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 Book 
 
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fai'M 
 
 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, M. A. 
 
 ( For private circulation. ) 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 ©asms?. 
 
 1855. 
 
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 ^H 6 ' 
 
 .- 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 1836. 
 
 —1844. 
 
 Scene from « The Cid. » ) 
 
 \ Published in 
 Elegy ) 
 
 ( Stanzas from * The Wreck of the Roscommon. & \ 
 
 ( The dylng soldier and the girl upon the rock. ( From the same. ) i 
 
 ( La Belle Grecque ) 
 
 Llnes to { I 
 
 (^ La Belle Rose \ 
 
 The Bas-Bretons (a jeu d'esprit) 
 
 The Rocks of Penmarc'h, a sketch upon the coast of Lower Brittany. . 
 
 The Insurrection of June , as it was felt at Dinan 
 
 i Specimens of Translation from the French 
 
 The Lay of the Lark ^ 
 
 Le Grand-Bey, or The Tomb of Chateaubrund 
 
 A Tribute to May 
 
 Winter-Flowers 
 
 A Sketch of Levy's Warehouse , S' Margaret's Bank , Rochester 
 
 La Marseillaise , a translated compilation 
 
 The Flight of the Swallow 
 
 The Revel of the Missel-Thrush 
 
 Reflections in a cemetery abroad 
 
 Nelson 
 
 The debtor's dodge , or the miller and the bailiff 
 
 The Common Home , or the grave again , 
 
 Lines to a post 1853. 
 
 •1845. 
 
 ■1818. 
 
 1819. 
 
 ■1851 
 
 ■1852. 
 
 * One of five others , that , deservedly or no , were'spared the flames , to which the Play itself— 
 written in 1829, a crude composition and anything but a translation, whether loose or literal, of the 
 celebrated chef-d'ceuvre of Corneille ,— was speedily consigned. Rs « evident aim at something good, » 
 however, (the opinion formed of it by William Godwin) induced the author to act upon a maxim of my 
 Uncle Newbury's, and « try again. » The sequel, in the shape of these opuscula, is in part before 
 the reader, who , of course, will judge for himself of its failure or success. 
 
By way of finale to his publications in tlie larger shape , the author has added to the brochures , 
 accompanied by a title-page and a table of contents , a reprint in i'° of divers of his verses , that 
 originally appeared in the minor and commodious form , which he means to readopt. Such of his 
 accustomed readers, then, as may wish (like himself) to get the things together into one volume, may 
 do so with very little trouble and at very little cbst. Should the collection of them , as possessed by 
 this or that friend , chance to be imperfect , the deficit is traceable to an inadvertency in keeping or 
 the inability to give. As far as the limited copies would allow , the writer has endeavoured , by the 
 distribution of them here , to cement his social relations abroad , and preserve unbroken , by means of 
 the simple envoi , his older ties at home. 
 
 Dinan. March 10">, 
 
 1853. 
 
 
 
 
SCENE FROM THE CID; 
 
 AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i. A retired part of the grounds of Ximenu's new residence. An old 
 chapel in the foreground. The moon just rising. 
 
 Rodeeigo. (entering cautiously.) 
 
 Tis well. This labyrinth had maz'd my steps, 
 
 But for old Marcos' honest clue. There gleams 
 
 The lightning-blasted cedar he describ'd. 
 
 And hither doth she come, on moonlit eves, 
 
 E'en by Elvira unattended , as 
 
 He saith, to mourn, and meditate, and pray. 
 
 None dare her lonely orisons disturb. 
 
 So hath ordain'd our feeling Sovereign, 
 
 Who by his royal presence ne'er hath thrown 
 
 Suspicion on his motives. With this arm , 
 
 Once more to strength restor'd, such kingly grace, 
 
 Should life be spar'd, will I one day repay. 
 
 What "s here , that seems some antiquated chapel 
 
 With mossy cushion? nothing doth it bear 
 
 To show its dedication , save these few 
 
Funereal flowers, that smell of yesterday. 
 
 What was that sound? the throbbing of my heart 
 
 Again? this eve gone by, may its dull beat 
 
 Be hush'd for ever ! I already find 
 
 The real punishment's to live, not die. 
 
 Far more than death I dread an interview, 
 
 For which far more than life I'd gladly risk. 
 
 (He listens, then hastily conceals himself. Ximejnw enters with a small wreath. 
 Xim. My flowers begin to fail me. These are all 
 I 've cull'd to-day, to offer with my pray'r. 
 
 (She enters the chapel, and takes off the faded wreath, replacing it with the 
 fresh one. She throws the former into the stream, running by.) 
 
 Go , go your ways , ye wither'd short-liv'd things ! 
 Ye are as frail as mortal happiness- 
 Duration dwells above, and there I fix- 
 
 (She reenters the chapel, where she Kneels and prays, while Roderigo steals 
 from where he had concealed himself, and kneels,- so as to seen by XiMENA on 
 coming forth from the chapel.. His face is shrouded in Ms mantle. On beholding 
 him in that attitude, Ximeka seems undecided to stay or go. At last speaks.) 
 
 Hide not thy face : my heart betrays thy name. 
 
 What dost thou here? kneel'st thou to: Heav'n or me? 
 
 Both hast thou outrag'd. For thy sin to Him, 
 
 May all my trials — reason overthrown , 
 
 Hope crush'd , love blighted, young heart broken — win thee 
 
 Thy God's forgiveness ! For thy wrongs to me , 
 
 I struggle to forget them. Answer not, 
 
 But go the way thou cam'st. — (going.) 
 Bod. (in a low lone) Ximena! 
 
 Xim. What 
 
 Would'st thou with me? 
 
;Ron. Nothing. 
 
 Xim. Thou tellest, then, 
 
 lu one short word the story of our love , 
 For that is nothing now. — (going.) 
 
 Ron. (in a loader tone) Ximena ! 
 
 Xim. Go 
 
 While yet thou may'st. These trees have all a tongue. 
 
 Rod. If thou didst ever 
 
 Xim. — hist! his spirit hears 
 
 Each word , and counts the very syllables. 
 Away ! — (going) 
 
 Ron. (louder still) Ximena! — (rises from his knees, and hurries 
 
 towards her.) 
 
 Xim. Fly, if thou wonld'st live! — [listens anxiously.) 
 
 Ron. Life without hope is death : I 've naught to lose. 
 
 Xim. Still selfish as before, of me thou ne'er 
 
 Dost think. Is't not enough , that I with thee 
 
 Thus risk my own esteem, but thou must needs 
 
 Proclaim my weakness to the treacherous air? — (listens again.) 
 
 If, as thou say'st, life without hope is death, 
 
 What without honour would it be? 
 
 Ron. The thing, 
 
 That injur'd honour, unaveng'd, would be. 
 
 Xim. Check that presumptuous and exulting tone! 
 Was it for thee, with spendthrift petulance, 
 To play such fearful stakes? Was it for thee, 
 With bold and self-commission'd arm , to mar 
 Tb' Almighty's work? Who gifted thee with power 
 To ply so soon the orphan-making trade? 
 Who order'd thee to smite me to the dust, 
 And trample on my feelings, till I crawl'd 
 
Like an insensate reptile on the earth! 
 
 Who order'd thee to pile upon my young 
 
 And inoffensive head a mass of ills , 
 
 Too mighty to endure? 
 Eod. I had no choice. 
 
 Xim. Thou mean'st, no love for me. 
 
 Rod. The wrong was great. 
 
 Xim. So should thy mind have been. 
 Rod. And "gainst my sire. 
 
 Xim. Could he not right himself! 
 Rod. He was too old 
 
 To 'venge his house's fame, 
 Xim. And thou by me 
 
 Too lov'd, to work the misery of mine. 
 
 But that I guess our jarring fathers us'd 
 
 Such hasty speech , as neither knight could brook , 
 
 This converse ne'er had been. E'en now it seems 
 
 Like sacrilege to linger here with one, 
 
 Whose steel, together with the parent's heart, 
 
 Ahn'd at the daughter's too. 
 Rod. Take , then , the sword. 
 
 Xim. I dare not even look upon the blade : 
 
 It is so blotted with my father's blood. 
 
 My duty bids me pardon thee the past, 
 
 But we must never, never meet again. 
 Rod. I 11 trouble thee no more. — (walks in the direction of Ihe villa.) 
 Xim. Roderigo ! 
 
 This path will lead thee to thy doom. 
 Rod. And that 
 
 To my despair : I choose between the two. — (walking as before.) 
 Xim. Spare my weak brain : it hath been craz'd already. 
 
Rod. Thou hast heen happier, then, than I, for still 
 O'er mine did Reason mount her -wretched guard. 
 I have dragg'd through a century of woe, 
 Though in my years so young. I have liv'd o'er 
 — Yea ! times more many than the sphered stars , 
 That spangle yon celestial canopy — 
 Each moment of our love. 
 Xim. — Speak not of that. — 
 
 Rod. E'en from the hour, when, sad and undeceive! 
 In its oft-baffled, oft-renew'd pursuit 
 Of some congenial mind, with thine mine own 
 First met and lov'd. — Thou wert the blissful coast, 
 For which so long its chartless course it steer'd. — 
 Thou wert my dream, vouchsaf'd and bodi'd forth 
 From my trane'd soul. I woke and found thee, like 
 Another Eve, sweet-smiling at my side. — 
 I lov'd — I honour's — for I fear'd thee. When 
 My timorous hand first felt the thrill of thine , 
 Of thy timidity was I afraid. 
 As the child runs from what he frightens, or 
 The thirsty ring-dove cowers its silly plume 
 At its peck'd semblance in the startled spring, 
 So did the tremor of thy blush call up 
 A sympathetic coward to my cheek. 
 But Time emboldens Love; and 1 became 
 More confident, though silent still. So fidl 
 Of joy I was, I had no room for words. 
 The thousand tongues of heav'n and earth were all 
 Interpreters. Mine, like the o'erladen bee, 
 Clogg'd with the luscious cargo of my thoughts, 
 Could syllable but sighs. This could not last. 
 
Tkeir's was a borrow'd voice at best. Love's self 
 
 Reinain'd to speak; and pantingly he spoke, 
 
 When first my passion-fever'd lip drank in 
 
 The nectar-kiss of thine. That epoch doth 
 
 Th' authentic annals of my heart commence. 
 
 It's light romancing page of thitherto 
 
 Was but the fabling record of a fond 
 
 Misguided aspiration after love. 
 
 The vows, I utter'd at thy altar, reach'd 
 
 Far, far beyond the transitory hour : 
 
 I swore them unto Time as well as thee. 
 
 (Xi&iesa hides her face with one hand, while with the other she motions him 
 In si I nice.) 
 
 I dare not ask thee to recall that date; 
 
 Still may we o'er its recollection weep. 
 
 Thou would'st have cause to shudder at my sight , 
 
 Had not stern Honour fore'd me to the deed. 
 
 Thou would'st have cause to ban me from thy heart, 
 
 And set the price of hate upon my head, 
 
 Had not brief-exil'd Love, returning fierce, 
 
 With pains of wrath and penalties of fire 
 
 Thy short proscription and his own aveng'd. 
 
 Thou would'st have cause to strip me of the poor 
 
 Pittance, still left me from the wreck of Hope, 
 
 Had not the black-wing'd hurricane of fate 
 
 Upon a barren shore thy lover cast 
 
 To feed awhile on bitterness and die. 
 Xim. Roderigo ! dear Roderigo ! 
 Eon. Now 
 
 May Heaven's imperishable scroll record 
 
 A word, that wafts my pardon to its gate! 
 
Xim. Alas ! shall Love's fond finger never press 
 A flow'r so gently but the odour flies! 
 
 Rod. Oh ! my Xhnena ! 
 
 Xim. Look not at me thus! 
 
 Our paths must lie apart. 
 
 ~Rooi Yet once how near, 
 
 How scarcely sever d were the banks , whence we 
 Our happy vows exchang'd! Two fatal months! 
 
 Xim. If thou dost feel 
 
 Rod. — thou knowest that I do; 
 
 Since the sweet seraph, in thy voice that dwells, 
 Doth fail to cahn this tempest of my tears. 
 
 {The bell of the Oratory of the Villa rings.) 
 
 Xim. Away, or thou art lost! I have my time 
 
 O'erstay'd. Regone, and live for happier days. 
 Go, as thou cam'st. 
 
 Rod. Xhnena! 
 
 Xim. Fly! they come! 
 
 ( Roderigo is barely gone , when enter Elvira and Marcos. ) 
 Elvira. Thou truant! here yet loitering so long! 
 
 Come, we are late : the Vespers-bell hath ceas'd. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ™— i»oeQ®Q@QOOOCiiP-^= 
 
. 
 
 . 
 
 
32.3©^?. 
 
 Already in the tomb ! so yonng — so fair — 
 
 So fac'd — so form'd — so flatter'd — and now tliere! 
 
 So 'press'd with life, yet so contented still 
 
 To bear thy portion of its crushing ill! 
 
 So pleas'd, at each short interval of health, 
 
 To hide from anguish , and be gay by stealth , 
 
 Till Sickness found the runaway once more, 
 
 And coop'd thee in thy chamber as before! — 
 
 Alas! could nothing of his sting disarm 
 
 Death, the old adder, proof 'gainst every charm? 
 
 Could nothing, Blary! nothing, nothing save 
 
 Thee, his poor victim, from an early grave? 
 
 Thy pleading face — thy deprecating form — 
 
 Too wan — too wasted — to allure the worm — 
 
 Thy gentle head, inclining to the bloAV 
 
 Of the same fate, that laid a brother low — 
 
 Thy patient spirit, cheerful and resign d 
 
 To pangs , that wrung thy body, not thy mind — 
 
 Thy last fond wish, on dissolution's brink, 
 
 To staunch the tears of them, that saw thee sink — 
 
 Could father, brother, sister, lover, friend, 
 
 Could nothing shield thee from this timeless end? 
 
Could nothing guard thee from the fangs of Death, 
 
 Nor snatch thee from the poison of his breath? 
 
 No : stern, obtuse, malignant, and unmov'd, 
 
 Blind to the lovely, loveless to the lov'd, 
 
 And far more ruthless than the tempest's stroke f 
 
 Which spares the willow, and uproots the oak , 
 
 The Viper aim'd his venom'd spite at thee , 
 
 Nor bade thy weakness thy protection be! — 
 
 And art thou dead? become as one of those, 
 
 O'er whom the yew its sadd'ning shadow throws? 
 
 Of those, that, buri'd in their vaulted sleep, 
 
 Mourn with no mourners, weep with none that weep, 
 
 Cold as the stones , that sepulchre their clay, 
 
 As deaf, as mute, as motionless as they? — 
 
 But art thou dead? — (alas! that awful word! 
 
 How many a breast it pierces like a sword?) — 
 
 What dead? quite dead? for ever, ever gone 
 
 To that drear land, whence none, that go, return? 
 
 Where all is blank unconsciousness, and voice 
 
 Is never heard to murmur or rejoice — 
 
 Where heart doth never beat, and never eye 
 
 Doth drop a tear, nor bosom breathe a sigh — 
 
 But where the attributes of being be 
 
 As obsolete and passionless as thee! — 
 
 Yes! thou art dead! and they, that in thy face 
 
 Could each dear index of affection trace, 
 
 Those welcome signs must never more survey, 
 
 Irrevocably gone, like yesterday! — 
 
 Thy place is vacant in their house and heart, 
 
 Who muse on what thou wast — and what thou art — ■ 
 
 A shape to love — an object to create 
 
 Emotions, bordering on all we hate — 
 
A living creature — and a senseless clod — 
 
 — How fearful are the visitings of God! — 
 
 "Who, that hath known thee in thine hour of case, 
 And niark'd thy vari'd willingness to please — 
 Who, that hath heard thee join the "vocal strain 
 (Some air that brought thy childhood back again, 
 What time thy happy and approving sire 
 Stood forth the leader of his little quire) — 
 Who, that hath seen thee cast each ache away, 
 To drill thy sister's cherubs at their play, 
 The sergeant of their sports, their laughing head, 
 
 — No, Mary! no — thou never canst be dead! — 
 Yet wherefore else this melancholy show 
 Of death? these dark habiliments of woe? 
 This sombre silence in thy sister's room? 
 Her husband's brow of unaccustom'd gloom? 
 Thy name unnam'd, or only nam'd with tears, 
 As some chance record of thyself appears , 
 Some flashing thought, some momentary gleam 
 Of days, when thou wert other than a dream? 
 Tis all too true! the fatal shaft hath sped, 
 And , Mary ! thou art number'd with the dead ! — 
 I Jut when — its bloom , its beauty, and its breath , 
 Spoilt , erush'd , and tainted , by the touch of Death ,- 
 Some human blossom withers to the view, 
 like pale-leaf 'd flowers, unfriended by the dew, 
 For them, that witness'd the devoted maid 
 Droop with each hour, and gradually fade, 
 Is there no babn , no gain , no reas'ning yet 
 Can soften grief, can qualify regret, 
 Can teach surviving love its loss to bear, 
 And thank the tomb for comfort even there?] 
 
Could nothing guard thee from the fangs of Death, 
 
 Nor snatch thee from the poison of his breath? 
 
 No : stern , obtuse , malignant , and unmov'd , 
 
 Blind to the lovely, loveless to the lov'd, 
 
 And far more ruthless than the tempest's stroke 1 
 
 Which spares the willow, and uproots the oak, 
 
 The Viper aim'd his venom'd spite at thee, 
 
 Nor bade thy weakness thy protection be! — 
 
 And art thou dead? become as one of those, 
 
 O'er whom the yew its sadd'ning shadow throws? 
 
 Of those, that, buri'd in their vaulted sleep, 
 
 Mourn with no mourners, weep with none that weep, 
 
 Cold as the stones , that sepulchre their clay, 
 
 As deaf, as mute, as motionless as they? — 
 
 But art thou dead ? — ( alas ! that awful word ! 
 
 How many a breast it pierces like a sword?) — 
 
 What dead? quite dead? for ever, ever gone 
 
 To that drear land, whence none, that go, return? 
 
 Where all is blank unconsciousness, and voice 
 
 Is never heard to murmur or rejoice — 
 
 Where heart doth never beat, and never eye 
 
 Doth drop a tear, nor bosom breathe a sigh — 
 
 But where the attributes of being be 
 
 As obsolete and passionless as thee! — 
 
 Yes! thou art dead! and they, that in thy face 
 
 Could each dear index of affection trace, 
 
 Those welcome signs must never more survey, 
 
 Irrevocably gone, like yesterday! — 
 
 Thy place is vacant in then' house and heart, 
 
 Who muse on what thou wast — and what thou art — ■ 
 
 A shape to love — an object to create 
 
 Emotions, bordering on all we hate — 
 
A living creature — and a senseless clod — 
 
 — How fearful are the visitings of God! — 
 
 Who , that hath known thee in thine hour of ease , 
 And niark'd thy vari'd willingness to please — 
 Who , that hath heard thee join the vocal strain 
 ( Some air that brought thy childhood back again , 
 What time thy happy and approving sire 
 Stood forth the leader of his little quire) — 
 Who, that hath seen thee cast each ache away, 
 To drill thy sister's cherubs at their play, 
 The sergeant of their sports, their laughing head, 
 
 — No, Mary! no — thou never canst be dead! — 
 Yet wherefore else this melancholy show 
 Of death? these dark habiliments of woe? 
 This sombre silence in thy sister's room? 
 Her husband's brow of unaccustom'd gloom? 
 Thy name unnam'd, or only nam'd Avith tears, 
 As some chance record of thyself appears , 
 Some flashing thought, some momentary gleam 
 Of days, when thou wert other than a dream? 
 'Tis all too true ! the fatal shaft hath sped , 
 And , Mary ! thou art number'd with the dead ! — 
 liut when — its bloom , its beauty, and its breath , 
 Spoilt , crush'd , and tainted , by the touch of Death , — 
 Some human blossom withers to the view, 
 Like pale-leaf d flowers, unfriended by the dew, 
 Foir them, that witness 'd the devoted maid 
 Droop with each hour, and gradually fade, 
 Is there no balm, no gain, no reas'ning yet 
 Can soften grief, can qualify regret, 
 Can teach surviving love its loss to bear, 
 And thank the tomb for comfort even there?] 
 
The night came down again — but not as she 
 
 Comes down unto some poor, yet happy wight, 
 That falls asleep, and dreams beneath a tree, 
 
 Where sings the wakeful bird, and, care despite, 
 Thus whdes away the sense of penury, — 
 Ah! no, far other was that dreadful night, 
 — That night, which seem'd as it would last for ever, 
 — That long, long night of shiver — shiver — shiver. 
 
 The night came down again , — but who can paint 
 
 The anguish of the hourly dwindling few, 
 ( A doubtful dozen , for the steward , faint 
 
 With mortal ills , had just his brother's hue , ) 
 
 As, all their earnest efforts idly spent, 
 
 The homeward hundreds from the cliff withdrew, 
 
 And left the twelve to combat, as they might, 
 
 That dismal — dreary — dreadful — second night ? 
 
 Those thousands of bad thousands, steep'd in sin, 
 Of warning God that perish 'd by the wrath, 
 
 When lo ! at last they heard the rushing din 
 Of disembowelTd waters on their path, 
 
 And rain, that seem'd for ever to begin, 
 
 And saw with fear, for which no language hath 
 
 Expression, the Ark close and drift away, 
 
 Could best interpret what I wish to say. 
 
«0h! dark! dark! dark! — as Samson's visipn dark 
 Was Nature then : — about , above , below, 
 
 No speck of light could those poor wretches mark, 
 For surfless was the jaded Ocean's flow, 
 
 And the as weary seabird like a bark 
 
 Was heaving with the wave, and s wing of snow 
 
 Was folded , or but spread iu skimming flight , 
 
 Nor broke the raven blackness of the night. 
 
 I spake of whistling wind and screaming gull , 
 But over was the tempest, and the mew 
 
 Was cryiug with a lazy note and dull, 
 Yet still it sounded to that timid crew 
 
 As 'twere the storm astir again, which full 
 Of ire, was only waiting to renew 
 
 Its whirling work with each devoted form , 
 — Alas ! the cold could do without the storm. 
 
 Devoid as Lear's daughters were of ruth 
 
 For th' 'fond old man,' that dower'd them with thrones. 
 The wolfish east-wind with its gnaAving tooth , 
 
 To howl too busy, ate into their bones, 
 Albe't the tars , to tell the cheerless truth , 
 
 For mutual warmth were lying on the stones , 
 + Huddled as close, as in the winter be 
 The swallows at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 ' Samson Agonistes. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 f The very absurd and desperate hypothesis of the swallows, at the fall of autumn , conglomerating 
 themselves into one huge ball , and then sinking into the ocean-bed to sleep away the winter months , 
 is, unless I very greatly mistake, alluded to in BosweU's Life of Johnson. 
 
The steward , with his hroken shoulder, kept 
 Watch by his brother, who was dying fast, 
 
 Though easy as could be , because he slept 
 
 The sleep, that ushers death, which calmly cast 
 
 Its shadow o'er his face. At whiles there crept 
 A dreamy smile across it, but at last 
 
 A deep, deep sigh he gave, and then another, 
 
 And then the steward was without a brother. 
 
 The engineer and Cato, the black cook, 
 
 And woman-passenger were close together, 
 Taking as small a space, as ever took 
 
 Three human shapes , to cradle from the weather. 
 Whate'er they felt, they never mov'd or spoke, 
 — Perchance they were incapable of either, — 
 Till lo ! the former sideways from his seat 
 Fell off, and stiffen'd at the others' feet. 
 
 The woman , who had spent her hardy life , 
 
 In feeding swine upon the wilds of Kerry, 
 
 -A peasant's daughter and a peasant's wife, — 
 
 Though badly, bore it best. The man was very 
 
 Hesign'd, and like a sheep beneath the knife, 
 Th' o'eiiaden camel or the dromedary. 
 
 Born of a tribe, where suffering is dumb, 
 
 He moan'd or murmur'd not, but let it come. 
 
The soldier and the girl, his woes that nurs'd, 
 Their station since the morn had never ehang'd, 
 
 But there they were, she holding, as at first, 
 His head upon her lap, and unestrang'd 
 
 From thought of him hy hunger or by thirst 
 Or sorrow of her own. Her eye had rang'd 
 
 Not e'en one selfish moment from her love, 
 
 As true as to its dying mate the dove. 
 
 JN'ot dead he was, and yet his lids were clos'd, 
 As if the fleshless fingers of old Death 
 
 Had press'd them down. — When shivering he doz'd 
 After the storm , ( which , as the stanza saith , 
 
 Was short) her cloak she tenderly dispos'd 
 So as to shield him as he lay. His breath 
 
 Being mute, her hand upon his heart she kept, 
 
 Which said , from time to time , he only slept. 
 
