait exhibiting the free and fresh expression of irresponsible youth ; there the same brow appears shaded by a military cap or glittering coronet ; here that extraordinary counte- nance is exquisitely delineated upon a small surface of ivory, and there elaborately carved in the centreof a pie^ra dura table. In the centre of a richly-curtained cabinet is his bust by Canova ; over the fire-place of a silken- hung bed room, is his head encircled by rays; and on the damask walls of the magnificent saloon, hangs his BOLOGNA. 167 full length portrait, splendidly arrayed in coronation robes. In another apartment, we behold his statue in marble, surrounded by those of his family ; and on a slab, in an adjoining room, we gaze on the same remarkable features fixed in the still rigidity of death, in the form of a bronze cast taken after his decease. It is enough to temper the eagerness of the veriest enthusiast in pursuit of glory, to wander through this quiet, lofty and elegantly decorated pa- lace, and as his eye rests upon these memorials, call to mind successively the most wonderful epochs of Napoleon's life. He seems almost to move before us, as the drama of his memorable career is acted rapidly out in the imagination. We remember his early achievements, his startling victo- ries, his suddenly acquired empire, the grandeur of his projects, the immense sacrifice attending their fulfilment, and, at length, the waning of his proud star — his fall, exile, and death. How brief a period has sufficed to transfer the deeds of Europe's modern conqueror to the calm sphere of history, and enthrone his terrible name amid the undreaded though solemn past ! Enterprise and geuuis inmost of the departments of human effort meet with so little pecuniary encouragement in Italy, that they almost invariably excite sympathy for thi? ill-rewarded toil of the votary. An exception to this rule I witnessed in Bologna, in the person of Rossini, the composer, whose operas continue toyielJ him a hand- some income. But a case more in accordance with the prevailing spirit, is that of a Bolognese ohysician, who, for several years, was attached to the military service in Greece and Egypt. While in Nubia, at great expense. 168 BOLOGNA. and with incredible fatigue and danger, he succeeded in excavating a pyramid, and bringing away the contents of a sarcophagus which he discovered within. According to the opinion of the most esteemed archeologists whom he has consulted, this pyramid was erected seven hundred years before the Christian era, by King Tahraka. The collection consists chiefly of ornaments of the finest gold — rings, bracelets, and neck-laces, upon which are \vrouii,ht the various devices and emblems of Egyptian lore. Many of these are exceedingly curious, and different from those previously known. But the most singular circumstance attending this excavation is, that among the articles disinterred is a cameo, representing a head of Minerva, executed in a style altogether beyond the epoch in the history of art, from which the other objects evidently date. In fact, there are obvious indications that the stone is of Grecian workmanship. The only satisfactory solution which has been given to this problem, is that the pyramid although commenced during the reign of Tahraka, was not completed until after an interval of three hundred years — a supposition which is confirmed by the difference observable in the angle and quality of the stones. This valuable collection still remains upon the hands of the enterprising excavator, although it so richly merits a place in some public museum, for which object it would doubtless be purchased — as the poor physician regretfully declared — if it had been his lot to be a native of England or France, instead of impoverished Italy, One of the most remarkable of Catholic fertivals — called the Day of the Dead — occurred on the loveliest day BOLOGNA. 169 of my brief sojourn in Bologna. Nature breathed any language rather than that of mortality and decay. The road leading to the celebrated Campo Santo was thronged with people walking beneath the glad sky, in holiday attire ; and there would have been one universal semblance of gaiety, but for the moaning tones and wretched appear- ance of the beggars that lined the way. The numerous arcades of the extensive burying place resounded with the hum; bustle, and exclamations of a careless crowd, who moved about like the multitude at a fair. But for the countless busts of departed worthies, the numberless in- scriptions, and the echoes of the mass floating from one of the open chapels, it would have been impossible to believe, that this concourse had assembled ostensibly to remember and honor the dead. To the view of a stranger nothing could be more incongruous or strange than the scene. The cypresses and cenotaphs assured him he was in a burial place ; while every moment he was jostled by a hurrying group, and his ears saluted with peals of dis, cordant laughter, the leering whisper of the courtezan, and the stern reproof of the soldier. And yet in his answer to the inquiries which curiosity promotes, he is told that this day is conse crated to the departed, that this throng have assembled to think of, and pray for them, and that these tapers are placed by surviving friends around the tombs of the loved and lost. There was something jar- ring to every nerve, something that mocked every hallowed association in this rude contrast between the solemn emblems of death, and the eager recklessness of life. I suggested the idea of inexorable and unmitigable destiny, 16 170 BOLOGNA. rather than consoling faith. It was redolent of bitterness and despair. It was as if men would confront the dark doom of mortality with hollow laughter and raillery. So, at least, the scene impressed one spectator, to whom it was new ; yet habit, or their peculiar creed, had apparently associated it in the minds of the multitude with no such shocking suggestions. It was affecting to notice, here and there, a monument unilluminated — perhaps that of a stranger, who died nnhonored and unsoothed, or the an- cient mausoleum of such who could claim kindred with the place and the people, but whose memories inexorable time had consigned to the dark abyss of forgetfulness. LUCCA. " In the deep umbrage of the olive's shade." ChiUe Harold. The Lucchese look upon the mountains. Does not this, in some measure, account for their love of liberty ? It may seem rather more fanciful than philosophic, but one can scarcely perambulate, on a fine day, the delight- ful promenade, which surrounds the walls, and gaze on the adjacent hills, without realizing, as it were, in the tenor of his musings, something of the elevated and in- spiring sentiment, so beautifully typified by their green and graceful loftiness. ' High mountains are a feeling ;' and were we to analyse the emotions they excite, surely the sense^of freedom would be prominent among them. Not less in the spirit of wisdom than of poetry, should we found a city among the hills. Let the souls of men grow familiar with their sky-pointing summits, their blue waving lines, the dark hugeness of their forms at night- fall, and the rosy vestment thrown around them by the morning. It was not an accidental combination that 172 Lucci.. made the Alps Tell's birth-place, or planted the home of Hofer in the midst of the Tyrol. Originally a Roman colo- ny, Lucca, in the middle ages, was re[)eatedly bartered away by successive masters, in consequence of the liberal princi- ples of her inhabitants, until she succeeded while in thepos- session of Florence, in purchasing her freedom of Charles IV, for two hundred thousand guilders. One of herfirst self- created rulers was Castruccio, a warrior pre-eminent for consummate bravery; and, alihough involved in numer- ous wars, she maintained her independence till the time of Napoleon. It was a happy circumstance for the Luc- chese, that the Emperor's sister who virtually governed them, had learned from her brother Lucien while in Paris, to love and respect the cause of Poetry and the Arts. Elise delighted in exhibiting this new-born taste, by a generous patronage of genius; and the traveller meets with many affecting proofs of the attachment in which her memory is still held by the people. Well do the inhabitants of this little duchy, deserve the appellative so long, by general consent, bestowed on them, of the industrious. Fields of flax, and vegetable patches of the most promising aspect, indicate to the stranger his vicinity to Lucca. A rocky vein of soil and many cliff-like hills affords genial ground for the olive, and a certain superior quality in the fr.it or peculiar care exercised in the manufacture, renders the oil here pro- duced, preferable to that of any other district in Italy. Within a i^ew years, fortunes have been made by the fa- brication of paper and silk. The hangings of the Palace, indeed, furnish a striking proof of the degree of excel- LUCCA. 173 lence attained in the latter branch. This edifice is far more rich, however, in works of art. There is a picture by Annibal Carraci, representing the Woman taken in Adultery. An expression of profound sorrow and benev- olence illumes the Saviour's countenance. Hehas risen from the stooping posture he had assumed in the presence of the malignant accusers, and seems just to have dismiss- ed the woman who, kneeling at his feet, is gazing des- pairingly upon his face. Her eyes are full of eloquent sorrow. We can almost see the tears ; but her anguish is evidently too deep for weeping, while something like the light of hope mingles with and beautifies her expres- sion, as if his forgiving accent had already fallen upon ner soul. In the same apartment hangs another painting remarkable for effective coloring — Christ before Pilate, by Gerardo delle Notti. The rays ot a. candle shine up on the sharp Jewish features of the judge, and from amid the dark shadows of the back-ground, beam forth, in calm majesty, the serene lineaments of the accused. The capo cl'opem of this collection is a Holy Family by Raphael, which some might be pardoned for esteeming above the more celebrated one of the Pitti palace. The mother's face is certainly more strictly Italian, and nothing can be more sweetly eloquent than her downcast eyes meekly bent upon the clinging child. Angelica Kaufman, who learned painting from her father, and so speedily surpass- ed him in skill, Is said to have greatly preferred ideal fe- male figures, and, as her point of excellence was grace, they were doubtless best adapted to her pencil. She found, however, in real life, an admirable subject, in the 15* 174 LUCCA. person of Amarllla Etrusca, an admired improvisalrice^ whose portrait taken at the moment of inspiration, graces the Ducal gallery. It is a delightful and by no means a common occurrence, in the annals of the arts, for one gifted woman thus to celebrate another. The most re- nowned picture, however, at present existing here, is the Assumption, by Fra Bartolomeo, in the Dominican con- vent. A young artist from Rome, patronised by the Duke, was my cicerone at Lucca, and, after viewing the palace, we adjourned to his studio, to look over his designs. Some of these indicate no ordinary talent. One of them illustrates an instance of sudden vengeance recorded in the history of Tuscany. Cosmo de Medici, as the story runs, having discovered an intrigue between his wife and a page, sent for a priest and executioner, and when all was ready, called her into the apartment, made known his discovery, and giving a signal, the favorite was mur- dered before her eyes. The moment chosen, is when the enraged husband, having displayed an intercepted letter, is uttering the fatal word. The scene was most vividly sketched by the young painter — the deep but diverse emo- tions of the several parties, being most strongly depicted in their attitudes and expression. But the period of my sojourn at Lucca, was not alto- gether favorable to a quiet and leisure survey of her at- tractions. It was the anniversary of a triennial festa in a neighboring town, and the inviting weather, and cheer ful faces of the throng swarming the gate, were enough to lure even a passing traveller along the road to Pescia, the birth-place of Sismondi. The contadini of this and the LUCCA. 175 adjacent villages crowded the streets. The men's faces were generally sallow, or very brown from exposure to the sun ; and those which age had stamped with furrows, , and shaded with gray locks, resemble the impressive heads so often introduced in the pictures of the old mas- ters. The female peasants have the same sun-burnt ap- pearance, being equally accustomed to work in the fields. They wore enormous gold and silver ornaments, ofteu preserving, in this form, all their superfluous earnings. On this occasion, too, their best mantillas were in requi- sition, of a snowy whiteness, and frequently embroidered vs^ith no little taste. This simple, but most becoming head dress, is in beautiful contrast with their olive com- plexions and raven hair. It is a charming pastime for a native of the North, to thread such an assemblage of the rustic fair of the South. Sometimes a face is encounter- ed, so bland, innocent, and passively beautiful, but for the rich jet eyes, as to revive the sweet impressions which poetry inspires, of what an English poet considers the most divine coincidence in existence — 'a lovely woman in a rural spot.' To give variety to the otherwise pastoral aspect of the scene, here and there, some exquisite from an adjacent city, loiters along, and the venders endeavor to call attention to their stalls, by loud and various cries. Nuts, cheap toys, and pastry, comprise their merchan- dise. And what are the ostensible amusements of such a concourse? What spell preserves amid such a heteroge- neous mass, so much order and mutual courtesy ? Whence the charm that gives rise to such merry peals of laughter, that arrays so many faces with gladness ? Nature, in- 176 LUCCA. deed, smiles upon them ; but they seldom know her frowns. Doubtless, there is much delight in (he simple dole e far niente, much spontaneous joy in the social ex. citement of the scene, to which the Italians of every class are peculiarly susceptible. A festa in Italy, how- ever, must ever be more or less of a mystery to one wed- ded to a cold philosophy. And yet I pity the man who can roam through such a village, at such a season, and not breathe more freely, and catch a ray of pleasure from the light-hearted triflers around him. He may be wise ; he must be heartless. The festa of Pescia was ushered in, as usual, by a re- ligious ceremonial. The principal church was arrayed in crimson and gold, and illuminated with hundreds of tapers. Mass was performed, and, for several hours, a choir and an orchestra made the vaulted roof resound with sacred melody. No peasant seemed satisfied till his brow was moistened with the holy water, and his knees had pressed the steps of the altar. The responses once utter- ed, and the benediction received, they hastened again in- to the open air, to chat with their fellows from the ad. joining district, or treat some favorite maiden to an ice. In the afternoon, they flocked into the main street, to see a race. Three or four horses, without riders, decked out in gilt paper, and with briars shaking at their sides, are started from a certain point. The crowd part before them, and shout to quicken their career. No drunkenness is seen, and the only apparent excess, is that of harmless buffoonery. An illumination closed the festa. In the evening, every window was studded with lights, and LUCCA. 177 as they gleamed upon the throng below, the village lost every trace of its homely and every-day aspect, and seem- ed a spot consecrated to romance. Then, all the women appeared beautiful. The hum of conversation swelled upon the night- breeze, Laughter echoed through the streets. Children danced over the pavement in transport. Old men walked slowly, smiling to their friends. Lovers 'side by side, grew bold in their endearments. Jokes were bandied freely. All deemed the hour one of those lapses in the monotonous tide of^ life, when the deep of existence ripples sportively, lulling to momentary obliv- vion all bitter memories, and throwing nought but bright sparkles on the sands of time. Amid the surrounding hills, from the shadowy olive-woods, numberless lamps twinkled in fantastic groups. On their summits, lights were arranged in the form of crosses. The sacred sym- bol glittered thus from afar, like the vision of Constan- tino in the sky. On the churches, the lamps followed the lines of the architect, making them appear like temples built of stars. And above all, in the midst of the solemn firmament, the full moon sailed in unclouded beauty, as if to smile upon and hallow the transient reign of human festivity. LEAF FROM A LOG. ' Once more upon the waters !' Childe Harold. Pictures of sea-life generally present the two extremes of truth. When drawn by the professional mariner, the shadows are often kept wholly out of view, and when depicted by one to whom the element itself and all the associations of shipboard are uncongenial, we have Dr. Johnson's summary opinion re-echoed with the endorse- ment of experience. Life at sea, as everywhere else, iS" a chequered scene. Nothing can exceed the melancholy of a cloudy day on the ocean, to the heart of one fresh from endeared localities. The grey sky, the chilly air and the boundless, dark mass of water rolling in sullen gloom, fill the mind with sombre images. And when night comes over the deep and the voyager retires to his cabin, to muse over the friends and sweet places of the earth left behind, — the creaking of the strained timbers, the swaying of the flickering lamp, and the gurgling of LEAP FROM A LOG. 179 the waves at the stern, deepen the desolate sensations that weigh upon his heart. On the other hand, what can give more buoyancy to* the spirits than a bright, clear day at sea, when with a fair wind and every sail filled, the noble vessel rushes gallantly through the water ? It must be confessed, however, that there are few occasions of more keen enjoyment than going on shore, after a long voyage. Life seems renewed, and old impressions become fresh when the loneliness of the ocean is all at once exchanged for the busy haunts of men, the narrow deck for the crowded street, the melan- choly expanse of waves for the variegated garniture of earth. When naught has met the eye for many weeks but sea and sky, when the social excellencies of a party have been too largely drawn upon to be keenly relished, and the novelties of voyaging have become familiar, the hour of landing is anticipated with an eagerness only to be realized by experience. It was with no little impatience that we awaited the dawn after casting anchor in the bay of Gibraltar. In this instance delay was more irksome, as our arrange- ments precluded more than a day's sojourn on the cele- brated rock. We found the town in a state of unusual excitement from a report which was current, of the near approach of the troops of Don Carlos. The people of Saint Roque, the nearest Spanish town, were flocking into the gates, many of the poorer classes laden with their household effects. Never, to me, were the con- rasts between sea and land more striking. The wild cry of the mariners had scarcely died away upo"n our 180 LEAP FROM A LOG. ears, when they were greeted with the hum of com- merce, and the enlivening strains of martial music. As we proceeded, groups of Jews were seen moving towards the synagogue, their dark robes and grey beards blend- ing with the bright uniforms of the English officers who gravely trod the crowded pavement. A swarthy peasant with a steeple-crowned hat, was violently beating his mules in the middle of the street, while directly under the wall, a Spanish lady, with graceful steps, glided on to mass. But our attention was soon completely ab- sorbed in a survey of the fortifications. Many hours were spent in clambering over the rock, now pausing to note the picturesque aspect of a Moorish castle, and now to admire the marvellous vegetation of a little gar- den, planted on a narrow shelf of the fortress. Here a luxuriant aloe threw up its blue and spear-like leaves above the grey stone ; and there, a venerable goat was ■ perched motionless upon a projecting cliff. We wander- ed through the extensive galleries cut in the solid rock, one moment struck with the immense resources of na- ture, and the next, delighted by some admirable device of art. The light streaming the loop-holes, the large dark cannon, and the extraordinary number and extent of these galleries, fill the mind with a kind of awe. At one of the most central points, we paused and gazed down upon the bay. Our vessel seemed dwindled to the size of a pleasure-boat. Opposite, appeared the town of Algeciras, and immediately below, the neutral land be- tween the Spanish and British territory. This is the duelling-ground of the garrison, and near by is a cluster LEAF FROM A LOG. 181 of graves. The water was covered with foam. The wind swept with a melancholy roar round the immense rock. Our voices echoed^through the long, vaulted arch- way. As we clustered about the cannon, looking forth from that dizzy height upon the extensive prospect, while our guide rehearsed the capabilities of the position, and pointed out the memorable points of the landscape, we fully realized the impregnable strength of Gibraltar. Be- fore dusk we were under way, and rounding the majestic rock, soon lost sight of its scattered lights and huge form towerinof throuiih the twiliorht. The American Consul bade us adieu at the pier, and the facilities he had afford- ed us during the day, led me to reflect upon the impor- tance of this oflice abroad, and the singular neglect of our government to its claims. Politicians, among us, are so absorbed in temporary questions and immediate objects, that it is difficult to attract their attention to any foreign interest. Yet, in a patriotic point of view, there are few subjects more worthy of the consideration of political reformers, than our consular system. Of the utter in- difference with which these offices are regarded, there are many evidences. A very gentlemanly man who had fulfilled the duties of United States Consul, at one of the Mediterranean ports, for more than twenty years, was waited upon one morning, by a stranger, who demanded the seal and books of the consulate, showing a commis- sion empowering him to fill the station. Common decency, to say nothing of civility, would require that this gentleman should have received some official notice of his expulsion. But the most curious circumstanc 16 182 LEAF FROJi A LOG. in the case was, that, after a month had elapsed, the new consul renewed his call, and stating he found the fees inadequate to his support, destroyed his commission, and departed. Another old incumbent, deservedly popu- lar, discovered, for the first time, through the public prints, that his office had been abolished for more than a year. At present, these offices are chiefly held by merchants, whose personal interests are continually liable to conflict with their duty as public servants. Our consuls, too, usually depend upon fees for remuneration, and a large part of these are paid by travellers. Those who make several successive visits to the same city, paying, at each departure, for the consul's signature to their passports, cannot but feel annoyed at a tax from which other stran- gers are exempt. If salaries were instituted, proportioned to the labor and importance of each station, and liberal enough to secure the services of able men, the result, in every point of view, would be excellent. Generous and enlightened views of national intercourse, are now rapid- ly prevailing, and our country should be the first to give them a practical influence. The French system is pro- gressive, and the consuls are, therefore, regularly edu- cated for their duty. The English consuls are accustom- ed to furnish the home-department with useful statistical information, which is of eminent service to the merchant manfacturer, and political economist. If these inquirie s were extended to scientific and other general subjects, it i^ easy to perceive how extensively useful the consular of- fice might become. If there is any country, which, in the present condition of the world, should be worthily re- LEAF FROM A LOG. 183 presented, it is the United States. The extent of our commercial relations, and the rapid increase of American travellers require it ; but the honor of a young and pros, parous nation, and fidelity to the important principles of freedom and popular education we piofess, are still higher reasons. Men of intelligence and observation, who shall command the respect of their countrymen, and of the courts to which they are sent, should be placed at these posts of duty. Party feeling should be waived in such appointments. They should be regarded not merely as affording protection and facilitating intercourse, but as involving high responsibility, and furnishing occasion for various usefulness. Our consuls should have the inter- ests of their country at heart, not only as diplomatists but, if possible, as men of literature and science, and, at all events, as enlightened and generous patriots. Day after day, we proceeded constantly in view of the Spanish coast. It was delightful, at early morning, to trace the fine outline of the mountains, broken, occasion- ally, by a watch-tower, or, at sunset, behold the rich glow gather upon their summits, and suff'use their misty robes with beautiful hues. The still grandeur of the hills of Spain thus bathed in softened tints, was in striking con- trast to the civil feud then devastating the country. Lean- ing over the bulwarks, I loved to gaze upon these magni- ficent boundaries of a chivalrous land, and muse upon the decayed splendor of the Alhambra, the rich humor of Don Quixote, or the wrongs and triumphs of Columbus. On a clear and delightful morning, we came in view of Malta. Perhaps there is no spot of such diminutive extent, that 184 LEAF FROM A LOG. can boast an equal renown. Although a mere calcare- ous rock, its commanding position early attracted the arms of the Cathagenians, who were dispossessed by the Romans. The island was occupied, in the middle ages, by the Saracens and Normans, and in 1530, con ferred, by Charles V., upon the knights of Saint John who had been expelled from Rhodes by the Turks Thenceforth, Malta exhibited a new aspect. Fortifica tions of great extent and admirable construction arose The one small stream of fresh water was carried to Ya letta by an acqueduct of a thousand arches. The noble church dedicated to the patron saint of the order arose. A hospital was built to accommodate two thousand patients, and the vessels used in its service, were of solid silver. Earth from Sicily, was spread over the rock, which soon presented tints of lively green to contrast with the grey- ish-yellowhue of the forts, and the deep blue of the sea. As we were not permitted immediately to land, I had am- ple opportunity to contemplate the interesting scene. Several vessels of war were lying in the harbor, their large, dark hulls casting broad and imposing shadows. The castles of Saint Angelo and Saint Elmo, presented their batteries at opposite angles, reviving the associations of the memorable sieges which the knights so courageously sustained. On one of these occasions, when the posi- tion of the enemy intervened between the two forts, their situation is described as trying in the extreme. The waves were dyed with blood. The bodies of the knights who perished at Saint Elmo, floated to the foot of Saint Angeloj and were buried there. Many of them were hor- LEAF FROM A LOG. - 186 ribly mangled, and the cross cut in derision upon their breasts. At night, the fire wheels and other engines, il- luminated the scene of battle. The brave champions of Christianity, met, for the last time, in their council hall, wounded and spent with fatigue, and, having partaken of the last religious rite, vowed to sacrifice themselves, and return once more to the defence. When the moon arose, and poured her tranquil light upon the harbor, its peace- ful beauty rendered such retrospections more difficult to realize. The water rippled playfully around the mossy walls of the forts. The mild lustre fell serenely upon the »tile.covered roofs of the town, and bathed the lofty dome of the Cathedral. The crowd passed cheerfully along the quay, and the echo of a mariner's song alone disturb- , ed the silence of night. Now and then a beat shot across the bay with its complement of passengers — a priest, a soldier, and one or two female figures, shrouded in black silk. It was impossible to peruse the scene and not revert to those fierce struggles between the crescent and the cross, and dwell upon the 'devoted enthusiasm which led so many of the young and the brave to assume the black mantle and holy symbol of Christian knight- hood. The inspiration of a Southern night aided the imagination in conjuring from the bosom of the quiet wa- ters, the buried tales of romantic valor. Such dreams were soon dispelled upon landing, for the Nix-Mangare stairs leading to the town, are always thronged with the most importunate beggars. In the principal street, some laborers were digging the foundation of a house. The cellar is made by merely throwing out the calcareous soil 16* 186 LEAF FROM A LOG. which forms very good material for building. When used, however, for floors, it is necessary to harden the sur- face of the Malta stone with varnish or oil. A friend of mine, at Palermo, who paved his house with this materi- al, and neglected thus to prepare it, discovered his mistake in a very unpleasant manner. Soon after taking posses- sion of his residence, he gave a ball. After the third or fourth dance, the gentlemen's coats were white with pow- der, the air of the rooms was filled with fine dust, and the next day, every one of the company complained of a sore throat. We lodged at a hotel, formerly a knight's pal- ace, every apartment of which is of noble dimensions, and richly decorated. The Grand Master's residence, the splendid armory, the long lines of bastions, and the monuments in the church of Saint John, are the most in- teresting memorials of the knights. The old pits excava- ted for preserving grain, which has been thus kept for an entire century, are still used for a similar purpose. A column on one of the ramparts, commemorates the ser- vices of Sir Alexander Ball, to whom Coleridge pays so high a tribute in the Friend. The gay uniforms of the English officers give a lively air to the narrow streets of Malta. At the opera, between the acts, the orchestra per- form " God save the King," and every individual rises and remains attentively standing until the music ceases This silent recognition of national feeling, in a foreign land is impressive and touching. Malta will not long detain the curious traveller, when so near more interest ing localities. But while the novelty of its peculiar fea tures is fresh to the mind, they cannot fail to amuse. LEAF FROM A LOG. 187 There is a remarkable unity in the associations of the place, connected as they are, almost exclusively with the knights. A great variet) in costume, and sundry singu- larities in the habits and dialects of the natives, afford a fund of entertainment for a few days' sojourn. The Mal- tese still complain loudly of their grievances, and have but recently succeeded in obtaining the freedom of their press. Their African origin is strongly indicated in their complexions and cast of features. Yet not unfrequently, from one of the grotesque balconies, a dark eye gleams, or a form is visible, which stays the steps, and provokes the sigh of the stranger. THOUGHTS ON THE POETS, GOLDSMITH. It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to those characters in literary history who are emphatically favorites, and to glance at the cause of their popularity. Such speculations frequently afford more important results than the mere gratification of curiosity. They often lead to a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate the principle and methods by which the common mind may be most successfully addressed. The advantage of such retrospective inquiries is still greater at a period like the present, when there is such an obvious tendency to innovate upon some of the best- established theories of Wte ; when the passion for novelty seeks for such unli- censed indulgence, and invention seems to exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In literature, especiall}'-, we appear to be daily losing one of the most valuable elements — simplicity. The prevalent taste is no longer gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite for what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompanied by any discriminating demand for the true and original ; and 192 GOLDSMITH. yet, experience has fully proved that these last are the only permanent elements of literature ; and no healthy mind, cognizant of its own history, is unaware that the only intellectual aliment which never palls upon the taste, is that which is least indebted to extraneous accompani. ments for its relish. It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The study of the old masters may sometimes make the modern artist despair of his own efforts ; but if he have the genius to discover, and follow out the great principle upon which they wrought, he will not have contemplated their works in vain. He will have learned that devotion to nature is the grand secret of progress in art, and that the success of her votaries depends upon the singleness, constancy, and intelligence of their worship. If there is not enthu- siasm enough to kindle this flame in its purity, nor energy sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required at that high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priesthood of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfiguration was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveliness, he replied — there would still bean infinite distance between his work and the existent original. In this profound and vivid perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin of those lovely creations, which, for more than three hundred years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of the pen as the pencil, that what is drawn from life and the heart, alone bears the impress of immor- tality. Yet the practical faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The writers of our times are con- stantly making use of artificial enginery. They have, for I GOLDSMITH. 