 Her steadfast face was poring upon his , 
 
 And strove to read the characters of life 
 In features, silent as the marble is 
 
 Of some unletter'd tomb. Her soul was rife 
 With urgent griefs and tender memories, 
 — The present and the past at feeling strife, — 
 And, so reverting to their earliest years, 
 She kissd his cheek , and bath'd it with her tears ; 
 
Which show'd , that he not merely slept , but dream'd 
 Since soon he smil'd , as that distilling show'r 
 
 Of hitter sadness on his visage stream'd, 
 Yet took the shape of joy by fancy's povv'r, 
 
 For she, in his fond vision as it seein'd, 
 
 Above Mm bent, with many a dripping flow'r, 
 
 All freshly gather'd in a shady place, 
 
 And shook the dewy drops upon his face. 
 
 He dream'd, in that long-lasting, deathy sleep, 
 
 ( As pulmonary people do , ) of what 
 Had charni'd him when a child , — the shelving steep , 
 
 That lin'd their native Lee, — the double cot, 
 Where both were bred and born , and of its deep 
 
 Retirement in the wood, — the plashy spot 
 They paddled in , 'till , summer daylight past , 
 They loiter'd home all hand-in-hand at last. 
 
 He dream'd , as flew the swift delusion on , 
 Of happy sights , and happy happy sounds , 
 
 Of young companions, at the set of sun, 
 That sported as the lamb on hillock bounds , 
 
 And scudded quick as leveret doth run, 
 
 — A noisy group, that trac'd their romping rounds 
 
 About the old, hereditary tree, 
 
 Where play'd their fathers' fathers by the Lee. 
 
He dream'd, as Hew the swift delusion by, 
 Of one mute stripling and one silent maid , 
 
 That gaz'd together on the gloAving sky, 
 
 Unconscious, that the while no word was said 
 
 So much they seem'd to say! For love, as I 
 Opine , is then most eloquent , afraid 
 
 When most it is of words , since , sooth to tell , 
 
 They do but break the soul's entrancing spell. 
 
 He dream'd, as flew the swift delusion past, 
 Of coming from his hard , enforc'd campaign 
 
 War-wounded home, and of the look he cast 
 Beneath him, when he trod the height again, 
 
 That topp'd the vale he saw with tears at last 
 Of joy so keen , it border'd upon pain , 
 
 Which gush'd , as , circled by her arms so fair, 
 
 He clasp'd his Kate, and felt that she was there. 
 
 (Her lustrous, large, and liquid eyes were grey, 
 
 Whose brows reliev'd her forehead white and wide, 
 
 And arch'd that marble front, whence fell away 
 Her brown abundant hair on either side 
 
 O'er shoulders , which were beautiful as they 
 Were easy. In a word, by nature's pride, 
 
 She look'd the lady, though a peasant's daughter, 
 
 And mov'd as swims the swan upon the water. ) 
 
That vivid vision, harbinger of death, 
 
 With its too true and strong , hnpassion'd tears , 
 
 Awoke him , as his leaden lids beneath 
 
 They forc'd their fluent way. He sees or hears 
 
 Nothing at first — nor cloud, nor howUng breath 
 Of winter — -and the film so slowly clears, 
 
 That e'en yon wide and wrecking sea doth seem 
 
 The small, still river of his recent dream, 
 
 Phelim ! my joy ! I thought ye'd never wake. 
 
 I've done my best to screen ye from the cold; 
 Then speak to me, my love! oh! do do speak, 
 
 And tell me ye are warm. Come , let me fold 
 Your oivn kind gift about ye, dear! and take 
 
 Your numby hands in mine. The cloak is old, 
 tin I light, and dry, and comfortable yet. » 
 ( And all the while 'twas heavy with the wet. ) 
 
 Those well-known accents, and that fond essay 
 To cheer and cherish the poor fellow, qiute 
 
 Recall'd his ' wilder 'd sense from where astray 
 It linger'd by the Lee. His eye was bright 
 
 One conscious moment, ere the setting ray 
 
 Of life was quench'd by death's succeeding night. 
 
 Katrine! >> no more distinctly he express'd, 
 
 But love's last kiss interpreted the rest. 
 
The girl was sitting with the glassy stare 
 Of death fii'd fast upon her dear dead lover, 
 
 And her dishevell'd and entangled hair 
 His stony features still was hanging over, 
 
 As rain-bematted willows fringe with eare 
 The marble, that their leaves thus fail to cover. 
 
 The trace of tears was seen on either cheek , 
 
 Which, coursing oft, had left a smeary streak. 
 
 Ye last beheld her as ye see her now, 
 Bent o'er the soldier on her rocky seat, 
 
 Who then kiss'd back her kiss of wordless woe, 
 The heart's bequest before it ceas'd to beat. 
 
 Her Phelim dead and gone, to die and go 
 Was all she wish'd, and, ere she could repeat 
 
 The once-call'd name of one, who answer'd not, 
 
 That heart gave way, and broke upon the spot. 
 
« And, picking up a (hollow) crab, as he did, 
 « Conceiv'd himself a happy man — like Seged. » 
 
 ( The reader, perhaps , will tolerate , for the sake of their succinctness , the subjoined verses, which 
 condense the charming little story in ' The Rambler.' A part of the unpublished drama of « The Cicl, » 
 alluded to above, they were written as far back as 1829.) 
 
 Diego.— My son! Man's life, alternate light and shade, 
 With change is chequer'd. His best interval 
 Of happiness, like the Ethiop king's, is but 
 A ten-days' history of hopes and fears. — 
 Hath he a choice of pleasures? the first sunset 
 Doth find him still in doubt on which to fix. 
 Ere yet the flatterers of his would-be joy 
 Can teach their lips the studi'd, look'd-for smile, 
 The second day is gone. Some goblin dream 
 Doth cast its shapeless shadow o'er the third. 
 The fourth is vigour, fancy, frolic , mirth , 
 Till lo ! a serpent hisses from the flow'rs , 
 And puts his crew of laughers to the rout. 
 Would he their mercenary glee bribe back 
 With pearly prizes and with gifts of gold, 
 Dissatisfaction murmurs at the fifth. 
 The promise of the sixth base Envy mars. 
 Unask'd Remembrance waits upon the sev'nth. 
 Pale Sickness in the bosom of his home 
 Dawns on the eighth. The ninth is blank with Death : 
 And sable Sorrow weeps away the tenth. — 
 What matters who the circling health may pledge, 
 That , wine-buoy'd , on the rosy surface floats , 
 Since , at the very banquet of a king , 
 The solemn imp of Disappointment comes, 
 And spits within the bowl? — Or old or young, 
 It is our weakness o'er some dream of earth 
 Too long to linger, and still idly turn 
 To sunlike Hope, that, near us seeming, drops 
 Behind the distant verge of human tears. — 
 
I know the pagan's graceful creed is gone ; 
 
 T know his gods are known to be a dream ; 
 I know the young and rosy-finger'd Mora 
 
 Is known no more to yoke her airy team ; 
 I know Apollo's golden locks unshorn 
 
 But wave and glitter in the poet's theme ; 
 1 know on earth that none believe The Hours 
 A dancing chorus , filletted with flowers ; 
 
 1 know the court of transitory Jove 
 Hath left the heights of Ida , and for aye ; — 
 
 That Juno , Pallas , and The Queen of Love , 
 And Mars , and Maia's son have pass'd away ; — 
 
 That Hebe now , nor Ganymede above , 
 The nectar pours , nor Mulciber , to stay 
 
 The anger of the cloud-compelling King , 
 
 With vying grace limps round the laughing ring ; — ■ 
 
I know that Neptune's nothing but a name , 
 Like Aniphitrite in her coral car ; — 
 
 That Tritou's trump , as loud as that of Fame , 
 Awakes no echoes in the rocks afar; — 
 
 That Nereus now ne'er vanishes in flame , 
 As many-shap'd as man's devices are ; — 
 
 That Proteus tends his ocean-herd no more , 
 
 Or drives his motley monsters to the shore; — 
 
 I know that in the wood no Dryad dwells , 
 No Oread flees and flashes on the mount ; — 
 
 I know , that each unstori'd water wells , 
 Unconscious of a Naiad , from its fount ; 
 
 I know that ev'ry tale , that Ovid tells , 
 In modern credence is of no account ; — 
 
 That Faun doth peep , nor Sat) r look askance , 
 
 Where rivers run , as nymphless as the Ranee ; — 
 
 I know the temples are not shut alone , 
 That shrin'd delusion in a thousand walls , 
 
 But batter'd by the Hun and Vandal down , 
 And Time , too , levell'd where the adder crawls 
 
 And breeds amid the solitary stone , 
 
 — The wasting relic of those holy halls — 
 -Goth, Age, and Reason in their turns, 1 know, 
 
 Laid lane and faith in ruins urn" ago ! — 
 
Diana is extinct ; — her worship now 
 
 As lifeless as the fire her virgins fed ; — 
 Her ministers are gone ! — yet what art thou , 
 
 Thou of the Grecian bust and Grecian head, 
 The Grecian features and the Grecian brow , 
 — The old regard of Greece , where , passion dead , 
 A consecrated cahn serenely glows , 
 And finely breathes in classical repose ? 
 
 No priestess ; yet , to see thee as thou art , 
 How vestal is thy mien ! how chastely young 
 
 Thy visage is ! — the mirror of thy heart — 
 As pure a face as Sappho ever sung ! 
 
 Thy bowlike chiseU'd lips , that , just apart , 
 Resemble those whereon Leander hung 
 
 His gaze in rapture , as he landed stood , 
 
 And quite forgot the dangers of the flood ; — ■ 
 
 The drooping lids , that shade thy modest eyes , 
 Whose fringing lashes kiss thy marble cheek 
 
 At tender tunes 7 as when the zephyr sighs 
 And bows the waterflags , that softly streak 
 
 The azure of the stream , till io ! they rise 
 
 To woo the wave again ; — the tones , that speak 
 
 A language , that the ear doth seem to hear , 
 
 As utter'd by thy look , (so rills appear 
 
A voice to have, though silent they may run.) 
 — Yes , young Duchatel ! thou indeed art fair, 
 As even thou shouldst be ; but , lovely one ! 
 
 Observe thy beauty's character, nor dare 
 From self-sufficing nature to be won. 
 
 Let pearl nor diamond glitter in thy hair ; 
 I\or meet the full, assembly's longing sight 
 In robe of aught but pure and classic white. — 
 
 SJ©aS3, 
 
 Stanza I. — The Hours were commonly represented as dancing in a ring. 
 
 — II. — Mercury — elastic Mercury — the son- of May! What an allegory! 
 
 Mulciber or Vulcan, the son of Jupiter and Juno, to put an end to the unseemly bickering 
 between his parents, and to restore harmony in Heaven, is described by Homer as enacting 
 the part of cupbearer, to the huge delight of the assembled deities, who hailed his performance 
 with « quenchless laughter. » ( What a jolly set of fellows they were ! ) 
 
 — 111. — Nereus and Proteus were both gifted with the power of changing their shape, which, 
 
 when called upon to exercise their other power of prophecy, they wielded in a way exceedingly 
 unpleasant to their questioners. Proteus, moreover, was keeper of the marine menagerie. 
 
 — IV. — Hero , to woo whom Leandcr was iu the habit of swimming the Hellespont, was priestess 
 
 of Venus at Sestus. 
 
 
 
 
f& ; 
 
 Fair creature of fair name and fairer face ! 
 
 Sweet type of thy sweet synonym , the rose ! 
 The fine unfolding of whose modest grace 
 
 With each improving day is such as glows 
 I' the queen of flowers in some secluded place , 
 
 Where, seen but by the few, like thee she Woavs, 
 Like thee to be transplanted, and to bloom, 
 Th' unconscious marvel of a gayer home : 
 
 What, ta'en from us already! mov'd away 
 
 So quiekly from the soil', that long'd J to hold thee! 
 
 Thy beauty's breath the perfume of a day, 
 
 Love fear'd to tell thee (what lie sure had told thee 
 
 Collecting courage from thy further stay) 
 The joy it was to sit and : to behold thee , 
 
 And feelthy charms (the pride of the parterre) 
 
 Exhale their fragrance on the happy air! 
 
To sit indeed beside thee , and to mark 
 Thy classic features' classical contour ; — 
 
 Thy nymph-like head ; — thine eyes serenely dark ; — 
 Thy spotless mind in lineaments as pure ; — 
 
 Thy perfect lips , melodious as the lark , 
 
 That , hymning to the morn , doth singing soar ;- 
 
 Thy kindling smile , that spreads by bright degrees . 
 
 Like young Apollo , lighting up the seas ! 
 
 And is it thou must quit the quiet vale, 
 
 Where 'winds the Ranee its shelving banks between 
 
 And woods , that hide the bashful nightingale , 
 Speak the soft tongue , that answers to the scene , 
 
 The language of the birds , — the cooing tale 
 The ringdove tells his mate , as , in the green 
 
 And nested wilderness of tree and bush , 
 
 She plies her patient duties with the thrush ; — 
 
 The misty summer-dawn ; — the rising sun ; — 
 The gleaming crag ; — the lullaby of noon , 
 
 When e'en the aspen for a while is won 
 To slumber by the sleep-inducing tune 
 
 Of rUls , that murmur by ; — when day is done , 
 Rich twilight and the large but rayless moon , 
 
 As if King Sol , — his halo pleas'd to doff , — 
 
 In purple mov'd , although his crown be off ; — 
 
The breathing sounds the soul at eve can hear, 
 That enter by the eye ; — the solemn strain 
 
 Of autumn , when the leaves are falling near, 
 And lightly float , and quiver to the plain ; — 
 
 Or, it may be , the burden of some dear 
 Old ballad , heard in childhood , which again 
 
 Will simply back that simple era bring , 
 
 And touch the heart , like daisies in the spring ;- 
 
 The silent night , when , sleeping in the clew , 
 
 As fast as yonder lilies on the wave , 
 The landscape is a-dream , and , 'neath the blue 
 
 Of Heav'n, as fair, as when Diana gave 
 Her love to one, * the gift that never knew, 
 
 Nor felt his lips her raining kisses lave; — 
 The mirror' d marge ; — the river bright and calm , 
 That shines like beauty, and that soothes like balm;- 
 
 The wakeful lark , that liveth in the Avoods , 
 
 And sings when all is hush'd, whose grateful pleasure 
 
 "S to pipe the praise of sylvan solitudes 
 
 To One , that listens to the liquid measure , 
 
 And owns it for His child's , — for all are God*s 
 Great family, and he hath will and leisure 
 
 From choral angels"harmonies to hark 
 
 Down to the little anthem of the lark. 
 
 • The shepherd Endymion , who craved of Jupiter, that he might always be young, and sleep as 
 much as he would. 
 
— 8 — 
 
 Then must thou leave — not lis , for we are naught , — 
 
 The stilly banks of yon romantic river, 
 That form a scene , with kindred quiet fraught , 
 
 Should surely win thee from the world for ever? 
 Thyself belie not, since thy look hath taught, 
 
 That , gentle as the hind's , thy nature never 
 Should quit the shade , but with its charms enhance 
 The soft, sweet vale of some congenial Ranee. 
 
 Dinan. 1845. 
 
 
 
 DINAN. — TYP. DE J.-fe. HUART.— 1845. 
 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM THE FAR WEST OF FRANCE , 0.\ RECEH EVE.US. 
 
 THE BAS-BKETOXS. 
 
 uQuimper, March 6, 4848. 
 
 «The peasantry— stultified, as they are, with bigotry and brandy, with cider and 
 with dirt, — will fail to get a glimpse of what is up for many months to come, and, even 
 then , will only look upon it as an idle innovation the more. Jews are less separate , 
 —Chinese are less jealous ,— than these isolated aborigines , — these dull adorers of the 
 statu quo. With as much exultation, as their gravity is capable of, they would hail a 
 change, which would free them altogether of France; but, short of such a ridding mu- 
 tation, they would deem themselves oxen indeed to care about the fashion of the yoke. 
 What have they to do with new-fangled forms of government , — they, that go back to 
 the polity of the Druids? To them a Napoleon, — a Louis XVIII,— a Louis-Philippe,— a 
 Republic , — are things to be seen with the same indifferent eyes. They would respect 
 Brennus. They will not, where avoidable, learn the language of their rulers. The men, 
 after their seven years' enforced service , as soldiers or as sailors , come home , resume 
 their time-out-of-mind costume, let their beloved hair grow wildly to their waists again, 
 and forget, as fast as they can , how to say ' bon-jour.' In other words, they wish to 
 be let alone, and to have their sombre and depressing skies, their magnificently sad 
 country, their mountains, their valleys, their wolvy woods, their immeasureable moors 
 of furze and fern, their stretching marshes, the solitude of their high roads, the dark- 
 ness visible of their glenny lanes, the ocean-sound of their wind-replying pines, their 
 piebald cattle, their sooty flocks, their pigs, their prejudices, and, above all, their 
 immemorial customs to themselves. What is 1848 to them'? nothing. But will they 
 laugh at its vagaries? no. The Bas-Bretons never laugh. You might as well expect a 
 cachinnation from a cypress,— a haw-haw from a yew. Their forests of fir are less 
 
triste than they. There is no fun in them. They are as jokeless as junipers. Their very 
 mirth is melancholy. Their holidays, par excellence, have a woe-begone appearance, 
 and hang the head like lilies of the vale. Their « Pardons » are ' sickli'd o'er with the 
 pale cast of thought' : their seasons of Absolution are dashed with the hue of grief. The 
 children, at roulette for sugar-plums, eye the little ball, as so many little Romans may 
 have done a niger lapillus; and they raffle for cakes, as if they were casting lots, which 
 should be flogged first. The men, if possible, are sadder still, and stare at Punchinello, 
 as if he were an importation from below, and at the fantoccini of a showman , as they 
 would at the imps of the Evil One. With folded arms, they walk about, for hours 
 together, in silent groups, and wind up their curious day of pleasure by wrestling in a 
 silent ring, as if they had Great Heart and Apollyon in their spiritual sight. Mynheer 
 Van Hudson and his crew, at their ghostly game of skittles in Sleepy Hollow, were as 
 merry, in comparison with them, as the actors of an undertaker, who have just 
 'performed a funeral.' They are indeed a lugubrious race, knocking down their 
 ninepins with the sigh of Heraclitus, and getting drunk with an expression of 
 anguish about the mouth. In hereditary breeches, transmitted petticoats, and old 
 ancestral shoes, they dance their national « gavotte au bignon,» (a large stride 
 and a little skip, to the sound of the bagpipes,) two hundred in a string, and 
 not a smile among them all. They remind ye of Holbein and his pictures. They 
 go to market , as if they were going to jail ; to fair, as if they were going to be. 
 tried for their lives ; and to be married , as if they were going to be guillotined. 
 Their matches are brought about by that sedentary sorrow, a tailor, aud their 
 way of wooing fits them to a t. They intercrook their little fingers, sidle along, 
 gaze in each other's eyes, and say nothing. Perhaps they have nothing to say. 
 The parents having duly met, and the various preliminaries being duly settled, 
 a reciprocity of visits takes place , when the favored swain , raising a cup of wine 
 to his lips, pledges his fiancee with the resigned air of Socrates drinking off the 
 hemlock, and she, as gay as her betrothed, responds like Hosamunda with the poisoned 
 bowl. And then , according to form , leading her promesso sposo upstairs , she shows 
 him with a smile, that savours of the churchyard, her wardrobe and the linen she 
 shall bring him; speaks of her wedding-garments, as if they were garments of the grave; 
 turns over a table-cloth, as if the funereal dinner already flashed upon her mind; 
 points to a pillow-case , as if she were thinking of the last bolster of her beloved ; and 
 opens a pair of sheets, as much as to say, uHow well they will do jor winding ones'.n 
 In a stated chaunt , by way of inspiriting the wife elect, and of paying a pretty compli- 
 ment to the future son-in-law, her mother tells her, that she looks upon her as a lamb 
 going to the slaughter; so that, as a sequitur, the epithalamium of the bride is as 
 cheerful as a chapter in Jeremiah , and childbed and children are visioned in verses as 
 lively as those of Malachi. No wonder, that the babies never crow : I marvel, in such 
 a country, that the cocks do. Yes, in sober sooth, they are an extraordinary people, 
 
— as solemn as ourang-outangs,— as serious as chimpanzees,— and do and suffer the 
 most risible things in the world with the most imperturbable face. At a wedding at 
 Quimper, (where, on such occasions, they dance in the open street, and that, too, in 
 dresses, — when the parties are wealthy, —worth from 600 to 1000 francs, id est, from 
 24 to 40 liv. sterling,) I witnessed a precocious bibber, who, on being rejected by the 
 rest on account of his unsteady step, consoled himself with-a pas-de-seul , to the evident 
 interruption of the saltatory chain, which, every instant, he threatened to breakthrough. 
 As his figure was a capriccio, he executed it to a. fantasia of his own, — the noiseless 
 efflation of a pair of clumsy lips, the counterpart of those of the inimitable Liston. 
 — The clown, in fact, greatly resembled that chubby-cheeked comedian, when, as in 
 Lubin Log, he chose to be quite a fool. Perfectly unabashed by the untoward shoves 
 of the terpsichoral club , who persisted in black-balling him over and over again , and 
 by the roaring laughter of the many standers-by, the hobbydehoy kept whistling and 
 reeling and tripping and tumbling on, — a rich illustration of the circumbendibus. Six 
 times did he measure his lubberly length on La Terre au Due, and six times, (heaven 
 knows how,) did he help himself up again, without, however, ceasing, for a single 
 moment, the noiseless efflation aforesaid. A knot of Parisians, who assisted at the 
 spectacle, never, I will engage, shed more abundant tears at «ie medecin malgrc lui,» 
 « L'amour medecin, » or « Le malade imaginairen of Moliere. As to myself, I thought 
 1 should have died of the stitch. At last, poor fellow, down he came crack, — his 
 scull upon a stone,— and was carried off insensible. And what was the effect upon 
 his countryfolk the while? none at all. At each importunate attempt, which he made 
 to join hands, they repulsed him with the same staid air, with which the athletic 
 quaker (forbidden by the tenets of his pacific creed to wage warfare, ) seized the 
 boarding French captain in his arms, and, saying to him, as he lifted him over 
 the side of the vessel, « Friend, thou hast no business here,» dropped him into the 
 sea. Even the youngest couple of the chain— a boy and girl of 13 and 14 years of 
 age -betrayed not the symptom of a smirk, but strode and skipped away as gravely 
 as the rest. The musicians, be it said, — who, with their bag-pipes, piped to the 
 hereditary bag-breeches, the transmitted tinselled petticoats, and the old ancestral 
 hugely-buckled shoes, — were perched, high and dry, upon a couple of crazy chairs, 
 which in turn were perched upon a couple of unsteady cider-casks, and, blowing their 
 faces to a point, played to the sprightly string as fiercely as the puffing devil, who 
 squeaked to the witches by Alloway Kirk, to Tarn o' Shanter and his mare. Again. 
 You may see (as M rs Trollope's son did at Corlay Fair,) a tipsy octogenarian sit 
 himself down in a frying-pan of fizzing sausages, and the owner of them, with a 
 fork like a trident, vigorously attacking the intrusive part of his person, but on neither 
 visage, his nor hers, will you detect the slightest variation of muscle — Or (not so very 
 funny though,) you may witness (as M r Trollope did at the same Fair) a powerful 
 horse, lashing out his heels, strike a peasant full on the ribs, and the latter, after 
 
lying a moment on the ground, rise and walk away, unaided and unpitied, with « no 
 « good-morn ne no salueing,» merely putting his hand to his side, to feel for his 
 — tobacco-pipe ! They are perfectly unimpressionable,— impassive quite,— ces paysans 
 de la Basse-Bretagne;—&s collected, though from no moral cause, as an Indian chief 
 or a European diplomatist, — Ohibo or Prince Metternich, Outaliski or Lord Aberdeen. 
 The expression of the poet, 
 
 « To each his suff'rings : all are men , 
 
 « Condemn'd alike to groan, 
 k The tender for another's pain, 
 
 « Th' unfeeling for his own , » 
 
 in no way applies to these hard , these indurated savages. With the hide of a rhino- 
 ceros and the heart of a stoic , they are hurt-proof and tear-proof. They cry, to be 
 sure, when they draw a bad number at the conscription, and their hair must be cut off; 
 and musket-balls, it would appear, have been sometimes known to perforate their skin, 
 but, properly speaking, they have no feeling, no sympathy. They are touchable through 
 the pocket alone. An ailing cow affects them, and a sick pig. They have no sensibility 
 but for sous, which , when scraped together to the amount of a hundred , they change 
 for a five-franc piece ,— to bury it. Will it be believed , that they have their poetry, 
 — their own simple and affecting poetry, — and that many of their traditional customs 
 are strongly tinged with it? Their country, too, is all poetry, but what is the Bas- 
 Breton himself? ask the man in the bag-breeches. Where is the civilization of song 
 — the aemqllfi mores nee sinit esse feros» of the muse? ask his hut. What was the 
 amatory medium of the tailor for? ask his wife, who,— neglected Joan as she is, — should 
 she, in returning from market, fall from behind her Darby into the road, what does he 
 do? if of a milky nature, he stops his horse , turns round , and looks at her ; but, nine 
 times out of ten, he shuffles on home, with his shaggy steed, with far more unconcern, 
 than if he had cracked an old crupper. Is she seized with the pains of labour, with 
 the cholic, or the cholera? he runs, of course, for the doctor, you will say. Pardonnez- 
 moi; he does no such thing. What then? why, he pulls out his pipe, fills it, lights it, 
 gives a long whiff, and says lymatinln In short, he is, I fear, in a conjugal point 
 of view, not many shades better than the bush-ranger, who, having been taken, tried , 
 convicted, and cast for death for some recent enormity, confessed, on the eve of exe- 
 cution, to the murder of four successive wives. The cold-blooded villain, it appeared, 
 had reduced his Blue-Beardism to a system. His method was this : I" He made the 
 poor creature most decidedly drunk; 11° He placed her on the floor; IIIo He put the 
 bolster ou her face; IV He sat upon her; V° He smoked till she was dead.— He 
 complained of the last as a long-winded , expensive affair, which took him two hours , 
 and cost him three pipes. 
 But to return to politics. Something of this indifference, as I stated in the early 
 
part of my letter, may be found in the respectables. In no other town of the kingdom , 
 — I beg pardon, of the Republic,— can recent events have had so small an effect. 
 In truth, we are, by no means', an excitable set. Where the Parisian sweats blood, 
 the Quimperois has not the slightest perspiration on his skin. His strongest 
 exudation is a lily-dew, but, being essentially unpoetical, he melts not at Lamartine. 
 He takes things coolly,— is hydropathic, in fact, barring the hot water, which he loves 
 not to be in. He is clearly for the 'cold without' and damp sheets. Like the good 
 folks of Plymouth , after three days of fine weather, he shrugs himself, as if he had a 
 Ilea , and cries out , « How dry and uncomfortable it is ! I wish it would rain ! » And 
 Providence, always kind, has blessed him with a finger of the sea, — an * imbriferous 
 river, — at the high tides of which it never mizzles but it rains, and, at the spring, 
 never rains but it pours. The clouds collect, at the grande marie, like custom-house 
 officers on a quai; and Jupiter Pluvius is as sure to be there as a tide-waiter in Thames 
 Street. You remember the famous lion of D r Prolix, which, nevery time lie wagged 
 k his tail, did bite the keeper's head off. » Buonaparte talked of his star, but we have 
 a constellation, — a sign of the zodiac to ourselves, — «The man, that holds the watering- 
 n pot, yi — Aquarius. We of the far west, — we of the Finistere, — have our County 
 Cornwall as well as you, and are soaked to our soul's content, in the same geographical 
 degree. The latitude of Quimper is that of Penzance, — and the geese know it. f Like 
 Sir Humphrey Davy, we are at home in the wet, and, tiptoe as the ducks, are, at times, 
 as comical as they. The Republic was proclaimed here , to beat of drum, in a sousing- 
 shower, by the crier of the town, upon whose devoted head, to make matters still more 
 moist, a chamber-maid, from a third story, emptied her slops. Poor Rub-a-dub, shaking 
 his dripping ringlets, looked up with a good-natured grin, hugging himself, no doubt, 
 that the pail had'nt come too. — Rut , as you see, my paper is out ; so , for the present , 
 adieu Ever, my dear boy, 
 
 Your affectionate father, 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS. 
 
 * « J think )» ( said the well-acclimatised son of our late English clergyman at Quimper, as I ran up 
 my umbrella against another giboulce de pluie,) «/ think the fine weather's going. » It had then 
 been raining every day for a fortnight. 
 
 f The celebrated chemist was born at Penzance , where , as a child , he used , with piscatorial pa 
 tience, to flsh in the — gutters! 
 

 
 
 
TKH OIM§l!MRIi©TII@M ®F 41 MIME, AS BT WAS FILT AT 
 
 My dear Henry, 30 ,b June, 1848. 
 
 As on a former occasion, I proceed to give you the details of how we Provincials 
 have been affected by the recent awful rising in Paris. The brief and hurried mention, 
 which I sent you , two days back , via Jersey, of the murderous conflict having ceased 
 at 2, p.m. on Monday, 26 th inst. and of our naturally great agitation and anxiety 
 during the fratricidal struggle, you will, perhaps, already have received. In my 
 various letters to England, for many weeks past, our local bulletin has been still the 
 same, viz. « All quiet, no confidence. » The 900 talked, and the 900 legislated . 
 but credit was none the better, and commerce was all the worse. Indeed , how could 
 either be expected to improve , when every post was bringing word of a fresh con- 
 spiracy, with no moral courage to meet it fittingly? The judges were more frightened 
 at Vincennes, than the prisoners, whom their judgment, however just, placed there. 
 L'Assemblee Rationale was glaringly afraid , first of Blanqui and of Barbes , then of 
 Louis Blanc, then of Louis Buonaparte. Forgetting ;Esop,— that familiar Solomon! 
 —they went gingerly to work with the stinging-nettles, handling them gently, like 
 the boy in the fable, instead of manfully, as they ought. Meanwhile, — (the moon- 
 promisers, of course, in no condition to redeem their pledge,) — the eruption, par 
 excellence, was coming on , preceded by the customary je ne sais quoi of dullness and 
 of dread. Several individuals here have experienced a vague feeling of apprehension, 
 and complained of a weight upon the spirits. The skies , too , as in February last , 
 have been emblematically black , and the weather emblematically bad : a clearing^up 
 shower in Paris was almost prayed for, to set us right again. Who of us, however, 
 could have wished or looked for a torrent of crimson rain! — The political clouds, 
 though, were charged with the ensanguined cataract, and the gutters of the Capital , 
 alas! were ready to run with human blood. — The Bevolution of February! call it, 
 rather, the Bevolution of Frankenstein!— that mischievous monster,— a compound of 
 
monkey, man, and tiger,— rewarding his appalled inventor with what? an unmanage- 
 able nondescript of cruelty and crime! Is the expression too strong? read the Journals, 
 and answer yes, if you can. Why, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew itself seems to 
 have been of a paler dye than this incarnadine sin,— this stabbing, poisoning, 
 hanging, hacking, sawing, disembowelling insurrection of June, 1848! The ima- 
 gination shudders at such ferocious flendism, and refuses to keep pace with it. But 
 my object in writing to you is to give you the details of what has been felt, and 
 what has been done, in a small provincial town , at 100 leagues from the metropolis. 
 They will , I think , interest you , if only from their serving as a specimen of the rest. 
 « Ex uno disce omnes.» The spirit has been uniformly patriotic, and patriotically 
 uniform. The question was no longer of a Republic , of a Regency, of Henri V, of this 
 individious Buonaparte or of that, but of France, of Order, of Humanity, in opposition 
 to Parricide, to Anarchy, to unnatural and astounding slaughter, and infernal triumph 
 over the dying and the dead. This was the question; and men, of every political cast, 
 vied to enrol themselves, with a common accord, against the common enemies of 
 their country and their kind. The shock of indignation was universal, and distance 
 could not weaken it; as a consequence, the union of aid was universal too, and 
 electrically so, — all in a moment, and that moment the « epea pteroenta » — the 
 n flying words » of the Telegraph. 
 
 The « res gestae » of Dinan are after this wise : 
 
 On Saturday, p.m. the 24 lh inst. our Sous-Prefet received a letter from his father, 
 dated L'Assemblee JSationale, 23 d , stating, that the workmen were in open insurrection, 
 and that a desperate conflict had begun. On Sunday, a.m. arrived a telegraphic 
 dispatch, formally announcing the fact, and hoping, that the example of the neigh- 
 bouring national and moveable Guards, pouring into Paris, would be followed by 
 the farther off. Shortly after, came a second, asking for instant aid from the Provinces. 
 The rappel was again beat, and numbers more flocked to La Mairie, to enlist themselves 
 for the metropolis. Our little town was all alive with consternation , like an ant-hill 
 suddenly disturbed. La Place was crowded. About 5. p.m. an express arrived from 
 Rennes, with orders from the General Commandant, as to a junction of the St. Malo 
 and Dinan volunteers; the former were to sail next morning for Havre and Paris, and 
 engaged to find room in their steamer for a number, not exceeding 80, themselves 
 amounting to 160. At 6. a.m. of the ensuing day, 550 were to start from Rennes. A 
 third telegraphic dispatch, all this while, was anxiously expected , but, coming not, 
 created very serious alarm. The strategy of the Parisian mob was equally known and 
 feared : street-fighting, like the warfare of the Guerillas, has been reduced to a science. 
 
 Hundreds waited round the Post-office until midnight, and then separated in no 
 enviable spirits ; since who could tell how far the insurrection was organised ? Never 
 was alarm more justifiable. Order, it was true, was pretty sure to prevail, but at what 
 cost, and when? On Monday, 26 th , I was on La Place early, and found it covered with 
 
Drillers of all classes, awkward-squadding it together, some of the martial handfuls 
 being officered by publicans, blacksmiths, etc., reminding me, even at that uneasy 
 moment, of Matthews's « Trip to America, » where, at a Grand Review, the Major calls 
 out, with all the nasality of a thoroughbred Yankee, «/ say, Captain, w/iat's our 
 ■« Colonel about, that he isn't here?» Whereto the Captain as nasally replies, « Mending 
 
 « his breeches, and be d — d to him! » The volunteers, whom it had been 
 
 found impossible to send to St. Malo in time, were chosen with care out of the unmar- 
 ried and the young, only one individual of the same family being allowed to go, which, 
 with preparing the suitable equipment, naturally occupied much time. At 2, p.m. they 
 met upon La Place, and— a muster, etc. , of our entire local force having taken place 
 — started for Paris, via Rennes, at 3, accompanied for a league out of town by the said 
 local force, by the Sous-Prefet and other local authorities, and by numerous inhabitants. 
 La Marseillaise— that most felicitous composition , eloquent at once of glory and the 
 grave— was played, and sung, and listened to , with touching effect. It is one thing to 
 hear it blared about the streets by a knot of stupid or besotted clowns, and another to 
 hear it struck up, in full and feeling chorus, and to military tread, by what may prove 
 (to use a happy expression of Byron's) a the unreturning brave. » As to myself, though 
 (looking at their 100 leagues from Paris, and the intervening population) a speedy 
 -countermand of our volunteers might be expected , still had I a very tough job to keep 
 from tears. The strong excitement of so many anxious people, for so many anxious 
 hours, and the continued non-arrival of news from the scene of action were, doubtless, 
 aiding and abetting thereunto. Female grief— a chartered Niobe — gave vent to its 
 
 emotions, and wept accordingly Back again in the town, the hundreds, 
 
 as before, grouped about La Place, and speculated on the issue, their apprehensions 
 wearing different suits of black. Folks in trouble are always tantalized. About 6 in 
 the evening , an Estafette rode up, with an air of immense importance , to the Post- 
 office , and called for the Sous-Prefet , to tell him precisely what he knew before ! He 
 came from the wrong side, — from St. Brieuc instead of Rennes. At nightfall , again , 
 a grand rush was made round the corner to meet the mail, which turned out to be the 
 2-horsed voiture of a commis-voyageur, driving as if there was any commerce to drive 
 for ! The poor coxcomb was hooted , recalling the absurd pique of the inhabitants of a 
 town in Italy, who, because an eclipse of the sun did not occur at the time anticipated, 
 set up a general hiss. And thus— the crowd augmenting more and more — things went 
 on until '/.-past 10, when hope was abandoned quite. At 11, I had just shaken hands 
 with Captain Johnston at la Porte St. Louis , and was descending le Grand Chemin , 
 when lo ! I met a very little man, puffing very hard up the hill, who gasped out to me, 
 with a cod-fish expression of face, « Voil — Voil—Voila La Malle-Posfe , qui arrive !» 
 It was the identical small tailor, who, you may remember, in his other capacity of 
 fireman , when our neighbour's house was in flames, pumped away, with such disin- 
 terested vigour, at the wardrobe of M r T. to the obvious great advantage of the coats 
 
and pantaloons! The courier, (who, in ajiffey, had as many gentlemen 1 
 
 about him , as if he- had been an informer in the close vicinity of a horse-pond , j 
 confirmed his welcome viva voce intelligence of the terrific struggle having ceased on 
 that same Monday afternoon, by delivering to the Sous-Prefet the long-looked-for third 
 Telegraphic Dispatch, which had thus been forwarded from Remies! The Sous-Prefet, 
 amid a profound and breathless silence , read it aloud from tire Post-office steps. The 
 fight, fierce beyond example, had closed at 2 o'clock on that day, and General Cavaig- 
 nac was at the head of affairs for the perilous nonce ! The « Vivos » — looking at them 
 as such — were really very respectable shouts; though, after all, that skimmiking cry 
 bears about the same proportion to an English « Hurrah ! » as a ncoielette en papillotesn 
 (a mutton-chop in curl-papers ! ) does to a jolly rump-steak ! The joy, however, was 
 sincere . so never mind the expression of it. John Bull is a corpulent old gentleman , 
 with lungs to correspond. FRANCE WAS SAVED ! I communicated the intelligence 
 to 4 families of our countryfolk , to whom it proved as grateful , as , presently after, 
 did to Capt. J. and myself a bottle of the cool, clear Sauterne, which you were wont 
 to like so much. And thus ended the many hours of an excitement and an anxiety, 
 which I have certainly no wish to pass again. Not to have taken a strong interest 
 in so momentous a crisis were to have shown the hyper-indifference of the man in 
 Joe Millar, who declined troubling himself about the threatened shipwreck, because 
 «he ivas only a passenger !» — Remains to say, that, had the news been adverse , the 
 rappel would have been beaten, the bells would have been rung, and thousands- upon 
 thousands would have marched straight to Paris , whose reign of selfish revolutions , I 
 suspect, is pretty nearly come to a close. The Departments and the Provinces are sick 
 and tired of a turbulent mother, who is for ever in a ferment of commerce-stopping 
 change. They are right. On Tuesday, the 27 lh , our volunteers were given to under- 
 stand at Rennes by the General Commandant, that their further advance, in consequence 
 of the recent triumph of order, would be quite unnecessary, and that they had better 
 return home, which vexed them so much , that , at no small danger to the temporary 
 liberty of their persons , they remonstrated against the seeming inconsistency in 
 uproarious terms. The scene appears to have been a very amusing one. However, 
 the upshot was , that they were to march back to Dinan on the following day; so that 
 the same parties, who had walked a league to see them off, walked two to see them 
 home. I joined about 500 others. The day, for a wonder, was beautifully fine. We 
 started at noon , and , about 2 , met our young patriots near a pleasant wood , on 
 the road to Hede. Refreshments were supplied , and a very pretty spectacle it was. 
 But I should have told you the order of our going. First went the band, playing , 
 from time to time , the usual patriotic airs , being relieved by the troops , singing 
 sundry Marches, one of which, equally quaint and animating, was a genuine Bretonne, 
 with a laughable burden, that sounded like ca-yelp! a-yelp! a-yelp!» This was- 
 a special favourite. Next came La Cantiniere, — wife to one of the sappers and miners. 
 
— dressed in a sailor's glazed hat , with a band of tri-coloured ribbons,— a lace-frilled 
 collar, with a delicate pink fichu, — a blue duck-tailed jacked, with brass embossed 
 buttons,— a red petticoat, broadly bordered with black velvet,— white pantaloons, 
 fringed with lace, gracefully falling over a very pretty pair of sailor's pumps. She 
 carried , slung over her shoulders with a belt of wide gilt leather, a small green keg of 
 brandy, the contents of which she sold for 200 francs, being 8 L. !!! Then came the 
 Sous-Prefet in full uniform, cocked-hat, blue silver-laced coat, white trousers, and 
 scarf, supported by the Mayor and Deputy with scarfs. Then came ourselves; then the 
 Commandant of our local force; then 500 National Guards, Sappers and Miners. We 
 returned to Dinan at 5, and ascended the Grand Chemin, to the number of at least 
 1000 people. Every adjoining romantic height, every adjoining romantic path, was 
 crammed with happy gazers, who met, shortly afterwards, upon La Place, where the 
 troops disbanded , and the crowd dispersed. And here the manifestation of joy stops. 
 The many— the aggravated— deaths at Paris— all of them French too— put feteing and 
 illuminating quite out of the question. Besides, there is such a thing as hollowing 
 before one is out of the wood. The episode is over ; but the epic ? — June is gone ; but 
 1848? The future is a dark problem; and still the skies are emblematically black, the 
 weather emblematically bad. The cold at times is piercing : I marvel it doesn't snow ! 
 The Republic, hitherto, has been like a rope of sand, which children make upon 
 the shore, and cannot turn to any consistent purpose : a continuity of weakness, 
 it will neither stretch nor coil, but chinks and cracks and crumbles, not only to 
 the touch, but even to the eye. Alack! alack! how wise we are when wisdom is 
 too late! A little less obstinacy in the first instance,— a little more firmness in the 
 last,— and Louis-Philippe— the Friend of Peace— would have kept his Crown, and 
 saved the sea of blood, which has flowed alas! because he was afraid to spill a few 
 drops. Well, well,' it is an ill wind, that blows nobody any good. Should the 
 benefit of the hurricane elsewhere be equivocal or worse, Old England, thank God! 
 must profit by the neighbouring storm. The darling themes of her discontented sons 
 have been signally tried in France, and as signally failed. Vote by Ballot, Universal 
 Suffrage, Chartism,— she has seen them all at Paris. A score of Frenchmen have 
 said to me : « How thankful ought you cool-headed English to be , that we have 
 « furnished you with so many beacons to avoid so many reefs ! » Indeed , with such 
 faros flaring her in the face, she must be very, very rash to run upon the same 
 rocks. May Heaven prosper the dear old land ! Adieu ! 
 
 Believe me , my dear boy, your affectionate father, 
 Dinan. 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS. 
 
 DINAN. — TYI>. DE J.-B. HUART.— 1848. 
 

 
 
 
SPECIMENS 
 OF TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, I. A. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 TlNTERNj STONEHENGE; THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON; 
 THE ROCKS OF PENMARC'II, etc. 
 
 j, -is. sssjAss'r, 
 aasj&s?,, 
 
 1048, 
 
TO 
 ROMANTIC DINAN 
 
 THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE INSCRIBED 
 
 BY AN ATTACHED AND GRATEFUL RESIDENT 
 
 OF TEN YEARS. 
 
(2©asss3m 
 
 -i'li*~ 
 
 r.\or. 
 
 ( A un pere sur la mort de sa fille Malherbe. 2 
 
 ( To a father on the death of his daughter •. 3 
 
 (Fontenay, ou les louanges de la vie champetre Ciiaulieu. 8 
 
 (Fontenay, or the praises of a country- life 9 
 
 ( Le Chene et le Roseau La Fontaine, 16 
 
 [The Oak and the Reed 17 
 
 ( A Philomele J.-B. Rousseau. 20 
 
 (To Philomel 21 
 
 ( Le Grillon Florian. 21 
 
 \ The Cricket 25 
 
 ( La Melancolie Delillu. 28 
 
 \ Melancholy 29 
 
 ( La Naissance de la Rose Parky. 30 
 
 [ The Birth of the Rose 31 
 
 (La chute des feuilles, ou le jeune mourant Milleyoye. 32 
 
 ^Autumn leaves, or the dying boy 33 
 
 ( Dcrniers momens d'un jeune poete, mourant ii Fhopital. . Gilbert. 3b' 
 
 ( Last moments of a young poet , dying in a hospital . . . 37 
 
 f La Jeune Captive Andre Chenjer. 40 
 
 ( The Young Captive -U 
 
 j Le Montagnard emigre Chateaubriand. 52 
 
 I The emigrant Mountaineer 53 
 
PACfc 
 
 Le Papillon Lamartine. 56 
 
 The Butterfly. 57 
 
 ( Les Hirondelles , ou le Prisonnier Beranger. 58 
 
 ( The Swallows, or the Prisoner 59 
 
 \ Smyrne, ou la Captive Espagnole Victor Hugo. 62 
 
 ( Smyrna, or the Spanish Captive. . 03 
 
 I Adieux a un Ruisseau Montesquieu. 68 
 
 ( Farewell to a Stream . 69 
 
 i Fragment , . . . L'Auleur de Marie. 70 
 
 ( Fragment 71 
 
 j La Feuille fletrie M Ue de Mercoeur. 72 
 
 ( The withered Leaf 73 
 
 ( Oil vas-tu? ou la Feuille detachee ./...■.. Arnault. 74 
 
 ( Whither art thou going ? or the flying Leaf 75 
 
 f Le Sylphe Alexandre Dumas. 76 
 
 \ The Sylph . 77 
 
 ( Le nid de Fauvettc Berquin. SO 
 
 ( The Linnet's nest 81 
 
 Motes , 85 
 
When it is stated , that the compositor is utterly unacquainted with English , and 
 that I , in correcting the press , rather than weary another pair of eyes , have trusted 
 to my own alone , every allowance will surely be made for such orthographic errors , 
 as may possibly exist in this printed work. I hope and think, however, that they 
 will prove but very few. 
 
 S. P. 
 
The few poetic pieces , here offered to notice as specimens of translation . are 
 rendered into English from various verses, which, on account of their popularity 
 in France, are printed en regard, so that the reader, who may dip into the fol- 
 lowing pages , and be conversant with the mother-tongue of Malherbe and Chaulieu , 
 of La Fontaine and Rousseau , of Florian and Delille , of Parny and Millevoye , of 
 Gilbert and Andre* Chenier, of Chateaubriand and Lamartine, of Beranger and 
 Victor Hugo, will be certain not to draw a blank. 
 
 The temptation , of course , was great — very great — to give a scene each from 
 Corneille, Racine, Crebillon, Voltaire and Moliere, but, from the inevitable length 
 of them, was unwillingly withstood. Should the miss be complained of, and the 
 translations added to , it will be obviously easy to meet the objection by repairing 
 the deQciency. 
 
 As to the present little task, — being, in fact, too unvoluminous to dwell upon,— 
 it must speak for itself. Still it may be allowable to state, that Coleridge, in 
 his Table-Talk, dissuades a translator, on politic grounds, from a fastidious 
 observance of the original. The poet, perhaps, had seen some servile copy of a 
 line engraving, and marked the stiffness of success. I have endeavoured, then, 
 to be faithfully free ; like yonder uncaged bird of mine , which is seldom or 
 never so lost amid the leaves, as not to keep the aviary in view. Should I, however, 
 appear to any one to have here and there wantonly treated my subject , I must 
 beg to refer the party in question to his probable remembrance of a Mansion-House 
 report, v. So help me! » said a drover, who had been summoned before the Lord 
 Mayor for his hard usage of some oxen, fresh imported from Hamburgh, a So help 
 « me I I'd rather drive a hundred English bullock through the streets of Lunnun 
 « than one of them 'ere Frenchmen'. » « Why , » said Sir Peter, laughing, « you 
 « surely never mean, tliat foreign cattle are more difficult to drive than native? » 
 « Ar'n't they though ? » replied the delinquent , with a knowing nod , « just 
 « you try ' em , my lord .' » 
 
MAJL22EEBBXS. 
 
 JL tin I*ero, siasr la niort «I« sa Fille. 
 
 Ta douleur, Du Perier, sera done eternelle? 
 
 Et les trisles discours, 
 Que te met en l'esprit Famine paternelle, 
 
 L'augmenteront toujours ? 
 
 Le malheur de ta fille , au tombeau descendue, 
 
 Par un comraun trepas , 
 Est-ce quelque dedale , oil ta raison perdue , 
 
 Ne se retrouve pas? 
 
 Je sais de quels appas son enfance etait pleine, 
 
 Et n'ai pas entrepris, 
 Injurieux ami , de soulager la peine 
 
 Avecque son mepris. 
 
 Mais elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choses 
 
 Ont le pire destin ; 
 Et rose , elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses , 
 
 L'espace d'un matin. 
 
 Puis , quand ainsi serait , que , selon la priere , 
 
 Elle aurait obtenu 
 D'avoir en cheveux blancs termine sa carriere . 
 