193 the most part, abandoned the integrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural ; and when we turn from the midst of the forced and hot- bed products of the mo- dern school, and ramble in the garden of old English lit- erature, a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the spirit, like the first breath of mountain air to the weary- wayfarer. There are few writers of the period more generally be- loved than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries Burke excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth of thought. The former continues to enjoy a larger share of admiration, and the latter of respect, but the labors of their less pretending companion have se- cured him a far richer heritage of love. Of all posthu- mous tributes to genius, this seems the most truly desira- ble. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is called forth by more interesting characteristics than tal- ent. It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of the individual with his works, and looking beyond the mere embodiment of his intellect, it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his character which has made itself felt even through the artificial medium of writing. The au- thors are comparatively few, who have awakened this feel- ing of personal interest and affection. It is common, in- deed, for any writer of genius to inspire emotions of gra- titude in the breasts of those susceptible to the charm, but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is vivified and elevated into positive affection. And few, I appre- hend, among the wits and poets of old England, have 17 194 GOLDSMITH. more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have said this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the thought of one of the gifted of our race, attaching to him- self countless hearts by the force of a charm woven in by. gone years, when environed by neglect and discourage- ment. Though a late, it is a beautiful recompense, trans- cending mere critical approbation, or even the reverence men offer to the monuments of mind. VVe can conceive of no motive to effort which can be presented to a man of true feeling, like the hope of winning the love of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler pur- pose than that entertained by heartless ambition. The appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it is to the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is em- phatically rich. It gains its possessor warm friends in. stead of mere admirers. To establish such an inheri- tance in the breast of humanity, were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an offering not only to intellec- tual but to moral graces, and its possession argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than genius itself. It elo- quently indicates that its subject is not only capable of interesting the general mind by the power of his crea- tions, but of captivating the feelings by the earnest beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself, with the regretful tenderness with which we look GOLDSMITH. 195 upon the portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, dwell with glad astonishment upon the cele- brated operas ofRosini and some of the German compo- sers, but the memory of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being spoken of always with the epithet <' poor" attached to his name, is sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he eujoys. Whence, then, the peculiar at- traction of his writings, and wherein consists the spell which has so long rendered his works the favorites of so many and such a variety of readers ? The primary and all-pervading charm of Goldsmith is his truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful charac- teristic, as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. We see it displayed in the remarkable frank- ness which distinguished his intercourse with others, and in that winning simplicity which so frequently excited the contemptuous laugh of the worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more valuable sympatliies of less perverted natures. All who have sketched his biography unite in declaring, that he could not dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his want of tact in concealing a defect, in the story which is related of him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice in Edin- burgh — when, his only velvet coat being deformed by a huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while in the drawing-room, to cover it in ihe most awkward manner with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness which led him to so candid and habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson ridiculed him for so freely describing 196 GOLDSMITU. the state of his feelings during the representation of his first play ; and, throughout his life, the perfect honesty of his spirit made him the subject of innumerable practical jokes. Credulity is perhaps a weakness almost insepara- ble from eminently truthful characters. Yet, if such is the case, it does not in the least diminish our faith in the su- periority and value of such characters. Waiving all moral considerations, we believe it can be demonstrated that truth is one of the most essential elements of real great- ness, and surest means of eminent success. Manage- ment, chicanery and cunning, may advance men in the career of the world ; it may forward the views of the poli- tician, and clear the way of the diplomatist. But when humanity is to be addressed in the universal language of genius ; when, through the medium of literature or art, man essays to reach the heart of his kind, the more sin- cere the appeal, the surer its effect ; the more direct the call, the deeper the response. In a word, the more large- ly truth enters into a work, the more certain the fame of its author. But a few months since, I saw the Parisian populace crowding around the church where the remains of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity alone gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. When Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of suc- cess, threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned from the fast-brightening vision of renown, to weep. Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved as the ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the look of welcome is unaffected — that the friendly grasp is from the heart, and we regret their departure as an actual GOLDSMITH. 197 loss. And not less winningly shines this high and sa- cred principle through the labours of genius. It immor- talizes history — it is the true origin of eloquence, and constitutes the living charm of poetry. When Goldsmith penned the lines — To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art, he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded the secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the clearness of his own soul which reflected so truly the imagery of life. He did but transcribe the unadorned convictions that glowed in his mind, and faithfully traced the pictures which nature threw upon the mirror of his fancy. Hence the unrivalled excellence of his descrip- tions. Rural life has never found a sweeter eulogist. To countless memories have his village landscapes risen pleasantly, when the " murmur" rose at eventide. Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher delighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear as the good Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of many an ardent student have been beguiled by his portraiture of a country clergyman — brightening the dim vista of futu- rity as his own ideal of destiny ; and who has not, at times, caught the very solace of retirement from his sweet apostrophe ? The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by ob- servation. He was not one of those who regard books as the only, or even the principal sources of knowledge* 17* 198 GOLDSMITH. He recognised and delighted to study the unwritten lore so richly spread over the volume of nature, and shadowed forth so variously from the scenes of every-day life and the teachings of individual experience. There is a class of minds, second to none in native acuteness and reflec- tive power, so constituted as to flourish almost exclusive- ly by observation. Too impatient of restraint to endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly alive to every idea and truth which is evolved from life. Without a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the German student for years to his familiar tomes, they suffer not a single impression which events or character leave upon their memories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, in a great measure, in the history of the past, the present is not allowed to pass without eliciting their intelligent com- ment. Unskilled in the technicalities of learning, they contrive to appropriate, with surprising facility, the wis- dom born of the passing moment. No striking trait of character — no remarkable eflcet in nature — none of the phenomena of social existence, escape them. Like Ho. garth, they are constantly enriching themselves with sketches from life ; and, as he drew street-wonders upon his thumb-nail, they note and remember, and afterwards elaborate and digest whatever of interest experience af. fords. Goldsmith was a true specimen of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his claim to the title of scholar, by research and study ; but the field most congenial to his taste, was the broad universe of nature and man. It was his love of observation which gave zest to the roving life he began so early to indulge. His boyhood was passed GOLDSMITH. 199 in a constant succession of friendly visits. He was ever migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to that of another; and on these occasions, as well as when at home, he was silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily traced in his writings. Few authors, in- deed, are so highly indebted to personal observation for their materials. It is well known that the original of the Vicar of Wakefield was his own father. Therein has he embodied in a charming manner his early recollections of his parent, and the picture is rendered still more com- plete in his papers on the " Man in Black." The in- imitable description, too, of the " Village Schoolmaster," is drawn from the poet's early teacher ; and the veteran, who " shouldered his crutch and told how fields were won," had often shared the hospitality of his father's roof. The leading incident in " She Stoops to Conquer," was his own adventure ; and there is little question, that, in the quaint tastes of Mr. Burchell, he aimed to exhibit many of his own peculiar traits. But it is not alone in the leading characters of his novel, pliys and poems, that we discover Goldsmith's observing power. It is equally discernible throughout his essays and desultory papers. Most of his illustrations arc borrowed from personal ex- perience, and his opinions are generally founded upon experiment. His talent for fresh and vivid delineation, is ever most prominently displayed when he is describing what he actually witnessed, or drawing from the rich fund of his early impressions or subsequent adventures. ]Vo appeal to humor, curiosity, or imagination, was unheed- ed ; and it is the blended pictures he contrived to com- 200 GOLDSMITH. bine from these cherished associations, that impart so lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find him noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a foreign peasantry, and, another, studying the operations of a spider at his garret window, — now busy in nomeu- elating the peculiarities of the Dutch, and anon alluding to the exhibition of Cherokee Indians. The natural effect of this thirst for experimental knowledge, was to beget a love for foreign travel. Accordingly, we find that Gold- smith, after exhausting the narrow circle which his limi- ted means could compass at home, projected a contiuen- tial tour, and long cherished the hope of visiting the East. Indeed, we could scarcely have a stronger proof of his en- thusiasm, than the long journey he undertook and actually accomplished on foot. The remembrance of his roman- tic wanderings over Holland, France, Germany, and Italy, imparts a singular interest to his writings. It was indeed worthy of a true poet that, enamored of nature and delighting in the observation of his species, he should thus manfully go forth, with no companion but his flute, and wander over these fair lands hallowed by past associa- tions and existent beauty. A rich and happy era despite its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, was that year of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must have been the imaginative pedestrian, as he reposed his weary frame in the peasant's cottage " beside the murmuring Loire ;" and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills, hailed the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of Florence — the long-anticipated goals to which his weary GOLDSMITH. 201 footsteps had so patiently tended. If any thing could enhance the pleasure of musing amid these scenes of poetic interest, it must have been the consciousness of having reached them by so gradual and self-denying a progress. There is, in truth, no more characteristic por- tion of Goldsmith's biography, than that which records this remarkable tour ; and there are few more striking instances of the available worth of talent. Unlike the bards of old, he won not his way to shelter and hospitality by appealing to national feeling ; for the lands through which he roamed were not his own, and the lay of the last Minstrel had long since died away in oblivion. But he gained the ready kindness of the peasantry by playing the flute, as they danced in the intervals of toil ; and won the favor of the learned by successful disputation at the con- vents and universities — a method of rewarding talent which was extensively practised in Europe at that period. Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving poet ram- bled over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vicissi- tudes incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world, to a mind like his, there was ample compensation in the superior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He mingled frankly with the people, and saw things as they were. The scenery which environed him flitted not be- fore his senses, like the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became familiar to his eye under the changing aspects of time and season. Manners and customs he quietly studied, with the advantage of sufficient opportunity to in- stitute just comparisons and draw fair inferences. In short, Goldsmith was no tyro in the philosophy of travel ; 202 GOLDSMITH. and, although the course he pursued was dictated by ne- cessity, its superior results are abundantly evidenced throughout his works. We have, indeed, no formal nar- rative of his journeyings ; but what is better, there is scarcely a page thrown off, *to supply the pressing wants of the moment, which is not enriched by some pleasing reminiscence or sensible thought, garnered from the re- collection and scenes of that long pilgrimage. Nor did he fail to embody the prominent impressions of so inte- resting an epoch of his chequered life, in a more endur- ing and beautiful form. The poem of " The Traveller," originally sketched in Switzerland, was subsequently re- vised and extended. It was the foundation of Gold- smith's poetical fame. The subject evinces the taste of the author. The unpretending vein of enthusiasm which runs through it, is only equalled by the force and simpli- city of the style. The rapid sketches of the several coun- tries it presents, are vigorous and pleasing ; and the re- flections interspersed, abound with that truly humane spirit, and that deep sympathy with the good, the beautiful, and the true, which distinguishes the poet. This produc- tion may be regarded as the author's first deliberate at- tempt in the career of genius. It went through nine edi- tions during his life, and its success contributed, in a great measure, to encourage and sustain him in future and less genial efforts. The faults which are said to have deformed the character of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles rather than absolute and positive errors- Recent biogra- phers agree in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to GOLDSMITH. 203 play has either been grossly exaggerated, or was but a temporary mania ; and we should infer from his own allusion to the subject, that he had, with the flexibility of disposition that belonged to him, yielded only so far to its seductions as to learn from experience the supreme folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, that his means were too restricted, and his time, while in London too much occupied, to allow of his enacting the part of a regular and professed gamester ; and during the latter and most busy years of his life, we have the testimony of the members of the celebrated club to which he was attached, to the temperance and industry of his habits. Another, and in the eyes of the world, perhaps, greater weakness recorded of him, was a mawkish vanity, some, times accompanied by jealousy of more successful com- petitors for the honors of literature. Some anecdotes, illustrative of this unamiable trait, are preserved, which would amuse us, were they associated with less noble endow- ments or a more uninteresting character. As it is, however, not a few of them challenge credulity, from their utter want of harmony with certain dispositions which he is universally allowed to have possessed. But it is one of the greatest and most common errors in judging of character, to take an isolated and partial, instead of a broad and comprehensive view of the various qualities which go to form the man, and the peculiar circumstances that have influenced their development. Upon a candid retrospect of Goldsmith's life, it appears to us that the display of vanity, which in the view of many are so de- meaning, may be easily and satisfactorily explained. 204 GOLDSMITH. Few men possess talent of any kind uncons ciously. It seems designed by the Creator, that the very sense of capacity should urge genius to fulfil its mission, and support its early and lonely efforts by the earnest conviction of ultimate success. To beings thus endowed, the ne- glect and contumely of the world — the want of sympathy — the feeling of misappreciation, is often a keen sorrow felt precisely in proportion to the susceptibility of the individual, and expressed according as he is ingenuous and frank, [u the case of Goldsmith, his long and sol- itary struggle with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-success in every scheme for support, coupled as they were with an intuitive and deep consciousness of mental power and poetic gifts, were calculated to render him painfully alive to the superior consideration bestowed upon less deserving but more presumptuous men, and the unmerited and unjust disregard to his own claims. Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to give vent so childishly to> such feelings, but this sprung from the spontaneous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands have felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of men, "he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, this free- spoken and candid disposition was inimical to his success in more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker, unabled to play the great man, and instinctively preferring the spontaneous to the formal, and "thinking aloud" to studied and circumspect speech. The " exquisite sensi- bility to contempt," too, which he confesses belonged to him, frequently induced an appearance of conceit, when no undue share existed. The truth is, the legitimate pride GOLDSMITH. 205 of talent, for want of free and natural scope, often exhibit- ed itself in Goldsmith greatly to his disadvantage. The fault was rather in his destiny than himself. He ran away from college with the design of embarking for America, because he was reproved by an unfeeling tutor before a convivial party of his friends ; and descended to a personal rencontre with a printer, who impudently de- livered Dodsley's refusal that he should undertake an improved edition of Pope. He concealed his name when necessity obliged him to apply for the office of usher; and received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee- house, rather than expose the poorness of his lodgings. He joined the crowd to hear his own ballads sung when a student ; and openly expressed his wonder at the stu pidity of people, in preferring the tricks of a mountebank to the society of a man like himself. While we smile at, twe cannot wholly deride such foibles, and are constrained o say of Goldsmith as he said of the Village Pastor — "And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our poet arose more from that recklessness of the future, cha- racteristic of the Irish temperament, or the singular confi- dence in destiny which is so common a trait in men of ideal tendencies. It would naturally be supposed, that the stern lesson of severe experience would have eventu- ally corrected this want of foresight. It was but the thoughtlessness of youth which lured him to forget amid the convivialities of a party, the vessel on board which he had taken passage and embarked his effects, on his firs 81 206 GOLDSMITH. experiment in travelling ; but later in life, we find him wandering out on the first evening of his arrival in Edin- burgh, without noting the street or number of his lodgings ; inviting a party of strangers in a public garden to take tea with him, without a sixpence in his pocket ; and obstinate- ly persisting, during his last illness, in taking a favorite medicine, notwithstanding it aggravated his disease. A life of greater vicissitude it would be difficult to find in the annals of literature. Butler and Otaway were, in- deed, victims of indigence, and often perhaps, found themselves, like our bard, " in a garret writing for bread, and expecting every moment to be dunned for a milk- score," but the biography of Goldsmith displays a greater variety of shifts resorted to for subsistence. He was suc- cessively an itinerant musician, a half- starved usher, a che- mist's apprentice, private tutor, law-student, practising physician, eager disputant, hack-writer, and even, for a week or two, one of a company of strolling players.' In the history of George Primrose, he is supposed to have described much of his personal experience prior to the pe- riod when he became a professed litterateur. We can- not but admire the independent spirit he maintained through all these struggles with adverse fortune. Not- withstanding his poverty, the attempt to chain his talents to the service of a political faction by mercenary motives was indignantly spurned, and when his good genius prov- ed triumphant, he preferred to incribe its first acknow- ledged offspring to his brother, than, according to the seivile habits of the day, dedicate it to any aristocratic patron, *' that thrift might follow fawning." With all his i GOLDSMITH. 207 incapacity for assuming" dignity, Goldsmith never seems to have forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's nobility. The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith in such various and distinct species .of literary effort, is worthy of remark. As an essayist, he has contributed some of the mostpureand graceful specimens of English prose discoverable in the whole range of literature. His best comedy continues to maintain much of its original popularity, notwithstanding the revolutions which public taste has undergone since it was first produced ; and " The Hermit" is still an acknowledged model in ballad- writing. If from his more finished works, we turn to those which were thrown off" under the pressing exigen- cies of his life, it is astonishing what a contrast of sub- jects employed his pen. During his college days, he was constantly writing ballads on popular events, which he disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him se- dulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compi- lations, translations, and reviews for the booksellers; one day throwing off* a pamphlet on the Cock-Lane ghost, and the next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau Nash ; atone moment, busy upon a festive song, and at another deep in composing the words for an Oratorio. It is curious, with the intense sentiment and finished pic- tures of fashionable life with which the fictions of our day abound, fresh in the memory, to open the Vicar of Wakefield. We seem to be reading the memoirs of an earlier era, instead of a diff*erent sphere of life. There 208 GOLDSMITH. are no wild and improbable incidenls, no startling views, and with the exception of Burchell's incognito, no at- tempt to excite interest through the attraction of mystery. And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive and permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for intro- ducing students on the continent to a knowledge of our language, and although popular taste at present demands quite a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is often reverted to with delight, from the vivid con- trast it presents to the reigning school ; while the attrac- tive picture it affords of rural life and humble virtue, will ever render it intrinsically dear and valuable. But the " Deserted Village" is, of all Goldsmith's pro- ductions, unquestionably the favorite. It carries back the mind to the early season of life, and re-asserts the power of unsophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems grow stale, this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart and sacred to the imagination, are those sweet delinea- tions of uuperverted existence. There is true pathos in that tender lament over the superseded sports and ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment, wkich never fails to find a re- sponse in every feeling breast. It is an elaborate and touch- ing epitaph, written in the cemetery of the world, over what is dear to all humanity. There is a truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain over the heart im- mersed in the toil and crowds of cities. There is an un- born beauty in the similes of the bird and her " unfledged offspring," the hare that " pants to the place from whence at first he flew," and the '' tall cliff that lifts its awful form," GOLDSMITH. 209 which, despite their familiarity, retain their power to de- light. And no clear and susceptible mind can ever lose its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated and heart-stir- ring numbers, which animate with pleasure the pulses of youth, gratify the mature taste of manhood, and fall with a soothing sweetness upon the ear of age. We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young lady who had been accustomed to say, that our poet was the homliest of men, after reading the ''Deserted Village" — "I shall never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly !" This poem passed through five editions in as many months, and from its do- mestic character became immediately popular throughout England. Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a measure, to be ascribed to its author's musical taste, and the fascinating ease of its flow is the result of long study and careful revision. Nothing is more deceitful than the apparent facility observable in poetry. No poet exhibits more of this characteristic than Ariosto, and yet his man- uscripts are filled with erasures and repetitions. Few things appear more negligently graceful than the well-ar- ranged drapery of a statue, yet how many experiments must the artist try before the desired effect is produced. So thoroughly did the author revise the '^ Deserted Vil- lage," that not a 'single original line remained. The clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as indi- cative of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his charac- ter or the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said of Pitt's elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one with the idea that the man was greater than the orator. A similar influence it seems to me is produced by the 18* 210 GOLDSMITH. harmonious versification and elegant diction of Gold- smith. It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of the intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can arrive at a complete view of his genius. It is to the feel- ings that we must look for that earnestness which gives vigor to mental efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar tone and coloring. And it will generally be found that what is really and permanently attractive in the works of genius, independent of mere diction, is to be traced ra- ther to the heart than the head. We may admire the ori- ginal conception, the lofty imagery or winning style of a popular author, but what touches us most deeply is the sen- timent of which these are the vehicles. The fertile in- vention of Petrarch, in displaying under such a variety of disguises the same favorite subject, is not so moving as the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy and quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. Hemans is more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to the elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less attractive for his kindly affections than for his quaint humor. Not a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith, is attributable to the excellence of his heart. Mere talent would scarcely have sufficed to interpret and display so enchantingly the humble characters and scenes to which his most brilliant efforts were devoted. It was his sincere and ready sympathy with man, his sensibility to suffering in every form, his strong social sentiment and his amiable interest in all around, which brightened to his mind's eye, what to the less susceptible is unheeded and GOLDSMITH. 211 obscure. Naturally endowed with free and keen sensi- bilities, his own experience of privation prevented them from indurating through age or prosperity. He cherish- ed throughout his life an earnest faith in the better feel- ings of our nature. He realized the universal beauty and power of Love ; and neither the solitary pursuits of literature, the elation of success, nor the blandishments of pleasure or society, ever banished from his bosom the generous and kindly sentiments which adorned his char- acter. He was not the mere creature of attainment, the reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. Pride of intel- lect usurped not his heart. Pedantry congealed not the fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise of all those tender and noble sentiments which are so much more honorable to man than the highest triumphs of mind. And it is these which make us love the man not less than admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympathy with the sufferings of the peasantry, is eloquently express- ed in both his poems and frequently in his prose writings. How expressive that lament for the destruction of the ^ Ale-House ' — that it would ' No more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.' There is more true benevolence in the feeling which prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calcu- lating philosophy with which so many expect to elevate the lower classes in these days of ultra-reform. When shall we learn that we must sympathize with those we would improve ? At "college, we are told, one bitter night 212 GOLDSMITH. Goldsmith encountered a poor woman and her infants shivering at the gate, and having no money to give them, bringing out all his bed clothes to keep himself from freez- ing, cut open his bed and slept within it. When hard at work earning a scanty pittance in his garret, he spent every spare penny in cakes for the children of his poorer neigh- bors, and when he could do nothing else, taught them dancing, , by way of cheering their poverty. Notwith- standing his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he visited and relieved him in prison ; and when returning ^home with the £100 received from his book-seller for the 'Desert- ed Village,' upon being told by an acquaintance he fell in with, that it was a great price for so little a thing, re- plied, * perhaps it is more than he can afford,' and re- turning offered to refund a part. To his poor countrymen he was a constant benefactor, and while he had a shilling was ready to share it with them, so that they familiarly styled him ' our doctor.' In Leyden, when on the point of commencing his tour, he stripped himself of all his funds to send a collection of flower-roots to an uncle who was devoted to botany ; and on the first occasion that pa- tronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, to be- speak a vacant living for his brother. In truth, his life abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one day of his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of his bringing home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens to be his amanuensis, and ■ again of his leaving the card- table to relieve a poor woman, whose tones as she chant- ed some ditty in passing, came to him above the hum of gaiety and indicated to his ear distress.. Though the fre- GOLDSMITH. 213 quent and underserved subject of literary abuse, he was never known to write severely against any one. His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his pen. He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in nature of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the noblest and most universal attributes of man. ' If I were to love you by rule,' he writes to his brother, * I dare say I never could do it sincerely.' There was in his nature, an instinctive aversion to the frigid, ceremonial and meaningless professions which so coldly imitate the lan- guage of feeling. Goldsmith saw enough of the world, to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of custom which ' makes dotards of us all.' He did not wander among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fire-side, nor mix in the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain Travel liberalized his views and demolished the ban iers of local prejudice. He looked around upon his kind with the charitable judgment and interest born of an observing mind and a kindly heart — ^with an infinite love, an infi- nite pity.' He delighted in the delineation of humble life, because he knew it to be the most unperverted. Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because he had learn- ed their preeminent truth- Childhood with its innocent playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored wisdom, and the uncultivated but ' bold peasantry,' interested him alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his fellow-lodger — the watchmaker in Green Arbor court — not less than a literary discussion with Dr. Johnson. t friends, who loved him well, Whale'er he knew or felt he would impart."* And yet this is the man who was disgraced and banned for his opinions — deemed by a court of his country un- worthy to educate his own children — disowned by his kindred, and forced from his native land ! What a re- flection to a candid mind, that slander long prevented ac- quaintance and communion between Shelley and Lamb! How disgusting the thought of those vapid faces of the travelling English, who have done more to disenchant Italy than all her beggars, turned in scorn from the poet, as they encountered him on the Pincian or Lung'Arno ! With what indignation do we think of that beautiful head being defaced by a blow ! Yet we are told, when Shelley was inquiring for letters at a continental post-office, some ruffian, under color of the common prejudice, upon hear- ing his name, struck him to the earth. As a poet Shelley was strikingly original. He main- tained the identity of poetry and philosophy; and the bent of his genius seems to have been to present philoso- phical speculations, and " beautiful idealisms of moral excellence," in poetical forms. He was too fond of looking * Prince Athanase. 25^ SHELLEY. beyond the obvious and tangible to form a merely descrip- tive poet, and too metaphysical in his taste to be a purely sentimental one. He has neither the intense egotism of Byron, nor the simple fervor of Burns. In general, the scope of his poems is abstract, abounding in wonderful displays of fancy and allegorical invention. Of these qualities, the Revolt of Islam is a striking example. This lack of personality and directness, prevents the poetry of Shelley from impressing the memory like that of Mrs. Hemans or Moore. His images pass before the mind like frost-work at moonlight, strangely beautiful, glittering and rare, but of transient duration, and dream-like interest. Hence, the great body of his poetry can never be popu- lar. Of this he seemed perfectly aware. <' Prometheus Unbound," according to his own statement, was composed with a view to a very limited audience ; and the " Cenci," which was written according to more popular canons of taste, cost him great labor. The other dramas of Shelley are cast in classical moulds, not only as to form but in tone and spirit ; and scattered through them are some of the most splendid gems of expression and metaphor to be found in the whole range of English poetry, Altkough these classical dramas seem to have been most congenial to the poet's taste, there is abundant evidenceof hissupe- rior capacity in more popular schools of his art. For touching beauty, his " Lines written in Dejection near Naples," is not surpassed by any similar lyric ; and his " Sky- Lark" is perfectly buoyant with the very music it commemorates. "Julian and Maddalo" was written ac- cording to Leigh Hunt's theory of poetical diction, and is SHELLEY. 251 a graceful specimen of that style. But "The Cenci" is the greatest evidence we have of the poet's power over his own genius. Horrible and difficult of refined treatment as is the subject, with what power and tact is it developed ! When I beheld the pensive loveliness of Beatrice's por- trait at the Barbariui palace, it seemed as if the painter had exhausted the ideal of her story. Shelley's tragedy should be read with that exquisite painting before the imagination. The poet has surrounded it with an inter- est surpassing the limner's art. For impressive effect upon the reader's mind, exciting the emotions of "terror and pity" which tragedy aims to produce, how few modern dramas can compare with '' The Cenci !" Per- haps ''Adonais" is the most characteristic of Shelley's poems. It was written under the excitement of sympathy ; and while the style and images are peculiar to the poet, an uncommon degree of natural scHtiment vivifies this elegy. In dwelling upon its pathetic numbers, we seem to trace in the fate of Keats, thus poetically described, Shelley's own destiny depicted by the instinct of his genius. " O, weep for Adonais*! — The quick Dreams, The passion- winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not, — Wander no more. ***** ' O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart, Dare the unpa^tured dragon in his den. Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was then 252 6HELLET. Wisdom the mirror' d shield, or scorn the spear ? Or hadst thou waited t he full cycle, when Thy spirit hhould have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. * * * * * Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion-kites that scream below ; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal. ***** He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. ***** The inheritors of unfulfilled renown. Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought Far in the Unapparent. ' Thou an become as one of us,' they cry. ***** And he is gather'd to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. ***** Life, like a dome ofmany-color'd glass, Stains ihe wiiite radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments. * * * * My spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given." SHELLEr. 253 The elements of Shelley's genius were rarely mingled. The grand in nature delighted his muse. Volcanoes and glaciers, x4.1pine summits and rocky caverns' filled his fan- cy. It was his joy to pass the spring-days amid the ruined baths of Caracalla, and to seek the corridors of the Coli- seum at moonlight. He loved to watch the growth of thunder-showers, and to chronicle his dreams. Ger- man literature, to which he was early attracted, prob- ably originated much of his taste for the wild and wonder- ful. Plato and the Greek poets, sculpture and solitude, fed his spirit. Such ideas as that of will unconquered by tyranny, the brave endurance of suffering, legends like the '^Wandering Jew" — the poetry of evil as depicted in » the Book of Job — " Paradise Lost," the story of " Pro.. metheus," and the traditions of ** The Cenci," interested him profoundly. He revelled in "the tempestuous loveli- ness of terror." The sea was Shelley's idol. Some of his happiest hours were passed in a boat. The easy mo- tion, " Actiye without toil or stress, Passive without listUness," probably soothed his excitable temperament ; while the expanse of wave and sky, the countless phenomena of cloud and billow, and the awful grandeur of storms en- tranced his soul. Hence his favorite illustrations are drawn from the sea, and many of them are as perfect pearls of poesy as ever the adventurous diver rescued from the deep of imagination. Nor were they obtained without severe struggle and earnest application. Shelley's life was in- 22 254 SHELLEY. tense, and although only in his thirtieth year when his beloved element wrapped him in the embrace of death, the snows of pretnature age already flecked his auburn locks; and, in sensation and experience, he was wont to say, he had far outsped the calendar. Shelley was a true disci- ple of love. He maintained with rare eloquence the spontaneity and sanctity of the passion, and sought to realize the ideal of his affections with all a poet's earnest- ness. Alastor typifies the vain search. Time — the great healer of wounded hearts — the mighty vindicator of injured worth — is rapidly dispersing the mists which have hitherto shrowded the fame of Shelley. Sympathy for his sufferings, and a clearer insight into his motives, are fast redeeming his name and influence. Whatever views his countrymen may entertain, there is a kind of living posterity in this young republic, who judge of genius by a calm study of its fruits, wholly uninfluenced by the dkstant murtnur of local preju- dice and party rage. To such, the thought of Shelley is hallowed by the aspirations and spirit of love with which his verse overflows ; and ia their pilgrimage to the old world, they turn aside from the more august ruins of Rome, to muse reverently upon the poet, where " One keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transform'd to marble ; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death. Welcoming him we love with scarce extinguish'd breath."* ■■ ' ' • « — ■ ■ * Adonais. SHELLEY. 255 l^aTE. — This article having been censured and misunderstood, the following letter was afterwards published in the magazine in which it appeared. " Your letter informing me of the manner in which some of your readers have seen fit to regard my remarks on Shelley, is at hand. I am at a loss to conceive how any candid or discriminating mind can view the article in question as a defence of Shelley's opinions. It was intended rather to place the man himself in a more jus; point of view, than that which common prejudice assigns him. I only contend that mere opinions — especially thnso of early youth, do not constitute the only or the best criterion of character. I have spoken in defence rather of Shelley's tendencies and real purposes, than of his theories, and endeavored to vindicate what was truly lovely and noble in his nature. To these gifts and gracrs the many have long been blinded. We have heard much of Shelley's atheistical philosophy and little of his benevolent heart, much of his boyish infidelity and little of his kind actsand elevated sentiments. That 1 have attempted to call attention to these characteristics of the poet, I can- not regret ; and to me such a course seems perfectly- consistent with a rejection of his peculiar views of society and religion. These we know were in a great degree visionary and contrary to well established principles of human nature. Still they were ever undergoing modi- fications, and his heart often anticipated the noblest teach- ings of faith. A careful study of the life and writings of Shelley, will narrow the apparent chasm between him and the acknowledged ornaments of our race. It virill lead us to trace much that is obnoxious in his vieiv^a 256 SHELLEY, to an aggravated experience of ill, and to discover in the inmost sanctuary of his soul much to venerate and love, much that will f5ancti fy the genius which the careless and bigoted regard as having been wholly desecrated. One of your correspondents says " I do not pretend to be minutely acquainted with the details of his life, having never read his letters recently published." And yet, confessedly ignorant of the subject, as he is, he yet goes on to repeat and exaggerate the various slanders which have been heaped upon the name of one who I still believe should rank among the most noble characters of modern times. It is not a little surprising that while, in all ques. tions of science, men deem the most careful inquiry requi- site to form just conclusions, in those infinitely more subtle and holy inquiries which relate to human character, they do not scruple to yield to the most reckless prejudice. Far otherwise do I look upon such subjects. When an individual has given the most undoubted proof of high and generous character, I reverence human nature too much to credit every scandalous rumor, or acquiesce in the suggestions of malevolent criticism, regarding him. Had your correspondent examined conscientiously the history of Shelley, he would have discovered that he never abandoned his wife, and thus drove her to self-destruction. They were wholly unfit companions. Shelley married her from gratitude, for the kind care she took of him in ill- ness. It w,as the impulsive act of a generous but thought- less youth. They separated by mutual consent, and sometime elapsed before she committed suicide. That SHELLEY. 257 event is said to have overwhelmed Shelley with grief, not that he felt himself in any manner to blame, but that he had not sufficiently considered his wife's incapacity for self-government, and provided by suitable care for so dreadful an exigency. After this event, Shelley married Miss Godwin, with whom he enjoyed uninterrupted domestic felicity during the short remainder of his life. His conduct accorded perfectly with the views, and, in a great measure, with the practice of Mi'ton. With that prying injustice, which characterizes the English press, in relation to persons holding obnoxious opinions, the facts were misrepresented, and Shelley described as one of the most cruel monsters. So much for his views of Re- ligion and Marriage. " A Friend to Virtue" is shocked - at my remark, that *' opinions are not in themselves le- gitimate subjects of moral approbation or censure." He should have quoted the whole sentence. The reason adduced is, that they are " independent of the ivilL" This I maintain to be correct. I know not what are the grounds upon which '* A Friend of Virtue" estimates his kind. For myself, it is my honest endeavor to look through the web of opinion, and the environment of circumstances, to the heart. Intellectual constitutions differ essentially. They are diversified by more or less imagination and reasoning power, and are greatly in- fluenced by early impressions. Accordingly, it is very rarely that we find two individuals who think precisely alike on any subject. Even in the same person opinions constantly change. Their formation originally depends upon the peculiar traits of mind with which the individual 22* 258 SHELLHY. is endowed. His particular moral and mental experience afterwards modifies them, so that, except as far as faithful inquiry goes, he is not responsible in the premises. We must then look to the heart, the native disposition, the feelings, if we would really know a man. Thus regard- ed, Shelley has few equals. Speculatively he may have been an Atheist ; in his inmost soul he was a Christian. This may appear paradoxical, but I believe it is more fre- quently the case than we are aware. An inquiring, argu- mentative mind, may often fail in attaining settled con. victions ; while at the same time the moral nature is so true and active, that the heart, as Wordsv/orth says, may '« do God's work and know it not." Thus I believe it was with Shelley. Veneration was his predominant sen- timent. His biographer and intimate friend, Leigh Hunt, says of him, " He was pious towards nature — to- wards his friends — towards the whole human race — to- wards the meanest insect of the forest. He did himself an injustice with the public, in using the popular name of the Supreme Being inconsiderately. He identified it solely with the most tyrannical notions of God, made af- ter the worst human fashion ; and did not sufficiently re- flect that it was often used by a juster devotion to express a sense of the Great Mover of the Universe. An impa- tience in contradicting worldly and pernicious notions of a supernatural power, led his own aspirations to be un- construed. As has been justly remarked by a writer eminent for his piety — 'the greatest want of religious feel- ing is not to be found among the greatest infidels, but among those who only think of religion as a matter of SHELLEY. 259 course.' The more important the proposition, the more he thought himself bound to investigate it ; the greater the demand upon his assent, the less upon their own princi- ples of reasoning' he thought himself bound to grant it." Logical training was the last to which such a nature as Shelley's should have been subjected. Under this disci- pline at Oxford, he viewed all subjects through the me- dium of mere reason. Exceedingly fond of argument, in a spirit of adventurous boldness he turned the weap- pons furnished him by his teachers, against the venerable form of Christianity, and wrote Queen Mab. Be it re- membered, however, he never published it. The MSS was thus disposed of without his knowledge, and against his will. Yet at this very time his fellow-student tells us that Shelley studied fifteen hours . a-day — lived chiefly upon bread, in order to save enough from his limited in- come to assist poor scholars — stopped in hi^ long' walks to give an orange to a gipsey-boy, or purchase milk for a destitute child — talked constantly of plans for the ame- lioration of society — was roused to the warmest indigna- tion by every casual instance of oppression-^yielded up his whole soul to the admiration of moral excelle.nce — and worshipped truth in every form with a singleness of heart, and an ardor of feeling, as rare as it was inspiring. He was, according to the same and kindred testimony, wholly unaffected in manner, full of genuine modesty, and possessed by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Al- though a devoted student, his heart was unchilled by mental application. He at that time delighted in the Platonic doctrine of the preexistence of the soul, and loved 260 SHELLEY. to believe that all knowledge now acquired is but reminis. cence. Gentle and affectionate to all;, benevolent to a fault, and deeply loved by all who knew him, it was his misfortune to have an early experience of ill, to be thrown rudely upon the world — to be misunderstood and slander- ed, and especially to indulge the wild speculations of an ardent mind without the slightest toorldly prudence, Shelley, phrenologically speaking, had no organ of cau- tiousness. Hence his virtues and graces availed him not in the world, much as they endeared him to those who enjoyed his intimacy. In these remarks I would not be misunderstood. I do not subscribe to Shelley's opinions. I regret that he thought as he did upon many subjects for his own sake as well as for that of society. The great mass of his poetry is not congenial to my taste. And yet these considerations do not blind me to the rare quali- ty of his genius — to the native independence of his mind — to the noble aspirations after the beautiful and the true, which glowed in his soul. I honor Shelley as that rare character — a sincere man. I venerate his generous senti- ments. I recognise in him qualities which I seldom find among the passive recipients of opinion — the tame fol- lowers of routine. I know how much easier it is to con- form prudently to social institutions ; but, as far as my experience goes, they are full of error, and do great in- jubtice to humanity. I respect the man who in sincerity of purpose discusses their claims, even if I cannot coin- cide in his views. Nor is this all. I cannot lose sight of the fact, that Shelley's nature is but partially revealed to us. We have as it were a few stray gleams of his SHELLEY. 261 wayward orb. Had it fully risen above the horizon in- stead of being prematurely quenched in the sea, perchance its beams would have clearly reflected at leist, the holy efful- gence of the Star of Bethlehem. Let us pity, if we will, the errors of Shelley's judgment; but let not prejudice blind us to his merits. " His life," says his wife, "was spent in arduous study, and in acts of kindness and aflfection. To see him was to love him." Surely there is a redeem- ing worth in the memory of one whose bosom was ever ready to support the weary brow of a brother — whose purposes were high and true — whose heart was enamored of beauty, and devoted to his race : if this fail, The pillared firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.. BtTRNS. There are certain sentiments which " give the world assurance of a man^ They are inborn, not acquired. Before them fade away the trophies of scholarship and the badges of authority. They are the most endearing of hu- man attractions. No process of culture, no mere grace of manner, no intellectual endowment, can atone for their absence, or successfully imitate their charms. These sentiments redeem our nature ; their indulgence consti- tutes the better moments of life. Without them we grow mechanical in action, formal in manner, pedantic in mind. With them in freshness and vigor, we are true, spontane- ous, morally alive. We reciprocate affection, we luxuri- ate in the embrace of nature, we breathe an atmosphere of love, and glow in the light of beauty. Frankness, manly independence, deep sensibility and pure enthusiasm are the characteristics of the true man. Against these fash- ion, trade and the whole train of petty interests wage an unceasing war. In few hearts do they survive ; but wherever recognized they carry every uuperverted soul BURNS. 263 back to childhood and up to God. They vindicate human nature with irresistible eloquence, and like the air of mountains and the verdure of valleys, allure us from the thoroughfare of routine and the thorny path of destiny. When combined with genius, they utter an appeal to the world, and their possessor be- comes a priest of humanity, whose oracles send forth an echo even from the chambers of death. Such is Robert Burns. How refreshing, to turn from the would-be-pro. phets of the day, and contemplate the inspired ploughman ! No mystic emblems deform his message. We have no hieroglyphics to decipher. We need no philosophic critic at our elbow. It is a brother who speaks to us ; — no sin- gular specimen of spiritual pride, but a creature of flesh and blood. We can hear the beatings of his brave heart, not always like a '^muffled drum," but often with the joy of solemn victory. VVe feel the grasp of his toil-harden- ed hand. We see the pride on his brow, the tear in his eye, the smile on his lip. We behold not an effigy of buried learning, a tame image from the mould of fashion, but a free, cordial, earnest man ; — one with whom we can roam the hills, partake the cup, praise the maiden, or worship the stars. He is a human creature, only over- flowing with the characteristics of humanity. To him belong in large measure the passions and the powers of his race. He professes no exemption from the common lot. He pretends not to live on rarer elements. He ex- pects not to be ethereal before death. He conceals not his share of frailty, nor turns aside from penance. He takes * with equal thanks' a sermon or a song. No one 264 BURNS, prays more devoutly ; but the same ardor fires his earthly loves. The voice that " wales a portion with judicious care," anon is attuned to the convivial song. The same eye that glances with poetic awe upon the hills at twi- light, gazes with a less subdued fervor on the winsome features of the Highland lassie. And thus vibrated the poet's heart from earth to heaven, — from the human to the godlike. Rarely and richly were mingled in him the elements of human nature. His crowning distinction is a larger soul ; and this he carried into all things, — to the altar of God and the festive board, to the ploughshare's furrow and the letter of friendship, to the martial lyric and the lover's assignation. That such a soul should arise in the midst of poverty is a blessing. So do men learn that all their appliances are as nothing before the ere- ative energy of nature. They may make a Parr; she alone can give birth to a Burns. It is to be rejoiced at that so noble a brother was born in a " clay-built cottage." Had his eyes first opened in a palace, so great a joy would not have descended upon the lowly and the toil-worn. These can now more warmly boast of a common lineage. Perchance, too, that fine spirit would have been meddled with till quite undone, had it first appeared in the dwell- ing of a wealthy citizen. Books and teachers, perhaps, would have subdued its elastic freedom, — artificial society perverted its heaven-born fire. Better that its discipline was found in <' labor and sorrow," rather than in social restraint and conformity. Better that it erred through ex- cess of passion, than deliberate hypocrisy. So rich a Btream is less marred by overflowing its bounds than by BURNS. 265 growing shallow. It was nobler to yield to temptation from wayward appetite than through ^' malignity or de- sign." More worthy is it that melancholy should take the form of a sad sympathy with nature, than a bitter ha- tred of man ; that the flowers of the heart should be blighted by the heat of its lava-soil, than wither in the deadening air of artificial life. Burns lost not the sus- ceptibility of his conscience, or the sincerity and manli- ness of his character. In a higher sphere of life, these characteristics would have been infinitely more exposed. The muse of Burns is distinguished by a pensive tender- ness. His mind was originally of a reflective cast. His education, destiny and the scenery amid which he lived deepened this trait, and made it prevailing. True sensi- bility is the fertile source of sadness. A heart constantly alive to the vicissitudes of life and the pathetic appeals of nature, cannot long maintain a lightsome mood. From his profound feeling sprang the beauties of the Scottish bard. He who could so pity a wounded hare and elegize a crushed daisy, whose joung bosom favorites were Sterne and Mackenzie, lost not a single sob of the storm, nor failed to mark the gray cloud and the sighing trees. In this intense sympathy with the mournful, exists the germ of true poetical elevation. The very going out into the vastly sadj is sublime. Personal <;ares are forgotten ; and as Byron calls upon us to forget our <' petty misery" in view of the mighty ruins of Rome, so the dirges of Nature invite us into a grand funereal hall, where mortal sighs are lost in mightier wailing. This element of pen- siveness distinguishes alike the poetry and character of 23 266 BURNS. Burns. He tells us of the exalted sensations he expe- rienced on an autumn morning, when listening to the cry of a troop of grey plover or the solitary whistle of the curlew. The elements raged around him as he com- posed Bannockburn, and he loved to write at night, or during a cloudy day, being most successful in " a gloa- min' shot at the muses." There was a thorough and pervading honesty about Burns, — that freedom from disguise and simple truth of character, to the preservation of which rustic life is emi- nently favorable. He was open and frank in social in- tercourse, and his poems are but the sincere records and outpourings of his native feelings. Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime My fancy yerkit up subhme Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure moment's time 'Vo hear what's corain ? Hence he almost invariably wrote from strong emotion. <'My passions," he says, "raged like so many devils until they found vent in rhyme." This entire truthful- ness is one of the greatest charms of his verse. For the most part song, satire and lyric come warm from his heart. Insincerity and pretension completely disgusted him. Scarcely does he betray the slightest impatience of his fellows, except in exposing and ridiculing these traits. Holy Willie's prayer and a few similar effusions were penned as protests against bigotry and presumption. BURNS. 267 Burns was too devotional to bear calmly the abuses of re- ligion, God knows, I'm not the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times, I rather would be. An' atheist clean Than under Gospel colors hid be, Just for a screen. But satire was not his element. Rather did he love to give expression to benevolent feeling and generous affec- tion. The native liberality of his nature cast a mantle of charity over the errors of his kind, in language which, for touching simplicity, has never been equalled. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring, its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it|; What's done we partly may compute. But know not what's resisted. Burns had a truly noble soul. He cherished an honest pride. Obligation oppressed him, and with all his rusti- city he firmly maintained his dignity in the polished cir- 268 BURKS. cles of Edinburgh. Like all manly hearts, while he keenly felt the sting of poverty, his whole nature recoil- ed from dependence. He desired money, not for the dis- tinction and pleasure it brings, but chiefly that he might be free from the world. He recorded the creed of tho true man ; — To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her ; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honor; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Not for a train-attendant ; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. His susceptibility to Nature was quick and impassioned. He hung wiih rapture over the hare-bell, fox-glove, budd- ing birch and hoary hawthorn. Though chiefly alive to its sterner aspect?, every phase of the universe was inex- pressibly dear to him. O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charma ! Whether the simmer kindjy warms, Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night ! How delightful to see the victim of poverty and care thus yield up his spirit in blest oblivion of his lot. He walked beside the river, climbed the hill and wandered over the moor, with a more exultant step and more bounding heart than ever conqueror knew. In his hours of sweet reverie, all consciousness was lost of outward poverty, in the rich- BURNS. 269 ness of a gifted spirit. Then he looked upon creation as his heritage. He felt drawn to her by the glowing bond of a kindred spirit. Every wild-flower from which he brushed the dew, every mountain -top to which his eyes were lifted, every star that smiled upon his path, was a token and a pledge of immortality. He partook of their freedom and cheir beauty ; and held fond communion with their silent loveliness. The banks of the Doon be- came like the bowers of Paradise, and Mossgiel was as a glorioKs kingdom. Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tW I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pie ugh or cart, My muse, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart. That complete self-abandonment, characteristic of poets, belonged strikingly to Burns. He threw himself, all sen- sitive and ardent as he was, into the arms of Nature. He surrendered his heart unreservedly to the glow of so- cial pleasure, and sought with equal heartiness the peace of domestic retirement. But why o' death begin a tale ? Just now we're Uving sound and hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side ! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life has joys for you and I, And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 23* 270 BURNS. And joys the very best. ' There's a' the pleasures o' the heartj The lover and the frien ; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, _ And I ray darUng Jean ! He sinned, and repented, with the same singleness of purpose, and completeness of devotion. This is illustra- ted in many of his poems. In his love and grief, in his joy and despair, we find no medium ; — By passion driven ; And yet the Hght that led astray Was hght from heaven. Perhaps the freest and deepest element of the poetry of Burns, is lovci With the first awakening of this passion in his youthful breast, came also the spirit of poetry. "My heart," says one of his letters, "was complete tin- der, and eternally lighted up by some goddess or other." He was one of those susceptible men to whom love is no fiction or fancy ; to whom it is not only a " strong ne- cessity," but an overpowering influence. To female at- tractions he was a complete slave. An eye, a tone, a grasp of the hand, exercised over him the sway of desti- ny. His earliest and most lilissful adventures were fol- lowing in the harvest with a bonnie lassie, or picking nettles out of a fair one's hand. He had no armor of philosophy wherewith to resist the spell of beauty. Ge- nius betrayed rather than absolved him ; and his soul found its chief delight and richest inspiration in the luxury of loving. BURNS. 271 O happy love ! where love like this is found . O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary mortal round. And sage experience bids me this declare — " If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others' arms breathe out the tendar tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn, that scents the evening gale." And yet the love of Burns was poetical chiefly in its ex- pression. He loved like a man. Kis was no mere sen- timental passion, but a hearty attachment. He sighed not over the pride of a Laura, nor was satisfied with a smile of distant encouragement. Genuine passion was only vivified and enlarged in his heart by apoetical mind. He arrayed his rustic charmer with few ideal attractions. His vows were paid to A creature not too bright orgood For human nature's dailj- food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. Her positive and tangible graces were enough for him. He sought not to exalt them, but only to exhibit the fer- vor of his attachment. Even in his love was there this singular honesty. Exaggerated flattery does not mark his amatory poems, but a warm expression of his passion- ate regard, a sweet song over the joys of affection. Per- haps no poet has better depicted true love, in its most common manifestation. Of the various objects of his re- gard, the only one who seems to have inspired any pure- ly poetical sentiment was Highland Mary. Their solemn 272 BURNS., parting on the banks of the Ayr, and her early death, are familiar to every reader of Burns. Her memory seemed consecrated to his imagination, and he has made it im- mortal by his beautiful lines to Mary in Heaven. Nor was the Scottish bard unaware how deep an inspiration he derived from the gentler sex. He tells us that when he desired to feel the pure spirit of poetry and obey success- fully itd impulse, he put himself on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman. Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days, An' we to share in common ; The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The soul o' life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. And of all the agencies of life there is none superior to this. Written eloquence, the voice of the bard, the music of creation, will often fail to awaken the heart. We can- not always yield ourselves to the hidden spell. But in the sofl light o^ her eye genius basks, till it is warmed into a new and sweeter life. The poet is indeed kindled by communion with the most lovely creation of God. He is subdued by the sweetest of human influences. His wings are plumed beside the fountain of love, and he soars thence to heaven. The poetical temperament is now better and more gen- erally understood than formerly. Physiologists and moral philosophers have labored, not without success, to diffuse correct ideas of its laws and liabilities. Education now averts, in frequent instances, the fatal errors to which be- BURNS. 273 ings thus organized are peculiarly exposed. No one has more truly described some features of the poet's fate* than the author of Tam O'Shanter and the Cotter's Sat- urday Night: — Creature, though oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest today, unmindful of to-morrow; A being formed t' amuse his graver friends. Admired and praised — and there the homage ends ; A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of Ufe ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure rii hes give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. The love of excitement, the physical and moral sensibili- ty, the extremes of mood, which belong to this class of men, require a certain discipline on the one hand and in- ^dulgence on the other, which is now more readily accord- ^ed. Especially do we look with a more just eye upon the frailties of poets. It is not necessary to defend them. They ara only the more lamentable from being connected with high powers. But it is a satisfaction to trace their jprigin to unfavorable circumstances of life and peculiarities P^f organization. Burns labored under the disadvantage of a narrow and oppressive destiny, opposed to a sensi- tive and exalted soul. From the depths of obscure pov- erty he awoke to fame. Strong and adroit as he was at the several vocations of husbandry, he possessed no tact as a manager or financier. With the keenest relish for enjoyment, his means were small, and the claims of his fkm'ily unceasing. Susceptible to the most refined inflo- 274 BURNS. ences of nature, quick of apprehension, aud endowed with a rich fancy, his animal nature was not less strongly de- veloped. His flaming heart lighted not only the muse's torch, but the tempest of passion. He often sought to drown care in excess. He did not faithfully struggle with the allurements which in reality he despised. How deeply he felt the transitory nature of human enjoyment, he has told us in a series of beautiful similes : — But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; Or like the sno w falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Tossed on the waves of an incongruous experience, ele- vated by his gifts, depressed by his condition, the heir of fame, but the child of sorrow — gloomy in view of his ac- tual prospects, elated by his poetic visions, — the life of Burns was no ordinary scene of trial and temptation. While we pity, let us reverence him. Let us glory in such fervent song as he dedicated to love, friendship, pat- riotism and nature. True bursts of feeling came from the honest bosom of the ploughman. Sad as was his ca- reer at Dumfries, anomalous as it seems to picture him as an exciseman, how delightful his image as a noble peasant and ardent bard ! What a contradiction between his human existence an 1 his inspired soul! Literature enshrines few more endeared memorials than the poems BURNS. 275 of Burns. His lyre is wreathed with wild-flowers. Its tones are simple and glowing. Their music is like the cordial breeze of his native hills. It still cheers the ban- quet, and gives expression to the lover's thought. Its pensive melody has a twilight sweetness ; its tender ar- dor is melting as the sunbeams. Around the cottage and the moor, the scene of humble affection, the rite of lowly piety, it has thrown a hallowed influence, which embalms the memory of Burns, and breathes perpetual masses for his soul. WORDSWORTH. In an intellectual history of our age, the bard of Rydal Mount must occupy a prominent place. His name is so intimately associated with the poetical criticisms of the period, that, even if his productions are hereafter neglected, he cannot wholly escape consideration. Th6 meie facts of his life will preserve his memory. It will not be forgotten that one among the men of acknowledged genius in England, during a period of great political ex- citement, and when society accorded to literary success the highest honors, should voluntarily remain secluded amid the mountains, the uncompromising advocate of a theory, from time to time sending forth his effusions, as uncolored by the poetic taste of the time, as statues from an isolated quarry. It has been the fortune of Wordsworth, like many original characters, to be almost wholly regarded from the two extremes of prejudice and admiration. The eclectic spirit, which is so appropriate to the criticism of Art, has seldom swayed his commen- tators. It has scarcely been admitted, that his works may please to a certain extent, and in particular traits, and in WORDSWORTH. 277 Other respects prove wholly uncongenial. Whoever re- cognizes his beauties is h -Id responsible for his system ; arid those who have stated his defects, have been unfairly ranked with the insensible and unreasonable reviewers who so fiercely assailed him at the outset of his career. There is a medium ground, from which we can survey the subject to more advantage. From this point of ob- servation, it is easy to perceive that there is reason on both sides of the question. It was natural and just that the lovers of poetry, reared in the school of Shakspeare, should be repelled at the outset by a new minstrel, whose prelude was an argument. It was like being detained at the door of a cathedral by a dull cicerone, who, before granting admittance, must needs deliver a long homily on the grandeur of the interior, and explain away its de- ficiencies, "Let us enter," we impatiently exclaim : " if the building is truly grand, its sublimity needs no expo- sitor ; if it is otherwise, no reasoning will render it impres- sive." The idea of adopting for poetical objects "the real language of men, when in a state of vivid sensation," was indeed, as Coleridge observes, never strictly attempt- ed ; but there was something so deliberate, and even cold, in Wordsworth's first appeal, that we cannot wonder it was unattractive. Byron and Burns needed no introduc- tion. The earnestness of their manner secured instant attention. Their principles and purposes were matters of after- thought. Whoever is even superficially acquaint- ed with human nature, must have prophecied a doubtful reception to a bard, who begins by calmly stating his reasons for considering prose and verse identical, his 24 278 WORDSWORTH. wish to inculcate certain truths which he deemed neglect, ed, and the several considerations which induced him to adopt rhyme for the purpose. Nor is this feeling wholly unworthy of respect, even admitting, with Wordsworth, that mere popularity is no evidence of the genuineness of poetry. Minds of poetical sensibility are accustomed to regard the true poet as so far inspired by his experience, as to write from a spontaneous enthusiasm. They regard verse as his natural element — the most congenial form of expression. They imagine he can scarcely account wholly to himself, far less to others, for his diction and imagery, — any farther than they are the result of emotion too intense and absording to admit of any conscious or reflective process. Even if "poetry takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity," it must be of that earnest and lender kind, which is only occasionally experienced. Trust, therefore, was not readily accorded a writer who scarcely seemed enamored of his Art, and presented a theory in prose to win the judgment, instead of first taking captive the heart by the music of his lyre. Nor is this the only just cause of Wordsworth's eaily want of appreciation. He has "aot only written too much from pure reflection, but the quantity of his verse is wholly out of proportion to its quality. He has too often written for the mere sake of writing. The mine he open- ed may be inexhaustible, but to him it is not given to bring to light all its treasures. His characteristics are not universal. His power is not unlimited. On the contrary, his points of peculiar excellence, though rare, are comparatively few. He has endeavored to extend his . WORDSWORTH, 279 range beyond its natural bounds. In a word, he has written too much, and too indiscriminately. It is to be feared that habit has made the work. of versifying neces- sary, and he has too often resorted to it merely as an oc- cupation. Poetry is too sacred to be thus mechanically pursued. The true bard seizes only genial periods, and inciting themes. He consecrates only his better mo- ments to "the divinest of arts." He feels that there is a correspondence between certain subjects and his indivi- dual genius, and to these he conscientiously devotes his powers. Wordsworth seems to have acted on a different principle. It is obvious to a discerning reader that his muse is frequently whipped into service. He is too often content to indite a series of coinmou-place thoughts, and memorialize topics which have apparently awakened in his mind only a formal interest. It sometimes seems as if he had taken up the business of a bard, and felt bound to fulfil its functions. His political opinions, his histori- cal reading, almost every event of personal experience, must be chronicled, in the form of a sonnet or blank verse. The language may be chaste, the sentiment un- exceptionable, the moral excellent, and yet there may be no poetry, and perhaps the idea has been often better expressed in prose. Even the admirers of Wordsworth are compelled, therefore, to acknowledge, that with all his unrivalled excellencies, he has written too many " Such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly slow." Occasional felicities of style do not atone for such frequent 280 WORDSWORTH. desecration of the muse, ^\e could fors^ive them in a less-gifted minstrel ; but with one of Wordsworth's genius it is more difficult to compromise. The number of his indifferent attempts shade the splendor of his real merit. The poems protected by his fame, which are uninspired by his genius, have done much to blind a large class of readers to his intrinsic worth. Another circumstance has contributed to the same result. His redeeming graces of- ten, from excess, become blemishes. In avoiding the tinsel of a meretricious style, he sometimes degenerates into positive homeliness. In rejecting profuse ornament, he often presents his conceptions in so bald a manner as to prove utterly unattractive. His simplicity is not un- frequently childish , his calmness stagnation, his pathos puerility. And these impressions, in some instances^ have been allowed to outweigh those which his more genuine qualities inspire. For when we reverse the pic- ture, Wordsworth presents claims to grateful admiration, second to no poet of the age ; and no susceptible and ob-. serving mind can study his writings without yielding him at least this cordial acknowled«j;ment. It is not easy to estimate the happy influence Wordsworth has exerted up- on poetical taste and practice, by the example he has given of a more simple and artless style. Like the sculptors who lead their pupils to the anatomy of the human frame, and the painters who introduced the practice of drawing from the human figure, Wordsworth opposed to the artifi- ficial and declamatory, the clear and natural in diction. He exhibited, as it were, a new sxDurce of the elements of expression. He endeavored, and with singular success,. WORDSWORTH. 281 to revive a taste for less exciting poetry. He boldly tried the experiment of introducing plain viands, at a banquet garnished with all the art of gastronomy. He offered to substitute crystal water for ruddy wine, and invited those accustomed only to " a sound of revelry by night," to go forth and breathe the air of mountains, and gaze into the mirror of peaceful lakes. He aimed to persuade men that they could be '' moved by gentler excitements " than those of luxury and violence. He essayed to calm their beating hearts, to cool their fevered blood, to lead them gently back to the fountains that '^ go softly." He bade them repose their throbbing brows upon the lap of Nature. He quietly advocated the peace of rural solitude, the plea-, sure of evening walks among the hills, as more salutary than more ostentatious amusements. The lesson was suited to the period. It came forth from the retirement of Nature as quietly as a zephyr ; but it was not lost in the hum of the world. Insensibly it mingled with the noisy strife, and subdued it to a sweeter murmur. It fell upon the heart of youth, and its passions grew calmer. It imparted a more harmonious tone to the meditations of the poet. It tempered the aspect of life to many an eager spirit, and gradually weaned the thoughtful from the en- croachments of false taste and conventional habits. To a commercial people it portrayed the attractiveness of tranquillity. Before an unhealthy and flashy literature, it set up a standard of truthfulness and simplicity. In an age of mechanical triumph, it celebrated the majestic re- sources of the universe. To this calm voice from the mountains, none could 24* 282 WORDSWORTH. listen without advantage. What though its tones were sometimes monotonous ? — they were hopeful and serene. To listen exclusively, might indeed prove wearisome ; but in some placid moments those mild echoes could not but bring good cheer. In the turmoil of cities, they refreshed from contrast ; among the green fields, they inclined the mind to recognize blessings to which it is often insensi- ble. There were ministers to the passions, and apostles of learning, sufficient for the exigencies of the times. Such an age could well suffer one preacher of the sim- pie, the natural and the true; one advocate of a wisdom not born of books, of a pleasure not obtainable from soci- ety, of a satisfaction underived from outward activity. And such a prophet proved William Wordsworth. Sensibility to Nature U characteristic of poets in gen- eral. Wordsworth's feelings in this regard have the char- acter of affection. He does not break out into ardent apostrophes like that of Byron addressed to the Ocean, or Coleridge's Hymn at Chamouni; but his verse breathes a constant and serene devotion to all the charms of natu- ral scenery — from the mountain-range that bounds the horizon, to the daisy beside his path : " If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee I turn, I drink, out of an humbler urn, A lowlier pleasure ; The homely sypmathy that heeds The common life our nature breeds, A wisdom, fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure." WORDSWORTH. 283 He does not seem so much to resort to the quiet scenes of the country for occasional recreation, as to live and breathe only in their tranquil atmosphere. His interest in the universe has been justly called personal. It is not the passion of a lover in the dawn of his bliss, nor the unexpected delight of a metropolitan, to whose sense rural beauty is arrayed in the charms of novelty ; but rather the settled, familiar, and deep attachment of a friend : " Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, 1 have owed to them In hours of weariness sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration." The life, both inward and outward, of Wordsworth, is most intimately associated with lakes and mountains. Amid them he was born, and to them has he ever looked for the necessary aliment of his being. Nor are his feel- ings on the subject merely passive or negative. He has a reason for the faith that is in him. To the influences of Nature he brings a philosophic imagination. No tran- sient pleasure, no casual agency, does he ascribe to the outward world. In his view, its functions in relation to man are far more penetrating and efficient than has ever been acknowledged. Human education he deems a pro- cess for which the Creator has made adequate provision in this "goodly frame" of earth and sea and sky. 284 WORDSWORTH. "He had small need of books ; for many a Tale Traditionary, round the mountains hung; And many a legend peopled the dark woods, Nourished Imagination in her growth, And gare the Mind that apprehensive power, By which it is made quick to recognize The moral scope and aptitude of things." ***** " One impulse from a vernal wood J May teach you more of man, ■ Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can." Accordingly, both in details and combination, Nature has been the object of his long and earnest study. To illus- trate her unobserved and silent ministry to the heart, has been his favorite pursuit. From his poems might be gleaned a compendium of mountain influences. Even the animal world is viewed in the same light. In the much-ridiculed Peter Bell, Susan, and the White-Doe of Rylstone, we have striking instances. To present the affecting points of its relation to mankindhasbeen one of the most daring experiments of his muse : " One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide. Taught both by what she shows and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride, With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." It is the common and universal in Nature that he loves to celebrate. The rare and startling seldom find a place in his verse. That calm, soothing, habitual language, addressed to the mind by the common air and sky, the ordinary verdure, the field-flower, and the sunset, is the almost invariable theme of his song. And herein have WORDSWORTH. 285 his labors proved chiefly valuable. They have tended to make us more reverent listeners to the daily voices of earth, to make us realize the goodness of our common heritage, and partake, with a more conscious and grateful sensibil- ity, of the beautiful around us. In the same spirit has Wordsworth looked upon human life and history. To lay bare the native elements of character in its simplest form, to assert the essential dignity of life in its most rude and common manifestations, to vindicate the interest which belongs to human beings, simply as such, have been the darling objects of his thoughts. Instead of Corsairs and Laras, peerless ladies and perfect knights, a waggoner, a beggar, a potter, a pedlar, are the characters of whose feelings and experience he sings. The operation of in- dustry, bereavement, temptation, remorse and local in- fluences, upon these children of humble toil, have furnished problems which he has delighted to solve. And who shall say that in so doing, he has not been of signal service to his kind? Who shall say that through such portraits a wider and truer sympathy, a more vivid sense of human brother- hood, a more just self-respect, has not been extensively awakened ? Have not oar eyes been thus opened to the better aspects of ignorance and poverty? Have we not thus been made to feel the true claims of man ? Al- lured by the gentle monitions from Rydal Mount, do we not now look upon our race in a more meek and suscep- tible mood,, and pass the lowliest being beside the high- way, with more of that new sentiment of respect and hope which was heralded by the star of Bethlehem? Can we not more sincerely exclaim with the hero of Sartor Resav 286 WORDSWORTH. tus : <' Poor, wandering, wayward man! Art thou not tried, beaten with many stripes, even as I am ? Ever, whether thou wear the royal mantle or the beggar*s gaber- dine, art thou not so weary, so heavy laden ? O ! my brother, my brother ! why cannot 1 shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears from thine eyes ?" In accordance with this humane philosophy. Childhood is contemplated by Wordsworth. The spirit of the Sa- viour's sympathy with this beautiful era of life, seems to possess his muse. Its unconsciousness, its ignorance of death, its trust, hope and peace, its teachings, and pro- mise he has portrayed with rare sympathy. Witness, " We are Seven," the " Pet Lamb," and especially the Ode, which is perhaps the finest and most characteristic of Wordsworth's compositions. A reader of his poetry, who imbibes its spirit, can scarcely look upon the young with indifference. The parent must thence derive a new sense of the sacredness of children, and learn to reverence their innocence, to leave unmarred their tender traits, and to yield them more confidently to the influences of Nature. In his true and feeling chronicles of the "heaven" that "lies about us in our infancy," Wordsworth has uttered a silent but most eloquent reproach upon all the absurdities and sacrilegious abuses of modern education. He has made known the truth, that children have their lessons to convey as well as receive : " O dearest, dearest boy, my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundreth part Of wkat from thee I learn." WORDSWORTH. 287 He has made more evident the awful chasm between the repose and hopefulness of happy childhood, and the cyni- cal distrust of worldly age. He thus indirectly but forci- bly appeals to men for a more guarded preservation of the early dew of existence, so recklessly lavished upon the desert of ambition : ■Those first affections, i Those shadowy recollections, Which, he they what Ihey may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day ; Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence." He has exemplified that the worst evil of life is rather ac- quired than inherited, and vindicated the beneficent de- signs of the Creator, by exhibiting humanity when fresh from his hand. This is a hi^h moral service. Upon manyof those who have become familiar with Wordsworth in youth, such impressions must have been permanent and invaluable, greatly influencing their observation of life and nature, and touching " to finer issues" their un- pledged sympathies. It is with the eye of a meditative poet that Wordsworth surveys life and nature. And thus inspired, a new elevation is imparted to "ordinary moral sensations," and it is the sentiment rather than the sub- ject which gives interest to the song. Hence it is abso- lutely necessary that the reader should sympathize with the feelings of the poet, to enjoy or understand him. He ap- peals to that contemplative spirit which does not belong 288 WORDSWORTH. to all, and visits even its votaries but occasionally ; to "a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason ;" he professes to *' follow the fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great and simple affections of our nature." To enter into purposes like these, there must exist a delicate sympathy with human nature, a reflective habit, a mingling of reason and fancy, an imagination active but not impassioned. The frame of mind which he labors to induce, and in which he must be read, is " That sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease : and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air ;" ***** -that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul. While, with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things." This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should some- times visit us. There areperiods when passionate poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There are times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a luxury to pause and forget the promptings of desire and the cares of life ; when it is a relief to leave the crowd and wander into solitude , when, faint and disappointed, we seek, like r WORDSWORTH. 289 tired children, the neglected bosom of Nature, and in the serenity of her maternal smile, find rest and solace. Such moments redeem existence from its monotony, and refresh the human heart with dew from the urns of Peace. Then it is that the bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and xve deeply feel that it is good for us to have known him. 25 COLERIDGE. Coleridge appears to have excelled all his contempo- raries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest talent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthu- siastic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation af- forded. The fancy is captivated by the mere description of his fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired lan- guage. We are haunted with these vivid pictures of the ' old man eloquent,' as by those of the sages of antiquity, and the renowned improvisator es of modern times. Hazlitt and Lamb seem never weary of theme. They make us realize, as far as description can, the affectionate M temper, the simple bearing, and earnest intelligence of their friend. We feel the might and interest of a living soul, and sigh that it was not our lot to partake directly of its overflowing gifts. Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, un- fortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and read far more than to write. Hence the records of his mind bear no proportion to its endowments and activity. Ill- health early drew him from *' life in motion, to life in COLERIDGE. 291 thought and sensation." Necessity drove him to literary labor. He was too unambitious, and found too much enjoyment in the spontaneous exercise of his mind, to assume willingly the toils of authorship. His mental tastes were not of a popular cast. In boy-hood he *• waxed not pale at philosophic draughts," and there was in his soul an aspiration after truth — an interest in the deep things of life — a ' hungering for eternity', essentially opposed to success as a miscellaneous writer. One of the most irrational complaints against Coleridge, was his dislike of the French. Never was there a more honest prejudice. In literature, he deemed that nation respon- sible for having introduced the artificial school of poetry, which he detested ; in politics, their inhuman atrocities, during the revolution, blighted his dearest theory of man ; in life, their frivolity could not but awaken disgust in a mind so serious, and a heart so tender, where faith and love were cherished in the very depths of reflection and sensibility. It is, indeed, easy to discover in his works ample confirmation of the evidence of his friends, but they afford but an unfinished monument to his genius. We must be content with the ^ew memorials he has left of a powerful imagination and a good heart. Of these his poems furnish the most beautifid. They are the sweetest echo of his marvellous spirit ; — A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts, To their own music chaunted. The eyes of the ancient Mariner holds us, in its wild spell, as it did the wedding-guest, while we feel the truth that 292 COLERIDGE. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The charm of regretful tenderness is upon us with as sweet a mystery, as the beauty of the " lady of a far countrie," when we read these among other musical lines of Christabel : ^Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth \ And constancy Uves in realms above ; And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. "No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher." True as this may be in one sense, we hold it an unfortunate rule for a poetical mind to act upon. It was part of the creed of Coleridge, and his works illustrate its unfavorable influ- ence. His prose generally speaking, is truly satisfactory only when it is poetical. The human mind is so consti- tuted as to desire completeness. The desultory character of Coleridge's prose writings is often wearisome and dis- turbing. He does not carry us on to a given point by a re- gular road, but is ever wandering from the end proposed. We are provoked at this waywardness the more, because, ever and anon, we catch glimpses of beautiful localities, and look down most inviting vistas. At these promising fields of thought, and vestibules of truth, we are only per- mitted to glance, and then are unceremoniously COLEEIDGE. 293 hurried off in the direction that happens to please our guide's vagrant humor. This desultory style essentially mars the interest of nearly all the prose of this distinguish- ed man. Not only the compositions, but the opinions, habits, and experience of Coleridge, partake of the same erratic character. His classical studies at Christ's hospi- tal were interwoven with the reading of a circulating li- brary. He proposed to become a shoemaker while he was studying medicine. He excited the wonder of every casual acquaintance by his schoolboy discourse, while he provoked his masters by starting an argument instead of repeating a rule. He incurred a chronic rheumatism by swimming with his clothes on, and left the sick ward to enlist in a regiment of dragoons. He laid magnificent plans of primitive felicity to be realized on the banks of the Susquehanna, while he wandered penniless in the streets of London. He was at different times a zealous Unitarian, and a high Churchman — a political lecturer — a metaphysical essayist — a preacher — a translator — a traveller — a foreign secretary — a philosopher — an editor — a poet. We cannot wonder that his productions, partic- ularly those that profess to be elaborate, should in a mea- sure, partake of the variableness of his mood. His works, like his life, are fragmentary. He is, too, frequently prolix, labors upon topics of secondary interest and excites only to disappoint expectation. By many sensible read- ers his metaphysical views are pronounced unintelligible, and by some German scholars declared arrant plagiarisms. These considerations are the more pa inful from our sense of the superiority of the man. He proposes to awaken thought, 25* 294 COLERIDGE. to address and call forth the higher faculties,and to vindi- cate the claims of important truth. Such designs claim respect. We honor the author who conscientiously en- tertains them. We seat ourselves reverently at the feetof a teacher whose aim is so exalted. We listen with curi- osity and hope. Musical are many of the periods, beau- tiful the images, and here and there comes a single idea of striking value ; but for these we are obliged to hear many discursive exordiums, irrelevant episodes and ran. dom speculations. We are constantly reminded of Charles Lamb's reply to the poet's inquiry if he had ever heard him preach— « I never knew you do any thing else,' said Elia, It is highly desirable that the prose- writings of Coleridge should be thoroughly winnowed. A volume of delightful aphorisms might thus be easily gleaned. Long after we have forgotten the general train of his observations, iso- lated remarks, full of meaning and truth, linger in our memories. Scattered through his works are many say- ings, referring to literature and human nature, which would serve as maxims in philosophy and criticism. Their effect is often lost from the position they occupy, in the midst of abstruse or dry discussions that repel the majority even of truth-seekers. His Biographia is the most attractive of his prose productions. It is not difficult, in a measure at least to explain, or rather account for, these peculiarities. Coleridge him- self tells us that in early youth, he indulged a taste for meta- physical speculations to excess. He was fond of quaint and neglected authors. He early imbibed a love of con- troversy, and took refuge in first principles, in the elements COLERIDGE. 295 of man^s nature to sustain his positions. To this ground few of his school-fellows could follow him ; and we can. not wonder that he became attached to a field of thought sel- dom explored, and, from its very vague and mystical charac> ter, congenial to him. That he often reflected to good pur- pose it would be unjust to deny; but that his own consci- ousness, at times, became morbid, and his speculations, in consequence, disjointed and misty, seems equally obvious. We are not disposed to take it for granted that this irreg- ular development of mental power is the least useful. Perhaps one of Coleridge's evening conversations or single aphorisms has more deeply excited some minds to action, than the regular performances of a dozen inferior men. It is this feeling which probably led him to ex- press, with such earnestness, the wish that the "criterion of a scholar's utility were the number and value of the truths he has circulated and minds he has awakened." A distinguishing trait of Coleridge's genius was a rare power of comparison. His metaphors are often unique and beautiful. Here also the poet excels the philosopher. It may be questioned if any modern writer whose works are equally limited, has illustrated his ideas with more originality and interest. When encountered amid his grave disquisitions, the similitudes of Coleridge striking, ly proclaim the poetfcal cast of his mind, and lead us to regret that its energies were not more devoted to the imaginative department of literature. At times he was conscious of the same feeling. "■ Well were it for me perhaps," he remarks in the Biographia, '^hadlnever relapsed into the same mental disease ; if I had continued 296 COLERIDGE. to pluck the flower and reap the harvest from the cultivated surface, instead of delving in the unwholesome quicksil- ver mines of metaphysic depths." That he formed as just an estimate of the superficial nature of political labor, is evident from the following allusion to partizan characters : Fondly these attach A radical causation to a few Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Who borrow all their hues and qualities From our own folly and rank wickedness, Which gave them birth and nursed them. A few examples taken at random, will suflice to show his " dim similitudes woven in moral strains." " To set our nature at strife with itself for a good pur- pose, implies the same sort of prudence as a priest of Diana would have manifested, who should have proposed to dig up the celebrated charcoal foundations of the mighty temple of Ephesus, in order to furnish fuel for the buint- offerings on its altars." " The reader, who would follow a close reasoner to the summit of the absolute principle of any one important subject, has chosen a chamois-hunter for his guide. He cannot carry us on his shoulders : we must strain our sinews, as he has strained his ; and make firm footing on the smooth rock for ourselves, by the blood of toil from our own feet." << In the case of libel, the degree makes the kind, the circumstances constitute the criminality ; and both degree and circumstances, like the ascending shades of color, or COLERIDGE. 