 Qu'en fut-il avenu ? 
 
3WAIHEBBE. 
 
 To a Father, on the death of his Daughter. 
 
 And must, Du Perier, then, thy grief eternal prove? 
 And must the mournful theme, 
 — The fond , tear-feeding topic of a father's love , — 
 For ever swell the stream? 
 
 Thy daughter dead , descended by the common doom , 
 
 The common grave to fill , 
 Should reason there be lost , as in a maze of gloom , 
 
 To weep and wander still? 
 
 I knew thy cherub child , I knew her winning grace , 
 
 And have not underta'en , 
 Disparaging her years , poor friend ! to so efface 
 
 A childless parent's pain. 
 
 But she was of a world , where things , that fairest be , 
 
 Alas ! are soonest o'er •, 
 A rose , she saw the date , that other roses see , 
 — A morning, and no more. 
 
 Thy darling, had she liv'd , according to thy pray'r, 
 
 A lengthy race to run , 
 And reach'd the dusty goal with time-besilver'd hair, 
 What , what Avould she have won ? 
 
Penses-tu , que , plus vieilie , en la maison celeste 
 
 Elle eut eu plus d'accueil , 
 Ou qu'elle eut moins senli la poussiere funeste 
 
 Et les vers du eercueil ? 
 
 Non , non, mc-n Du Perier, aussitot que la Parque 
 
 Ote Tame du corps, 
 L'age s'evanouit au-deca de la barque, 
 
 Et ne suit point les morls. 
 
 Tilhon n'a plus les ans , qui le firent eigale , 
 
 Et Pluton aujourd'hui , 
 Sans egard du passe , les merites egale 
 
 D'Archemore et de lui. 
 
 Ne le lasse, done, plus d'inutiles complaintes, 
 
 Mais , sage a l'avenir, 
 Aime une ombre comme une ombre, et des cendres eleintes 
 
 Eteins le souvenir. 
 
 C'est bien , je confesse , une juste coutume , 
 
 Que le cceur afflige, 
 Par le canal des yeux versant son amertume , 
 
 Cherche d'etre allege. 
 
 Meme , quand il avient , que la tombe separe 
 
 Ce que nature a joint , 
 Celui , qui ne s'emeut , a Tame d'un barbare , 
 
 Ou n'en a de lout point. 
 
— 5 — 
 
 Believ'st thou , that the skies would more have welcom'd her, 
 
 Because she was infirm ? 
 Or deem'sl ihou , that the old less feel the sepulcre 
 And coffin-loving worm ? 
 
 No , no , Du Pcrier, no , the soul's no sooner fled , 
 
 Than age forsakes the clay, 
 Abandons at the bank the Charon-ferri'd dead , 
 
 And vanishes away. 
 
 Though Tilhon , from his years , a grasshopper became , 
 
 Yet now coeval be 
 To Pluto and The Past , that set them at the same , 
 
 Archemorus and he. 
 
 Then hush these idle plaints , and , for the future wise , 
 
 A shadow rightly view , 
 And since , for ever quench'd , thy hope in ashes lies , 
 
 Oh ! quench remembrance too ! 
 
 I grant , unhappy friend ! in seasons of distress , 
 
 'Tis well the heart should choose 
 The channel of the eyes , its gather'd bitterness 
 
 In timely tears to lose ; 
 
 And , e'en when Nature snaps her own dear ties alas ! 
 
 ( As did lo thee befall , ) 
 Who feels not , has the soul , the callous savage has , 
 Or, rather, none at all ; 
 
— G — 
 
 Mais d'etre inconsolable, et dedans sa memoirt 
 
 Entermer un ennui , 
 N'est-ce pas se hair pour acquerir la gloire 
 
 De bien aimer autrui ? 
 
 De moi , deja deux fois d'une pareille foudre 
 
 Je me suis vu perclus, 
 Et deux fois la raison m'a si bien fait resoudre, 
 
 Qu il ne m'en souvient plus. 
 
 Non qu'il ne me soit mal , que la tombe possede 
 
 Ce qui me fut si cher, 
 Mais en un accident, qui n'a point de remede, 
 
 II n'en faut point chercher. 
 
 La mort a des rigueurs a nulle autre pareilles ; 
 
 On a beau la prier : 
 La cruelle , qu'elle est , se bouche les oreilles , 
 
 Et nous laisse crier. 
 
 Le pauvre en sa cabane , ou le chaume le couvre , 
 
 Est sujet a ses lois, 
 Et la garde, qui veille aux barriere du Louvre,. 
 
 N'en defend point nos rois. 
 
 De murmurer contr'elle et de perdre patience , 
 
 11 est mal-a-propos ; 
 Youloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science, 
 
 Qui nous met en repos. 
 
But wilfully to shut a sorrow in the breast , 
 
 And comfort never know, 
 What is it but to chat , (a sorry fame at best!) 
 
 And be thy proper foe ? 
 
 Though twice upon my head — this scathed head of mine — 
 
 The same disaster fell , 
 I rose from either bolt , — a philosophic sign , 
 
 That reason argu'd well ! 
 
 It was not but I wept the early earth should hide 
 
 The all , I lov'd so much , 
 But , smitten by a chance , which remedy defi'd , 
 
 I ceas'd to look for such. 
 
 Inexorable Death , more harsh than all beside , 
 
 Still leaves us to complain ; 
 And , crying as the millions , that before have cried , 
 
 We sue to him in vain. 
 
 The pauper in his hut, the straw doth barely cover, 
 
 Is subject to his nod ; 
 And kings , for all the guard , that shield them in the Louvre , 
 
 Shall sleep beneath the sod. 
 
 To rail at certain fate , and murmur against God , 
 
 Both weak and wicked is ; 
 Whoe'er would be at peace must learn to kiss the rod , 
 
 And have no will but His. 
 
CS-l&TJiLIETJ, 
 
 Foiitenay, ou les louanges tie la vie ehaiiipetre* 
 
 Desert, airaable solitude, 
 Sejour du calme et de la paix , 
 Asile , ou n'entrerent jamais 
 Le lumulte et Tinquielude , 
 
 Quoi ! j'aurai tant de fois chante 
 Aus tendres accords de ma lyre 
 Tout ce qu'on souffre sous r empire- 
 De l'aniour et de la beaute , 
 
 Et, plein de la reconnaissance 
 
 Dc tous les biens , que tu m'as faits , 
 
 Je laisserai dans le silence 
 
 Tes agremens et les bienfaits ! 
 
 G'est toi , qui me rends a moi-memej 
 
 Tu calmes mon cceur agile , 
 
 Et de ma seule oisivete 
 
 Tu me fais un bonbeur extreme. 
 
 Parmi ces bois et ces hameaux , 
 G'est la , que je commence a vivre ; 
 Et j'empecberai de m'y suivre 
 Le souvenir de tous mes maus. 
 
CHAULIEU- 
 
 FoMteuay. or tSse praises of a coimtrj-life. 
 
 Oh ! Fontenay ! thou dear retreat ! 
 
 Thou happy shade ! thou favor'd home ! 
 Where peace and quiet ever meet, 
 
 And noise and trouble never come ! 
 
 And shall I , then , have told the lyre's 
 Recording but aweary strings 
 
 Of all the grief, that love inspires , 
 
 And all the bane , that beauty brings , 
 
 And , even when my heart is full 
 Of many a good to thee I owe , 
 
 Shall cold , ungracious silence dull 
 That feeling heart's emotions so ! 
 
 For thou it is , that leadest back 
 
 My weak and wandering self to me ; 
 
 And thou , whose vacant pleasures make 
 Of idlesse my felicity. 
 
 Yon simple hut , — this silent wood , — 
 Behold at last my life begun ! 
 
 And never shall a thought intrude 
 
 Of ills , with which my soul has done ! 
 
— 10 — 
 
 Emplois , grandeurs , tant desirees , 
 Jai connu vos illusions ; 
 Je vis loin des preventions , 
 Qui forgent vos chaines dorees. 
 
 La cour ne peut plus m'eblouir : 
 Libre de son joug le plus rude , 
 J'ignore ici la servitude 
 De louer qui je dois hair. 
 
 Fils des dieux , qui de flatteries 
 Repaissez votre vanite, 
 Apprenez, que la verile 
 Ne s'entend que dans nos prairies. 
 
 Groite , d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau , 
 De mousse et de fleurs tapissee , 
 N'enlretiens jamais ma pense'e , 
 Que du murmure de ton eau. 
 
 Bannissons la flatteuse idee 
 Des hoimeurs , que m'avaient promis 
 Mon savoir-faire el mes amis , 
 Tous deux maintenant en fum.ee. 
 
 Je trouve ici tous les plaisirs 
 D'une condition commune ; 
 Avec l'etat de ma fortune 
 Je mets de niveau mes desirs. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 The pride of place , the pomp of povv'r, 
 I know them both for vile and vain , 
 
 And blush for the unworthy hour, 
 That saw me hug a gilded chain. 
 
 But here (he Court can daze no more , 
 Nor here the worst of yokes subdue 
 
 My spirit , blinded as before , 
 
 To flatter where contempt is due. 
 
 Those would-be gods , that live on lies , 
 Whom fool- fed adulation feeds, 
 
 Might here ( if anywhere ) be wise , 
 
 And learn , that truth affects the meads. 
 
 Thou grot ! whose little flowers refrest 
 Are laughing at thy little spring , 
 
 Oh ! ne'er to me a thought suggest 
 
 More deep than thy own murmuring. 
 
 Away with the fallacious dream 
 
 Of all my friends and savoir-faire 
 
 Had painted like the summer beam , 
 To vanish like the summer air. 
 
 E'en here , with no ambitious fret , 
 The charms of middle life I view -, 
 
 And where my means a limit set , 
 My wishes set a limit too. 
 
— 12 — 
 
 Ah ! quelle riante peinlure 
 Cliaque jour se monlre a r.ies yeux ! 
 Des tre'sors , dont la main des dieux 
 Se plait d'enrichir la nature ! 
 
 Quel plaisir de voir les troupeaux , 
 Quand ie midi bride Therbetle , 
 Ranges autour de la houlette , 
 Cliercher le frais sous ces ornieaux ! 
 
 Puis , sur le soir a nos musettes 
 Ouir repondre les coteaux , 
 Et retenlir lous nos hameaux 
 De hautbois et de chansonnetles , 
 
 BJais , helas ! ces paisibles jours 
 Coulent avec trop de vilesse ; 
 Mon indolence et ma paresse 
 N'en peuvent suspendre le cours. 
 
 Deja la vieillesse s'avance, 
 Et je verrai dans peu la mort 
 Executer l'arret du sort , 
 Qui m'y livre sans esperance. 
 
 Fonlenay ! lieu delicieux ! 
 Oil je vis d'abord la lumiere, 
 Bientot au bout de ma carriere , 
 Chez toi je joindrai mes aieux. 
 
1 ° 
 — 1 o — 
 
 How beautiful is all around , 
 
 Above, below! ibe air, ibe sod, 
 
 -The living sky , the living ground , — 
 The world , regifted by its God ! 
 
 And then , at noon , to lie and look , 
 And see upon the sunny glade 
 
 The shepherd with his idle crook , 
 
 The dozing flock and beechen shade: 
 
 And then , at eve , to stand and hear 
 The music of the mocking hill , 
 
 The hautbois in the hamlet near, 
 Or chaunted ditty , sweeter still ! 
 
 But ah ! this pleasant , piping lime 
 Is ebbing like the rest away , 
 
 Nor echo'd reed nor ditti'd rhyme 
 
 Must hope the running sand to stay. 
 
 With feeble step, but steadily, 
 
 Old age is plodding to my gale , 
 
 And there by death shall follow'd be , 
 To do the stern behest of fate. 
 
 The spot , that me my being gave , 
 
 — A little while gone ailing by , — 
 
 The same shall see me in the grave, 
 
 And lyine where my fathers lie. 
 
- 14 - 
 
 Muses ! qui dans ce lieu champelre 
 Avec soin me files nourrir! 
 I5eaux arbres ! qui m'avez vu naitre . 
 Uientut vous me verrez mourir ! 
 
 Cependant du frais de votre ombre 
 II faut sagement profiler, 
 Sans regret, pret a vous quitter 
 Pour ce manoir terrible et sombre , 
 
 Oil de ces arbres , dont expres , 
 Pour un doux et plus long usage , 
 Mes mains ornerent ce bocage , 
 Nul ne me suivra qu'un cypres. 
 
 mm 
 
— 15 — 
 
 Ye Muses , who , with honey wild , 
 My young poetic fancy fed ; 
 
 Ye elms , that knew the lisping child , 
 Ah ! know ye this declining head ? 
 
 But, husbanding my little hour, 
 Behoves me to the last to roam 
 
 Each soon-to-be-abandon'd bow'r, 
 Till summon'd to another home , 
 
 Where , sole of all the cherish'd grove 
 I planted for my longer span , 
 
 The cypress , with a mindful love , 
 
 Shall mourn an else-forgotten man ! 
 
1LA TQETiLimm* 
 
 Eie Chene et le SS«sea«B. 
 
 Le chene mi jour dit an ioseau : 
 « Yous avez bien sujet d'accuser la nalure : 
 « 1'n roilelet pour vous est u'n pesant fardeau. 
 
 « Le moindre vent, qui d'avenlure 
 
 « Fait rider la face de l'eau , 
 
 « Vous oblige a baisser la tele ; 
 « Ccpendant que mon front , au Caucase pared , 
 « Non content d'arreter les rayons du soleil , 
 
 « Brave Feft'ort de la tempete. 
 k Tout vous est aquilon , tout me semble zepbir. 
 « Encore si vous naissiez a l'abri du feuillage . 
 
 « Dont je couvre le voisinage , 
 
 « Vous n'auriez pas taut a souffrir ; 
 
 « Je vous defendrais de Forage. 
 
 « Mais vous naissez le plus souvent 
 « Sur les bumides bords des royaumes du vent, 
 « La nature envers vous me semble bien injusle. » — 
 
 — « Votrc compassion, » lui repondit l'arbusle , 
 « Part d'un bon nature]. Mais quittez ce souci. 
 
 « Les vents me sont moins qu'a vous redoulables. 
 « Je plie et ne romps pas. Vous avez jusqu'ici 
 
 <( Contre leurs coups epouvantables 
 
 « Resiste sans courber le dos ; 
 « Mais altendons la lin. » Comme il disait ces mots, 
 
LA FONTAINE. 
 
 Tiie Oak and the Reed. 
 
 One day the oak address'd Ihe reed 
 In language , such as see : 
 « Nature hast thou to charge indeed 
 
 « With harshness unto thee ; 
 « For lo ! thou caus't not even bear 
 
 « The smallest bird the bushes hide , 
 « Succumbing lo the lightest air, 
 
 « That skims the just-beruffled tide , 
 <c Whilst I , an Etna in the way , 
 « Not only stop Apollo's ray , 
 
 « But Boreas' breath beside. 
 « Thus we in all the zephyr find , 
 « Where all to you is northern wind. — 
 « Had partial fate at least decreed , 
 « That thou should'st rise , unhappy reed ! 
 « Beneath my far-defending green , 
 « How milder would thy lot have been ! 
 « In lieu of which , thy home is still 
 
 « The naked swamp , the humid marsh 
 ii Obnoxious to the tempest's will , 
 — « Yea ! nature unto thee is harsh. » — 
 
 « Thy pity » said the reed in turn , 
 « Becomes the king of trees ; 
 
 « Yet be at rest , and deign to learn 
 « How fanciful it is. 
 
— 18 — 
 
 Du bout de l'horizon accourt avec furie 
 
 Le plus terrible des enfans , 
 Que le nord eut portes jusque-la dans ces flancs. 
 
 L'arbre lient bon ; le roseau plie. 
 
 Le vent redouble ses efforts , 
 
 Et fait si bien , qu'il deracine 
 Celui , de qui la tete au ciel etait voisine , 
 Et dont les pieds touehaient a Tempire des morts. 
 
— 19 — 
 
 « Of ihee , not me , will prove at last 
 
 « Some sudden storm the riving wreck , 
 « When be it thine to brave the blast , 
 
 « And mine to bow , instead of break. 
 « Thy force has hitherto , I grant , 
 « Been ne'er unworthy of thy vaunt , 
 
 « Nor known as yet to shake , 
 « But bide the end. » And , with the word , 
 
 The hurricane at hand is heard ! 
 — The hurricane , as fierce a child , 
 As ever sprang of Boreas wild ! 
 The one resists , the other yields , 
 The wind a treble fury wields, 
 Till , toppled down , uprooted lies 
 
 The giant bulk , whose soaring head 
 But now was neighbour to the skies, 
 
 With feet, that sought the shadowy dead. 
 
 '&H 
 
A Philomele. 
 
 Pourquoi , plaintive Philomele ! 
 SoDger encore a vos malheurs , 
 Quand , pour apaiser vos douleurs , 
 Tout cherche a vous marquer son zeie i 
 
 L'univers , a votre retour, 
 Semble renaitre pour vous plairc ; 
 Les Dryades a votre amour 
 Pretent leur ombre solitaire. 
 
 Loin de vous l'aquilon fougueux 
 Souffle sa piquante froidure ; 
 La terre reprend sa verdure ; 
 Le ciel brille des plus beaux feux. 
 
 Pour vous 1'amanie de Cephale 
 Enrichit Flore de ses pleurs : 
 Le Zephyr cueille sur les fleurs 
 Les parfums, que la terre exhale. 
 
 Pour entendre vos doux accents 
 Les oiseaux cessent leur ramage , 
 Et le chasseur le plus sauvage 
 Sespecte vos jours innocents. 
 
ROUSSEAU. 
 
 To 5?MIoauel. 
 
 Ah ! why , complaining Philomel ! 
 For ever ou thy anguish dwell , 
 Since all essaying things combine 
 To ease that aching heart of thine ? 
 
 For thee the world seems born anew , 
 And yet thy cry is still Tereu ! 
 Thy cry is still Tereu! and yet 
 For thee the Dryads all are met! 
 
 The winter winds once more asleep , 
 Or in their native northern keep , 
 For thee the earth again is green , 
 For thee the air again serene. 
 
 The eyes , that pine at Cephalus , 
 For thee bedew the roses thus ; 
 And, where for thee the vi'lets sigh, 
 Be sure the jealous Zephyr's by. 
 
 The birds , with deferential throat , 
 Are hush to hear thy welling note ; 
 And, weapon-safe and fowler-free, 
 Not e'en the urchin aims at thee. 
 
— 22 — 
 
 Cependant voire ume atlendrie 
 Par un douloureux souvenir, 
 Des malheurs d'une soeur cherie 
 Semble toujours s'entretenir. 
 
 Helas ! que mes tristes pensees 
 M'offrent des maux. bien plus cuisants ! 
 Vous pleurez des peines passees , 
 Je pleure des ennuis presents ! 
 
 Et, quand la nature attentive 
 Chercbe a calmer vos deplaisirs , 
 II faut meme , que je me prive 
 De la douceur de mes soupirs. 
 
— 23 — 
 
 And yet thy sad , unsolac'd breast , 
 With one unwasting thought opprest, 
 ( A sister's cruel wrong , ) appears 
 A fountain of eternal tears ! 
 
 Ah ! cease thy sorrows to bewail , 
 And think of those , that me assail ; 
 Thou weep'st an ill , for ages gone , 
 But I the ill of ev'ry morn ! 
 
 And , since all nature wills it so , 
 Must I my wretched self forego , 
 And e'en my proper grief resign , 
 To feel for thee, and mourn for thine. 
 
FLOBZAN. 
 
 lie €2s*illoiie 
 
 Un pauvre petit grillon . 
 
 Cache dans Tlierbe fleurie, 
 Regardait un papillon 
 
 Voltigeant dans la prairie. 
 L'insecte aile brillait des plus vives couleurs : 
 
 L'azur, le pourpre , et Tor eclataient sur ses ailes. 
 Jeune, beau, petit-maiire, il court de fleurs en fleurs , 
 Prenant et quiltant les plus belles. 
 « Ah ! » disait le grillon , « que son sort et le mien 
 
 « Sont differens ! Dame Nature 
 « Pour lui fit tout , et pour moi rien. 
 
 « Je n'ai point de talent , encore moins de figure. 
 « Nul ne prend garde a moi , l'on m'ignore ici-bas ■ 
 « Autant vaudrait n'exister pas. »— 
 
 Comme il parlait, dans la prairie 
 Arrive une troupe d'enfans. 
 Aussitot les voila courans 
 Apres ce papillon , dont ils out tous envie. 
 Chapeaux , mouchoirs , bonnets , servent a l'attraper, 
 L'insecte vainement cherche a leur echapper, 
 
 II devient bienlot leur conquete. 
 L'un le saisit par Faile , un autre par le corps ; 
 Un troisieme survient, et le prend par la tele. 
 
nORI-M?, 
 
 The Cricket. 
 
 A cricket once , with envious eye , 
 
 Amid the summer grass conceal'd , 
 Was watching of a butterfly, 
 That flutler'd in the field. 
 The latter, conscious of his downy paint, 
 
 The azure , gold , and purple of his wing , 
 A thousand flow'rs a- wooing as he went, 
 
 Kept leaving them in turn , the fickle thing ! 
 « Alas! « the cricket thought, « his lot and mine, 
 
 « How different they be : 
 « To him could Nature ev'ry gift assign , 
 « And none at all to me ! 
 « With nothing to adorn , 
 « No colours to attract , no parts to please , 
 « So mean my look , so lost my being is , 
 « I grieve , that I was born ! » — 
 
 Just then to that enamell'd mead 
 
 Some happy urchins chanc'd to hie, 
 Who straight began , with vying speed , 
 To hunt the butterfly. 
 The showy prize impatient to secure , 
 
 Each hat was off, each handkerchief was out, 
 Till , one and all , they seiz'd upon the poor 
 Demolish'd fop, and mangled him about. 
 
— 2G — 
 
 II ne fallait pas tant d'efforts 
 
 Pour declarer la pauvre bele. 
 
 « Oh ' oh ! » dit le grillon , « je ne suis plus Cache : 
 
 <( II en coute trop cher pour briller dans le monde. 
 
 « Combien je vais aimer ma relraite profonde ! 
 
 « Pour vivre heureux vivons cache. » 
 
« Ho ! ho ! » the cricket cried , « and are ye there , 
 
 « My fascinating beau ? 
 <( Why, then, let others glitter in the air, 
 
 « So I but live below ! 
 
 « To judge by you , I guess , 
 « A figure in the world costs rather dear. 
 « I see betimes, in that invidious sphere, 
 
 « Seclusion 's happiness ! » 
 
DEXaliiEL 
 
 JLa Sfelamcolie. 
 
 Remarquez-les surtout , lorsque la pile Automne, 
 Pres de la voir fletrir, embellit sa couronne. 
 Que de variete , que de pompe , et d'eclat ! 
 Le pourpre , 1'orange , l'opale , l'incamat , 
 De leurs riches couleurs etalent l'abondance. 
 Helas ! tout cet eclat marque leur decadence. 
 Tel est le sort commun : bientot les aquilons 
 Des depouilles des bois vont joncher les vallons. 
 De moment en moment la feuille sur la terre 
 En tombant interrompt le reveur solitaire. 
 Mais ces ruines memo ont pour moi des attraits. 
 La , si mon cceur nourril quelques profonds regrets , 
 Si quelque souvenir vient rouvrir ma blessure , 
 J'aime a meler mon deuil au deuil de la nature. 
 De ces bois desseches , de ces rameaux lletris , 
 Seul , errant, je me plais a fouler les debris. 
 lis sont passes , les jours d'ivresse et de folie , 
 Viens , je me livre a toi , lendre Melancolie ! 
 Viens , non le front charge de nuages affreux , 
 Dont marche enveloppe le chagrin tenebreux , 
 Mais Tceil demi-voile , mais telle qu'en Automne , 
 A travers des vapeurs, un jour plus doux rayonne. 
 Viens, le regard pensif, le front calme, et les yeux 
 Tout prets 'a s'humecter de pleurs delicieux. 
 
DEHL1E. 
 
 ^felaischoly. 
 
 But most observe the changes of the leaves , 
 Her fleeting crown when pallid Autumn weaves. 
 What varied pomp ! what splendour to behold ! 
 Opal and orange , purple , red , and gold 
 Their lavish store of richest hues display , 
 
 — The fine forerunners of a swift decay ! 
 
 And such the common lot : tbe northern gale 
 
 Will soon bestrew the solitary vale , 
 
 Where many a falling leaf of many a tree 
 
 Disturbs the dreamer's startled reverie. 
 