297 the shooting hues of a dove's neck, die away into each other, incapable of definition or outline." " Would to Heaven that the verdict to be passed on my labors depended on those who least needed them ! The water-lily in the midst of waters lifts up ita broad leaves and expands its petals, at the first pattering of the shower, and rejoices in the rain with a quicker sympathy than the parched shrub in the sandy desert." " Human experience, like the stern lights of a ship at sea, illumines only the path which we have passed over." " I have laid too many eggs in the hot sands of this wilderness, the world, with ostrich carelessness and ostrich oblivion. The greater part, indeed, have been trod under foot, and are forgotten ; but yet no small number have crept forth into life, some to furnish feathers for the caps of others, and still more to plume the shafts in the quivers of my enemies." On the driving cloud the shining bow, That gracious thing made up of smiles and tears, Mid the wild rack and rain that slant below Stands— As though the spirits of all lovely flowers Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown. And ere they sunk to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. Remorse is as the heart in which it grows : If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy, It is a poison tree, that, pierced to the inmost, Weeps only tears of poison. 298 COLERIDGE. The more elaborate poetical compositions of Coleridge display much talent and a rare command of language. His dramatic attempts, however, are decidedly inferior in interest and power to many of his fugitive pieces. Wal- lenstein, indeed, is allowed to be a master-piece of trans- lation — and, although others have improved upon certain passages, as a whole it is acknowledged to be an unequal- led specimen of its kind. But to realize the true elements of the poet's genius, we must have recourse to his minor poems. In these, his genuine sentiments found genial development. They are beautiful emblems of his personal history, and admit us to the secret chambers of his heart. We recognize, as we ponder them, the native fire of his muse, "unmixed with baser matter." Of the juvenile poems, the Monody on Chatterton strikes us as the most remarkable. It overflows with youthful sympathy, and contains passages of singular power for the effusions of so inexperienced a bard. Take, for instance, the following lines, where an identity of fate is suggested from the con- sciousness of error and disappointment : Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues This chaplet cast I on thy unshapen tomb ; But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, Have blackened the fair promise of my spring ; And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart The last pale Hope thai shivered at my heart. COLERIDGE. 299 Few young poets of English origin have written more beautiful amatory poetry than this : O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god ! A flower-entangled arbor I would seem To shield my love from noontide's sultry beam : Or bloom a myrtle, from whose odorous boughs My love might weave gay garlands for her brows. When twilight stole across t^ie fading vale To fan my love I'd be the evening gale ; Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! On seraph wing I'd float a dream by night, To soothe my love with shadows of delight : — Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies. And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! Nor were religious sentiments unawakened : Fair the vernal mead, Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars ; True impress each of their creating Sire ! Yet nor high grove, nor many-colored mead, Nor the green Ocean with his thousand isles, Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun, E'er with such majesty of portraiture Imaged the supreme being uncreate. As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearless hour When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer Harped^by archangels, when they sing of mercy ! Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne Diviner light filled heaven with ecstacy ! Heaven's hymnings paused : and hell her yawning mouth Closed a brief moment. It is delightful to dwell upon these early outpourings of an ardent and gifted soul. They lay bare the real 300 COLERIDGE. characteristics of Coleridge. Without them our sense of his genius would be far more obscure. When these ju- venile poems were written ' existence was all a feeling, not yet shaped into a thought.' Here is no mysticism or party-feeling, but the simplicity and fervor of a fresh heart, touched by the beauty of the visible world, by the sufferings of genius, and the appeals of love and religion. The natural and the sincere here predominate over the studied and artificial. Time enlarged the bard's views, increased his stores of knowledge, and matured his men. tal powers ; but his genius, as pictured in his writings, though strengthened and fertilized, thenceforth loses much of its unity. Its emanations are frequently more grand and startling, but less simple and direct. There is more machinery, and often a confusion of appliances. We feel that it is the same mind in an advanced state ; — the same noble instrument breathing deeper strains, but with a melody more intricate and sad. In the Sibylline Leaves we have depicted a later stage of the poet's life. Language is now a more effective ex- pedient. It follows the thought with a clearer echo. It is woven with a firmer hand. The subtle intellect is evidently at work in the very rush of emotion. The poet has discovered that he cannot hope " from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within." A new sentiment, the most solemn that visits the breast of humanity, is aroused by this reflective process — the sentiment of duty. Upon the sunny landscape of youth COLERIDGE. 301 falls the twilight of thought. A conviction has entered the bosom of the minstrel that he is not free to wander at will to the sound of his own music. His life cannot be a mere revel in the embrace of beauty. He too is a man, born to suffer and to act. He cannot throw off the re- sponsibility of lif«. He must sustain relations to his fel- lows. The scenery that delights him assumes a new as. pect. It appeals not only to his love of nature, but his sense of patriotism : O divine And beauteous i&land ! thou hast been my sole And most magnificent temple, in the which I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, Loving the God that made me ! More tender ties bind the poet-soul to his native isle — A pledge of more than pa.«sing life — Yea, in the very name of wife. * * * * Then was I thrilled and melted, and most warm Impressed a father's kiss. Thus gather the many-tinted hues of human destiny around the life of the young bard. To a mind of philo- sophical cast, the transition is n»st interesting. It is the distinguishing merit of Coleridge, that in his verse we find these epochs warmly chronicled. Most just is his vindication of himself from the charge of egotism. To what end are beings peculiarly sensitive, and capable of rare expression, sent into the world, if not to make us feel the mysteries of our nature, by faithful delineations, 26 302 COLERIDGE. drawn from their own consciousness ? It is the lot, not of the individual, but of man in general, to feel the sub- limity of the mountain — the loveliness of the flower — the awe of devotion — and the ecstacy of love ; and we should bless those who truly set forth the traits and triumphs of our nature — the consolations and anguish of our human life. We are thus assured of the universality of Nature's laws — of the sympathy of all genuine hearts. Something of a new dignity invests the existence, whose common experience is susceptible of such portraiture. In the keen regrets, the vivid enjoyments, the agonizing remorse and the glowing aspirations recorded by the poet, we find the truest reflection of our own souls. There is a noble- ness in the lineaments thus displayed, which we can scarcely trace in the bustle and strife of the world. Self- respect is nourished by such poetry, and the hope of im- mortality rekindled at the inmost shrine of the heart. Of recent poets, Coleridge has chiefly added to such obliga- tions. He has directed our gaze to Mont Blanc as to an everlasting altar of praise ; and kindled a perennial flame of devotion amid the snows of its cloudy summit. He has made the icy pillars of the Alps ring with solemn an- thems. The pilgrim to^he Vale of Chamouni shall not here- after want a Hymn by which his admiring soul may "wreak itself upon expression." Rise, O, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from ihe earth ! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. COLERIDGE. 303 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, and her thousand voices praises God. To one other want of the heart has the muse of Cole- ridge given genuine expression. Fasliion, selfishness, and the mercenary spirit of the age, have widely and deep- \y profaned the very name of Love. To poetry it flies as to an ark of safety. The English bard has set apart and consecrated a spot sacred to its meditation — * midway on the mount,' ' beside the ruined tower ;' and thither may we repair to cool the eye fevered with the glare of art, by gazing on the fresh verdure of nature, when The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Has blended with the lights of eve, And she is there, our hope, our joy. Our own dear Genevieve. MRS. H E M A N S. We have heard much of late regarding the rights and sphere of woman. The topic has become trite. One branch of the discussion, however, is worthy of careful notice — the true theory of cultivated and liberal men on the subject. This has been greatly misunderstood. The idea has been often suggested that man is jealous of his alleged intellectual superiority, while little has been ad- vanced in illustration of his genuine reverence for female character. Because the other sex cannot always find eru- dition so attractive as grace in woman, and strong men- tal traits so captivating as a beautiful disposition, it is absurdly argued that mind and learning are only honored in masculine attire. The truth is, men of feeling in- stinctively recognize something higher than intellect. They feel that a noble and true soul is greater and more delightful than mere reason, however powerful ; and they know that to this, extensive knowledge and active logi- cal powers are not essential. It is not the attainments, or the literary talent, that they would have women abjure. They only pray that through and above these may appear MRS. HEMANS. 305 the woman. They desire that the harmony of nature may not be disturbed ; that the essential foundations of love may not be invaded ; that the sensibility, delicacy and quiet enthusiasm of the female heart may continue to awa- ken in man the tender reverence, which is one of the most elevating of his sentiments. Portia is highly intellectual ; but even while arrayed in male costume and enacting the public advocate, the essential and captivating characteristics of her true sex inspire her mien and language. Vittoria Colonna was one of the most gifted spirits of her age— the favorite companion of Michael Angelo, but her life and works were but the eloquent development of exalted womanhood. Madame Roland displayed a strength of character singu- larly heroic, but her brave dignity was perfectly feminine. Isabella of Spain gave evidence of a mind remarkably comprehensive, and a rare degree of judgment ; yet in perusing her history, we are never beguiled from the feeling of her queenly character. There is an essential quality of sex, to be felt rather than described, and it is when this is marred, that a feeling of disappointment is the conse- quence. It is as if we should find violets growing on a tall tree. The triumphs of mind always command respect, but their style and trophies have diverse complexions in the two sexes. It is only when these distinctions are lost, that they fail to interest. It matters not how erudite or mentally gifted a woman may be, so that she remains in manner and feeling a woman. Such is the idea that man loves to see realized ; and in cherishing it, he gives the highest proof of his estimation of woman. He de- 26* 306 MRS. HEMANS. lights to witness the exercise of her noblest prerogative; He is charmed to behold her in the most effective attitude. He appreciates too truly the beauty and power of her na- ture to wish to see it arrayed in any but a becoming dress; There is such a thing as female science, philosophy and poetry, as there is female physiognomy and taste ; not that their absolute qualities differ in the two sexes, but their relative aspect is distinct. Their sphere is as large and high, and infinitely more <3elicate and deep than that of man, though not so obvious. When they overstep their appropriate domain, much of their mentul influence is lost. Freely and purely exerted, it is at once recognized and loved. Man delights to meet woman in the field of let- ters as well as in the arena of social life. There also is she his better angel. With exquisite satisfaction be learns at her feet the lessons of mental refinement and moral sensibility. From her teachings he catches a grace and sentiment unwritten by his own sex. Especially iu poetry, beams, with starlike beauty, the li^ht of her soul. There he reads the records of a woman's heart. He hears from her own lips how the charms of nature and the mysteries of life have wrought in her bosom. Of such women, Mrs. Hemans is the most cherished of our day. Life is the prime source of literature, and especially of its most effective and universal departments. Poetry should therefore be the offs-pring of deep experience. Otherwise it is superficial and temporary. What phase x)f existence is chiefly revealed to woman ? Which do- main of experience is she best fitted by her nature and position to illustrate? Undoubtedly, the influence and r MRS. HEMANS. 307 power of the affections. In these her destiny is more completely involved, through these her mind more exclu. sively acts, than is the case with our sex. Accordingly, her insight is greater, and her interest more extensive in the sphere of the heart. With a quicker sympathy, and a finer perception, will she enter into the history and re- sults of the affections. Accordingly, when the mantle of song falls upon a woman, we cannot but look for new revelations of sentiment. Not that the charms of nature and the majesty of great events may not appropriately at- tract .her muse ; but with and around these, if she is a true poetess, we see ever entwined the delicate flowers that flourish in the atmosphere of home, and are reared to full maturity only under ihe training of woman. Thus the poetic in her character finds free development. She can here speak with authority. It is, indeed, irreverent to dictate to genius, but the themes of female poetry are written in the very structure of the soul. Political econ- omy may find devotees among the gentler sex ; and so an approach to the mental hardihood of Lady Macbeth may appear once in the course of an age ; whereas, every year we light on the traces of a Juliet, a Cleopatra and an Isa- bel. The spirit of Mrs. Hemans in all she has written, is essentially feminine. Various as are her subjects, they are stamped with the same image and superscription. She has drawn her prevailing vein of feeling from one source. She has thrown over all her effusions, not so much the drapery of knowledge, or the light of extensive observation, as the warm and shifting hues of the heart. These she^ had at command. She knew their effects, 308 MRS. HEMANS. and felt their mystery. Hence the lavish confidence with which she devoted them to the creations of fancy and the illustration of truth. From the voice of her own consciousness, Mrs. He- mans realized what a capacity of joy and sorrow, of strength and weakness, exists in the human heart. This she made it her study to unfold. The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy is, as Byron said when it appeared, a very good poem. It is a fine specimen of heroic verse. The subject is treated with judgment and ability, and the spirit which pervades the work is precisely what the occa- sion demanded. Still we feel that any cultivated and ideal mind might have produced the poem. There are no peculiar traits, no strikingly original conceptions. The same may be said of several of the long pieces. It is in the Songs of the Affections and the Records of Woman that the poetess is preeminently excellent. Here the field is emphatically her own. She ranges it with a free step and a queenly bearing ; and everywhere rich flowers spring up in her path, and a glowing atmosphere, like the rosy twilight of her ancestral land, enlivens and illu- mines her progress. In these mysterious ties of love, tkere is to her a world of poetry. She not only celebrates their strength and mourns their fragility, but with pensive ardor dwells on their eternal destiny. The birth, the growth, the decline, the sacrifices, the whole morality and spirituality of human love, is recognized and proclaimed by her muse. Profoundly does she feci the richness and the sadness, the glory and the gloom, involved in the affections. She thinks it I MRS. HEMANS. 309^ A fearful thing that love and death may dwell In the same world ! And reverently she declares that He that sits above In his calm glory, will forgive the love His creatures bear each other, even if blent With a vain worship ; for its close is dim Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul back to Him. Devotion continually blends with and exalts her views of human sentiment: I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above, By its undying fervor. Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, To clear away the mysteries of wo 1 Bereavement has found in Mrs. Hemaus a worthy re- corder of its deep and touching poetry : But, oh ! sweet Friend ! we dream not of love's might Till Death has robed w ith soft and solemn hght The image we en-hrine I — Befor.^ thai hour, We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; The wings of that which pants to follow fast, Shake their clay bars, as with a prisoned blast, — The sea is in our souls ! * * * * J But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to lofve 7 To nurse such feehngs as delight to rest Within that hallowed shrine a parent's breast ? To fii each hope, concentrate every tie,^ 3i0 MRS. HEMANS. On one frail idol, — destined but to die ? Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite ? Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy Twined with the Ufe a moment may destwy ! If there be sorrow in a parting tear. Still let *■'■ forever''' vibrate on thine ear ! If some bright hour on rapture's wind hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis gone ; Go ! to a voice such magic influence give. Thou canst not lose its melody and hve ; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul. And let a glance the springs of thought control ; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust. Lean on the willow, idohze the dust ! Then when thy treasure best repays thy care. Think on that dread ^^ forever^''' and despair. The distinguishing attribute of the poetry of Mrs. He- mans is sentiment. She sings fervently of the King of Arragon^ musing upon his slain brother, in the midst of a victorious festival, — of the brave boy perishing at the bat- tle of the Nile, at the post assigned him by his father, — of Del Carpio, upbraiding the treacherous king : — " Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still ! keep down thine ire, — Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire ! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, — Thou canst not — and a king ? — His dust be mountains on thy head I" He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, — upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain, — His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. With how true a sympathy does she trace the prison I MRS. HEMANS. 311 musings of Arabella Stuart, portray the strife of the heart in the Greek bride, and the fidelity of woman in the wife soothing her husband's dying agonies on the wheel ! "WTiat a pathetic charm breathes in the pleadings of the Adopted Child, and the meeting of Tasso and his Sister. How well she understood the hopelessness of ideal love ! O ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below — Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bid the sweet fountains. flow : Few and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet — Such ties would make this world of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. Nor is it alone in mere sensibility that the poetess ex- cels. The loftiness and the dignity of her sex has few nobler interpreters. What can be finer in its kind than the Swiss wife's appeal to her husband's patriotism? Her poems abound in the worthiest appeals to woman's faith : Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, Andsuraless riches from Affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay. And to bewail their worship — therefore pray ! To depict the parting grief of the Hebrew mother, the repentant tears of Cceur de Lion at his father's bier, the home- associations of the Eastern stranger at the sight of a palm-tree — these, and such as these, were congenial themes to Mrs. Hemaus. Joyous as is her welcome to 312 MSS. UEMANS. Spring, thoughts of the departed solemnize its beauty. She invokes the Ocean not for its gems and buried gold, but for the true and brave that sleep in its bosom. The bleak arrival of the New England Pilgrims, and the eve- ning devotion of the Italian peasant-girl, are equally con- secrated by her muse. Where there is profound love, ex- alted patriotism, or " a faith touching all things with hues of Heaven," there she rejoiced to expatiate. Fair as Ely- sium appeared to her fancy, she celebrates its splendor only to reproach its rejection of the lowly and the loved : For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with h er clarion voice In regal halls ! the shades o'erhnng their way. The vale with its deep fountain is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps ! till silently they die. As a stream shrinks from summers burning eye. And the world knows not then, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! Yet these are they that on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread. The long remembered dead ! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel ! It was the opinion of Dr. Spurzheim, an accurate and benevolent observer of life, that suffering was essential to the rich development of female character. It is interest- ing to trace the influence of disappointment and trial in deepening and exalting the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. From the sentimental character of her muse, results the sameness of which some readers complain in perusing her MRS. HEMANS. 313 works. This apparent monotony only strikes us when we attempt to read them consecutively. But such is not the manner in which we should treat a poetess who so exclu- sively addresses our feelings. Like Petrarch's sonnets, her productions delight most when separately enjoyed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, and her truly con- scientious care in choosing her language and forming her verse, could not,^even if it were desirable, prevent the formation of a certain style. It is obvious, also, that her efforts are unequal. The gems, however, are more profusely scattered, than through the same amount of wri- ting by almost any other modern poet. The department of her muse was a high and sacred one. The path she pursued was one especially heroic, inasmuch as her efforts imply the exertion of great enthusiasm. Such lyrics as we admire in her pages are ''fresh from the fount of feel- ing." They have stirred the blood of thousands. They have kindled innumerable hearts on both sides of the sea. They have strewn imperishable flowers around the homes and graves of two nations. They lift the thoughts, like an organ's peal, to a <' better land," and quicken the purest sympathies of the soul into a truer life and more poetic beauty. The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly elegant. She delighted in the gorgeous and imposing. There is a remarkable fondness for splendid combination, warlike pomp and knightly pageantry betrayed in her writings. Her fancy seems bathed in a Southern atmosphere. We trace her Italian descent in the very flow and imagery of her verse. There is far less of Saxon boldness of design 27 314 MRS. HEMANS. and simplicity of outline, than of the rich coloring and luxuriant grouping of a warmer clime. Akin to this trait was her passion for Art. She used to say that Music was part of her life. In fact, the mind of the poetess was essentially romantic. Her muse was not so easily awa- kened by the sight of a beautiful object, as by the records of noble adventure. Her interest was chiefly excited by the brave and touching in human experience. Nature at- tracted her rather from its associations with God and hu- manity, than on account of its abstract and absolute qual- ities. This forms the great distinction between her poetry and that of Wordsworth. In the midst of the fine scenery of Wales, her infant faculties unfolded. There began her acquaintance with life and books. We are told of her great facility in acquiring languages, her relish of Shakspeare at the age of six, and her extraordinary paemo- ry. It is not difficult to understand how her ardent feel- ings and rich imagination developed, with peculiar indivi- duality, under such circumstances. Knightly legends, tales of martial enterprize — the poetry of courage and de- votion, fascinated her from the first. But when her deep- er feelings were called into play, and the latent sensibil- ities of her nature sprung to conscious action, much of this native romance was transferred to the scenes of real life, and the struggles of the heart. The earlier and most elaborate of her poems are, in a great measure, experimental. It seems as if a casual fancy for the poetic art gradually matured into a devoted love. Mrs, Hemans drew her power less from preception than sympathy. Enthusiasm, rather than graphic talent, r MRS. HEMANS. 315 is displayed in her verse. We shall look in vain for any remarkable pictures of the outward world. Her great aim was not so much to describe as to move. We dis- cover few scenes drawn by her pen, which strike us as wonderfully true to physical fact. She does not make us see so much as feel. Compared with most great poets, she saw but little of the world. The greater part of her life was passed in retirement. Her knowledge of distant lands was derived from books. Hence she makes little pretension to the poetry of observation. Sketches copied directly from the visible universe are rarely encountered in her works. For such portraiture her mind was not remarkably adapted. There was another process far more congenial to her — the personation of feeling. She loved to sing of inciting events, to contemplate her race in an heroic attitude, to explore the depths of the soul, and amid the shadows of despair and the tumult of passion, point out some element of love or faith unquenched by the storm. Her strength lay in earnestness of soul. Her'best verses glow with emotion. When once truly in- terested in a subject, she cast over it such an air of feeling that our sympathies are won at once. We cannot but catch the same vivid impression ; and if we draw from her pages no great number of definite images, we cannot but imbibe what is more valuable — the warmth and the life of pure, lofty and earnest sentiment- CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB.* In adding our tribute to the memory of Lamb, we are conscious of personal associations of peculiar and touch- ing interest. We recall the many listless hours he has beguiled ; and the very remembrance of happy moments induced by his quiet humor, and pleasing reveries inspired by his quaint descriptions and inimitable pathos, is re- freshing to our minds. It is difficult to realise that these feelings have reference to an individual whose countenance we never beheld, and the tones of whose voice never fell upon our ear. Frequent and noted instances there are in the annals of literature, of attempts, on the part of au- thors, to introduce themselves to the intimate acquaintance of their readers. In portraying their own characters iu those of their heroes, in imparting the history of their lives in the form of an epic poem, a popular novel, or through the more direct medium of a professed autobiogra- phy, writers have aiined at a striking presentation of themselves. The success of such attempts is, in general, very limited. Like letters of introduction, they indeed, * From the American Quarterly, Review. CHAEA.CTERISTICS OP LAMB. 317 prove passports to the acquaintance, but not necessarily to the friendship of those to whom they are addressed. At best, they ordinarily afford us an insight into the mind of the author^ but seldom render us familiar and at home with the man, Charles Lamb, on the contrary, — if our own experience does not deceive us — has brought himself singularly near those who have once heartily entered into the spirit of his lucubrations. We seem to know his history, as if it were that of our brother, or earliest friend. The beautiful fidelity of his first love, the monotony of his long clerkship, and the strange feeling of leisure suc- ceeding its renunciation, the excitement of his " first play," the zest of his reading, the musings of his daily walk, and the quietude of his fireside, appear like visions of actual memory. His image, now bent over a huge ledger, in a dusky compting-house, and now threading the thoroughfares of London, with an air of abstradlion, from which nothing recalls him but the outstretched hand of a little sweep, an inviting row of worm-eaten volumes upon an old book stall, or the gaunt figure of a venerable beggar ; and the same form sauntering through the groves about Oxford in the vacation solitude, or seated in a littte back study, intent upon an antiquated folio, appear like actual reminiscences rather than pictures of the fancy. The face of his old school-master is as some familiar phy- siognomy ; and we seem to have known Bridget Elia from infancy, and to have loved her, too, notwithstan- ding her one "ugly habit of reading in company." Indeed we can compare our associations of Charles Lamb only to those which would naturally attach to an 27* 318 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. intimate neighbor with whom we had, for years, cultivated habits of delightful intercourse, — stepping over his threshold, to hold sweet commune, whenever weariness was upon our spirits, and we desired cheering and amiable companionship. And when death actually justified the title affixed to his most recent papers — which we had fondly regarded merely as an additional evidence of his unique method of dealing with his fellow beings, — when they really proved the last essays of Elia, we could unaf- fectedly apply to him the touching language, with which an admired poet hashallowed thememory of a brother bard ; — " Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days, None knew thee, but to love thee, Nor named thee, but to praise." And were it only for the peculiar species of fame which Lamb's contributions to the light literature of his country have obtained him, — were it only for the valuable lesson involved in this tributary heritage, — in the method by which it was won, — in the example with which it is asso- ciated, there would remain ample cause for congratulation among thereat friends of human improvement; there would be sufficient reason to remember, gratefully and long, the gifted and amiable essayist. Instead of the fever- ish passion for reputation, which renders the existence of the majority of professed literateurs of the present day, a wearing and anxious trial, better becoming the dust and heat of the arena, than the peaceful shades of the academy, a calm and self-reposing spirit pervades and characterises the writings of Lamb. They are obviously the offspring CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 319 of thoughtful leisure ; they are redolent of the otium ; and in this consists their peculiar charm. We are disposed to value this characteristic highly, at a time which abounds,. as does our age, with a profusion of forced and elaborate writings. It is truly delightful to encounter a work, how- ever limited iu design and unpretending in execution, which revives the legitimate idea of literature, — which makes us feel that it is as essentially spontaneous as the process of vegatation, and is only true to its source and its object, when instinct with freshness and freedom. No mind, restlessly urged by a morbid appetite for literary fame, or disciplined to a mechanical development of thought, could have originated the attractive essays we are considering. They indicate quite a different parentage. A lovely spirit of contentment, a steadfast determination towards a generous culture of the soul, breathes through these mental emanations. Imaginative enjoyment, — the boon with which the Creator has permitted man to melio- rate the trying circumstances of his lot, is evidently the great recreation of the author, and to this he would intro- duce his leaders. It is interesting to feel, that among the many accomplished men, whom necessity or ambition in- clines to the pursuit of literature, there are those who find the time and possess the will to do something like justice to their own minds. Literary biography is little else than a history of martyrdoms. We often rise from the perusal of a great man's life, whose sphere was the field of letters, with diminished faith in the good he successfully pursued. The story of disappointed hopes> ruined health, and a life in no small degree isolated from social pleasure and the in- 320 CHAEACTERISTICS OF LAME. citement which natare affords, can scarcely be relieved of its melancholy aspect by the simple record of literary success. Earnestly as we honor the principle of self-de- votion, our sympathy with beings of a strong intellectual and imaginative bias is too great not to awaken, above every other consideration, a desire for the self-possessed and native exhibition of such a heaven-implanted ten- dency. We cannot but wish that natures thus endowed should be true to themselves. We feel that, in this way, they will eventually prove most useful to the world. And yet one of the rarest results which such men arrive at, is self-satisfaction in the course ihey pursue — we do not mean as regards the success, but the direction of their labors. Sir James Mackintosh continually lamented, in his diary, the failure of his splendid intentions, consoled himself with the idea of additional enterprises, and finally died with- out completing his history. Coleridge has left only, in a fragmentary and scattered form, the philosophical system he proposed to develop. Both these remarkable men passed intellectual lives, and evolved, in conversation and fugitive productions, fruits which are worthy of a peren- nial existence ; yet they fell so far short of their aims, they realised so little of what they conceived, that an impres- sion the most painful remains upon the mind that, with >due susceptibility, contemplates their career. We find, therefore, an especial gratification in turning from such instances, to a far humbler one indeed, but still to a man of genius, who richly enjoyed his pleasant and sequester- ed inheritance in the kingdom of letters, and whose com- paratively few productions bear indubitable testimony to CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 321 a mind at ease, — a felicitious expansion of feeling, an imaginative and yet contented life. It is as illustrative of this, that the essays of Elia are mainly valuable. In our view, the form of these writings is a great recom- mendation. We confess a partiality for the essay. In the literature of our vernacular tongue, it shines conspicuous, and is environed with the most pleasing associations. To the early English essayists is due the honor of the first and most successful endeavors to refine the language and man- ners of their country. The essays of Dr. Johnson, Gold, smith, Addison, and Steele, while they answered a most important immediate purpose, still serve as instructive disquisitions and excellent illustrations of style. -The es- say is to prose literature, what the sonnet is to poetry ; and as the narrow limits of the latter have enclosed some of the most beautiful poetic imagery, and finished expres- sions of sentiment within the compass of versified writing, so many of the most chaste specimens of elegant periods, and of animated and embellished prose, exist in the form of essays. The lively pen of Montaigne, the splendid rhetoric of Burke, and the vigorous argument of John Foster, have found equal scope in essay-writing : and among the various species of composition at present in vogue, how few can compare with this in general adapta- tion. Descriptive sketches and personal traits, specula- tive suggestions and logical deductions, the force of direct appeal, the various power of illustration, allusion and comment, are equally available to the essayist. His es- say may be a lay-sermon or a satire, a criticism or a re- verie. " Of the words of men," says Lord Bacon, " there 322 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. is nothing more sound and excellent than are letters ; for they are more natural than orations, and more advised tharf sudden conferences." Essays combine the qualities here ascribed to the epistolary composition ; indeed, they may justly be regarded as letters addressed to the public ; embodying — in the delightful style which characterises the p-rivate correspondence of cultivated friends — views and details of more general interest. There is more reason to regret the decline of essay- writing, from the fact, that the forms of composition now in vogue, are so inferior to it both in intrinsic excellence and as vehicles of thought. There is, indeed, a class of writers whose object is, professedly and solely, to amuse ; or if a higher purpose enters into their design, it does not extend beyond the conveyance of particular historical in- formation. But the majority of prominent authors cher- ish as to their great end, the inculcation of certain prin- ciples of action, theories of life, or views of humanity. "We may trace in the views of the most justly admired writers of our own day, a favorite sentiment or theory per- vading, more or less, the structure of their several volumes, and constantly presenting itself under various aspects, and in points of startling contrast or thrilling impression. We honor the deliberate and faithful presentation of a theory, on the part of literary men, when they deem it es- sential to the welfare of their race. Loyalty to such an object bespeaks them worthy of their high vocation ; and we doubt if an author can be permanently useful to his fellow beings and true to himself, without such a light to guide, and such an aim to inspire. Dogmatical ac- CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 323 tachment to mere opinion is doubtless opposed to true progression in thought, but fidelity in the development and vivid portraiture of a sentiment knit into the well- being of man, and coincident with his destiny, is among the most obvious of literary obligations. Something of chivalric interest is attached to ♦' Sidney's Defence of Poesy ;" the anxiety for the reform of conventional cus- *oms and modes of thinking in society, so constantly evinced in the pages of the Spectator, commands our sympathy and respect ; and we think the candid objector to Wordsworth's view of his divine art, cannot but honor the steadiness with which he has adhered to, and unfold- ed it. Admitting, then, the dignity of such literary ends, — the manner in which they can be most effectually accomplished, must often be a subject of serious considera- tion. It is generally taken for granted, that the public will give ear to no teacher who cannot adroitly practise the ex. pedient so beautifully illustrated by Tasso, in the simile of the chalice of medicine with a honeyed rim. True as it is, that in an age surfeited with books of every d escription, there exists a kind of necessity for setting decoys afloat upon the stream of literature — is not the faith in literary lures altogether too perfect? Does the mental offspring we have cherished, obtain the kind of attention we desire, when ushered into the world arrayed in the garb of fiction? The experiment, we acknowledge, succeeds in one res- pect. The inviting dress will attract the eyes of the mul- titude ; but how few will penetrate to the theory, appre- ciate the moral, or enter into the thoughts to which the 3-24 chaSactzpjstics of lams. fanciful costume is olIv the drapery and frame-work I The truih is, ike very object of writers who would present a philosophical problem through the medium of a novel, is barely recognized. Corinna is still regarded as a ro- maiice gm generis. Sereral efforts of the kind, on the port of living British writers of acknowledged power, seem to have otterij failed of their purpose, as far as the mass of readers, whom they were especiaUj intended to affect, are concerned. The plan in such instances, is strictly psy- diologicaL Public attention, however, is at once riveted on the plot and details ; and some strong delineation of hanian passion, some trivial error in the external sketch- ing, some over intense or too minute personation of feel- ing, suffices, we do not say how justly, to condemn the work in the view — even of the discriminating. Now we are confident, that should the writers in question choose die essay as a vehicle of communication, their success in many cases would be more complete. Their ideas of life, of a foreign land, of modern society, or of human destiny, presented in this shape, with the graces of style, the at- traction of anecdote, and the vivacity of wit and feeling, eoold not but find their way to the only class of readers who will ever estimate such labors : those who read to excite thought, as well as beguile time ; to gratity an in- tellectoai taste, as well as amuse an ardent fancy. The novel, too, is in its very nature epheTieral. The very origin of the word associates such productions with the gazettes and magazines — the temporary caskets of litera- tnre. And with the exception of Scott's, and a few ad- miiable historical romances, novels sef;m among the mo£t CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 325 frail of literary tabernacles. Now, in reference to the class of authors to whom we have alluded, those who have a definite and important point in view, who are enthusias- tic in behalf of a particular moral or mental enterprise, the evanescent nature of the popular vehicle is an impor- tant consideration. We would behold a more permanent personification of their systems, a more lasting testimony of their interest in humanity. And such we consider the essay. When presented, condensed, and embellished in this more primitive form, a fair opportunity will be afford- ed for the candid examination of their sentiments ; and we are persuaded that these very ideas, thus arranged and disseminated, will possess a weight and an interest which they can never exhibit when displayed in the elaborate and desultory manner incident to popular fiction. An interesting illustration of these remarks may be found in the circumstance that many intelligent men, who are quite inimical to Buhver, as a novelist, have become interested in his mind by the perusal of " England and the English," and "The Student" — works which are essentially specimens of essay writing. The dramatic form of com- position has recently been adopted in England, to sub- serve the theoretical purposes ot authors. This, it must be confessed, is a decided improvement upon the more tashionable method ; and the favor with which it has been received, is sudiciently indicative of the readiness of the public to become familiar with nobler models of literature. We are under no slight obligations to Charles Lamb, for so pleasantly reviving a favorite form of English cona- 28 326 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. position. We welcome Elia as the Spectator-rec/mr«* It is interesting to be amused and instructed after the manner of that delectable coterie of lay-preachers, humor- ists, and critics, of which Sir Roger de C overly was so distinguished a member. It is peculiarly agreeeble to be talked to in a book, as if the writer addressed himself to us particularly. Next to a long epistle from an entertain- ing friend, we love, of all things in the world, a charming essay ; — a concise array of ideas — an unique sketch, which furnishes subjects for an hour's reflection, or gives rise to a succession of soothing day-dreams. Few books are more truly useful than such as can be relished in the brief in- tervals of active or social life, which permit immediate appreciation, and, taken up when and where they may be, present topics upon which the attention can at once fix itself, and trains of speculation into which the mind easily glides. To such a work we suppose a celebrated writer alludes, in the phrase "parlor window-seat book." Col- lections of essays are essentially of this order. We would not be understood, however, as intimating that this kind of literature is especially unworthy of studious regard ; Bacon's Essays alone would refute such an idea ; but from its conciseness and singleness of aim, the essay may be enjoyed in a brief period, and when the mind is un- able to attach itself to more elaborate reading. A volume of essays subserves the purpose of a set of cabinet pic- tures, or a port folio of miniature drawings; they are the muUum in parvo of literature ; and, perused, as they gen- erally are, in moments of respite from ordinary occupa- tion, turned to on the spur of mental appetite, they not CHARACTERISTICS OP LAMB. 0'27 unfrequently prove more efficient than belles-lettres allure- ments of greater pretension. It is seldom that any de- sirable additions are made in this important department of writing ; and among the contributions of the present age, the essays of Elia will desewedly hold an elevated rank. Much of the interest awakened by these papers, has been ascribed to the peculiar phraseology in which they are couched. Doubtless, this characteristic has had its influence ; but we think an undue importance has been given it, and we feel that the true zest of Elia's manner is as spontaneous as his ideas, and the shape in which they naturally present themselves. If we analyse his mode of expression, we shall find its charm consists not a little in the expert variation rather than in a constant mainte- nance of style. lie understood the proper time and place to introduce an illustration ; he knew when to serve up one of his unequalled strokes of humor, and when to change the speculative for the descriptive mood. He had a happy way of blending anecdote and portraiture ; he makes us see the place, person, or thing, upon which he is dwelling ; and, at the moment our interest is excited, presents an incident, and then, while we are all attention, imparts a moral, or lures us into a theorising vein. He personifies his subject, too, at the appropriate moment ; nor idealises, after the manner of many essayists, before the reader sympathises at all with the real picture. Lamb's diction breathes the spirit of his favorite school. He need not have told us of his partiality for the old English writers. Every page of Elia bears witness to his frequent 828 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. and fond communion with the rich, ancient models of British literature. Yet the coincidence is, in no degree, that which obtains between an original and a copyist. The tinge which Lamb's language has caught from intimacy with the quaint folios he so sincerely admired, is a re- flected hue, like that which suffuses the arch of clouds far above the setting sun ; denoting only the delightful influ- ence radiated upon the mind which loves to dwell devoted- ly upon what is disappearing, and turns with a kind of religious interest from the new-born luminaries which the multitude worship, to hover devotedly round the shrine of the past. If any modern lover of letters deserved a heritage in the sacred garden of old English litera- ture, that one was Charles Lamb. Not only did he pos- sess the right which faithful husbandry yields, but his dis. position and taste rendered him a companion meet for the noble spirits that have immortalized the age of Elizabeth. In truth, he may be said to have been on more familiar terms with Shakspeare, than with the most intimate of his contemporaries ; and it may be questioned whether the Religio Medici, that truly individual creed; had a more devout admirer in its originator, than was Elia. He as- sures us that he was '<^shy of facing the prospective," and no antiquarian cherished a deeper reverence for old china, or black letter. Most honestly, therefore, came our author by that charming relish of olden time, which some- times induces in our minds, as we read his lucubrations, a lurking doubt whether, by some mischance, we have not fallen upon an old author in a modern dress. There is another feature in the style of these essays, tQ> CHARACTERISTICS OP LAMB. 329 which we are disposed to assign no inconsiderable influ- ence. We allude to a certain confessional tone, that is peculiarly attractive. There is something exceedingly gratifying to the generality of readers in personalities. On the same principle that we are well pleased to become the confident of a friend, and open our breasts to receive the secret of his inmost experience, we readily become interested in a writer who tells us, in a candid, naive man- ner, the story not merely of his life, in the common ac- ceptation of the term, but of his private opinions, humors, eccentric tastes, and personal antipathies. A tone of this kind, is remarkably characteristic of Lamb. And yet there is in it nothing egotistical ; for we may say of him as has been said of his illustrious schoolfellow, whom he so significantly, and, as it were, prophetically, called ''the inspired charity boy ;" — that " in him the individual is always merged in the abstract and general." Writers have not been slow to avail themselves of the advantage of thus occasionally and incidentally presenting glimpses of their private notions and sentiments; indeed, this has been called the age of confessions ; but with Elia, they are so delicately yet so familiarly imparted, that they become a secret charm inwrought through the whole tis- sue of what he denominates his "weaved up follies." There are passages scattered through these volumes, which exemplify the very perfection of our language. There are successive periods, so adroitly adapted to the senti- ment they embody, so easy and expressive, and, at the same time, so unembellished, that they suggest a new idea of the capabilities of our vernacular. There are words, 28* 330 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAME. too, at which wc should pause, if they were indited bf another, to institute a grave inquiry into their legitimacy, or, perchance, prefer against their author the charge of senseless affectation. But with what we know of Elia, iu catching ourselves at such a process, we could not but waive the ceremony, and say, as he said on some equally heartless occasion — " it argues an insensibility." Another striking trait of the Essays of Elia, is the fami- liarity of their style. In this respect they frequently com- bine the freedom of oral with the more deliberative spirit of epistolary expression. We have already alluded to one effect of this method of address ; it annihilates the dis- tance between the reader and the author, and so to speak, brings them face to face. Facility in this kind of writing, is one of the principal elements iu what is called magazine talent. It consists in maintaining a conversational tone while discussing a topic of great interest in a humorous way, or making a light one the nucleus for spirited, amu- sing, or instructive ideas. The dearth of this popular tact in this country and its fertility in England, are well known. We think the discrepance can be accounted for by refer- ence to the essential difference in the social habits of the two countries. The literary clubs are the nurseries of this attractive talent in Great Britain. The custom of convening for intellectual recreation, favors the growth of a ready expression of thought, and of a direct and inviting flow of language. Writers are habituated to an attractive style by being trained in a school of conversation. Inti- mate connection with the best minds, not only informs and kindles, but induces vivacity of delivery both in speech CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 331 and writing. We can conceive, for instance, of no inspi- ration even to the colloquial powers of an intelligent man, like direct communion with such an individual as Mack- intosh ; and we can find no cause for wonder, that one blessed with the companionship of the literati of London and Edinburgh, should acquire the power of talking on paper in a delightful and finished manner. Such society affords, if we may be allowed the expression, a kind of intellectual gymnasium, where the art of interesting with the pen may be, and naturally is, acquired by such as are endowed with native wit, and reflective or graphic ability. With us the case is so widely different, the opportunities for general and exciting association so rare, that it is no matter of surprise that magazine talent, as it is termed, should be of slow growth. How far Charles Lamb was indebted to his social privileges for his style, we are not prepared to say. Yet there are numerous indications of the happy influence of which we speak, interspersed through his commentaries on men and things. We refer, of course, altogether to the style ; for as to the ideas, they are. entirely his own, bearing the genuine stamp of originality. It seems essential to an efficient light literature, that those interested in its culture should be brought into frequent contact with each other, and with general society. A poet who would evolve representations of humanity in abstract forms, who would present models beyond and above his age, may indeed find, in the shades of retirement, greater scope and a less disturbed scene where in to rear his ima- ginary fabric ; and the philosopher whose aim is (he ap. plication of truth to history, or the delineation of some 332 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. important principle in science or art, doubtless requires comparative solitude. The position of both is contempla- tive. The fancy of the one would plume itself for flight, and the eyry of the noblest birds is always among unin- vaded haunts ; the reflection of the other would grapple with the abstract, and the deepest elemental strife of nature is ever amid her lofty cloud-retreats, or solitary depths. But the writer who would beguile, amuse or teach his con- temporaries by some winning literary device, who would accomplish all these objects at once, and "do it quickly," must mix with his fellow-creatures, and make a study of the passers-by. He must hold familiar intercourse with the ruling school ; not to adopt their principles, but to become disciplined by their conversation ; and he should note the multitude warily, in order to discover both the way and the means of afiecting them. The legitimate essayist has need of a rich vocabulary, and a flexible manner; a quick perception, and a candid address. And these equipments, if not attiinable, are at least improvable, by social aids. Conversation, were it not utterly misun. derstood and perverted might prove a mighty agent in the culture of the noblest of human powers, and the sweetest of human graces. There was a beautiful fidelity to nature in the habits of the philosophers of the Garden. There are few pictures so delightful in ancient history, as the noble figure of a Grecian sage moving through a rural re- sort, or beneath a spacious portico, imparting to his youth- ful companion lessons of wisdom, or curbing his own advanced mind to pioneer that of his less mature auditor through the early mazes of mental experience. The teem- CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 333 ing presence of nature and art in all their variety and eloquence, the appeal to sympathy lurking in the very tones of wisdom, the mere inspiration of human presence, combine to create an impression infinitely more vivid than lonely gleanings among written lore could awaken. We are slow to comprehend the capabilities of conversation, or we should cultivate it sedulously, and with a deeper faith. The single effect which we have noticed in rela- tion to English literature, is of itself no inconsiderable ar- gument. If to social culture we may in a great degree ascribe the exuberance of talent for periodical literature on the other side of the water, there is surely no small induce- ment to elevate and quicken the conversational spirit of our country ; for whatever rank be assigned to this form of writing, its history sufficiently attests the great influence it is capable of exerting, and the important purposes it may subserve. Elia, we think, gives very satisfactory indications of his origin. Without the local allusions and constant references to native authors, there is something about him which smacks of London. Individual as Lamh is, he is not devoid of national characteristics ; and a read- er, well aware of the composite influences operative upon men of letters who hail from the British metropolis, will readily discover, though not informed of the fact, that Elia was blessed with a score of honorable friends, who have contributed to the literary fame of Great Britain. Lamb is not singular in his attachment to minutiae ; it is characteristic of the literature of the day. In for- mer times, writers dealt in the general ; now they are de- voted to the particular. In almost every book of travels 334 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. and work of fiction, we are entertained, or rather the at- tempt is made to entertain us, with exceedingly detailed descriptions of the features of a landscape, the grouping in a picture, or the several parts of a fashionable dress. By such wearisome nomenclature, it is expected that an adequate conception will be imparted, when in many cases, a single phrase, revealing the impression made by these objects, would convey more than a liundred such in- ventories. Lamb, by virtue of his nice perception, ren- ders details more effective than we should imagine was practicable. In a single line, we have the peculiarities of a person presented ; and by a brief mention of the gait, demeanor, or perhaps a single habit, the ceremony of in- troduction is over ; we not only stand and look in the di- rection we are desired, but we see the object, be it an old bencher, or a grinning chimney sweep ; an ancient court- yard, or a quaker meeting ; a roast pig, or an old actor ; Captain Jackson, or a poor wretch in the pillory, con- soling himself by fanciful soliloquies. We have compared essays, in their general uses, to a set of cabinet pictures. Elia's are peculiarly susceptible of the illustration. They are the more valuable, inasmuch as the mellow hue of old paintings broods over them; here and there a touch of beautiful sadness, that reminds us of Raphael ; now a line of penciling, overflowing with nature, which brings some favorite Flemish scene to mind ; and again, a certain dreamy softness and delicate finish that whisper of Claude Lorraine. There are two points in which Charles Lamb was emi- nent, where tolerable success is rare ; these are pathos and CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 336 humor. He understood how to deal with the sense of the humorous aud pathetic. He seems to have been iutui- tively learned in the secret and delicate nature of these attributes of the mind ; or rather, it would appear that his own nature, in these respects, furnished a happy criterion by which to address the same feelings in others. We can- not analyse, however casually, the humor and pathos of Elia, without perceiving that they are based on a discern- ing, and, if the expression may be allowed, a sentimental fellow-feeling for his kind. So ready aud true was this feeling, that we find him entering, with the greatest fa- cility, into the experience of human beings whom the mass of society scarcely recognize as such. He talks about a little chimney sweep, and aged mendicant, or an old ac- tor, as if he had, in his own person, given proof of the doctrine to which his ancient friend, Sir Thomas Browne inclined, and actually, by a kind of metempsychois, ex- perienced these several conditions of life. His pathos and humor are, for the most part, descriptiv'e ; he appeals to us, in an artist-like and dramatic way, by pictures ; we are not wearied with any preparatory and woiked up pro. cess ; we are not led to anticipate the effect. But our associations are skilfully awakened ; an impression is unostentatiously conveyed, aud a smile or tear first leads us to inquire into the nature of the spell. It is as though in riding along a sequestered road, we should suddenly pass a beautiful avenue, and catch a glimpse of a garden, a statue, an old castle, or some object far down its green vista, so interesting that a reminiscence, an anticipation, or, perchance, a speculative reverie, is thereby at once 336 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. awakened. Endeavors to touch the feelings or excite quiet mirth fail, generally, because the design is too ob- vious, or a strain of exaggf ration is indu'ged in, fatal to the end in view. Frequently, too, the call upon our mirth- ful or compassionate propensities is too direct and strong. These feelings are not seldom appealed to, as if they were passions, and to be excited by passionate means. Indig- nafion, enthusiasm, and all powerful impulses, are doubt- less to be roused by fervent appeals ; but readers are best allured into a laugh, and it is by gentle encroachments upon its empire, that the heart is best moved to sympathy. In drawing his pictures, Lamb indulged not in caricature. It is his truth, not less than his quaintness and minute touches, that entertains and affects us. He avoids, too, the vulgar modes of illustration. Not by description of physiognomy or costume, does he excite our risible ten- dencies, nor thinks he to win our pity by over-drawn state- ments of the insignia and privations of poverty. Elia is is no poor mefaphysician. He comprehends the delicacy of touch required in the limner who would impressively delineate, even in a quaint style, any element or form of hu- manity. By what would almost seem a casual suggestion, we often have a conception imparted worth scores of wire- drawn exemplifications. Well aware was our essayist that a single leaf whirled by the breeze of accident upon the soul's clear fountain, would awaken successive undu- lations of thought. He was versed in the philosophy of as- sociation. He possessed the susceptibility of an affectionate nature, and that fine sense of the appropriate which is one of the most valuable of our insights ; and accordingly, he CHARACTERISnCS OF LAMB. 337 caused his inimitable shades of humor and pathos "to faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise." He wishes us to realise the sufferings of poor children, and, by briefly in. dicating the mere tenor of their street-talk, causes our hearts to melt at the piteous accents of care, from lips so young. He would vindicate that excellent precept in the counsel of old Polonius, — ^' Neither a borrower nor a lend- er be ;" and draws such a full-length portrait of the former character, that when one of the species has once inspect- ed it, he can never again lay the flattering unction of self- ignorance to his heart. He reprimands book-stealers by describing his own impoverished shelves, and points out the blessings of existence, by quaintly discussing the privations attendant upon its loss. The anniversaries of time pass not by without their several merits being can- vassed by his pen ; and although he tells us little that is absolutely new, he holds the light of his pleasant humor up to the faces of these annual visitants, and thenceforth their features possess greater reality and are more easily recognised. Not a little of Lamb's humor is shadowed forth in the subject of his essays. Had we fallen upon such titles in the index of any other anonymous author, we should have set him down as one who, in straining af- ter the novel, evidenced a morbid taste ; but there is noth- ing more characteristic of Elia, than the topics he selects. They are as legitimate as an undoubted signature. Should this be questioned, let the treatment bestowed upon these uninvestigated themes, be examined. They will prove as well adapted to their author's genius as the life of the Scottish peasant was to Burn's muse, or the praise of Laura 29 338 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. to Petrarch. Who should have written the history of England, among the many who have tried their skill in that illastrious task, may be a matter of doubt ; and to what American Scott are we to look for a series of romances illustrative of our history, is yet a subject of speculation ; but no man, of ordinary perception, we presume, can for a moment question that *' The Melancholy of Tailors," — ♦' the Character of an Undertaker," — " the Praise of Chimney-sweepers," — the "Inconvenience of being Hanged," and sundry kindred subjects, were reserved for the pen of Elia. That writer is wise who avails himself of a somwhat familiar idea, in presenting his mental creations to the public. There is need of as much consideration in be- stowing a name upon an essay or a poem, which we wish should be read, as in naming a child whom we would de- dicate to fame. The same reasons for circumspection obtain in both cases. The more original the appellation, provided it is not utterly foreign to all general associations, the better. But it is essential that there should be some- thing which will create an interest at a glance. Our essayist has been happy in his choice of subjects ; his wit failed him not here. Though no one has previously written the '< Praise of Chimney-sweepers," yet everyone sees the dusky urchins daily, and would fain know what can be said in their behalf. Most people have noticed the " Melancholy of Tailors," and are glad to find that some one has undertaken philosophically to explain it. The headings, of all Ella's papers are exactly such as would beguile us into reading when we desire to enter the region CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 339 of quiet thought, and forget our cares in some literary pastime. There is one element of genius, the influence of which we have never seen acknowledged, that ever impresses our minds in reflecting on the themes to which gifted men apply themselves. We allude to a certain daring which induces them to grapple with topics, and give expression to thoughts, which many have mused upon without thinking of giving them utterance. There is much of Byron's poetry which seems almost like a literal transcript of our past or occasional emotions ; the more powerful and acknowledged a genius, the more fervently do we declare the coincidence of our feelings with his delineations. Many odd speculations have occurred to us in reference to the strange subjects to which Lamb is partial ; we respond to most of his portraitures, and sym- pathise in the feelings he avows. His humor and pathos, therefore, are true, singulary, beautifully true, to human Dature ; in this consists their superiority. Many have aimed at the same results in a similar way ; but the genius of Lamb, in this department, has achieved no ordinary triumph. The drama was a rich source of pleasure and reflection to Lamb. During a life passed almost wholly in the me- tropolis, the theatre afforded him constant recreation, and the species of exitement his peculiar genius required. It was to him an important element in the imaginative being he cherished. By means of it, he continually renewed and brightened the rich vein of sentiment inherent in his nature. To him it addressed language rife with the mean- ing which characterised its ancient voice, — full of sug- 340 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. gestive and impressive eloquence. Deeply versed in the whole range of dramatic literature, master of the philoso- phy of Shakspeare, and overflowing with a highly cultiva- ted taste for