 Yet e'en these very ruins of the wood 
 
 Have charms to sooth my very saddest mood , 
 
 And ne'er doth memory wake the sleeping grief, 
 
 But mourning Nature sighs a sure relief. 
 
 With lonely step how deeply do 1 love 
 
 To pace the russling alleys of the grove , 
 
 Where wilher'd leaves and mossy branches lie . 
 
 And read my heart a wholesome homily ! 
 
 The days are gone of giddiness and folly , 
 
 Then welcome thou , absorbing Melancholy ! 
 
 Yet come not with a look of cloudy care, 
 
 Where sorrow sits, as sable as despair, 
 
 But come with half- veil'd eye, and such as shows 
 
 The soften'd ray at Autumn's dewy close ; 
 
 With pensive visage come , and quiet head , 
 
 And lids, that only wait delicious tears to shed. 
 
JPilB^¥. 
 
 JLa ftfaissaaire «!«* la Hose. 
 
 Lorsque Venus, sortant du sein des mers , 
 
 Souril aux Dieux , cbarmes de sa presence , 
 
 Un nouveau jour eclaira Funivers. 
 
 Dans ce moment la rose prit naissance. 
 
 D'nn jeune lys elle avait la blancheur, 
 Mais aussitot le pere de la treille 
 
 De ce nectar, dont il fut l'inventeur, 
 Laissa lomber une goulle vermeille , 
 
 Et pour toujours il changea sa couleur. 
 
 De Citheree elle est la fleur cherie , 
 
 Et de Paphos elle orne les bosquets. 
 Sa douce odeur, aux celestes banquets , 
 
 Fait oublier celle de l'ambroisie. 
 
 Son vermilion doit parer la beaute ; 
 
 G'est le seul faid, que met la volupte. 
 
 A celle bouche , ou le sourire joue , 
 Son coloris prele un charme divin : 
 
 De la Pudeur elle couvre la joue, 
 
 El de l'Aurore elle rougit la main. 
 
PAHNY. 
 
 The Birth of the Bow. 
 
 When sea-born Venus sought the realms above, 
 Where , ever since , a warmer aether glows , 
 
 And Ida hail'd the smiling Queen of Love , 
 
 The Queen of Flow'rs was smiling in the Rose. 
 
 As fair it was , as lilies to the eye , 
 
 Till lo ! by happy chance or deep design , 
 
 Young Bacchus held the brimming bowl awry , 
 
 And stain'd the leaves with Hebe-handed wine. 
 
 Since when the gods, at their carousing hour, 
 Though all around Elysian odour flows , 
 
 To Paphos send for Cytherea's flow'r, 
 
 And drink lo Venus and the blushing Rose. 
 
 No other lint let Liber's youth require ; 
 
 No other dye let Hebe's damask seek •. 
 No other hue let Venus' self desire 
 
 To crown the charm of her bewitching cheek. 
 
 Ah ! well indeed that hue must needs adorn 
 
 Her heav'nly face , where best it ever shows , 
 
 Since e'en the very fingers of the morn 
 
 Ascribe Iheir beauty to the blushing Rose. 
 
mniiaiiEVOYE. 
 
 liia chute des lew! lies , ou le jeune iBiotiraiit« 
 
 De la depouille de nos bois 
 L'Automne avait jonche la terre ; 
 Le bocage etait sans mystere, 
 Le rossignol etait sans voix. 
 
 Triste et mourant a son aurore , 
 Un jeune malade a pas lents 
 Parcourait une fois encore 
 Le bois cher a ses premiers ans : 
 
 « Bois , que j'aime , adieu ! je succombe 
 « Yotre deuil me predit mon sort ; 
 «Et, dans chaque feuille, qui tombe , 
 « Je vois un presage de mort. 
 
 « Fatal oracle d'Epidaure , 
 « Tu rn'as dis : Les feuilles des bois 
 « A tes yeux jauniront encore : 
 « Mais c'est pour la derniere fois. 
 
 « L'eternel cypres t'environne ; 
 « Plus pale que la pcile Automate , 
 t Tu t'inclines vers le lombeau. 
 « Ta jeunesse sera jlelrie 
 « Avant I' her be de la prairie, 
 « Avant le pampre du coteau - v 
 
MULE VOTE. 
 
 Autumn leaves, or the dying lioy. 
 
 When Autumn, with her yellow store, 
 Was strewing fast the silent vale, 
 
 Whose labyrinth of leaves no more 
 Conceal'd the timid nightingale, 
 
 With deep disease and sorrow deep , 
 A dying boy , for all his pain , 
 
 Arose from unrefreshing sleep , 
 
 To wander in that vale again : 
 
 « Sweet valley ! where my childhood play'd , 
 « And where a gay and giddy thing , 
 
 « I sported in the early shade , 
 
 « Nor look'd beyond the sunny spring 5 
 
 « But now, as aller'd as the year, 
 « I read my end in every tree , 
 
 « Since every leaf, that rustles here, 
 « Is ominous of death to me. 
 
 « Ne'er spake the famous oak of old 
 
 « More soothly than this wither'd one : 
 
 « Another fall shalt thou behold, 
 
 « And then thy little date is done. 
 
 « Thy grave is dug ; the cypresses 
 
 « Are standing round in ready gloom , 
 
 « For, paler than the willow is , 
 
 « Like her, thou droopest to the tomb. 
 
— 34 — 
 
 a Et je meurs. De sa froide haleine 
 « Le vent funeste m'a touche : 
 « Mon printemps commencait a peine, 
 k Et mon hiver s'est approche. 
 
 « Tombe , tombe , feuille ephemere , 
 « Voile aux yeux ce triste chemin ; 
 « Cache au desespoir de ma mere 
 « La place, ou je serai demain. 
 
 « Mais , dans la solitaire allee , 
 
 « Si mon amante echevelee 
 
 « Yenait pleurer quand le jour fuit , 
 
 « Eveille par un leger bruit 
 
 « Mon ombre un instant consolee* » — 
 
 II dit , s'eloigne , et sans retour ! 
 La derniere feuille, qui tombe, 
 A signale son dernier jour. 
 Sous le chene on creusa sa tombe. 
 
 Mais son amante ne vint pas 
 Visiter la pierre isolee ; 
 Et le patre de la vallee 
 Troubla seul du bruit de ses pas 
 Le silence du mausolee. 
 
 
 
— 35 — 
 
 « Before the green is off the grass, 
 « Before the vine is bare and dry , 
 
 « Thij faded youth away shall pass. ' 
 
 « The doom 's accomplish'd , and I die ! 
 
 « In body weak , in spirit worn , 
 « I feel the earthy vapour blow ; 
 
 « And , even as the dappled morn , 
 
 « Dave seen my chequer'd April go. 
 
 « Ye leaves , that sink like me apace ! 
 
 « When eager Death has had his due , 
 « In pity hide my resting-place, 
 
 « And veil it from my mother's view. 
 
 « But ah ! if she if she, I say, 
 
 — <c The maiden I so dearly love , — 
 « Should haply come , at close of day, 
 « To weep in the accustom'd grove , 
 
 « And shade , with her dishevell'd hair , 
 « My simple stone in fond regret , 
 
 « Oh ! wake me to her presence there , 
 « And tell me of some comfort yet ! » 
 
 He said , and went away — to die , 
 As fell the last remaining leaf; 
 
 His grave the wither'd oak is by , 
 
 But where is love's surviving grief? 
 
 Alas ! above his simple stone 
 
 No hair-dishevell'd maiden grieves : 
 
 The shepherd's step disturbs alone 
 
 The silence of those autumn-leaves. 
 
(EII,BEBT= 
 
 ESentiers isiffismeiiSis d'uu Jcuite |»oc4e, Bssoisi'ant a I'hogtUal. 
 
 J'ai revele mon coeur au Dieu de l'innocence , 
 
 II a vu mes pleurs penitens ; 
 II guerit mes remords , il m'arme de Constance ; 
 
 Les malheureux sont ses enfans. 
 
 Mes ennemis , riant , ont dit dans leur colere : 
 « Qu'il meure , et sa gloire avec lui ! » 
 
 Mais a mon coeur calme le Seigneur dit en pere ; 
 « Leur haine sera ton appui. 
 
 « A tes plus chers amis ils ont prete leur rage ; 
 
 « Tout trompe ta simplicile. 
 « Celui , que tu nourris , court vendre ton image , 
 
 « Noire de sa mechancete. 
 
 « Mais Dieu t'entend gemir, Dieu , vers qui te ramene 
 « Un vrai remords , ne des douleurs ; 
 
 « Dieu , qui pardonne enfin a la nature humaine 
 « D'etre faible dans les malheurs. 
 
 ii J'eveillerai pour toi la pilie, la justice 
 
 « De rincorruptible avenir ; 
 « Eux meme epureront , par leur long artiflce , 
 
 « Ton honneur, qu'ils pensent ternir. » 
 
GI1BEBT. 
 
 Last moments of a young poet , dying in a hospital. 
 
 The God , to Whom my heart's reveal'd , 
 Hath seen my penitential tears , 
 
 My spirit arm'd , my conscience heal'd , 
 And heard me as a father hears. 
 
 When they , that hated , scoffing pray'd 
 
 Of Death to crown my fame and me , 
 He ealm'd my troubled soul , and said : 
 « Their malice thy support shall be. 
 
 « Thy own familiar easy friends 
 
 « They chafe to equal wrath malign , 
 
 (i And he , thy brain hath nourish'd , vends 
 « An image , basely pass'd for thine. 
 
 <( But I , that give contrition birth , 
 
 « Can hear thy wholesome sorrow sigh , 
 
 « Nor vex me, that a son of earth 
 « Should droop at human misery, 
 
 « The future , taught to feel aright , 
 
 « In turn the truth shall duly show , 
 
 « And e'en thy very foes unite 
 
 « To clear the name they sully so. » — 
 
— 38 — 
 
 Soyez beni , mon Dieu ! vous , qui daignez me rendre 
 
 L'innocence et son noble orgueil ; 
 Vous , qui , pour proteger le repos de ma cendre , 
 
 Veillerez pres de mon cercueil ! 
 
 Au banquet de la vie , inforlune convive , 
 
 J'apparus un jour, et je meurs ; 
 Je meurs , et sur ma tombe , ou lentement j'arrive , 
 
 Nul ne viendra verser des pleurs. 
 
 Salut , champs , que j'aimais ! et vous , douce verdure ! 
 
 Et vous , riant exil des bois ! 
 Ciel , pavilion de l'homme ! admirable nature ! 
 
 Salut , pour la derniere fois ! 
 
 Ah ! puissent voir long-temps votre beaute sacree 
 
 Tant d'amis , sourds a mes adieux ! 
 Qu'ils meurent pleins de jours ! que leur mort soit pleuree ! 
 
 Qu'un ami leur ferme les yeux ! 
 
— 39 — 
 
 All hallow'd be , all gracious God ! 
 
 That , cheering -with a holy trust , 
 Hast promis'd to protect my sod , 
 
 And guard its else-dishouour'd dust. 
 
 One fleeting day of Life the guest , 
 The next beholds me dying here ; 
 
 And who, of the carousiDg rest, 
 
 Will seek my grave , and shed a tear ? 
 
 Ye fields , where nature's love began ! 
 
 Ye sylvan haunts , that weari'd never ! 
 Ye skies , the azure tent of man ! 
 
 Adieu for ever, and for ever ! 
 
 My friends , ( alas ! not one is by ! ) 
 
 Oh ! long may they your beauty prize , 
 
 And , full of years , lamented die , 
 
 With friends to close their thankful eyes ! 
 
( Extrait preliminaire de « I'Histoire des Girondins, » par M. de Lamartine. ) 
 
 « Le caractere des peuples survit meme a leurs revolutions. La certitude de 
 mourir ne repandait pas l'horrcur sur Finterieur des prisons de Paris. La sen- 
 sation de la morl s'elait emoussee , a force de se renouveler dans les arnes. 
 Chaque jour d'oubli etait une fete de la vie , qu'on se hata de consacrer au 
 plaisir. L'insouciance de sa propre destinee elevait les detenus jusqu'a 1'appa- 
 rence du stoicisme. La legerete du caractere imitait Tinlrepidite. Des societes , 
 des amities , des amours se nouaient pour une heure entre les prisonniers des 
 deux sexes. On prodiguait a la distraction et aux affections des momens, de- 
 vours a la niort. Les entretiens , les rendez-vous , les correspondances myste- 
 rieuses , les jeux du theatre , imites dans les cachots , la musique , les vers , 
 la danse se continuaient jusqu'aux dernieres heures. On venait arracher l'un 
 au jeu , il laissait ses carles a l'autre ; celui-ci a la table , il achevait de vider 
 sou verre ; celui-la aux embrassemens d'une femme ou d'une amanle, et il 
 epuisait le dernier regard et le dernier serrement de main. Jamais le genie a 
 la fois inlrepide et voluptueux de la jeunesse fran?aise n'avait joue de si pres 
 avec le danger. Le supplice rendait cetle jeunesse sublime sans avoir pu la 
 rendre serieuse. La religion , cette visiteuse des inforlunes , consolait le plus 
 grand nombre. Des prelres , emprisonnes ou introduits sous des deguisemens , 
 celebraient les mysteres du culte , rendus plus touchants |iar la similitude du 
 sacrifice. La poesie , ce soupire articule de Tame , notait pour l'immortalite les 
 dernieres palpitations du cceur des poetes. M. de Montjourdain , commandant 
 de bataillon de la garde nalionale , adressa , la veille de sa mort , les strophes 
 suivanles a la jeune femme , qn'il allait laisser veuve : 
 
 « L'heure approche oil je vais mourir ; 
 
 <( L'heure sonne , et la mort m'appelle : 
 « Je n'ai point de lache soupir ; 
 
 « Je ne fuirai point devant elle. 
 
ANDBE CHEHIBB. 
 
 -<x> — 
 
 Preliminary extract from « The History of the Girondins, » by M r de Lamartine.) 
 
 « The character of a people survives its very revolutions. The certainty of 
 dying cast no shadow of dismay over the interior of the prisons of Paris. The 
 emotion of death was deadened, as it were, by dint of its constant recurrence 
 to the soul. Every added day of forgetfulness was only another day for existence to 
 rejoice in; and jubilee was the hasty object of all. The captives, in appearance 
 at least, were raised into stoics by their sheer indifference to life; and natural 
 insouciance assumed the semblance of moral intrepidity. Societies, intimacies, 
 attachments of the hour, were formed between the prisoners of either sex , 
 who lavished on amusement, on friendship, and on love, the moments, which 
 were due and dedicate to death. Discourse, and rendez-vous , and secret cor- 
 respondence, — the stage, transported to the cell, — the song, — the stroph , — 
 the dance, — were continued to the last. Was one of them called away in the 
 middle of his game ? he made over his cards to the next. Was a second at 
 table at the time ? he emptied his glass. Was a third in tender converse with 
 his mistress or his wife? he indulged , to the full, in the last long look of 
 the eye, iu the last long pressure of the lip, — the waist, — the hand. Never 
 had the genius of French youth, half-hero, half-volupluary , as it is, sported 
 so close upon the grave, — the grave, the mortal peril of which rendered 
 that youth sublime , though it failed to make it serious. Religion , which visits 
 the unfortunate, consoled the major part of them. Priests, imprisoned like them- 
 selves , or admitted there in disguise , performed the affecting duties of their 
 faith, which were all the more touching from the similarity of the sacrifice. 
 Poetry, the articulate sigh of the soul , marked for immortality the last beatings 
 of the poetic heart. Monsieur de Monijourdain , Commandant of Battalion of the 
 National. Guard, addressed, on the eve of execution, the following stanzas to 
 his youthful wife , so soon to become a widow : 
 
 « The hour's at hand , and I must die ; 
 
 « It strikes , and death my name doth call ; 
 « Yet heaves my heart no coward sigh , 
 
 « For ne'er can death that heart appall. 
 
— 42 — 
 
 « Demain mes yeux inaninies 
 
 « Ne s'ouvriront plus sur tes charmes ; 
 « Tes beaux yeux , a l'amour fernies , 
 
 « Demaiu seront noyes de larmes. 
 
 « Si (lis ans j'ai fait ton bonheur, 
 
 « Garde de briser mon ouvrage ; 
 « Donne un moment a la douleur, 
 
 « Consacre au bonbeur ton jeune age. 
 « Qu'un heureux epoux a son tour 
 
 « Vienne rendre a ma douce amie 
 « Des jours de paix, des nuits d'amour, 
 
 « Je ne regrette plus la vie. 
 
 « Si le coup, qui m'attend demain, 
 
 « N'enleve pas ma tendre mere , 
 « Si l'age, Fennui , le chagrin 
 
 « N'accablent pas mon pauvre pere , 
 « Ne les fuis pas dans ta douleur ; 
 
 « Reste a leur sort toujours unie ; 
 « Qu'ils me retrouvent dans ton coeur, 
 
 « lis aimeront encore la vie ! 
 
 « L'auteur du poeme des Mois, Roucher, l'Ovide moderne , posait devant un 
 peiutre au moment, ou Ton vient lui apporler l'ordre de comparaitre au tribunal. 
 Un tel ordre equivalait a une condamnation. Roucher n'etait coupable que de 
 son merile , qui avait jete de l'eclat sur la moderation de ses principes. II sa- 
 vait , que la demagogie ne pardonnait pas meme a l'aristocralie du talent. II 
 supplia les guicheliers d'allendre que son portrait, destine a sa femme et a ses 
 enfans, fut acheve. Pendant que le peintre donnait les derniers coups de pin- 
 
« To morrow . blind to even thee , 
 « My eyes shall close to ope no more, 
 
 « And thine in quenching torrents he 
 « As lost to love , that lit before. 
 
 « Would'st thou of ten unchecker'd years 
 
 « Thy husband's labour not destroy ? 
 « Then give one feeling day to tears , 
 
 « And all the youthful rest to joy. 
 « As soon as other love shall haste 
 
 « To wed thee in its happy turn , 
 « And clasp the form I once embrae'd , 
 
 « So soon my soul shall cease to mourn. 
 
 « My mother, — should to-morrow's blow 
 
 « Not bear her to the sudden tomb , — ■ 
 « My father , — should to-morrow's woe 
 
 « Not smite him with an equal doom , — 
 « Unchilded , save in only thee , 
 
 « Their sonless age ah ! ne'er forget ; 
 « Do thou their tender solace be', 
 
 « And life may have its pleasure yet ! » 
 
 « Roucher, the modern Ovid, author of the poem of the months, was 
 sitting for his picture , when summoned to present himself before the tribunal. 
 Such a summons was equivalent to a condemnation. His only crime was his merit, 
 which had cast a lustre upon the moderation of his principles. He knew, that, 
 with the demagogues , even the aristocracy of talent was an unpardonable sin. 
 He besought his jailers to wait until the portrait, intended for his wife and 
 children, should be finished. Whilst the artist was giving the last touches to it, 
 
— 44 — 
 
 ceau , il ecrivil lui-meme sur ses genous l'inscription suivanle , pour ejpliquer 
 a l'avenir la melancolie de ces traits : 
 
 « Ne vons etonnez pas , objets cberis et doux , 
 « Si quelque air de tristessc obscurcit mon visage ; 
 « Quand uu crayon savant dessinait celte image , 
 
 « On dressait Techafaud , et je pensais a vous. » 
 
 « Andre Chenier, ame romaine , imagination allique, que sou courageux pa- 
 Iriotisme avail enleve a la poesie pour le jeter dans la politique , avait ele em- 
 prisonne comme Girondin. Les reves de sa belle imagination avaient trouve leur 
 realite dans M lle de Coigny, enfermee dans la meme prison. II rendait a celte 
 jeune captive un culte d'enlhousiasme et de respect , ailendri encore par l'ombre 
 sinistre de la mort precoce, qui couvrait deja ces demenres. II lui adressait ces 
 vers immortels , le plus melodieux soupir, qui soit jamais sorli des fenles d'un 
 cachot. G'est la jeune fille, qui parle et qui se plaint dans la langue de Jephle. 
 
 EJa eSessBBe ©active. 
 
 « L'epi naissant mtirit de la faux respecte , 
 Sans crainte du pressoir le pampre tout Tele 
 
 Boit les doux presens de 1'aurore ; 
 Et moi , comme lui belle , et jeune comme lui , 
 Quoique l'heure presente ait de trouble et d'ennui , 
 
 Je ne veux point mourir encore. 
 
 Qu'un sto'ique aux yeux sees vole embrasser la mort 
 .Moi , je pleure et j'espere. Au noir souffle du nord 
 
 Je ploie et rcleve ma lete. 
 S'il est des jours amers , il en est de si doux ! 
 Helas ! quel miel jamais n'a laisse de degouts ? 
 
 Quelle mer n'a point de tempete? 
 
— 10 — 
 
 he himself wrote upon his knees the following inscription , that posterity might 
 understand why it was his features wore so melancholy a look : 
 
 « Ye objects dear, and sacred to my heart, 
 
 « A face so sad oh ! marvel not to view , 
 a Since while the pencil plied its faithful art , 
 
 « The block was waiting, and I thought of you. » 
 
 « Andre Cherrier, — in soul a Roman, in imagination a Greek, — whom his 
 courageous patriotism had withdrawn from poetry to plunge into politics, had 
 been incarcerated as a Girondin. The dreams of his fine fancy had found their 
 realization in M lle de Coigny, confined in the same prison as himself. He offered 
 to the young captive a worship of equal enthusiasm and respect, made still more 
 touching by a sense of the untimely fate , which already overshadowed those 
 mournful cells. To her it was, that he addressed these immortal verses, — the 
 most melodious sigh , which ever yet arose from the crevices of a dungeon. It 
 is the young girl herself, who speaks and plains in the language of Jephtha : 
 
 The ironing Captive. 
 
 « The scythe respects the corn's unripen'd ear ; 
 The summer grape no autumn press doth fear, 
 But sips at ease the dawn's distilling sky ; 
 So I, of equal beauty in the flow"r, 
 Tho' care may dim the transitory hour, 
 — Ah ! no , I cannot thus untimely die. 
 
 Let tearless Stoics rush to welcome death , 
 Be mine to weep and wait. At winter's breath 
 
 I bow my head , retiring in alarm. 
 If days there bitter be , how sweet are some ! 
 Was ever yet a galless honeycomb ? 
 
 Or sea alas ! that never knew a storm ? 
 
/- 46 — 
 
 L'illusion feconde habite dans mon sein. 
 D'une prison sur moi les murs pesent en vain 5 
 
 J'ai les ailes de I'esperance. 
 Echappee aux reseaux de l'oiseleur cruel , 
 Plus vive , plus heureuse , aux campagnes du ciel 
 
 Philomele chante et s'elance. 
 
 Est-ce a moi de mourir? Tranquille je m'endors , 
 Et tranquille je veille •, et ma veille aux remords 
 
 Ni mon sommeil ne sont en proie. 
 Ma bienvenue au jour me rit dans tous les yeux ; 
 Sur des fronts abattus mon aspect dans ces lieux 
 
 Ranime presque de la joie. 
 
 Mon beau voyage est si loin de sa fin ! 
 
 Je pars , et des ormeaux , qui bordent le chemin , 
 
 J'ai passe les premiers a peine. 
 Au banquet de la vie , a peine commence , 
 Un instant seulement mes levres ont presse 
 
 La coupe , en ma main encore pleine. 
 
 Je ne suis qu'au printemps ; jc veux voir la moisson 
 Et , comme le soleil , de saison en saison 
 
 Je veux achever mon annee. 
 Brillante sur ma tige , et Thonncur du jardin , 
 Je n'ai vu luir encore que les feux du matin 5 
 
 Je veux achever ma journee. 
 
— 4? — 
 
 A rich illusion in my spirit dwells , 
 And , far above these ineffective cells , 
 
 High on the wings of happy Hope I soar. 
 Escap'd the net the fowler spread in vain , 
 The lark the azure aether doth regain , 
 
 A blither songster even than before. 
 
 Is it for me to die ? for me , that sleep 
 As calm as childhood , and , awaking , keep 
 
 No vigil, where remorse the heart doth tear? 
 For me , whose glad good-morrow to the skies 
 Is mirror'd in so many grateful eyes , 
 — Whose look relieves so many more of care. 
 
 So far from clos'd my joyous journey is , 
 That, out of all its avenue of trees, 
 
 The first green elms I barely yet have past. 
 At life's regale a scarcely-seated guest , 
 My lips the brimming bowl have hardly prest; 
 
 And must so poor a pledge, then, be the last? 
 
 Not May alone , but harvest would I view , 
 
 And , like the sun , that rolls the seasons through , 
 
 The shining quarters of my year would tell. 
 So fair upon my stalk,— the garden queen, — 
 As yet the dayspring only have I seen , 
 —Ah ! let me see the rosy eve as well ! 
 