the dramatic art, the drama was ranked by Elia among the redeeming things of life. He did not coldly recognise, but deeply felt, its importance to modern society. Surrounded by the bustle, the worldliness and the material agencies of a populous capital, he daily saw man struggling on beneath the indurating pressure of necessity, or presenting only artificial aspects, — and to the strong and true representation of human nature, on the stage and in the works of the dramatist, he looked as a noble means of renovation. It gratified his humane spirit, that the poor mechanic should lose, for an hour, the memory of his toilsome lot, in sympathy with some vivid personation of that love which once sent a glow to his now hallow temples ; that the creature of fashion and pride should, occasionally, be led back to the primal foun- tains of existence by the hand of Thespis ; that an un- wonted tear should sometimes be drawn, like a pearl from the deep, to the eye of some fair worlding, at the mighty appeal of nature, in the voice of an affecting portrayer of her truth. Elia had faith in the legitimate drama, as the native offspring of the human mind, significant of its successive eras, and as fitted to supply one of its truest and deepest want? ; and well he might have had, for its history was as familiar to him as a household tale ; ho had explored its chronicles with the assiduity of an en- thusiast, and the acumen of a virtuoso ; he had garnered up its gems as the true jewels of his country's literature ; he CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB 341 honored its worthy votaries as ministrants at the altar of humanity ; and, above all, in his own experience, he had learned what human taste, judgment and feeling, may derive from the wise appropriation of dramatic influence. He knew, as well as his readers, how much he was in- debted to an intelligent devotion to them, for the vividness of his pencilings, the fertility of his associations, and the beauty of his imagery. Not in vain did he seek, in Ham- let' s|musings, " grounds more relative" than popular reading could afford, or turn from the inconsistencies of modern gallantry, which he so admirably delineated, to bestow his fond attentions upon the "bright angel" of Verona, and " the gentle lady wedded to the Moor." Lamb's interest in the drama was too well founded to be periodical, as is generally the case. He shared, in- deed, the common destiny, in beholding his youthful visions of theatrical glory fade ; the time came to him, as it comes to all, when the mysterious curtain w^as reduced to its^actual quality, aud became bona fide green baize, and when the polished pilasters lost th^ir likeness to " glorified sugar candy ;" but the histrionic art retained its interest, and the literature of the drama yielded a continual pastime. From the rainy afternoon which the " child Elia'^ spent in such hope and fear, lest the way. ward elements should deprive him of his " first play" — to the night when the sleep of the man Elia was disturbed with visions of old Muden — he sought and found, in the drama, food for his reflective humor and pleasurable oc- cupancy in his weary moods — if such e'er came to him — 29^ 342 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. which may be doubted, since he has not so informed lis. Notwithstanding his partiality for theatrical repre- sentation?, few play-goers entertained a more just idea of their frequent and necessary inadequateness. He recognised the limits of the dramatic art. He realised, beyond the generality of Shakspeare's admirers, the im- possibility of presenting, by the most successful perfor- mance, our deepest conception of his characters. He knew that the wand of that enchanter dealt with things too deep, not only for speech, but for expression. He was impatient at the common interpretation of Shak- speare's mind. In the stillness of his retired study, the creations of the bard appeared to him, as in an exalted dream. In the attentive perusal of his plays, — the deli- cate touches, the finer shades, the under current of phi- losophy, were revealed to the mind of Lamb with an impressiveness, of which personification is unsuscep- tible ; and few of his essays are more worthy of his genius than that which embodies his views on this subject. It should be attentively read by ail who habitually honor the minstrel of Avon, without being perfectly aware why the honor is due. It will lead such to new investigations into the mysteries of that wonderful tragic lore, upon which the most gifted men have been proud to ofier one useful comment, or advance a single illustrative hint. To the acted and written drama. Lamb assigned an appropriate office; he believed each had its purpose and that he who would derive the greatest benefit from either, should study them relatively and in conjunc- tion. Such was his own method, and to the steadiness CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 343 and success with which he pursued it, his writings bear the most interesting testimony. The gofit with which he dwells upon his dramatic reminiscences, the delight he takes in living over scenes of this kind, — in recalling, after an interval of years, the enjoyment of a single even, ing of Liston's or Bensley's acting, indicate the intelli- gence and warmth of his love of theatrical performances ; while his successful efforts in reviving the nearly forgot- ten dramatic literature of the English stage, and his ad- mirable essays, directly or indirectly devoted to the gen- eral subject, evince his application and attachment to it. His talents as a dramatic critic are everywhere visible. There is one feature of our author's devotion to the drama, which is too characteristic of the man, and too intrinsically pleasing, to be unnoticed. He never forgot those who had contributed to his pleasure in this manner. They were not to him the indifferent, unestimated beings they are to the majority of (hose who are amused and instruct- ed by their labors. Charles Lamb resnccled the genius of a splendid tragedian on the same grounds that that of a fine sculptor won his admiration. He believed one as heaven-bestowed as the other. He recognized his intel- lectual or moral obligations to an affecting actor as readi- ly as to a favorite author. He sincerely respected the ideality of the profession, sympathised in the life of toil and comparative isolation it imposes, and felt for the de- serving and ambitious who had, by assiduous culture and native energy, risen to its summit only to look forward from that long sought elevation, to a brief continuance of 344 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. success, followed by an unhonored decline, an age of neglect, and the world's oblivion. One of Lamb's most winning traits is his sincerity. The attractiveness of this beautiful virtue, even in litera- ture, is worthy of observation. It seems to be an ordi. nation of the intellectual world, and a blessed one it is to those who cherish faith in a spiritual philosophy — that truth of expression shall alone prove powerfully and per- manently effective. It is happy that we are so constituted as to be moved chiefly, if not solely, by voices attuned and awakened by genuine emotion ; it is well when for- eign aids and the most insinuating of conventional ap- pliances fail to deceive us into admiration of an artificial literary aspirant ; it is a glorious distinction of our com mon nature, that soul-prompted language is the only uni versally acknowledged eloquence. The mission of in- dividual genius is to exhibit itself. The advocacy of popular opinions, the illustration of prevailing theories — the literary party-work of the day, may be undertaken by such as are unconscious of any more special and person- al calling. But let there be a self-preaching priesthood in the field of letters and of art, to teach the great lesson of human individuality. Let some gifted votaries of lite- rature and philosophy breathe original symphonies, instead of merging their rich tones in the general chorus. Un- fortunate is the era when such men are not ; and thrice illustrious that in which they abound. The history of the world proves this ; and in proportion as an author is sin- cere, in whatever age, he deserves our respect. We spon- taneously honor minds of this order, in whatever form r CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 345 they are encountered. The complacent smile with which doiice Davie Deans, in Scott's most beautiful tale, hears himself denominated a JDeanite, recommends him to our esteem. And when a poet or an essayist is as habitually and earnestly candid as is Eiia, we feel and acknowledge his worth, whatever may be the calibre of his genius. Many and singular are the advantages attendant upon this characteristic. The most obvious is that it brings out the true power — the pr opium ingeniwn — of the indi- vidual. Look at the history of Milton and Dante. They surveyed their immediate social circumstances for a re- flection of themselves in vain; and then in calm confi- dence they turned to the mirror fountain within them- selves, and thence evolved thoughts — unappreciated, in- deed, by their contemporaries, yet in the view of posterity none the less oracular. And such intellectual laborers — ♦ however confined and comparatively unimportant the sphere of effort — being absolved from any undue alle- giance to merely temporary influences, give to their pro- ductions a free and personal stamp. Truth is to litera- ture, what, in the view of the alchymists, the philosopher's stone was to the base metals ; it converts all it touches in- to gold. And, although our author had to do mainly with topics which a superficial reasoner would term trifling, yet his lovely sincerity gives them a character, and sheds upon them a warm and soothing light more pleasing than weightier themes, less iugenously treated, can often boast. Being sincere, of course Elia wrote only from the inspi- ration of his overflowing spirit ; he seems to have penned every line, to have thrown oflT every essay, con amove. 346 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. He did not require the expedient of the Greek painter, who covered the face of one of his great figures with a mantle, not daring to attempt a portraiture of the intense grief which he represented him as suffering. Lamb en- deavored not to express what he did not feel ; he wrote not from necessity or policy, but from enthusiasm, from his own gentle, sweet, yet deep enthusiasm. He had a feeling for the art of writing, and therefore he would not make it the hackneyed conventional agent it often is ; but ever regarded it as a crystalline mould wherein he could faithfully present the form, hues, and very spirit of his sentiments and speculations. A striking and delightful consequence of this literary sincerity is, that it preserves and developes the proper humanity of the author. Literati of this class are utterly devoid of pedantry. In society, and the common busi- ness of life, they are as other men, except that a finer sen- sibility, and more elevated general taste, distinguishes them. In becoming writers, they cease not to be men. Literature is then, indeed, what the English poet would have it, — *' an honorable augmentation " to our arms ; it is not exclusively pursued as if it were life's only good, and a human being^s sole aim ; but it is applied to as a beautiful accomplishment — a poetical recreation amid less humanizing influences. Thus, instead of serving mere- ly as an arena for the display of selfish ambition, or a cell wherein unsocial and barren devotion may find scope, it is valued chiefly as the means of embodying the unforced impressions of our own natures, for the happiness and improvement of our fellow creaiures. We say that such CHARACTERISTICS OE LAMB. 347 a view must be taken by sincere authors of their vocation, because they cannot but feel that by the very constitution of their natures, literature is only a part of the great whole of the soul's being — a single form of its development, and one among the thousand offices to which the versatile mind is called. It is needless to prove, in detail, Lamb's sincerity. It is, perhaps, his most prominent characterislic ; but in tra. cing out and dwelling upon its influence, we are newly impressed with the truth of Shaftesbury's declaration, that ''wisdom is more from the heart than from the head." We have ever remarked that the most delightful and truly sincere writers are the most suceptible, affectionate, and unaffected men. We have felt, that however intellectually endowed, the feelings of such individuals are the true sources of their power. Sympathy we consider one of the primal principles of efficient genius. It is this truth of feeling which enabled Shakspeare to depict so strongly the various stages of passion, and the depth, growth, and gradations of sentiment. In whom does this primitive readiness to sympathize — to enter into all the moods of the soul — continue beyond early life, so often as in men de- voted to imaginative objects ? How frequently are we struck with the child-like character of artists and poets ! It sometimes seems as if, along with childhood's ready sympathy, many of the other characteristics of that epoch were projected into the more mature stages of being. "There is often," says Madame de Stael, " in true genius a sort of awkwardness, similar, in some respects, to the credulity of sincere and noble souls." 348 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. This readiness to catch impressions, this delicacy and warmth of sympathy which belongs to the sincere school of writers, is inestimable. It is said that a musical ama- teur traversed the whole of Ireland, and gathered from the peasants the delightful airs to which Moore's beautiful Irish melodies were afterwards adapted. How much of the charm of those sweet songs is owing to their associ- ations with the native and simple music thus gleaned from voices to which it had traditionally descended ! And it is by their sympathy — their sincere and universal interest in humanity, that the sweetest poets, the most re- nowned dramatists, and such humble gleaners in the field of letters, as our quaint essayist, are enabled to write in a manner corresponding with the heaven-attuned, unwritten music of the human heart. Sincerity gives them the means of interpreting for their fellow beings — not only the lofty subjects which filled the soul of the " blind bard of Paradise," and the broad range of life upon which the observant mind of the poet of human nature was intent, but those lesser and more unique themes which Elia loved to speculate about, and humorously illustrate. There is a unity of design in the essays of Elia. Dis- connected and fugitive as we should deem them at first sight, an attentive perusal reveals, if not a complete theory yet a definite and pervading spirit which is not devoid of philosophy. After being amused by Lamb's humor, inte- rested by his quaintness, and fascinated by his style, there yet remains a more deep impression upon our minds. We feel that he had a specific object as an essayist ; or, at least, that the ideas he suggests tend to a particular result. CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 349 What, then, was his aim ? As an author, what mission does he fulfil ? We think Charles Lamb is to life what Wordsworth is to nature. The latter points out the field flowers, and the meadow rill, the soaPs most primal and simple movements, the mind's most single and unso- phisticated tendencies ; the former indicates the lesser, and scarcely noticed sources of pleasure and annoyance, mirth and reflection, which occur in the beaten track of ordina- ry life. It was remarked, by an able critic, of the author of the Lyrical Ballads, that, *' he may be said to take a personal interest in the universe;" with equal truth Elia may be regarded as taking a personal interest in life. He delighted in designating its every-day, universal, and for that very reason — disregarded experiences. Leaving the delineation of martyrdoms, and the deeper joys of the heart, to more ambitious writers, he preferred to dwell upon the misery of children when left awake in their solitary beds in the dark ; to shadow forth the peace destroy- ing phantom of a "poor relation ;" to draw up eloquent bacheloric complaints of the behavior of " married people ;" to describe in touching terms, the agony of one condemn- ed to hear music " without an ear ;" and to lament patheti- cally the unsocial aspect of a metropolitan Sabbath, and the disturbing, heartless conduct of those who remove old landmarks. He did not sorrow only over minor mis- eries, but gloried in minor pleasures. To him, " Elysian exemptions" from ordinary toil — a sweet morning's nap— a ** sympathetic solitude" — an incidental act or emotion of benevolence, and, especially, those dear " treasures cased in leathern covers," for which he was so thankful that he 80 350 CHABACTERISTICS OF LAMB. assures us that he could say grace before reading them ; — these, and such as these, were to Charles Lamb absolute and recognized blessings. He seems to have broken away from the bondage of custom and to have seen all things new. One would think, to note the freshness of his per- ceptions in regard to the most familiar objects of London, that in manhood he was for the first time initiated into city life — that he was a new comer in the world at an advanced age. Hogarth found no more delight in his street-pen- cilings, than Lamb in his by-way speculations. In the voyage of life he seemed to be an ordained cicerone, di- recting attention to that lesser world of experience to which the mass of men are insensible, — drawing their at. tention from far-off visions of good, and oppressive remi- niscences of grief, to the low green herbage, springing up in their way, and the soft gentle voices breathing at their firesides, and around their daily steps. And there is truth in Elia's philosophy, for, — " If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, — finds no spot )Ier heaven-guided feet refuse to tread." We never rise from one of his essays without a feeling of contentment. He leads our thoughts to the actual, avail- able springs of enjoyment. He reconciles us to ourselves ; causing home-pleasures, and the charms of the wayside, and the mere comforts of existence, to emerge from the shadow into which our indifference has cast them, into the light of fond recognition. The flat dull surface of com- mon life, he causes to rise into beautiful basso-relievo. In CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 351 truth, there are/ew better teachers of gratitude than Lamb. He rejuvenates our worn and weary feelings, revives the dim flame of our enthusiasm, opens our eyes to real and present good, and with his humorous accents, and un- pretending manner, reads us a homily on the folly of des- ponding, and the wisdom of appreciating the cluster of minor joys which surround, and may be made continually to cheer our being. We have endeavored to designate the most prominent of Charles Lamb's traits as an essayist. There is, how- ever, one point to which all that we know of the man con- verges. His literary and personal example tends to one striking lesson, which should not be thoughtlessly receiv- ed. We allude to his singular and constant devotion to the ideal. Indeed he is one of those beings who make us deeply and newly feel how much there is within a human spirit, — how independent it may become of extrinsic aids,-- how richly it may live to itself. Here is an individual whose existence was, for the most part, spent within the smoky precincts of London ; first a school-boy at a popu- lar institution, then a laborious clerk, and at length a " lean annuitant." Public life, with its various mental in- citements, — foreign travel, with its thousand fertilizing associations, — fortune, with the unnumbered objects of taste she affords, — ministered not to him. Yet with what admirable constancy did he follow out that sense of the beautiful, and the perfect, which he regarded as most es- sentially himself! How ardently did he cherish an ideal life ! When outward influences and social restric- tions encroached upon this, his great end, — the drama, 362 CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. his favorite authors, a work of art, or a musing hour, were proved restoratives. He did not gratify his fondness for antiquity among the ruins of the ancient world ; but the Temple cloisters, or an old folio, were more eloquent to him of the past, than the Coloseum is to the mass of travel- lers. He knew not the happiness of conjugal affection ; but his attachment to a departed object was to him a spring of as deep joy, as the unimaginative often find in an actual passion. No little prattlers came about him at even-tide; but dream-children, as lovely as cherubs, so. laced his lonely hours. The taste, the love, the very being of Charles Lamb, was ideal. The struggles for power and gain went on around him ; but the tumult dis- turbed not his repose. The votaries of pleasure swept by him with all the insignia of gaiety and fashion ; but the dazzle and laugh of the careless throng lured him not aside. He felt it was a blessed privilege to stand be- neath the broad heavens, to saunter through the fields, to muse upon the ancient and forgotten, to look into the faces of men, to rove on the wings of fancy, to give scope to the benevolent aflfections, and especially to evolve from his own breast a light "touching all things with hues of heaven ;" in a word to be Elia. And is there not a de- light in contemplating such a life beyond that which the annals of noisier and more heartless men inspire ? In an age of restless activity, associated effort, and a devotion to temporary ends, is there not an unspeakable charm in the character of a consistent idealist ? When we can recall so many instances of the perversion of the poetical tempera- ment in gifted natures, through passion and error, is CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB. 353 there not consolation in the serene and continuous gratifr- cation with which it blessed Lamb? He has now left forever, the haunts accustomed to his presence. No more will Elia indite quaint reminiscences and humorous descriptions for our pleasure ; no more will his criticism enlighten, his pathos affect, or his aphorisms delight us. But his sweet and generous sympathies, his refined taste for the excellent in tetters, his grateful perception of the true good of being, his ideal spirit, dwells latently in every bosom. And all may brighten andr adiate it, till life's cold pathway is warm with the sunshine of the soul. 30* MISCELLANY THE BACHELOR RECL AIMED A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. " So, you are determined not to marry ?" ♦« Absolutely." '«And why?" " In the first place, I never expect to be able to support a wife according to my ideas of comfort. In the second place, I have no hope of meeting a woman \yho will sym- pathise sufficiently with my feelings and views, to be a congenial companion. Thirdly, I cannot bear the idea of adopting as constant associates the relations of her I may love, and fourthly, I consider housekeeping and all the details of domestic arrangements, the greatest bore in existence." This colloquy took place between two young men, in the garden of one of the fashionable hotels at Saratoga. It was a sultry afternoon, and they had retired under the shade of an apple-tree, to digest their dinner, which pro- cess they were facilitating by occasionally puffing some very mild, light-brown Havana segars. The last re- 358 THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. marks were uttered in a very calm and positive tone, by McNiel, a philosophical and quiet gentleman, who had a most sensible theory for everything in life. Among other things, he took great pleasure in the conviction that he thoroughly understood himself. The first time his interest was truly excited by a member of the gentler sex, he had acted in the most extravagant manner, and barely escaped with honor from forming a most injudi- cious connection. To guard against similar mishaps, he had adopted a very ingenious plan. Being uncom- monly susceptible to female attractions, he made it a rule wken charmed by a sweet face, or thrilled by a win- ning voice, to seek for some personal defect or weakness of character, in the fair creature, and obstinately dwell upon these imperfections, until they cast a shade over the redeeming traits, and dissolved the spell he feared. When this course failed, he had but one resource. With FalstafF, he thought discretion the better part of valor, and deliberately fled from the allurements that threatened his peace. Thus he managed not to allow love to take permanent possession, and, after various false alarms and exciting vigils, came to the conclusion that no long siege or sudden attack would ever subdue the citadel of his affections. But McNiel had so braced himself in a spirit of re- sistance, that he had made no provision against the un- conscious lures of beauty. He could chat, for hours, with a celebrated belle, and leave her without a sigh; he could smile at the captivating manners which over- came his fellows. Regarding society as a battle-field, THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. 359 he went thither armed at all points, resolved to main- tain his self-possession, and be on the watch against the wiles of woman. He had seen lovely girls in the draw- ing-room, followed their graceful movements in the dance, heard them breathe songs of sentiment at the piano, and walked beside them on the promenade. On these occasions, he coolly formed an estimate of their several graces, perfectly .appreciated every finely-chiselled nose and tempting lip, noted with care the hue and expression of the eye, but walked proudly away at part- ing, murmuring to himself, <* all this I see, yet am not in love." Bjt who can anticipate the weapon that shall lay him low, or make adequate provision against the inexhaustible resources of love ? McNiel had sat for a week at table, opposite an invalid widow and her daughter. He had passed them potatoes not less than a dozen times, and helped the young lady twice to cherry-pie. The only impression he had derived from their demeanor and appearance, was, that they were very genteel and quiet. On the morning after his conversation in the garden, he awoke just before sunrise, and found him- self lying with his face to the wall, in one of the diminu- tive chambers in which visitors to the Springs are so unceremoniously packed. His eyes opened within six inches of the plaster ; and he amused himself for some minutes, in conjuring the cracks and veins it displayed, into imaginary forms of warriors and animals. At length his mind reverted to himself, and his present quarters. " Well, I've been here just a fortnight,'* thus 360 THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. he mused, " and a pretty dull time I've had of it. Day after day, the same stupid routine. In the morning I swallow six glasses of Congress water at the spring, with the hollow eyes of that sick minister from Con- necticut glaring on me like a serpent, and the die-away tones of that nervous lady from Philadelphia, sounding like a knell in my ears. I cannot drink in peace for those everlasting Misses Hill, who all three chatter at once, and expect me to be entertaining and talkative so early in the morning, with my stomach full of cold liquid, and a long dull day in perspective ! Then comes break- fast. The clatter of plates, the murmur of voices, the rushing of the black waiters, and the variety of steams, make me glad to retreat. I find a still corner of the piazza, and begin to read ; but the flies, a draught of air, or the intrusive gabble of my acquaintances, utterly prevent me from becoming absorbed in a book. It has now grown too warm to walk, and I look in vain for Dr. Clayton, who is the only man here whose conversa- tion interests me. I avoid the billiard-room because I know who I shall meet there. The swing is occupied. The thrumming on the piano of that old maid from Providence, makes the saloon uninhabitable. They are talking politics in the bar-room. The very sight of the newspapers gives me a qualm. I involuntarily begin to doze, when that infernal gong sounds the hour to dress. No matter ; any thing for a relief. Dinner is insuffera- ble ; more show and noise, than relish and comfort. How gladly I escape to the garden and smoke ! That reminds we of what I told Jones, yesterday, about mat- THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. 361 rimony. He laughed at me. But there's no mistake about it. Catch me to give up my freedom, and provide for a family — be pestered with a whole string of new con- nections, when I can't bear those I have now — never have a moment to myself — be obliged to get up in the night for a doctor — have to pay for a boy's schooling, and be plauged to death by him for my pains — be bothered constantly with bad servants — see my wife lose her beauty, in a twelve- month from, care — my goddess become a mere household drudge — give up segars — keep precise hours — take care of sick children — go to market! never, never, never P^ As his reverie thus emphatically terminated, NcNiel slowly raised himself to a sitting posture, in order to as- certain the state of the weather, when a sight presented itself which at once put his philosophy to flight and startled him from his composure. He did not cry out, but hushed his very breath. Beside him lay a female form in profound slumber. Her hair had escaped from its confinement, and fell in the richest profusion around her face. There was a delicate glow upon the cheeks. The lips were scarcely parted. The brow was perfectly serene. One arm was thrust under her head, the other lay stretched upon the coverlid. It was one of those ac- cidental attitudes which sculptors love to embody. The bosom heaved regularly. He felt that it was the slumber of an innocent creature, and that beneath that calm breast beat a kindly and pure heart. He bent over the vision, for so at first it seemed to him, as did Narcissus above the crystal water. The peaceful beauty of that face en- tered his very soul. He trembled at the still regularity of 31 3fi2 THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. the long, dark eye-lashes, as if it were death personified. Recovering himself, all at once something familiar struck him in the countenance. He thought awhile, and the whole mystery was solved. It was the widow's daughter. They occupied the adjoining chamber ; she had gone down stairs in the night to procure something for the in- valid, and on returning, entered in the darkness, the wrong room, and fancying her mother asleep, had as she thought, very quietly taken her place beside her, and was soon lost in slumber. No sooner did this idea take possession of McNiel, than with the utmost caution and a noiseles move- ment, he stole away and removed every vestige of his presence into a vacant apartment opposite, leaving the fair intruder to suppose she alone had occupied the room. At breakfast, he observed the mother and daughter whis- per and smile together, and soon ascertained that they had no suspicion of the actual state of the case. With the delicacy that belonged to his character, McNiel in. wardly vowed to keep the secret forever in his own breast. Meantime, with much apparent hilarity, he prepared to accompany Jones to Lake George. His companion marvelled to perceive this unwonted gaiety wear off as they proceeded in their ride. McNiel became silent and pensive. The evening was fine, and they went upon the lake to enjoy the moonlight. Jones sung his best songs and woke the echoes with his bugle. His friend remain- ed silent, wrapt in his cloak, at the boat's stern. At last, very abruptly he sprang up, and ordered the rowers to land him. *' Where are yon going ?" inquired Jones. " To Saratoga," was the reply. •' Not to-night, surely ?' THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED. t 363 "Yes, now, this instant." Entertaining some fears for his friend's sanity, Jones reluctantly devoted that lovely night to a hard ride over a sandy road, instead of linger- ing away its delightful hours, on the sweet bosom of the lake. Six months after, McNiel married the widow's daugh- ter, and the ensuing summer, when I met him at Sara- toga, he assured me he found it a delightful residence. HAIR. Hair is an eloquent emblem. It is the mother's pride to dress her child's rich locks; the lover's joy to gaze on the hair-locket of his mistress ; the mourner's despair to see the ringlet stir as if in mockery of death, by the mar- ble cheek of the departed. How the hue of hair is hallow- ed to the fancy ! From the " glossy raven" to the " silver, sable," from the " brown in the shadow, and gold in the sun," to the blonde and silken thread, there is a vocabulary of hues appealing to each memory. The beautiful economy of nature is signally displayed in the human hair. The most simple expedient in the animal frame, the meanest adjunct, as it were, to the figure, yet how effective ! " Hyacinthine locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad : * * * * She, as a veil, down to the slender waist, Her unadorned tresses wore, Disheveled, but in wanton ringlets wav'd, As the vine curls her tendrils, which irapUes HAIR. 365 Subjection, but required with gentle away, And by her yielded, by him best received, Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay." In this passage, the blind bard of Paradise has interpret- ed the natural language of woman's hair before the artifi- ces of fashion had marred its natural grace. Whoever has attentively perused one of the pictures of the old mas- ters, where a female figure is represented, must have per- ceived, perhaps unconsciously, that the long flexible ring- lets conveyed an impression to the mind of dependence. The short, tight curls of a gladiatorial statue, on the con- trary, give the idea of self-command and unyielding will. There is a poetical charm in the unshorn tresses of a beautiful woman, which Milton has not exaggerated. I have seldom received a more sad conviction of the bitter- ness of poverty, than was conveyed by the story of a lovely girl in one of the continental towns, who was obliged to sell her hair for bread. She was of humble parentage, but nature had adorned her head with the rarest perfection. Her luxuriant and glowing