— 48 - 
 
 Oh morl ! tu peux attendre , eloigne , eloigne-tor ; 
 Va consoler les cceurs , que la honte , Teffroi , 
 
 Le pale desespoir devore : 
 Pour moi Pales encore a des asiles verts , 
 Les Amours , des baisers ; les Muses , des concerts : 
 
 Je ne veux point mourir encore. » — 
 
 Ainsi , triste et captif, ma lyre toulefois 
 S'eveillait , ecoutant ces plaintes , celte voix , 
 
 Ces voeux d'une jeune captive ; 
 Et, secouant le faix de mes jours languissans , 
 Aux douces lois des vers je pliais les accens 
 
 De sa bouche aimable et naive. 
 
 Ces chants, de ma prison lemoins harmonieux , 
 Feront a quelque amant des loisirs sludieux 
 
 Chercher quelle fut cette belle. 
 La grace decorait son front et ces discours : 
 Et , comme elle , craindront de voir finir leurs jours 
 
 Ceux , qui les passeront pres d'elle. 
 
 Comme un dernier rayon , comme un dernier zephyr 
 
 Anime la fin d'un beau jour , 
 Au pied de l'echafaud j'essaie encore ma lyre. 
 
 Peut-etre est-ce bientot mon tour. 
 Peut-etre , avant que l'heure , en cercle promenee , 
 
 Ait pose sur l'email brillant , 
 Dans les soixante pas 011 sa route est bornee , 
 
 Son pied sonore et vigilant, 
 
— 49 — 
 
 Impatient Death! avaunt, avaunt, I say! 
 Go , comfort them , that sorrow doth dismay , 
 
 Despair doth crush , or shame doth terrify ! 
 For me, my bosom Pales still enthralls, 
 And tender walks , and piping pastorals , 
 — Ah! no! I cannot thus untimely die. »— > 
 
 And thus it was , where melancholy reign'd , 
 "With lisl'ning lyre , that piti'd as she plain'd , 
 
 A youthful captive I, a captive, heard, 
 And , shaking off the languor of the time , 
 I swept the strings , and fashion'd into rhyme 
 
 The sad , sweet notes of that melodious bird. 
 
 My verse, — the earnest of my prison plight , — 
 Some loving heart at leisure may incite 
 
 To search for all the Muse hath unexprest ; 
 Suffice, that she, confess'd without a peer, 
 So charm'd the soul, Ave felt a common fear 
 To end the days her wit and beauty blest. 
 
 Tlie last verses of Andre Cueuier. 
 
 As some last ray , some zephyr's lingering breath 
 
 Salutes the coming night, so even I 
 Would hail the scaffold with a song of death , 
 
 Though haply doom'd the very next to die. 
 Perchance, before the wasting hour hath ta'en 
 
 With wheeling foot its sixty-stepped round , 
 And duly heard , on the enamell'd plain , 
 
 The watchful clock record it with a sound , 
 
— 50 — 
 
 Le soinmeil du tombean pressera mes paupieres. 
 
 Avant que de ses deux moilies 
 Ce vers , que je commence , ait atteint la derniere , 
 
 Peut-etre en ces murs em-ayes 
 Le messager de mort , noir recruteur des ombres , 
 
 Escortes d'infames soldats , 
 Remplira de mon nom ses longs corridors sombres. 
 
 Et, justement, on Tappela , la plume encore a la main! 
 
 « La veille , soixante-deux teles etaient tombees entre le premier discours de 
 Robespierre et sa chute. De ce nombre etait celle de Roucber et celle du jeune 
 poete, Andre Chenier, l'espoir alors, le deuil eternel depuis , de la poesie fran- 
 caise. Ces deux poetes etaient assis , Tun a cote de 1'autre , sur la meme ban- 
 quette, les mains altachees derriere le dos. lis s'entrelenaient avcc calme d*un 
 autre monde , avec dedain de celui , qu'ils quitlaient. lis detournaient les yeux 
 de ce troupeau d'esclaves, et recitaient des vers, immortels comme leur memoire. 
 lis montrerent la (ermele de Socrate. Seulement Andre" Ghenier, deja sur Te- 
 chafaud, se frappant la tete contre un poteau de la guillotine : «c'est donmiage,* 
 dit-il , « j'avais quelque chose Id. » Lent et toucbant reprocbe a la destinee , 
 qui se plaint, non de la vie, mais du genie tranche avant le temps. » 
 
 
— 51 — 
 
 The slumber of the sod mine eyes will seal , 
 
 Aye , ere this hurri'd stroph shall finish'd be , 
 
 My hand may cease to move , my heart to feel , 
 A headless trunk the all, that's left of me. 
 
 E'en now , perchance , the usher of the dead 
 — The fatal sergeant , that recruits for shades , — 
 
 These soldier-haling aisles doth tramping tread , 
 To startle with my name ... — 
 
 At ibis moment he was called , the pen still in his hand ! 
 
 « On the yesterday , two and sixty heads had fallen between the delivery of 
 Robespierre's first speech and his death. Of this number were those of Roucher 
 and Andre Chenier, the latter the then hope , the subsequent everlasting loss , 
 of French poetry. These two were seated , side by side , on the same bench , 
 their hands tied behind their backs. They discoursed with serenity of another 
 world , with disdain of the one they were just about to leave , and turned their 
 eyes away from the herd of slaves around them , to recite verses , as immortal 
 as their own memory. They displayed the firmness of Socrates , Andre Chenier 
 merely saying, as, already on the scaffold, he struck his head against a beam 
 of the guillotine : « It is a pity , for there was something there ! » — a loth 
 and affecting accusation of destiny, which complained, not of life, but of genius- 
 precociously cut off. » 
 
 m 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 lie Montagirard emigre. 
 
 Combien j'ai douce souvenance 
 
 Du joli lieu de ma naissance ! 
 
 Ma soeur ! qu'ils etaient beaux ces jours 
 
 De France ! 
 mon pays, sois mes amours 
 
 Toujours ! 
 
 Te souvient-il, que notre mere, 
 Au foyer de notre chaumiere , 
 Nous pre^sait sur son sein joyeus , 
 
 Ma chere ! 
 Et nous baisions ses blonds cheveux , 
 
 Tous deux ! 
 
 Ma soeur, te souvient-il encore 
 Du chateau , que baignait la Dore , 
 Et de cette tant vieille tour 
 
 Du Maure, 
 Ou l'airain sonnait le relour 
 
 Du jour? 
 
 Te souvient-il du lac tranquille, 
 Qu'effleurait 1'hirondelle agile? 
 Du vent , qui courbait le roseau 
 
 Mobile? 
 Et du soleil couchant sur l'eau , 
 
 Si beau? 
 
CHATEAUBBIilTfD. 
 
 The cmisrasit Mountaineer. 
 
 How sweetly well can I recall 
 
 The spot , where I was born , and all , 
 
 That made my native skies above 
 
 So gay! 
 Oh ! France ! my country ! be my love 
 
 For aye ! 
 
 And thou , too , of the cottage-hearth , 
 Where she , that gave our being birth , 
 Would clasp us with a fond delight, 
 
 And where 
 We kiss'd her aged tresses white , 
 
 The pair, — 
 
 Canst thou remember, sister dear! 
 The castle and the Dora near, — 
 The aspect of the Moorish tow'r 
 
 At morn , 
 Whose crazy turret toll'd the hour 
 
 Of dawn , — 
 
 The quiet lake, — the skimming swift,— 
 The truant zephyr, all adrift, — 
 The limber rush's dipping head , 
 
 So wet , — 
 The sun , that lurn'd the waters red , 
 
 And set? 
 
— 54 — 
 
 Tc souvient-il de cette amie , 
 Douce compagne de ma vie? 
 Dans les bois, en cueillant la fleur 
 
 Jolie , 
 Helene appuyait sur mon cceur 
 
 Son cceur. 
 
 Oh ! qui me rendra mon Helene , 
 Et ma montagne et le grand chene? 
 Leur souvenir fait tous les jours 
 
 Ma peine; 
 Mon pays sera mes amours 
 
 Toujours ! 
 
 
— 55 — 
 
 Canst thou remember, sister, say, 
 
 My Helen of a happier day , 
 
 When , roaming in the wood , for flow'rs 
 
 To twine, 
 She'd lean that gentle heart of her's 
 
 On mine ? 
 
 Ah ! who my Helen will restore , 
 My hill , the old big oak of yore , 
 Whose sad remembrance naught can move 
 
 Away ? 
 For France, my country, is my love 
 
 For aye ! 
 
 m 
 && 
 
liC IPapilloii. 
 
 Naitre avec le printemps , mourir avec les roses ; 
 Sur l'aile du zephyr nager dans un ciel pur ; 
 Balance sur le sein des fleurs a peine ecloses , 
 S'enivrer de parfurns , de lumiere et d'azur ; 
 Secouant , jeune encore , la poudre de ces ailes . 
 S'envoler, comme un souffle., aus. voiites eternelles 
 Tel est du papillon le desiin enchante. 
 II ressemble au desir, qui jamais ne se pose, 
 Et , sans se satisfaire , effleurant toute chose , 
 Retourne enfin au Ciel chercher la voluple. 
 
1AMABTINE. 
 
 Tlie Butterfly. 
 
 Wilh spring together to be born 5 
 
 Together with the rose to die ; 
 AVith wafting zephyrs wake at morn , 
 
 And sail in the unsullied sky; 
 A moment pois'd , with pinions bright , 
 
 On flowers , unfolding here and there , 
 To revel in the dainty light, 
 
 The odour and the azure air ; 
 So young, and yet so glad to shake 
 
 The dust upon its wings away, 
 And , even as the soul , to take 
 
 Its flight to fields of endless day : 
 For this the favor'd child of jelher , 
 
 The restless Butterfly was made , 
 Which, like desire, doth settle neither 
 
 In sunny shine nor mellow shade , 
 But , — pleasure skimm'd and pleasure tried , 
 
 As pleasure is enjoy'd on earth , — 
 Returns to heav'n unsatisfied , 
 
 And seeks it in its place of birth. 
 
 W 
 
ILes USa'ffimdelles « ®w le l?B*£soiiiftiei a . 
 
 '5 
 
 -■O0-- 
 
 Captif au rivage du Maure, 
 
 Un guerrier, courbe sur ses fers , 
 
 Disait : <i Je vous vois encore , 
 Oiseaux , ennemis des hivers. 
 
 Hirondelles, que Fesperance 
 
 Suit jusqu'en ces brulans climats , 
 
 Sans doute vous quittez la France , 
 — De mon pays ne me parlez-vous pas? 
 
 Depuis trois ans je vous conjure 
 
 De m'apporter un souvenir 
 Du vallon , ou ma vie obscure 
 
 Se bercak d'un doux avenir. 
 Au detour d'une eau, qui chemine, 
 
 A flols purs , sous de frais lilas , 
 Vous avez vu notre chaumine, 
 — De ce vallon ne me parlez-vous pas ? 
 
 L'une de vous peut-etre est nee 
 Au toit , ou je re?us le jour 5 
 
 La , d'une mere infortunee 
 
 Vous avez du plaindre Tamour. 
 
 Mourante , elle croit a toute heure 
 Entendre le bruit de mes pas : 
 
 Elle ecoute, et puis elle pleure 
 
 — De son amour ne me parlez-vous pas? 
 
BEBANGER 
 The Swallows, or tlie Prisoner. 
 
 <X) 
 
 A warrior, bow'd with heavy chains, 
 
 A caplive of the Moor, 
 Beheld upon those parching plains 
 
 The swallows as before , 
 And said : « Ye winter-shunning things ! 
 Whom hope pursues , on faithful wings , 
 From France to burning Araby, 
 — Ah ! speak ye not of home to me ? 
 
 Three years have I besought of you 
 
 A token of the dell , 
 Where life a fitting future drew 
 
 So overweening well ! 
 
 The waters' pure and placid flow, 
 
 A-winding where the lilacs grow, 
 
 And near the hut ye love to see, 
 
 — Ah ! speak ye not of home to me ? 
 
 Perchance my native roof o' straw 
 
 Of you halh shelter'd one ' 
 Beneath the summer eaves , that saw 
 
 My mother mourn her son. 
 From time to lime, with dying ear, 
 She turns my living step to hear, 
 And then her tears so bitter be, 
 — Ah ! speak ye not of home to me ? 
 
— 60 — 
 
 Ma sceur, est-elle mariee? 
 
 Avez-vous vu de nos garcons 
 La foule, aux noces conviee, 
 
 La celebrer dans leurs chansons ; 
 Et ces compagnons du jeune age, 
 
 Qui rn'ont suivi dans les combats , 
 Ont-ils revu lous le village?... 
 — De tant d'amis ne me parlez-vous pas ? 
 
 Sur leurs corps l'etranger peut-elre 
 
 Du vallon reprend le chemin ; 
 Sous mon chaume il commande en maitre, 
 
 De ma sceur il trouble l'hymen. 
 Pour moi plus de mere , qui prie , 
 
 Et partout des fers ici-bas 
 
 Hirondelles de ma patrie ! 
 
 De ses malheurs ne me parlez-vous pas? »- 
 
— 61 — 
 
 My sister, is she married yet? 
 
 Did ye behold the throng 
 Of youths , that in the village met 
 
 To sing the wedding-song? 
 And they , — my young companions all . 
 That left the glen at Glory's call , 
 Have all relrac'd the quiet leaf 
 -Ah ! speak ye not of home to me ? 
 
 Perhaps alas! a foreign foot 
 
 Is on them in the dell, 
 And that usurp' d and troubled hut 
 
 Is hymenless as well. 
 My mother now no more can pray, 
 And all but chains have past away.... 
 Ye swallows , come from over sea ! 
 Ah ! speak ye not of home to mel » 
 
§BMyriie, on la Captive ISspagnole. 
 
 Si je n'etais caplive, 
 
 J'aimerais ce pays , 
 Et cette mer plaintive , 
 
 Et ces champs de mai's 
 Et ces astres sans norabre, 
 Si le long du mur sombre 
 N'etincelait dans l'ombre 
 
 Le sabre des spahis. 
 
 Je ne suis point Tartare, 
 Pour qu'un eunuque noir 
 
 M'accorde ma guitare , 
 
 Me tienne mon miroir. 
 
 Bien loin de ces Sodomes , 
 
 Au pays , dont nous sommes , 
 
 Avec les jeunes hommes 
 On peut parler le soir. 
 
 Pourtanl j'aime une rive , 
 Ou jamais des hivers 
 
 Le froid souffle n'arrive 
 Par les vitraux ouverls. 
 
 L'ete , la pluie est chaude ; 
 
 L'insecie vert, qui rode, 
 
 Luit, vivante emeraude, 
 
 Sous les brins d'herbe verts. 
 
VICTOB 2H7GO- 
 
 Siaayrua. or the Spanish Captive. 
 
 — oo- — 
 
 How gladly could I gaze, 
 
 Were I but only free, 
 On yonder glowing maize , 
 
 And on the sighing sea , 
 And on the starry night, 
 Excepting for the bright 
 Quick glitter on the height, 
 — The sword of the spahee ! 
 
 Am I, then, of Bokhar, 
 
 That slaves like these alas! 
 
 Should tune me my guitar, 
 
 And hold my looking-glass? 
 
 In our unharem'd clime , 
 
 At evening's social time , 
 
 We meet without a crime, 
 And parley as we pass. 
 
 And yet I love the earth , 
 
 Where casement ne'er hath seen 
 
 A cloudlet of the north , 
 Nor winter ever been. 
 
 The rain in summer's warm ; 
 
 The fireflies in a swarm 
 
 Parade their little form , 
 
 And light the grass as green. 
 
— 64 — 
 
 Smyrne est une princesse 
 
 Avec son beau * chapel ; 
 L'heureux printemps sans cesse 
 
 Repond a son appel , 
 Et, corame un riant groupe 
 De fleurs dans une coupe, 
 Dans ses mers se decoupe 
 
 Plus d'un frais archipel. 
 
 J'aime ces tours vermeilles , 
 
 Ces drapeaux triomphants , 
 Ces maisons d'or, pareilles 
 
 A des jouets d'enfants ; 
 J'aime pour mes pensees , 
 Plus mollement bercees , 
 Ces tentes balancees 
 
 Au dos des elephants. 
 
 Dans ce palais de fees, 
 
 Mon coeur, plein de concerts, 
 Croit aux voix etouffees , 
 
 Qui viennent des deserts, 
 Entendre les genies 
 Meier les harmonies 
 Des chansons infinies , 
 
 Qu'ils chantent dans les airs. 
 
 J'aime de ces contrees 
 
 Les doux parfums brulants ; 
 Sur les vitres dorees 
 
 Les feuillages tremblanls ; 
 
 * « Vieux mot, qui se disait autrefois pour chapeau. Or, chapeau de fleurs est une guirlandc, tell 
 que porle une jeune personne aux noccs. » 
 
 Dictionnaire de Napoleon Landais. 
 
— Go — 
 
 And Smyrna's to the view 
 
 A garland-crowned thing, 
 Whose soft behests renew 
 
 The blithe obeying spring ; 
 And , like a vase , that shows 
 The group about the rose, 
 With archipelagos 
 
 Her seas are blossoming. 
 
 I love these golden domes ; 
 
 These lowers , vermilion-hu'd ; 
 These toy-resembling homes ; 
 
 These flags , in aether strew'd 5 
 These summer-houses fair, 
 The elephants upbear, 
 < — I love to humour there 
 
 My visionary mood. 
 
 With harmony replete , 
 
 My spirit seems to hear 
 In this enchanted seat 
 
 A fairy legion near, 
 That o'er the desart come , 
 A many-singing sum, 
 Melodious as the hum 
 
 Of fly-birds in Cashmeer. * 
 
 I love the hot perfumes ; 
 
 The leaves, so glossy bright, 
 That scale the gilded rooms 
 In tremulous delight 5 
 
 * the humming-bird ( gallice , oiseau-mouche ) must have a fine feast in Cashmeer ! and beautiful 
 indeed must it be , in that aromatic land , — in that Paradise of birds and bees and butterflies and 
 flowers, —to see, in some delicious grove of scented shrubs, those painted particles of life, 
 « Like atoms of the rainbow , fluttering round ' > 
 
— 66 - 
 
 L'eau , que la source epanche 
 Sous le palmier, qui penche , 
 Et la cicogne blanche 
 
 Sur les minarets blancs. 
 
 J'aime en un lit de mousses 
 Dire un air espagnol , 
 
 Quand mes compagnes douces , 
 Du pied rasant le sol, 
 
 Legion vagabonde , 
 
 Ou le sourire abonde , 
 
 Font tournoyer leur ronde 
 Sous un rond parasol. 
 
 Mais, surtout, quand la brise 
 
 Me touche en voltigeant 
 La nuit, j'aime etre assise, 
 
 Etre assise en songeant, 
 L'ceil sur la mer profonde, 
 Tandis que , pale et blonde , 
 La lune ouvre dans l'onde 
 Son eventail d'argent. 
 
— 67 — 
 
 The palms , that look below 
 At where the Avaters flow ; 
 The storks , as white as snow , 
 On minarets as white. 
 
 I love , on mossy ground , 
 
 To wake some native strain , 
 
 And witness at the sound 
 Of that dear air again 
 
 The smiling sister band 
 
 Extend the happy hand , 
 
 And dance the saraband, 
 The saraband of Spain ! 
 
 But most of all love I , 
 
 When breezy night recurs , 
 To answer with a sigh , 
 
 As sighing nature stirs 
 My heart , by sorrow tri'd , 
 And , gazing on the tide , 
 See Dian open wide 
 
 That sifter fan of her's ! 
 
MONTESQUIEU* 
 
 Atlieux a tin ISiiisseau. 
 
 Charmant ruisseau ! vous fuyez cet ombrage 
 Et ce vallon , protege par les cieux , 
 Comme si Ton pouvait etre ailleurs plus heureux. 
 Vous avez tort de quitter ce bocage 
 
 Et ces bords paisibles et purs. 
 Imprudent, vous courez aux cites d'ou j'arrive!.. 
 
 Ah ! pendant vos succes futurs , 
 
 Vous regretterez cette rive, 
 Et vos rochers deserts et vos antres obscurs. 
 
 Sans retour, onde fugitive ! 
 On vous voit renoncer a des charmes si doux ! 
 
 Je ne ferai pas comme vous. 
 
MONTESQUIEU- 
 
 Farewell to a Stream. 
 
 Enchanting stream ! and is it thou canst flee 
 
 The soft sweet vale, to heaven itself so dear? 
 As though 'twere wise of one so blest as thee 
 
 To seek for joy in other homes than here! 
 These peaceful banks, this guileless shade to leav: 
 
 For scenes , which I with weary spirit shun , 
 -Alas ! that thou shouldst so thyself deceive 
 
 As quit the woods, and after cities run! 
 But go.... and mourn, in pleasure's mid career, 
 
 The poor, repairless folly, that could flee 
 The rock, the cave, — the soft sweet valley here, 
 — Deluded stream ! I will not copy thee. 
 
Fragment. 
 
 — -oo- 
 
 Quand on est plein de jours , gaiment on les prodigue 5 
 Leur Hot bruyant s'epanche au hasard et sans digue ; 
 C'est une source vive , et faite pour courir , 
 Et qu'aucune chaleur ne doit jamais tarir. 
 Pourtant la chaleur vient , et l'eau coule plus rare 5 
 La source baisse , alors le prodigue est avare ; 
 Incline vers ses jours comme vers un miroir, 
 Dans leur onde limpide il cherche a se revoir ; 
 Mais en tombant deja les feuilles 1'ont voilee, 
 Et l'ceil n'y peut saisir qu'une image troublee. 
 
5KLE2 di^t?SE©a ©52 S2&&2S* 
 
 Frasment. 
 
 In yeuth , the full of years , how riotously gay 
 The overflowing hours at random roll awayj 
 -A source without a stop , that thinks to ever run , 
 Unwasted by the drouth , unminish'd by the sun , 
 Till lo ! the summer burns, and then the gush is o'er, 
 A miser's at the spring, the prodigal's no more, 
 And , bending to the glass , — the mirror of his days , 
 He fixes on the fount his melancholy gaze, 
 But ah ! the falling leaves so trouble it with care , 
 His eyes can only see a wrinkled image there ! 
 
M lle WB H9I1BBCCE17B. 
 
 ffia Feuille fletrie. 
 
 -<K>- 
 
 Pourquoi tomber dejh, feuille jaune et fletrie? 
 
 J'aimais ton doux aspect dans ce trisle vallon. 
 Dn printemps , un ete , furent toute ta vie , 
 
 Et tu vas sommeiller sur le pale gazon ! 
 
 Pauvre feuille ! il n'est plus le temps , ou ta verdure 
 Onibrageait le rameau , depouille maintenant. 
 
 Si fraiche au mois de mai ! faut-il , que la froidure 
 Te laisse encore a peine un incertain moment? 
 
 L'hiver, saison des nuits, s'avance et decolore 
 Ce qui servait d'asile aux habitans des cieux : 
 
 Tu meurs , un vent du soir vient t'embrasser encore, 
 Mais ses baisers glaces sont pour toi des adieus. 
 
fll,. 
 
 M ue DE miECffiUB. 
 
 The withered leaf. 
 
 -oo- 
 
 Already shed , thou yellow leaf forlorn ! 
 
 That servedst once to deck this delly scene? 
 And now , — thy span of spring and summer gone , — 
 
 Thou servs't to strew its sod of sickly green ! 
 
 Poor wither'd thing ! no more canst thou behold 
 The lime when thou wast young, and newly drest. 
 
 Thy May for ever fled , the coming cold 
 But lets thee sleep one hazard hour at best ! 
 
 Long-nighted winter is at hand alas! 
 To spoil the wood , where now no pigeons coo s 
 -Tis done ! the gusts of dying autumn pass , 
 And bid the whirling leaf a sad adieu. 
 
ABH&UIjT, 
 
 >sa vas-iw? an Bss, feuille dctaehre. 
 
 De ta tige detachee , 
 Pauvre feuille dessechee! 
 Ou vas-tu? — « Je n'en sais rien ; 
 « L'orage a brise le chene, 
 « Qui seul etait mon soutien. 
 « De son incerlaine haleine , 
 « Le Zephyr ou l'Aquilon 
 « Depuis ce jour me promene 
 « De la foret a la plaine , 
 « De la montagne au vallon. 
 « Cedant au vent, qui m'enlraine, 
 « Sans me pjaindre ou m'effrayer, 
 « Je vais ou va loule chose , 
 « Ou va la feuille de rose , 
 « Et la feuille de laurier. » 
 
 &% 
 
ABNAUIT. 
 
 \\ 'hither art thou going? or the flyinji SLeaE. 
 
 Faded leaf! untimely torn 
 
 From the bough , where thou wast born 
 Whither art thou going? — 
 « I than this no more can say , 
 « That the oak , my only stay , 
 «. Ravag'd by the gusty gale , 
 k Saw me flying in the vale. 
 « Ever since that helpless hour, 
 « Bandi'd by their common pow'r 
 « From the forest, hill, and plain, 
 « Here and there and back again , 
 « Ne'er have I a moment's rest 
 « From the north wind and the west ! 
 « Stranger to complaint or fear, 
 « Following their wild career, 
 k Just as they may choose to roam , 
 « To the universal home , 
 « Where the leaves of roses go , 
 « And the leaves of laurel blow , 
 « Thither am I going ! » 
 
AI>I!3£A27DHE DUMAS. 
 
 ILe Sylplie. 
 
 Je suis un sylphe , une ombre , un rien , un reve , 
 
 Hote de l'air, esprit myste'rieux , 
 Leger parfura, que le zephyr enleve, 
 
 Anneau vivant, qui joint l'homme et les dieux 
 
 De mon corps pur les rayons diaphanes 
 Flollent meles a la vapeur du soir ; 
 
 Mais je me cache aux regards des profanes , 
 Et l'ame seule en songe peut me voir. 
 
 Rasant du lac la nappe elincelante , 
 
 D'un vol leger j'effleure les roseaux ; 
 
 Et , balance" sur mon aile brillante , 
 
 Jaime a me voir dans le cristal des eaux. 
 
 Dans vos jardins quelquefois je vollige, 
 Et, m'enivrant de suaves odeurs, 
 
 Sans que mon pied fasse incliner leur tige , 
 Jc me suspends au calice des fleurs. 
 
 Dans vos foyers j'enlre avec confiance , 
 Et , recreant son oeil , clos a demi , 
 
 J'aime a vcrser des songes d'innocence 
 Sur le front pur d'un enfant endormi. 
 
ALE^vA^DBE DUMAS, 
 
 The KylB»ii. 
 
 A vague , mysterious spirit of the air, — 
 
 A shadow and a dream, — a Sylph am I, — 
 
 A light perfume, away the zephyrs bear, — 
 A living link between the earth and sky. 
 
 Of this pure form the soft , transparent rays 
 Attemper, as they float, the mists of eve; 
 
 But e'er I shun the gross , material gaze : 
 
 The soul alone can me in dreams perceive. 
 
 The summer lake still smoother, as I brush 
 Its shining surface with my viewless wing , 
 
 I love to balance on the tallest rush , 
 
 And see my own sweet image as I swing. 
 
 At limes I flutter in your early bowers, 
 
 Where dewy bines their luscious odour shed , 
 
 And set my momentary foot on flowers, 
 
 That bloom the more, but never bend the head. 
 
 Your hearths I haunt, and there in slumber steep 
 The child , that nods at noon upon the knee , 
 
 And gild his wonted hour of rosy sleep 
 With smiling visions, innocent as he 
 
— 78 — 
 
 Lorsque sur vous la nuit jette son voile , 
 
 Je glisse aux cieux comme un long Met d'or 
 Et les models disent : « C'est une eloile , 
 
 « Qui d'un ami vous presage la ntort ! » 
 
— 7.9 — 
 
 The night retum'd , a thread of glimpsy gold , 
 — A running spark, — I glitter and ascend, 
 
 And mortals cry : « A shooting-star behold , 
 « The mournful presage of a dying friend ! » 
 
JLe i»iil tie Fauvctte. 
 
 -oo- 
 
 Je lc tiens , ce nid de fauvelte ! 
 
 lis sont deux , trois , quatre pelits ! 
 Depuis si long-lemps je vous guette ; 
 
 Pauvres oiseaux , vous voila pris ! 
 Criez , sifflez , petits rebelles ! 
 
 Debaltez-vous ; oh ! c'est eu vain : 
 Vous n'avez pas encore d'ailes? 
 
 Comment vous sauver de ma main? 
 
 Mais , quoi , n'entends-je point leur mere . 
 
 Qui pousse des cris douloureux? 
 Oui , je la vois ; oui , c'est leur pere , 
 
 Qui vient voltiger aupres d'eux. 
 Ah ! pourrais-je causer leur peine , 
 
 Moi ! qui l'ete dans les vallons 
 Venais m'endormir sous un chene , 
 
 Au bruit de leurs douces chansons? 
 
 Helas ! si du sein de ma mere 
 
 Un mechant venait me ravir, 
 Je le sens bien , dans sa misere , 
 
 Elle n'aurait plus qu'a mourir. 
 Et je serais assez barbare 
 
 Pour vous arraeher vos enfans! 
 Non, non, que rien ne vous separej 
 
 Non , les voici , je vous les rends. 
 
BBRQUIiN, 
 
 The liiimet's nest. 
 
 -oo- 
 
 I have it , the nest of the linnet ! 
 
 The prize it is... two, three, and four! 
 How long have I wailed to win it, 
 
 And wanted to lake it before ! — 
 Ah! struggle and cry, as ye will, 
 
 Little rebels ! your labour's in vain ; 
 For see, ye are featherless still, 
 
 And idle it is to complain. 
 
 But surely the mother I hear , 
 
 Her bosom with agony wrung , 
 -It is she ! and the father is near , 
 
 Lamenting the loss of his young! 
 And I, then, can deal 'em the stroke, 
 
 "Who laid me in summer along, 
 And under the boughs of an oak 
 
 Fell asleep to the sound of their song ! 
 
 Alas ! should a kidnapper come , 
 
 And rob my poor mother of me , 
 How soon would she sink to the tomb ! 
 
 How wretched my father would be ! 
 Yet I for your darlings could climb 
 
 To your nest in a barbarous mood , 
 -No, no, I repent me in time,.... 
 
 There, lake back your innocent brood. 
 
- 82 - 
 
 Apprenez-leur dans le bocage 
 
 A voltiger aupres de votis ; 
 Qu'ils ecoutent voire raniage , 
 
 Pour former des sons aussi doux , 
 Et inoi , dans la saison prochaine , 
 
 Je reviendrai dans les vallons , 
 Dorinir quelquefois sous un chene , 
 
 Au bruit de leurs jeunes chansons. 
 
 
Go , leach 'em to flutter and fly , 
 
 As ye in your earliest spring ; 
 By dulcet degrees by and bye 
 
 Go , teach 'em to twitter and sing ; 
 And [ , when the season has broke , 
 
 "Will lay me in summer along, 
 And under the boughs of an oak 
 
 Fall asleep to the sound of their song ! 
 
ffOTESi 
 
 (1) — (c Tithon n'a plus les ans, qui le firent cigale , 
 « Et Pluton aujourd'hui , 
 v. Sans egard du passe , les mc'rites igale 
 « D' Archemore et de lui. » 
 
 « Tithonus, a son of Laomedon, king of Troy, having begged of Aurora ( who 
 « was enamoured of him, and by whom he was father of Memnon,) the gift of 
 « immortality, forgetting to ask the youth and vigour, which he then enjoyed, 
 « soon became old, decrepid, and infirm. Finding life insupportable, he prayed 
 « Aurora to remove him from the world. As he could not die , the goddess changed 
 « him , lank and lean as he was , into a grasshopper. » 
 
 Lempriere. 
 
 *** 
 « Archemorus, son of Lycurgus, king of Nemiea, in Thrace, by Eurydice, was 
 
 « brought up by Hypsipyle, queen of Lemnos, who had fled to Thrace, and was 
 
 « employed as a nurse in the king's family. Hypsipyle was met by the army of 
 
 « Adrastus, who was going against Thrace; and she was forced to show them a 
 
 « fountain where they might quench their thirst. To do this the more expeditiously, 
 
 « she put down the child upon the grass , and , at her return , found him killed 
 
 « by a serpent. The Greeks were so afflicted at the circumstance, that they instituted 
 
 « games in honour of Archemorus, which were called Nemaan. » 
 
 Idem. 
 
 (2) — « Mais d'etre inconsolable, et dedans sa memoire 
 « Enfermer un ennui, 
 « Ti'est-ce pas se hair pour acqu4rir la gloire 
 « De Men aimer autrui? » 
 
 Here , in the original , succeed four stanzas , which I have forborne to translate , 
 inasmuch as they instantly struck me, — as they strike me still, — as being too 
 
- 86 — 
 
 forced and too frigid to accompany the rest. The reader may judge for himself of 
 the correctness or the incorrectness of my impression , since void les strophes : 
 « Priam, qui vit ses Ills abattus par Achille, 
 
 « Denue de support, 
 « Et hors de tout espoir du salut de sa ville, 
 
 « Recut du reconfort. 
 « Francois, quand la Castille, inegale a ses armes, 
 
 « Lui vola son Dauphin, 
 « Sembla d'un si grand coup devoir jeter des larmes, 
 
 « Qui n'eussent jamais fin. 
 b II les secha pourtant, et, comme un autre Alcide, 
 
 (i Contre fortune instruit, 
 « Fit, qu'a ses ennemis d'un acte si perfide 
 
 « La honte fut le fruit. 
 « Leur camp, que la Durance avoit presque tarie 
 
 « De bataillons £pais, 
 « Entendant sa Constance, eut peur de sa furie, 
 
 « Et demanda la paix. » 
 
 N. B. The two or three instances of antique spelling and phraseology , which occur 
 in this celebrated piece of consolation of Malherbe's , are at once accounted for by the 
 fact of its having been written so far back as 1599. 
 
 (3) — « Le pauvre en sa cabane, oil le chaume le couvre, 
 
 « Est svjet a ses lois , 
 « Et la garde , qui veille aux barrieres du Louvre , 
 « iV'era defend point nos rois. » 
 
 Is it necessary to quote Horace? 
 
 « Mors ocquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas , 
 « Regumque turres. » 
 
 (4) — <c Oil de ccs arbres , dont expres, 
 
 « Pour un doux et plus long usage , 
 « Mes mains ornerent ce bocage, 
 « Nul ne me suivra qu'un cypres. » 
 
 It is , I think , in the Introduction to his Me'moires d'outre-tombe , that Chateau- 
 briand has copied this idea from the amiable and elegant Chaulieu, who, by the 
 way , — the delight of the most recherches salons of Paris , and the beloved of either 
 sex , — was affectionately addressed by Voltaire as « mon pere , » both poetically 
 and personally. 
 
— «/ — 
 
 {5; — <( Pow vous I'amante de Ccphale 
 « Enrichit Flore de ses pleurs : » 
 Ccphalus, the husband of Procris, was loved by Aurora without return. 
 
 (6) — k La Naissance de la Rose. » 
 In rendering the classic verses of Parny. I have, as the reader must have re- 
 marked, made somewhat ornately free with the original. To tell the truth, the 
 temptation proved irresistible, though, possibly, I had better have left well alone, 
 instead of risking the mischance of an honest yeoman of my native county, who, 
 as I have heard my father say, lost a nice little reputation for singing « The Men 
 « of Kent, » because, in an evil hour, he took to flourishing! 
 
 (7) ■ — <c Les derniers moments d'un jeune poete. » 
 
 Gilbert, — poor Gilbert, — at once the Juvenal and the Chatterton of France, — a 
 satirist and a suicide, — died, at the early age of twenty-eight, in a common hospital 
 at Paris , from having , in a fit of phrenzy , swallowed the key of his secretary. His 
 nervous, though rugged lines were directed against the clique of the Encyclopedia-ists, 
 whom Voltaire ridiculed, (and himself too for having assisted them; uj'etais autre- 
 ujois un des (/argons de cette grande boutique-la, » ) and from whom Jean Jacques so 
 soon seceded in disgust. A garbled edition of Gilbert's satires, it appears, had, from 
 malice prepense, been passed off for his; as was afterwards the case, according 
 to the correspondence of the Wit of Ferney, with the notorious poem of La Pucelle. 
 But be that as it may, the last hours of poor young Gilbert were clouded by contumely 
 and neglect, by penury, insanity, and pain. The stanzas in question were composed 
 a fortnight before his death : that they were written in an evident slate of cerebral 
 excitement only adds to the deep pathos of them. The whole range of literary 
 anecdote — of literary misery — has certainly nothing more touching than his melan- 
 choly and untimely end, not excepting even the early garret death-beds of Thomas 
 Otway, Thomas Dermody, and Thomas Chatterton, who died of utter destitution 
 at the respective ages of thirty-four, twenty-one, and eighteen. « The fatal gift 
 « of beauty » alas ! is surely matched by the fatal one of genius ! 
 
 (8) — « La Jeune Captive. » 
 
 M ,u de Coigny, thus handed down to immortality by the heart of youth and the 
 pen of genius, was cousin to the ill-fated Duchesse de Praslin's mother, lady of 
 M. le Marechal Sebastiani. 
 
 (9) — « Combien j'ai douce souvenance 
 
 « Du joli lieu de ma naissance , » etc. 
 If the reader supposes, that I consider myself to have adequately rendered the 
 delicious chansonnette of Chateaubriand, he is as much in error as I should be. 
 
— 88 — 
 
 On the contrary , I consider the collocation of words in the original too simply 
 felicitous and too felicitously simple to admit of an equal translation, — at least by me. 
 There, as in the other pieces, 1 have done my best, and that is all, that I can say- 
 about it. 
 
 And now of the little song itself, which occurs in the choice and enchanting tale of 
 « Le Dernier des Abencerrages , » where it is sung , with affecting fitness , by a 
 Frenchman in a foreign land. 
 
 a Le Montagnard emigre » — that touching bit of thorough Breton , with its Swiss- 
 like yearning after the old haunts and the old hills, — is set to an air, as simply 
 happy as itself ; nor do I recollect, though the native of another clime, experiencing 
 a purer pleasure , in its way , than the hearing of it warbled forth at Quimper by 
 M r Paul Boulle , who , like his elder brother, M r Germain , is an amateur singer 
 of the highest order. To the latter gentleman ( whose musical talents are only matched 
 by his literary acquirements) we are more especially indebted — my daughter and 
 I — for many and many a vocal treat, of which they alone can duly judge, who 
 have heard him sing ( and it is singing ! ) the sublimities of Schubert and Beethoven 
 with one of the rarest voices of the day. 
 
 Let me be allowed a passing word on a humanizing Art , upon which , as on 
 a pivot, the whole Bepublic of Plato (the pupil, par excellence, of Socrates, « Athena's 
 <c wisest son, » ) is, in almost every book of the work, made to turn. The allegoric 
 achievements of Orpheus, in the wilds of Thrace, should be borne in mind as well. 
 
 When two such men , as Villemain and Lamartine , in two such works , as « Le 
 « Tableau Litteraire du XVIII mc Siecle » and « L'Histoire des Girondins , » speak of 
 Music, as a the least intellectual of the Arts,» we are bound, of course, to incline 
 a serious ear; but theu such a pair, as Handel and Mozart, are a host in the 
 opposite camp. « Nos duo turba sumus. » — « Laughter, holding both his sides » at 
 the brain-fraught buffo-ism of Lablache, and Feeling, shedding helpless tears at 
 the scientific pathos of Bubini , are surely something too. Like the lilies of the 
 field, which « toil not, neither do they spin,» the notes of the nightingale are fine 
 without effort ; yet what have Architecture , Sculpture , Painting , and even Poetry 
 itself, I ask, ever produced to excite the same universal emotion, as those simple 
 and affecting sounds, which have sunk into the soul of man from the opening 
 hours of Paradise , and , gentle as the dew , dropt upon the hearts of rich and poor, 
 long before the days of Boaz and of Ruth? The reader, recalling St. Peter's and 
 the Parthenon, the Venus de Medicis and The dying Gladiator, The Last Supper 
 and The Descent from the Cross , Othello and Andromache , will smile at the question. 
 Be it so; but let him answer me another. Who was it, « in all his glory, » that 
 was not equal to a lily of the field? 
 
 No foreign poet , perhaps , has met with so much favour in the every-way great 
 country , of which M r de Lamartine is so distinguished an ornament , as the author 
 
— sn — 
 
 of uThe Seasons. » Well, what was the prime pleasure of Thomson? Why, to sit, 
 of a soft May night, at the window of his little parlour at Richmond, and listen 
 to the Surrey nightingales! * As to whether that pleasure was intellectual or no, 
 nobody can form a better idea than the author of uLes Meditations, » — M r de Lamartine 
 himself. Milton , again , when , « fallen on evil tongues and evil times , » he had 
 retired into private life, and devoted the obscure remainder of it to the composition 
 of « a something, which the world would not willingly let die, » was in the habit 
 of raising, in the early morn, his inspired, though sightless looks to heaven at the 
 pealing tones of an organ, finding, that Music (« the least intellectual of the Arts» ) 
 attuned to « harmony, to holy harmony, » not only the outward ear, but the inward 
 spirit of the sublimest and most sacred poet , that the earth has seen , since Judah 
 hearkened to the lyre of David, and melted at 'The Song of Solomon.' f 
 But to revert to « Le Montagnard emigre » and his local associations. 
 Though Chateaubriand was actually bora at St. Malo , the family-seat was at 
 Combourg, a few miles off, and there it was, that his earlier days were pretty 
 much spent. For purposes, connected with my little soi-disant translation, I re- 
 visited the Chateau , about six weeks ago , accompanied by two or three friends , 
 who will scarcely forget the pleasant afternoon, which we passed together in its long 
 wainscoated old hall , commanding a fine view of the adjoining tranquil lake, with 
 its rushes , bended by the zephyr, its surface , sivallow-skimmed , and burnished by 
 the setting sun. ( To Nature eighty years are but as yesterday ! ) So far, so good ; 
 but where is acette tant vieille tour du Maure?» fallen, if, indeed, it ever existed. 
 I found nobody to answer the question. Again, « La Dore, » — what or where is 
 that ? perhaps the little issue of the lake , which , running under the road , imme- 
 diately afterwards turns the wheel of a corn-mill, and then winds away through 
 a flat but well- wooded country , the resort of snipes and woodcocks , far more likely, 
 be it deferentially said , to form a good shot than a great poet. § But the mind 
 is its own place. « 3Ja sceur » was his favorite sister , Lucille. « Mon Helene » 
 (as I learn indirectly from a connexion of the author's) was a young and handsome 
 English girl, probably en visite at the Chateau, the prime features of which are 
 the old flight of steps, leading to it from the spacious grassy court-yard, and the 
 old round towers, especially as they are seen from the borders of the lake. The interior, 
 for the most part , is gloomy and ill-arranged ; nevertheless , independent even of 
 its recent associations, it is, upon the whole, a fine poetic object, — Le Chateau 
 
 * It is to be noted, too, that, in writing of the nightingale, the very greatest poets have never 
 failed to do belter even, and that the meanest, in treating that enkindling subject, have invariably 
 done well. 
 
 f Id est , not selling down the prophets as poets. But am I justified in so doing ? the choir 
 of a cathedral, at anthem-lime, would certainly answer — no. 
 
 § The prose of Chateaubriand is poetry. 
 
— 90 — 
 
 de Combourg, — which always ought to, and always will, be visited by such ap- 
 preciating minds , as venerate the name of Byron in Newstead , and in Abbotsford 
 the fame of Scott. 
 
 (10) — « Les Hirondelles. » 
 
 The idea of this charming song of Beranger's is clearly traceable to the following 
 passage in « Les Martyrs » : 
 
 (i Avions-nous besoin des fables d'Alcyon et de Ceyx pour trouver des rapports 
 a attendrissans entre les oiseaux, qui passent sur les mers, et nos destinees? En 
 » voyant se suspendre a nos mats des hirondelles fatiguees, nous etions tentes de 
 » les interroger touchant notre patrie. Elles avaient peut-etre voltige autour de notre 
 « demeure , et suspendu lexirs nids a notre toit. » 
 
 Livre XI. 
 
 To whichever of my readers may have perused ( and which of them has not ? ) 
 Madame de StaeTs Corinne and her touching eulogy of the word home, ( like comfort , 
 so essentially English , ) I offer no apologies for having , in partial disregard of the 
 original text, made it the burden of the last line of each stanza of my translation. 
 Tbe word , like the thing , comprises every local recollection , and is , in short , the 
 compendium of the memory, when, in absence, it reverts to — home. 
 
 I cite the passage of Corinne, above alluded to, merely premising, that the unin- 
 terrupted peace of three and thirty years and the long residence of so many of my 
 countrymen on the Continent must, now-a-days, call for a considerable modification 
 of Madame de StaeTs assertion : 
 
 (( C'est en vain , qu'un Anglais se plait un moment aux moeurs etrangeres : son 
 « cceur revient toujours aux premieres impressions de sa vie. Si vous interrogez 
 « des Anglais voguant sur un vaisseau , a I'extremite du monde , et que vous Ieur 
 « demandiez oil ils vont , ils vous repondront : home , ( chez nous , ) si c'est en 
 « Angleterre , qu'ils retournent. Leurs vceux , leurs sentimens , a quelque distance 
 « qu'ils soient de leur patrie , sont toujours tournes vers elle. » 
 
 Livre II. ch. m. 
 
 (11) — « Smyrne , ou la Captive Espagnole. » 
 
 After the particular mention of « Smyrne, » and the expression, uj'aime dire un 
 « air espagnol, » which occur in these very graceful lines of M r Victor Hugo's, I am 
 surely warranted in heading them as 1 have done. But what business have Elephants 
 and palanquins and palm-trees in the Levant? Is it, then, a mere flying description 
 of the East , that « La Captive » is giving us ? 
 
 (12) — « Le sabre des Spahis. » 
 Hope's Anastatius using indifferently, and almost in the same sentence, the words 
 yatagan , sabre , and sword , I have employed the one of the three , which suited 
 
— 91 — 
 
 me best, k The Spahees » ( to cite a note of the Greek Gil Bias ) « are Turkish holders 
 n of military fiefs , which oblige them to join the army at their own expence. » 
 
 (13) — (c Je ne suis point Tar tare , 
 « Pour qu'un eunuque noir 
 « M'accordc ma guitar e , 
 
 « Me tienne mon miroir , » etc. 
 As « La Captive, » who has clearly no wish to have a Turk of a husband, could 
 not , without awaking a smile , tell us in English , that she isn't a Tartar, I have 
 called to my assistance the capital of a kingdom ( strictly Bokhara ) of one of the 
 divisions of that extensive country. 
 
 (14J — « Au pays, dont nous sommes , 
 « Avec les jeunes hommes 
 v. On peut parler le soir. » 
 
 In the sultry climates of Spain and Italy, etc. le beau monde rarely venture out of 
 doors before sunset. Brydone, in his well-known « Tour, » speaks, with great gusto, 
 of the moonlight airings at Palermo. The following extract from an account of the 
 South-American city of Mendoza, as given by Captain (now Sir Francis) Head, in 
 the « Rough notes » of his far rougher rides across The Pampas , will , I am sure , 
 be read with pleasure : 
 
 « The women, in the day, are only seen sitting at their windows, in complete dis- 
 habille, but, in the evening, they come upon the Alameda, dressed with much taste, in 
 evening dresses and low gowns, and completely in the costume of London or Paris. 
 The manner, in which all the people seem to associate together, shows a great deal 
 of good feeling and fellowship , and I certainly never saw less apparent jealousy in 
 any place. 
 
 « The inhabitants, however, are sadly indolent. A little after eleven o'clock in the 
 morning, the shop-keepers make preparations for the siesta; they begin to yawn 
 a little, and slowly to put back the articles, which they have, during the morning, 
 displayed on their tables. About a quarter before twelve, they shut up the shops, 
 the window-shutters throughout the town are closed , or nearly so , and no individual 
 is to be seen until five, and sometimes until six, o'clock in the evening. 
 
 « During this time , 1 used generally to walk about the town to make a few ob- 
 servations. It was really singular to stand at the corner of the right-angle streets , 
 and , in every direction , to find such perfect solitude in the middle of the capital of 
 a province. The noise, occasioned by walking, was like the echo, which is heard in 
 pacing by oneself up the long aisle of a church or cathedral , and the scene reminded 
 me of the deserted streets of Pompeii. 
 
 « In passing some of the houses, I often heard people snoring, and, when the siesta 
 
— 92 — 
 
 was over, I was frequently much amused at seeing them wake up-, for there is 
 infinitely more truth and pleasure in thus looking behind the scenes of private life , 
 than in making formal observations on man, when dressed and disguised for his 
 public performance. They generally lie on the ground or floor of the room, and 
 the group is often amusing. 
 