ringlets, constituted the pride of her heart. She rejoiced in this distinction as the re- deeming point of her destiny. Often would a blush of pleasure suffuse her cheek as she caught a stranger's eye regarding them with admiration, when at her lowly toil. The homeliness of her garb, and the poverty of her condition were relieved by this native adornment. It is wonderful to what slight tokens the self-respect of poor mortals will cling, and how the very maintenance of virtue often de- pends upon some frail association. A strain of musie, 31* 366 HAIR. ; glimpses of a remembered countenance, a dream, a word will often annihilate a vile intention, or unseal the fount- ain of the heart. A palm tree in England drew tears from an Eastern wanderer ; and the native wisdom of Jeanie Deans led her to make her first visit to the Duke of Argyle, arrayed in a plaid, knowing his honor's heart " would warm to the tartan." And thus to the simple- hearted maiden her rich and flowing hair was a crown of glory — the only circumstance that elevated her in her own estimation. And when the iron necessity of want came upon her, and she was a homeless orphan — when every ihing had been parted with, and all appeals to compassion had failed, the spirit of the poor creature yielded to hun- ger, and she sold her hair. Before this sacrifice, she had resisted, with the heroism of innocence, the temptation to purchase food at the expense of honor. But when the wants of nature were appeased, and she went forth shorn of her cherished ornament, the consciousness of her loss induced despair, and she resigned herself hopelessly to a career of infamy. Abundant hair is said to be indicative of strength, and fine hair, of susceptibility. In the hair are written the stern lessons of life. It falls away from the head of sick- ness, and the brows of the thoughtful. The bright lot of childhood is traced in its golden threads, the free buoyancy of youth is indicated by its wild luxuriance ; the throe of anguish, the touch of age, entwine it with a silver tissue ; and intensity of spirit will there anticipate the snows of time. The hair of Columbus was white at thirty ; and before that period, Shelley's dark waving curls were dash- HAIR. 367 ed with snow. In the account of the execution of the unfortunate Mary, the last touch of pathos is given to the scene when it is stated that as the executioner held up the severed head, it was perceived that the auburn locks were thickly strewn with grey. Associations of sentiment attach strongly to the hair. Around it is wreathed the laurel garland of fame. Amid it tremble the flowers of a bridal. Putting up the hair is the signal of womanhood. The Andalusian women al- ways wear roses in their glossy black hair. The barba- rous practice ot scalping doubtless originated in a savage idea of desecrating the temple of the soul, as well as of gathering trophies of victory. The head is shaven by the monks in token of humility, and the sta- tionary civilization of the Chinese is indicated by no custom more strikingly than that of wearing only a single cue, the very acme of unpicturesque. There were few more characteristic indications of a highly artificial state of society than the absurd style of dressing the head once so fashionable. Even at the present day, no part of fe- male costume betrays individual taste more clearly than the style in which the hair is worn. To tear the hair is a true expression of despair, and the patriarchal ceremony of scattering ashes on the head, was the deepest sign of sorrow. Plow much the desolate grandeur of the scene on the heath, in Lear, is augmented by his " white flakes" that " challenge pity," and what a picture we have of Bas- sanio's love, when he says — " Her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, 368 HAIR. Which makes her seat at Belmont, Colchos strand, And many Jasons come in quest of her. '■ The women at the siege of Messina, wrought their h«iir into bow-strings for the archers, and on a similar occasion in the Spanish wars, the females of a small garrison bound their hair under the chin, to appear like beard, and ar- ranging themselves on the ramparts, induced the enemy to surrender. Sampson's hair was singularly associated with his mis- fortunes, and the abundant locks of Absalom wrought the downfall of his pride. It is often a net to entrap the affections. The hair speaks to the heart. Laura's flying tresses haunted Petrarch's fancy : " Qual Ninfa in fonti, in selve, mai qual Dea Chiome d' oro si fino a I'aura sciolse ?" That the hair may figure to advantage in literature, the "Rape of the Lock," is an immortal proof. The Puri- tans cut it short and the cavaliers wore it luxuriantly. Human vanity displays itself nowhere more conspicuously than in the arrangement of the hair. When Benedict enumerates the qualifications required in a wife, he says in conclusion — " her hair shall be of what color it please God ;" — alluding to the common custom of dyeing the hair. Bassanio, when moralizing on the caskets, utters a satire upon false hair ; " So are those crisped snaky, golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The scull that bred them in the sepulchre." HAIR. 369 Among the beautiful touches, alike true to nature and poetry, in Talfourd's Ion, is the language of the dying Adrastus to his newly-discovered son : — " I am growing weak, And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head, Lo I Lo ! thy hair is glossy to the touch As when I last enwreathed its tiny curl About my finger." It is the surviving memorial of our physicial existence : "There seems a love in hair, though it be dead — It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant — a blossom from the tree, Surviving the proud trunk ; as if it said, Patience and gentleness is power. In me Behold aflfectionate eternity." D'Israeli paints Contarini Fleming, the creature of passion, after his wife's death, as clipping off her long tresses, twining them about his neck, and springing from a precipice. Miss Porter makes Helen Mar embroider into the banner of VVallace, the ensanguined hair of his murdered Marion. Goldsmith's coffin was opened to ob- tain some of his hair for a fair admirer, and there is a striking anecdote'of a man who was prevented from decla- ring love to his friend's betrothed, by recognizing on the hand he had clasped, a ring, containing the hair of his rival. With what a pathetic expressiveness does the f' Cenci" conclude : Beatrice. *' Give yourself no unnecessary pain. My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, mother, tie 370 HAIR. My girdle for me, and bind up my hair In any simple knot ; ay, that does well. And yours, I see, is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another ! and now We shall not do it any more. My hood ! We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well." The dialogue between King John and Constance, is very significant : — King Philip. *' Bind up those tresses. Oh, what love I note n v^ In the fair multitude of those her hairs ! Where, but by chance, a silver dross hath fallen, Even to that dross ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief; Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity." Constance. " To England, if you will." King Philip. " Bind up your hairs." Constance. " Yes, that I will and wherefore will I do it ? I tore ihem from their bonds ; and cried aloud, Oh, that these hands could so redeem ray son, As they have given these hairs their liberty ! But now I envy at their liberty. And will again commit them to their bonds. Because my poor child is a prisoner." [EYE-LANGUAGE, Of Nature's minuter wonders, the human" eye is the paragon. — Vainly will Science explore her rich arcana for a more impressive example of the marvels she would illustrate. But it is not the apparatus which the delicate knife of the anatomist reveals — the retina and lenses, or even their combined arrangement that most strikingly indicates the subtle workmanship involved in the little fleshy globule we call the eye ; — it is the effect they pro- duce, the purposes they subserve, the results they accom- plish. Far greater are these than the careless crowd dream of ; far more marvelous than even the intelligent and imaginative can fully realize. The phenomenon of sight is, indeed, sufficiently extraordinary. Not less so are the minor missions which the visual organ fulfils. The eye speaks — with an eloquence and a truthfulness surpassing speech. It is the window out of |which the winged thoughts often fly unwittingly. It is the tiny magic mirror on whose crystal surface the moods of feel- ing fitfully play, like the sunlight and shadows on a still stream. Yes— if there is one material form through 372 EYE-LANGUAGE. which the spirit is visible, and with which, when humanly embodied, it has specially to do, that form is the eye. Even in animals it is emphatically the expressive feature. Who that has noted the look of timid fondness with which a recreant dog approaches his master, or observed the gleam of wo with which the dying deer regards his hunters — and has not felt this ? How much more significant is the language of the human eye ! How ceaselessly does it represent the soul ! The instrument by which our most valuable knowledge is received ; it is, at the same time, the outward interpreter of the inward world. How imme- diate and delicate is the spirit's sway over the aspects and movements of this complicated organ ! Instinctively it is raised in devotion, and bent downward in shame. When enthusiasm lends fire to the soul, the eye flashes ; when pleasure stirs the heart, the eye sparkles ; when deep sorrow darkens the bosom, the eye distils hot tears, " faster than Arabian trees their medicinal gum ;" when confidence stays the mind, the eye looks forth proudly ; when love fills the breast, the eye beams wilh glad sympathy ; when insanity desolates the brain, the eye roves wildly ; and o'er the eye Death most eierts his might, And hurls the spirit from her throne to light. Thus through all the epochs of human experience, tiie eye typifies the workings of the soul. To a warm-hearted wanderer through the world — to one who finds in his fellow- beings the chief sources of by-way pleasure — to a benevolent cosmopolite who is an adept in eye-language, it is a delightful and constant resource. EYE-LANGUAGE. 373 He may be a silent man as far as regards his organs of speech, yet he is ever conversing. In a stage-coach, by one glance around, he discovers with whom he can find sympathy. With these he interchanges looks during the journey, and enjoys all the delights of sociability with none of its trials. He reads family histories in the eye- language of their members. If he but catch the 'bonnie blue e'en ' of the passing peasant girl, a cheerful humor is induced which abides with him for hours. And the momentary beaming of a pair of dark lustrous orbs, fills him with high and moving thoughts. A glance to him is rife with expression, beyond that of his vernacular tongue. And thus gazing into these fountains for refresh- ment, and drawing thence inspiration and solace, his eye at length meets one, the glance of which is deeply re- sponsive — an eye that shines like the star of a happy destiny into his soul, and he is not again contented till the beautiful orb beams only for him, and becomes the light of his home. The most interesting portion of his studies in eye-language is completed. A modern writer, in order to illustrate an almost indescribable sen- timent, says « it was like the eye of a woman first-loved to the soul of the poet,' There is no lack of well-authenticated instances to prove the power of eye-language. An infuriated animal has often been kept trembling at bay, by the steadfast gaze of man, beneath which its own angry eye quailed, yet could not turn aside. I knew a venerable man who kept a powerful ruffian quietly seated in his little parlor for an hour at night, while the only servant of his small 32 374 EYE-LANGUAGE. household was absent in quest of aid, merely hy silently fixing upon him a fearless look, such as awed his pervert- ed heart and chained his strong limbs. Many a rebuke has been silently but deeply conveyed, by the calm yet indignant glance of the injured. How intuitively does a child understand the slightest expression of its mother's eye! How well do congenial beings comprehend their affinity before any communion, save that of eye-converse ! Consider, too, the singular duration of the impression imparted by this feature. The world abounds with minute symbols. Each small and exquisite flower, gem or in- sect, addresses the sense of the beautiful ; yet they inter- est but for a moment. What mofe expressive similitude has poetry found for the stars, than * angels' eyes 1 ' The living gem of nature is the eye, and how like a spell doth its language haunt us ! Even in the pictures of the old masters, the effect is often centered in the expression of this single organ. What fanciful man, having an inkling of superstition within him, has not sometimes imagined a portrait animated with life ? Shroud the eyes, and the fantasy is gone. It has been finally remarked of Titian's portraits that they look at us more than we at them. We may forget the countenance of a friend from whom we are divided, in many respects ; but if our interest has ever been truly awakened in a fellow-being, the eye-language of the individual can scarcely escape our memories. Who cannot recall, though he may not de- scribe, the eye-language with which a gifted man, under some strong inspiration, has uttered a memorable thought, or that v^ith which one near and dear to him has breathed EYE-LANGUAGE. 375 aught of deep interest to his ear 1 The dignity of self- possessed thought was in the eye of Paul, ere his words affected Festus. The beaming glance of the Grecian mo- ther pointed outher jewelsbefore her lips proclaimed them. The unfortunate know a friend and are re-assured, the timid recognise a master spirit and are nerved, and the guilty know their accuser and quail, at the first momentary meeting of their gaze. Beware of the man whose eye you can never meet. Correggio excelled in painting downcast eyes ; those of AUston's pictures are remarkable for their grey, intel- lectual expression. The St. Cecilia of Raphael probably presents the best instance in the art, of the upturned eyes of inspiration. Eye-langu;ige is richly illustrated in the pages of Shakspeare. What an idea is given of its per- version in Lear's adjuration to the unfortunate Gloster : — Get thee glass eyes ; And like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Addressing Regan, he says of Goneril, ' her eyes are fierce, but thine do comfort and not burn.' Cordelia envies not their ' still soliciting eyes' and her more hon- est orbs, at length, prove their sincerity, by shedding ' tears as pearls from diamonds dropp'd.' Othello when first awoke to jealousy, in order to satisfy his doubts, ex- claims to Desdemona, ' let me see your eyes !' Alas ! that he did not credit their truthful expression. Fear, too,* is strongly evinced by the same wondrous organs. In the awfal hints the Gh )st gives Hainlet of • that undiscov- ed country,' among the effects prophecied from a more full 376 EYE-LAKGUAGE. revelation, is to make his * eyes like stars start from their spheres.' In some eyes, the bard bids us behold 'a lurk- ing devil,' in others * love's richest book,' — in the poet's ' a fine frenzy ;' and, be it remembered, it was upon the eyes that that Puck was ordered to squeeze the little purple flower. Perdita with her fine imagination, could find no better similitude for ' violets dim ' than ' the lids of Juno's eyes.' Prospero exultingly declares, when Ferdinand and Miranda meet, « at the first glance, they have chang- ed eyes.' Hear Olivia in Twelfth Night : Methinks T feel this youth's perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth, To creep in at mine eyes. What poet has presented such an image of the closed eyes of beauty as that contained in lachimo's soliloquy over the sleeping Imogen ? — ' the flame o' the taper Bows towards her, and would underpeep her lids To see th' enclosed lights now canopied "With blue of Heaven's own tinct.' The prominent part this miraculous little globe per- forms in love, is indicated by Romeo in Capulet's gar- den ; * She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of that ? Her eye discourses, I will answer it.' And when Juliet warns him of her kinsman's designs, he ardently exclaims, — ' Alack ! there hes more peril in thine eye. Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.' EYE. LANGUAGE. 377 The fair object of his passion, as if to reciprocate the sentiment, upon the idea of his death, cries out. — * To prison eyes ! ne'er look on liberty !' Wolsey anticipated his downfall from the glance of King Henry ; — " ruin leaped from his eyes." Faulcon- bridge, as the favors of fortune depart from King John, bids him Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motions of a kingly eye. Biron, in Love's Labors Lost, in balancing the advan- tages of book-lore and eye-language, declares — From women's eye this doctrine I derive : They are the ground, the books, the academies, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. For where is any author in the world, Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye ? How finely is the moral expression of the eye suggest- ed by the Friar who advocates the innocence of Hero ;— * in her eye there hath appeared a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Bassanio augurs his success with Portia because, he says Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair, speechless messages. And even the incorrigible Benedick says to Beatrice — " I will be buried in thy eyes." Phoebe declares of Rosa- lind— 32* 378 EYE. LANGUAGE. ' faster than his tongue Did make ofience, his eye did heal it up.' In discussing the beauty of the ancient Greeks, Shel- ley suggests that the eyes of the women of that nation, on account of their social degradation, « could not have been deep and intricate from the workings of the mind.' Eye-language is, indeed, no light test of cultivation ; of native disposition it is a most authentic reporter. Hunt, in describing the hero of Rimini, alludes with singular beauty, to the ' easy dignity there lies In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes.' Who has not realized the power of Byron's simile — * like the light of a dark eye in woman V Falstaff vaunts of Page's wife « sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.' Uncle Toby's dan- gerous experiment in the sentry-box is well-known ; and what a holy guidance Petrarch found in the eyes of Laura ! Gentil mia donna, io veggio Nel mover de 'vostri occhi un dolce lame Che mi mostra la via che al ciel conduce. An old dramatist has this conceit ; — A smile shoots graceful upvi'ard from her eyes, As if they had gained a victory o'er g'ief ; And with it many beams twisted themselves, Upon whose golden threads the angels walk To and again from heaven. EYE-LANGUAGE. 379 Eye-language in its sweetest manifestations, is unfor- tunately liable to change, like every thing delightful upou this earth. Touching this, a bacheloric essayist of some note, thus reasoneth : — ' Ask the married man who has been so but a short time,'if those blue eyes, where, during many years of anxious courtship, truth, sweetness, sereni- iy seemed to be written in characters which could not be misunderstood, ask him if the characters they now con- vey, be exactly the same ? if for truth, he does not read a dull virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not only because it wants the judgment to make a preference ? if for sweetness, he does not read a stupid habit of being pleased at everything, if for sincerity he does not read ani- mal tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of passion can stir into health.' According to Burke, clearness has much to do with the beauty of the eye, and a languid movement of the organ is most fascinating. Thus Venus is represented with droop- ing lids. It is observable that while intense thought is in- dictated by a fixed gaze, pleasurable emotions, especially of a quiet kind, induce the lids to fall somewhat, while the orb gently rolls. A naturalist once gave me a most vivid description of a species of eagle common in the West, the vibration of whose eye corresponded precisely with that of the second hand of an old-fashioned clock. Whoever has attentively watched the progress of a bust under the hand of the modeller, must have realized the importance of shape in giving its peculiar character to the eye. In- deed, the skill of an artist may be estimated, in no small degree, by his success in this regard. Inferior sculptors 380 EYE. LANGUAGE. generally fail in representing nice distinctions in the form of the individual eye, which once caught, gives it even in the cold and colorless marble, a life-like appearance. Richly expressive as is the human eye, the depths and gradations of its language are not to be lightly scanned. Men of the most profound sentiment not unfrequently wear an aspect of indifference, because common life awakens not their spirits. We are often startled by the eye-lan- guage of such persons, from the intensity with which it breaks from the dimness of habitual reserve. I remember two nobly endowed individuals — devoted to very different pursuits — whose eyes are seldom lifted from the down- ward gaze of meditation. 1 have often remarked the effect upon their whole aspect, when, under the excitement of a happy thought, they raise their eyes from their veiled abodes. The sudden rising of a smiling star in a monotonous sky, or the quick gleaming of a sunbeam athwart a dim land- scape, could not be more electrical. We are told of Cole- ridge, that in moments of intense abstraction, his eyes were so void of language as to appear almost senseless ; yet in an expressive mood they were proverbially eloquent. And it is said of Schiller, "his deportment, his gait, the mould of his limbs, his least motion was dignified and grand, 07ily his eyes were soft, " Whoever remarked the eye of Spurzheim when he spoke of ' the little beings,' — child- ren, must have realized the mildness and warmth of his benevolence. I can never forget the conception of the power of eye-language which dawned upon me, on seeing an Italian vocalist, at the very climax of an opera, suffer the melody to die away, and look the intense feeling of the EYE-LANGUAGE. 381 moment so effectively as to visibly impress the silent multitude. Having heard much of the eye-language of an accomplished lady, I was several times at great pains to observe, but was invariably unsuccessful. The con- versation in each instance, had been of a general nature, which helped to reconcile me to the disappointment. Be- ing soon after possessed of some circumstances of the lady's history which gave me a clue to her inward experi- ence, I managed on the next opportunity to strike the ' electric chain,' and draw her into a brief but touching narration. The gradual increase of expression and even- tual melting gaze induced by the excitement, was more moving than any pathos of mere words or circumstance that I ever knew. The comparative dearth of eye-language in this coun- try is lamentably significant of the narrow sway of the Ideal, and the rarity of fresh and spontaneous self- development. Exceptions, many and brilliant, there doubtless are ; — but the traveller who has been wont to note the eloquent activity and profundity of expression of the eye in most of the continental countries, will feel, as he wanders about the new world, a difference, not to say a deficiency, in this respect. The guarded expression, the waving, the indifferent or at best merely brisk tenor of eye-language among the busy men around him, cannot escape his notice. And when from beneath a fair brow, or in the glance of an enthusiast, the mystic organ speaks with unwonted freedom and effect, he feels revived as by a fondly-remembered tune. Beautiful are the workings of the mystic and microscopic machine. The flowers and 382 EYE-LANGUAGE. the stars speak a moving language ; but from the eye beams what will endure when fragrance and light are no more. The curious characters of written language — bar- ren words treasured up by lexicographers, and arbitrarily decreed — the lovelier hieroglyphics which bespangle the sky, or deck the fields, — what are they compared with the more subtle signs which beam in the visual organs — the breathings of the soul, in that " Bright ball on which the spirit sate Through life, and looked out in its various moods Of gentleness and joy and love and hope, And gained this frail flesh credit in the world.' ' ART AND ARTISTS. 1 WAS struck, recently, with an unfinished sketch by a young artist, who has since lost his reason from the in- tense activity of a rarely-gifted, but ill-balanced mind. It struck me as an eloquent symbol of his inward experi- ence — a touching comment upon his unhappy fate. He called the design « an artist's dream. It represented the studio of a painter. An easel, a pallet, a port-folio, and other insignia of the art, are scattered with professional negligence, about the room. At a table sits the youthful painter, his head resting heavily on his arm, buried in sleep. From the opposite side of the canvass the shadowy outlines of a long procession seemed winding along, the figures growing more distinct as they recede. In the front rank and with more defined countenances, walk the most renowned of the old masters, and pressing hard upon their steps, the humbler members of that noble bro- therhood. It was a mere sketch — unfinished, but dimly mapped out, like the career of its author, yet full of pro- mise, and indicative of invention. It revealed, too, the dreams of fame that were agitating that young heart ; and 384 ART AND ARTISTS. proved that his spirit was with the honored leaders of the art. This sketch is a symbol of the life of a true artist. Upon his fancy throng the images of those whose names are immorial. It is his day-dream to emulate the great departed — to bless his race — to do justice to himself. The early difficulties of their career, and the excitement of their experience, give to the lives of artists a singular interest. West's first expedient to obtain a brush — Bar- ry's proud poverty, Fuseli's vigils over Dante and Milton ; Reynolds, the centre of a gifted society ; the ' devout quiet* of Flaxman's home, and similar memories, crowd upon the mind, intent upon their works. Existence, with them is a long dream. I have ever honored the fraternity, and loved their society, and musing upon the province they occupy in the business of the world, I seem to recog- nize a new thread of beauty interlacing the mystic tissue of life. In speaking of the true artist, I allude rather to his principles of action, than to his absolute power of ex- ecution. Mediocrity, indeed, is sufHcienily undesirable in every pursuit, and is least endurable, perhaps, in those with which we naturally associate the highest ideas of ex- cellence. But when we look upon artists as a class — when we attempt to estimate their influence as a profes- sion, our attention is rather drawn to the tendency of their pursuit, and to the general characteristics of its votaries. " Man !" says Carlyle, " it is not thy works which are all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance." In this point of view, the artist, who has adopted his vocation from a native impulse, ART AND ARTISTS. 385 who is a sincere worshipper of the beautiful aud the pic- turesque, exerts au insensible, but not less real influence upon society, although he may not rank among the high- est, or float on the stream of popularity. Let this console the neglected artist. Let this thought comfort him, pos- sessed of one talent — if the spirit he worketh in is true, he shall not work in vain. Upon some mind his converse will ingraft the elements of taste. In some heart will his lonely devotion to an innocent but unprofitable object, awa- ken sympathy. In his very isolation — in the solitude of his undistinguished and unpampered lot, shall he preach a si- lent homily to the mere devotee of gain, and hallow to the eye of many a philanthropist, the scenes of bustling and heartless traffic. I often muse upon the life of the true artist, until it re- deems to my mind the more prosaic aspects of human ex- istence. It is deeply interesting to note this class of men in Italy. There they breathe a congenial atmosphere. Often subsisting upon the merest pittance, indulging in every vagary of costume, they wander over the land, and yield themselves freely to the spirit of adventure, and the luxury of art. They are encountered with their portfolios, in the midst of the lone campagna, beside the desolate ruin, before the masterpieces of the gallery, and in the Cathedral-chapel. They roam the streets of those old and picturesque cities at night, congregate at the caffe, and sing cheerfully in their studios. They seem a privileged class, and manage, despite their frequent poverty, to ap- propriate all the delights of Italy. They take long tours on foot, in search of the picturesque ; engage in warm 33 386 ART AND ARTISTS. discussions together, on questions of art, and lay every town they visit, under contribution for some little romance. It is a rare pastime to listen to the love-tales and wild speculations of these gay wanderers. The ardent youih from the Rhine, the pensioner from Madrid, and the mer- curial Parisian, smoke their pipes in concert, and wrangle good-humoredly over national peculiarities, as they copy in the palaces. Thorwaldsen is wont to call his birth-day the day on which he entered Rome. And when we con- sider to what a new existence that epoch introduces the artist, the expression is scarcely metaphorical. It is the dawning of a fresher and a richer life, the day that makes him acquainted with the wonders of the Vatican, the palace halls lined with the trophies of his profession, the daily walk on the Pincian, the solemn loneliness of the sur- rounding fields, the beautiful ruins, the long, dreamy day, and all the poetry of life at Rome. Whoever has fre- quently encountered Thorwaldsen in the crowded saloon, or visited him on a Sabbath morning, must have read in his bland countenance and benignant smile, the record of his long and pleasant sojourn in the Eternal city. To him it has been a theatre of triumph and benevolence. Everywhere in Italy are seen the enthusiastic pilgrims of art, who have roamed thither from every part of the globe. Each has his tale of self denial, and his vision of fame. At the shrines of Art they kneel together. Year by year they collect, in the shape of sketches and copies, the cherished memorials of their visit. A few linger on, until habit makes the country almost necessary to their existence, and they establish themselves in Florence or ART AND ARTISTS. 387 Rome. Those whom necessity ohliges to depart, tear themselves, full of tearful regret, from the genial clime. Many who come to labor, content themselves with admi- ring, and glide into dreamy habits from which want, alone, can rouse them. Others become the most devoted students, and toil with unremitting euergy, A French lady, attached to the Bourbon interest, has long dwelt in Italy, intent upon a monument to Charles X. Her talents for sculpture are of a high order, and her enthusiasm for royalty, extreme. Her hair is cut short like that of a man, and she wears a dark robe, similar to that with which Por- tia appears on the stage. Instances of a like self-devo- tion to a favorite project in art, are very common among those who are voluntary exiles in that fair land. One reason why the most famous portraits of the old masters, such as the Fornarina of Raphael and La Bella of Titian, are so life-like and inspire so deep a sense of their authen- ticity, is doubtless that the originals were objects of affec- tion and familiar by constant association and sympathy, to the minds of the artists. This idea is unfolded in one of Webster's plays, where the advantage of a portrait taken without a formal sitting, is displayed with much quaint- ness and beauty : — " Must you have my picture ? You will enjoin me to a strange punishment. With what a compell'd force a woman sits While she is drawing! I have noted divers Either to feign a smile, or suck in their Ups, To liave a httle mouth ; ruffle the cheeks To have the dimples seen; and so disorder The face with affectation, at next sitting 388 ART AND ARTISTS. It has not been the same : I have known others Have lost the entire fashion of their face In half an hour's sitting, — in hot weather, The painting on their face has been so mellow, They have left the poor man harder work by half To mend the copy he wrought by : but, indeed. If ever I should have mine drawn to the life, I would have a painter steal at such a time I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers ; There is then a heavenly beauty in't, the soul Moves in the superfices." Though the mere tyros in the field of letters and of art, those who pursue these liberal aims without either the genius that hallows, or the disinterestedness that redeems them, are not worthy of encouragement — let respect await the artist whose life and conversation multiply the best fruits of his profession — whose precept and example are effective, although nature may have endowed him with but a limited practical skill. There is a vast diflerence be- tween a mere pretender and one whose ability is actual but confined. A man with the soul of an artist, is a valu. able member of society, although his eye for color may be imperfect, or his drawing occasionally careless. There is, in truth, no more touching spectacle, than is presented by a human being whose emotions are vivid, but whose expression is fettered ; in whose mind is the conception which his hand struggles in vain to embody, or his lips to utter. It is a contest between matter and spirit, which angels might pity. It is this very struggle, on a broad scale, which it is the great purpose of all art and all liter- ature to relieve. '< It is in me, and it shall come out,'* said Sheridan, after his first failure as an orator* And the ART AP "> j^J_-»_» __;n>5> g r :iOr>:)T)> .-t*:^_» 5tKJ' ^1iS^3ar53> y ' 5S*j3ff-^i^^^ -' J> T)^^>p>JD> > :P>^^^> >:>>■: 3r "3ife^8>3^^ 3^ :)^ )Vx3i^>?*— V 1 > =; ^i l&»^^ ^ W^^^f my fei3i33ik;)) ' 1 >J » ^-^=^j>»^^j3B»j~-v^ ^^^ ^^H'-iS ^ > r » J^^^ 11 ^#'$^ ^^^^^m^ m ■■^^hJ > 0»>