 « I saw , one day , an old man ( one of the principal folks of the town ) fast 
 asleep and happy. The old woman, his wife, was awake, and sitting up in easy 
 dishabille, yawning with all her might, while her daughter, a very pretty-looking 
 girl of about seventeen , was also awake , lying on her side , and kissing a cat. 
 
 (( In the evening, the scene begins to revive. The shops are opened; a number of 
 loads of grass are seen walking about the streets; for the horse, that is carrying 
 them, is completely hid. Behind the load, a boy stands on the extremity of the back; 
 and, to mount and dismount, he climbs up by the animal's tail. A few Gauchos are 
 riding about , selling fruit ; and a beggar on horseback is occasionally seen , with 
 his hat in his hand, singing a psalm in a melancholy tone. 
 
 « As soon as the sun has set , the Alameda is crowded with people , and the scene 
 is very singular and interesting. The men are sitting at tables, either smoking segars 
 or eating ices, and the ladies are on the mud benches, which are on both sides of 
 the Alameda. This Alameda is a walk nearly a mile long, between two rows of 
 tall poplars : on one side of it are the gardenwalls of the town , concealed by roses 
 and shrubs, and on the other the stream of water, which supplies the town. » 
 
 (15) — « Pourtant j'aime une rive, 
 
 « Oil jamais des hivers 
 « Le souffle froid n'arrive 
 « Par les vitraux ouverts. » 
 « The climate is delightful in the extremest degree. I am now sitting , this present 
 4"' of January, with the windows open, enjoying the warm shine of the sun; and 
 my chamber is set out with carnations, roses, and jonquils, fresh fronfmy garden. » 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's « Letters from Constantinople. » 
 
 (16) — « L'insecte vert, qui rode, 
 
 « Luit , vivante emcraude , 
 « Sous les brins d' her be verts. » 
 This beautiful little lamp of nature has met with a description from the graphic 
 pen of M r Henry Nelson Coleridge , almost as beautiful as itself : 
 
 u As I gazed , the air burst into atoms of green fire before my face , and , in an 
 instant , they were gone ; I turned round , and saw all the woods upon the moun- 
 tains illuminated with ten thousands of flaming torches moving in every direction , 
 now rising, now falling, vanishing here, re-appearing there, converging to a globe, 
 
— 93 — 
 
 and dispersing in spangles. No man can conceive from dry description alone the 
 magical beauty of these glorious creatures; so far from their effect having been 
 exaggerated by travellers, I can say, that I never read an account in prose or verse, 
 which in the least prepared me for the reality. 
 
 « There are two sorts , the small fly, which flits in and out in the air, the body 
 of which I have never examined ; and a kind of beetle , which keeps more to the 
 woods, and is somewhat more stationary, like our glow-worm. This last has two 
 broad eyes on the back of its head, which, when the phosphorescent energy is 
 not exerted , are of a dull parchment hue , but , upon the animal's being touched , 
 shoot forth two streams of green light , as intense as the purest gas. But the chief 
 source of splendor is a cleft in the belly, through which the whole interior of the 
 beetle appears like a red hot furnace. I put one of these natural lamps under a wine- 
 glass in my bedroom in Trinidad , and , in order to verify some accounts , which I 
 have heard doubted, 1 ascertained the hour on my watch by its light alone with 
 the utmost facility. » * 
 
 (17) — <( Smyrne est une princessc 
 
 « Avec son beau chapel ; 
 <( L'heureux printemps sans cesse 
 
 « Bepond a son appel , 
 « Et , comme un riant grovpe 
 « Be fleurs dans une coupe , 
 « Dans ses mers se de'cotipe 
 
 « Plus d'un frais archipel. » 
 
 Fancy the Lisbon of Asia Minor! Smyrna (190 miles south of Constantinople, 
 where Lord Byron said he could live for ever, ) lies , due west , on the very shore 
 of the Mediterranean , beset with the islands of the Levant , and with the Ionian 
 ones at no great distance , quite authorizing the happy floral and poetic figure of 
 the French stanza. 
 
 (18) — « Taime ces tours vermeilles, 
 
 « Ces drapeaux triornphants , 
 (( Ces maisons d'or, pareilles 
 (( A des jouels d'enfans. » 
 
 If « La Captive » be here talking of Smyrna , she is also talking of Constantinople , 
 which, as the Capital of Turkey, would naturally give its architectural and general 
 tone to the former. Now, of Constantinople there are many excellent descriptions by 
 
 ' In Port of Spain ihey tell a story of a lady appearing at a ball in a black silk gown with a splendid 
 trimming of lire-flies. I forget whether the poor things were strung through , like cockchafers , to keep 
 them in spirits. 
 
— 94 — 
 
 travellers, though none, possibly, to surpass what was respectively said of it by two 
 authors, who were never there, — Gibbon and Voltaire. That of Hope's Anastatius is 
 briefly beautiful : Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's is manifold, owing to the numerous 
 parties, to whom she wrote about it, during her twelvemonth's residence therein. 
 * From her justly celebrated letters it is, that I am about to draw pretty largely, 
 fearing nothing from the ennui of the reader : 
 
 « And indeed the pleasure of going in a barge to Chelsea is not comparable to 
 that of rowing upon the canal of the sea here , where , for twenty miles together 
 down the Bosphorus, the most beautiful variety of prospects present themselves. 
 The Asian side is covered with fruit-trees, villages, and the most delightful landscapes 
 in nature ; on the European , stands Constantinople , situated on seven hills. The 
 unequal heights make it seem as large again as it is , ( though one of the largest 
 cities in the world,) showing an agreeable mixture of gardens, pine, and cypress- 
 trees , palaces , mosques , and public buildings , raised one above another, with as 
 much beauty and symmetry as your ladyship ever saw in a cabinet, adorned by 
 the most skilful hands , where jars show themselves above jars, mixed with canisters, 
 babies, and candlesticks. This is a very odd comparison; but it gives me an exact 
 idea of the thing. » 
 
 « I had found so little diversion in the Vizier's harem , that I had no mind to 
 go into another. But her importunity prevailed with me, and 1 am extremely glad 
 I was so complaisant. All things here were with quite another air than at the Grand- 
 Vizier's ; and the very house confessed the difference between an old devotee and a 
 young beauty. It was nicely clean and magnificent. 1 was met at the door by two black 
 eunuchs , who led me through a long gallery between two ranks of beautiful young 
 girls, with their hair finely plaited, almost hanging to their feet, all dressed in 
 fine light damasks, brocaded with silver. I am sorry, that good manners did not 
 permit me to stop to consider them nearer. But that thought was lost upon my entrance 
 into a large room or rather pavilion, built round with gilded sashes, which were most 
 of them thrown up; and the trees, planted near them, gave an agreeable shade, which 
 hindered the sun from being troublesome. The jessamines and honeysuckles, that 
 twisted round their trunks , shed a soft perfume , increased by a white marble fountain 
 playing sweet water in the lower part of the room , which fell into three or four basins 
 with a pleasing sound. The roof was painted with all sorts of flowers , falling out of 
 gilded baskets, that seemed tumbling down. On a sofa, raised three steps, and covered 
 with fine Persian carpets, sat the kiyaya's lady, leaning on cushions of white satin, 
 embroidered ; and at her feet sat two young girls about twelve years old , lovely as 
 angels , dressed perfectly rich , and almost covered with jewels. But they were hardly 
 
 * The highest compliment ever paid to those charming compositions — remarquable, as they are, 
 for their ease and grace, Iheir wit and point, — is surely to be found in the pages of Don Juan , 
 where his Lordship has borrowed from them again and again. 
 
— 95 — 
 
 seen near the fair Fatima , so much her beauty effaced every thing I have seen in En- 
 gland or Germany. 1 must own, that I never saw any thing so gloriously beautiful. » 
 
 (19) — « Et la cicogne blanche. » 
 
 « Here are some little birds held in a sort of religious reverence , and , for that 
 reason , multiply prodigiously : turtles , on account of their innocence ; and storks , 
 because they are supposed to make, every winter, the pilgrimage to Mecca. To say 
 truth , they are the happiest subjects under the Turkish government , and are so 
 sensible of their privileges , that they walk the streets without fear , and generally 
 build in the low parts of houses. Happy are those , whose houses are so distinguished , 
 as the vulgar Turks are perfectly persuaded , that they will not be that year attacked 
 either by fire or pestilence. I have the happiness of one of their sacred nests under 
 my chamber-window. » 
 
 (i0) — « J'aime en un lit de mousses 
 
 « Dire un air espagnol, 
 « Quand mes compagnes douces, 
 
 « Du pied rasant le sol, 
 « Legion vagabonde, 
 « Oil le sourire abonde , 
 « Font tournoyer leur ronde 
 
 (( Sous un rond parasol. » 
 
 Presuming « mes compagnes douces » to be compatriots of « La Captive , » I have 
 made them dance the lively saraband , which , I trust , will be deemed no unwelcome 
 substitute for the cfont tournoyer leur ronde sous un rond parasol , » — being, to me 
 at least, a somewhat puerile play upon words. « But» (I seem to hear some small 
 critic say) «you not only impose upon us your saraband and your humming-bird 
 (i and your Bokhar, but you have actually changed La Fontaine's Caucasus into an 
 « Etna, and Andre Chenier's nightingale into a lark!!! » Small critic! you are quite 
 right. In addition to the employ of one mountain or of one singing-bird for another 
 being, as it happened, a matter of -downright indifference to the sense of the text, 
 I had the rhythm to look to, aud, by implication, the rhyme; and, as Byron says, 
 (c Kings are less imperative than rhymes. » 
 
 But how came you to forget, that I have left out a line of « La Captive » altogether? 
 You see how honest I am ! 
 
 (21) — « Le nid de Fauvette. » 
 
 This pretty little piece of Berquins is indebted to Shenstone, not only for its metre 
 and its style , but for its ideas as well , comme le void : 
 
— 96 — 
 
 « I have found out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 « I have found where the wood-pigeons breed r 
 « But let me that plunder forbear, 
 
 « She will say 'twas a barbarous deed, 
 (i For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, 
 
 « Who would rob a poor bird of its young : 
 « And I lov'd her the more when I heard 
 « Such tenderness fall from her tongue. » 
 Of the grace and beauty of the above lines there can never be a question , but , 
 malgre their euphonious merit and the extreme partiality of the late well-known 
 Thomas Roscoe , of Liverpool , for the melodious poet of the Leasowes , it is by 
 no means desirable, that the « Pastoral Ballads, » — the elegance of which borders 
 upon the feeble, as their simplicity does upon the fade, — should, as a canon of 
 taste, ever be held in such very high estimation. The style, as an exception, like 
 sundry others , is charming , it is true , but , as a fashion , would indeed be « res 
 pessimi exempli. » An amusing parody of « The despairing Shepherds (by Rowe) 
 appeared some years back, whereof I give the first stanza as a specimen : 
 « By the side of a murmuring stream 
 
 « As an elderly gentleman sat, 
 « On the top of his head was his wig, 
 
 k On the top of his wig was his hat. 
 « The wind it blew high and blew strong , 
 
 « As this elderly gentleman sat, 
 (( So off from his head went his wig , 
 (( And after his wig went his hat. » 
 
 PRINTED BY J.-B. HL'ART. 
 
iiItllil©P!l!liiIiliSilWIPl 
 
 a^ssaasr 5>&ssraas a & a sa. 
 
 'f INTERN , STONEHENGE , THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON , THE ROCKS OF PENMARC'H , 
 
 SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH, LE GRAND-BET, OR THE TOMB 
 
 OF CHATEAUBRIAND , etc. , etc. , etc. 
 
 —UK*- — 
 
 While the barley's begemm'd with the dew of the morn , 
 I abandon my nest in the glittering corn , 
 And merrily , merrily , merrily sing 
 The song , that I sung 
 To my mate and my young, 
 When yesterday beam'd on the beautiful spring. 
 As I soar in the exquisite azure above, 
 I sing to my darlings , I sing to my love , 
 No bird of a million so happy as I , 
 As, higher and higher, 
 And higher and higher, 
 I'm winging my musical flight in the sky. 
 Merrily, — merrily, — merrily, — merrily; — 
 Should ye miss now and then a few notes of my lay, 
 'Tis the wandering zephyr, that wafts 'em away. 
 
— 2 — 
 
 With a spirit as light as the carol ye hear, 
 I sing to my darlings , I sing to my dear, 
 
 At the glow of the east, — at the rise of the sun, 
 And merrily chant , 
 As his shafts are aslant , 
 And the vanishing vapour is patchy and dun , 
 And the atoms o' cloud , that discolour the blue 
 In the opposite west , are of ambery hue , 
 
 Like the bosoming feathers the mavises bear, 
 And these pinions of mine 
 Are begilt with the shine, 
 As I swiftly ascend in the delicate air. 
 
 Merrily, — merrily, — merrily, — merrily; — 
 Should ye miss now and then a few notes of my lay, 
 'Tis the wandering zephyr, that wafts 'em away. 
 
 Tho' I seem in my joy but the morning to greet, 
 I sing to my darlings , I sing to my sweet , 
 
 Of the wonders above and the wonders below, 
 — Of this dainty domain 
 And the radiant plain , 
 Where the waters of Ocean unlimited flow, 
 And the bay and the bight are too many to tell, 
 Like the cliff and the heath and the hill and the dell 
 And the town and the bourg and the villa and cot 
 And the cattle and sheep, 
 That bespeckle the steep, 
 As the daisies the meadow at Midsummer dot. 
 Merrily, — merrily, — merrily, — merrily; — 
 Should ye miss now and then a few notes of my lay, 
 'Tis the wandering zephyr, that wafts 'em away. 
 
Still higher and higher, — above and above, — 
 1 sing to my darlings , I sing to my love , 
 
 Of the sea and the shore and the river and lea , 
 
 Where the insular land 
 
 And the circle of sand 
 
 In diminishing size and in dimness agree ; 
 
 Where the fisherman's sail is as small as a flake, 
 
 And the waste of the waves but as large as a lake ; 
 
 Where the wood is a grove, and the churches and tow'rs, 
 With their verdure around, 
 Just appear on the ground , 
 And the elms to the eye are no taller than flow'rs. 
 Merrily, — merrily, — merrily, — merrily; 
 Should ye lose (as ye must) a few notes of my lay, 
 'Tis the distance between us, that takes 'em away. 
 
 Higher up, — higher up, — in a measureless sphere 
 1 sing to my darlings, I sing to my dear, 
 — Not of earth , which is fading so fast on the sight , 
 But of regions , at noon 
 Where the glorious moon 
 And the magnifi'd stars are unspeakably bright ; — 
 Where the vault overhead is of azure no more , 
 But of purple as deep as the pheasant e'er wore , 
 Which well with the plumage of Eden may vie , 
 And the neighbouring throne 
 Of the Deity's known 
 By the worlds, that for ever illumine the sky. 
 Merrily, — merrily, — merrily, — merrily ; — 
 Should ye lose (as ye must) a few notes of my lay, 
 ■"lis the distance between us , that takes 'em away. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO MAY. 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, M. A* 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 TLYTERN; STONEHENGE; THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON; THE ROCKS Of 
 PENMARCH; SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH; etc. 
 
 J.-K. HUAK'r, 
 
 aasj&si. 
 
 1849. 
 
TO 
 
 GEORGE HENRY MORLAND, Esq", 
 
 ( the accomplished nephew of a Man of Genius , ) 
 
 in token of a friendship of twenty years, 
 
 these pages are inscribed 
 
 by 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 -*K>a*- 
 
 , Stanzas on the Spring 1 
 
 Part I. of 
 
 composed at Dinan. 
 
 Broken-hearted Paul 17 
 
 Home 25 
 
 Stanzas on the Spring 45 
 
 Notes to 
 
 Home 57 
 
When , a few months back , I ventured , in spite of their preoccupied minds , 
 
 lo come before the residents of Dinan with my specimens of translation from 
 
 the french, I argued to myself, that the feeling of the hour, however paramount, 
 
 would not and could not so utterly engross the speaker of either tongue , as to 
 
 cause a little work to be left unopened, which consisted half of such beautiful 
 
 originals. Gladly and gratefully can I say, that I argued right. So unbroken was 
 
 the claim of those charming poets, that Messieurs F. and L. L. and A. G. , in 
 
 escaping a moment from the troubled waters of politics , and in honouring my 
 
 imitative task with the kind and critical notice of three respective Journals, expressed 
 
 the pleasure they had felt in drinking of that Helicon anew. The present hour, 
 
 perhaps , is more important still , and the politics more absorbing , and yet , 
 
 with no such auxiliaries now, with no immortal lines on the one page, and with 
 
 no indebted ideas on the olher, do I, venturing afresh, come forward with a 
 
 book again. Emboldened by what? by the double love, deep and common to 
 
 us all, more fervid even than that of poetry and older than poetry itself, — by 
 
 the double , deep , and common love of Nature and of Home. Not to forestall 
 
 the matter of my verses, which must be my warrant or no, I will only beg leave 
 
 to add, that I rejoice, with a thankful joy, while ferment alas ! is all but universal, 
 
 to have found my little picture of peace in this endearing country o( Dinan, — a 
 
 country, like its people, worthy of worthier affections than mine; — a country, that 
 
 commands the praises of so many pens, and of which a native, in a local Paper 
 
 of the olher day, gave a description, so eloquent, so smiling, and so just; — a 
 
 country of hoary towers and ruined walls and fine historic associations; — a 
 
 country of unstudied charm , of rich and random verdure , of choice and easy 
 
combinations of water, wood, and rock, enhanced, too, at a thousand turns , 
 by a thousand lovely accidents of light and shade; — a country, like the fabled 
 Bacchus , « ever fair and ever young , » and of whose beauty may be said t 
 what is said by Antony of Cleopatra's , 
 
 « Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale 
 « Its infinite variety ; » 
 
 ■ — a country of healthy site and air, of social freedom, and unservile unexpence ; 
 — a country, where the lapse of human life is like a rillet's in a mead ; — a country, 
 where the fiery passions of the Capital are happily unknown; — a country, where 
 la belie Nature of la belle France, a stranger to the criminal excesses of man, 
 for ever fills the sacred duties , for ever plays the innocent part , assigned her 
 by a great and pure God; — a country, where the political bouleversemens of 
 Europe are so many faibles ricochets , so many weak rebounds , which spend 
 themselves in the distance; — a country, where (to speak figuratively ) the thunders 
 of Paris are inaudible to the turtles of the wood; where the nightingale, with 
 his flow of melody, kept welling to his mate, as she warmed her quiet nest 
 during the Insurrection of June , and where the clamours of that terrific scene 
 disturbed not, even for a moment, the wild, delicious pipings of the blackbird 
 and the thrush. The simple linnets, as dulcet as they were in Eden and Arcadia, 
 know nothing of the Revolutions or the Ruins of Empires , and the joyous larks 
 are as ignorant as they, that the world , in which they sing so sweetly at their 
 will , has furnished with his facts a Volney or a Vertot. In other words and 
 soberer, the love of Nature and of Home, like the music of the birds, is fixed, 
 unfailing, and hereditary; and thus was I induced to write, malgre this season 
 of busy telegraphs, what, on the same account, I humbly hope may be read. 
 
 June, 
 
 S. P. 
 1849. 
 
Oh ! ever young at heart and ever wise 
 Is he, that from the sordid city's din 
 With open breast to gentle Nature flies, 
 And lets the sunshine of the spirit in ; 
 And , like the dial-shade before my eyes , 
 — Yon tablet , with its solar index thin , 
 AVhose shadow slops when shadows intervene, — 
 Doth number none but only hours serene. — 
 
 And May is come again ! again is come 
 Soft, leafy, sunny, sweet, melodious May! 
 
 The wonted music , and the wonted hum , 
 Bees on each bank, and birds on ev'ry sprays 
 
 And swarming butterflies, — a swelling sum! — 
 With all the rival colours they display, 
 
 That , now at rest , and now upon the wing , 
 
 Subscribe their happy homage to the Spring I 
 
The azure air, — the same, that surely brealh'd 
 In early Paradise the breath of Heaven , 
 
 When sinless Eve unfading fillets wrealh'd, 
 And joy did nothing know of sorrow's leaven 
 
 Ere yet the sodden Earth with vapour seeth'd 
 Of universal tears , or yet was riven 
 
 The universal heart with penal pain , 
 
 Whose ocean ebbs to only flow again , — 
 
 The azure air, still glowing with the rise 
 Of Sol, — an element of burnish'd blue! — 
 
 The soaring lark , that lessens in the skies , 
 Whose song is melting into nothing too ; — 
 
 The moral of the morn, — the homilies 
 The mind may read, aye, even in the dew, 
 
 That brightly bathes the smiling , weeping flower 
 
 Those transient children of the buri'd showers ; — 
 
 The Ranee , without a ripple that dolh glide 
 Insensibly along the winding vale ; — 
 
 The lazy lilies, — lazy as the tide; — 
 
 The balmy slumbers of the western gale ; — 
 
 The viewless choir on either singing side , 
 The plaining story and the cooing tale ; — 
 
 The boughey shade and ray-begilded bushes , 
 
 Instinct with blackbirds and alive with thrushes ;• 
 
— 3 — 
 
 The voice , that's heard in each surrounding placfe , 
 
 Like Rumour's, all at once, both far and near,- 
 The woodland wisp , that mocks the leafy space , 
 And now is there, aud now again is here, — 
 Whose disputable home no ear can trace, 
 
 No vision ascertain , however clear, — 
 -The covert cuckoo's note, — that shifting thing, — 
 -That loud enigma of the laughing Spring ; — 
 
 The rock of many hues and lofty head , 
 Alternate white and yellow , grey and green , 
 
 Where cherry-trees of chance already shed 
 Their bloom upon the speckled gorse between 
 
 And ivy, that affects the quick and dead, 
 Doth freshly glitter in the sunny sheen , 
 
 And overrun the luilher'd and enscale 
 
 The living branches with a coat of mail ;— 
 
 The oak , the elm , the aspen and the ash , 
 The willow and the beech, the larch and fir, 
 
 Whose vernal tints harmoniously clash , 
 Like vari'd youth , with each its character ; — 
 
 The wheeling kite above me, and the dash 
 Of buzzards in the broom; — the airy stir, 
 
 That flutters round; — the swallow and the swift, 
 
 That seize the snowy blossoms , as they drift 
 
— 4 — 
 
 From hanging orchards , shelving to the stream , 
 Where woodpeckers at work are tapping hard 
 
 The old and anty trees; — the chequer'd gleam, 
 That dazzles in the shaw; — the daisy-starr'd 
 
 And cowslip-cover'd bank; — the buzzing beam; 
 The lambs at early play upon the sward ; — ■ 
 
 Th' intoxicating feel — the tipsy mirth 
 
 And jollity of Spring upon the earth ; — 
 
 The blithe employ of Nature-aiding Art , 
 Which leads the walk to wander like a rill 
 
 From dizzy points , that make the timid start , 
 Yet Nature over Man prevailing still , 
 
 As conies o'er the tombs , that rot apart , 
 Where Tintern by the everlasting hill 
 
 Is greenly back'd , and watcr'd by the Wye , 
 
 Whose happy waves the touch of Time defy ; — 
 
 The voluntary bow'r ; — the hazard hedge; — 
 The clinging hop , as random as the vine , 
 
 That gad together on the massy ledge 
 And where the zephyr'd periwinkles twine , 
 
 And whisper of Rousseau ; — the very edge 
 Alive with truant suckles and the bine, 
 
 Which stray like children of the mountaineer, 
 
 That skirt the cliff , and never know a fear ;— 
 
The rocky stair, — the fanciful kiosk, — 
 ( Which not without a pause ye upward win , ) 
 Beset with briars , as potent as the musk 
 
 Of Asiatic goats , that ramble in 
 Their wilderness of spice from dawn to dusk , 
 
 And batten on aroma, — jessamine, 
 And mignonette , and pink , and saucy pea , 
 As pert as wrens , and bold as robins be , 
 
 Or childhood, with th' assurance of an age, 
 That stands not on respect of rank or years , 
 
 But , e'en as Cupid , ready to engage 
 The giant of Convention , freely peers 
 
 Its face into a king's , and to the sage 
 Besponds as wide as Hotspur, or endears 
 
 Its sallies to your man of common sense 
 
 With most irrelevant impertinence ; — 
 
 And , near at hand , as higher ye advance , 
 The hazel's living openwork of green , 
 
 By Nature knit , in order for the Bance 
 
 To shine , with double charm , the boughs between 
 ( — The old device of Beauty to enhance 
 
 Th' effect of features , thus by snatches seen , 
 
 And ah ! the glimpsy loveliness and grace , 
 
 That play, like northern lights, beneath the lace!) — 
 
— 6 — 
 
 Th' acacia , that indigenously grows , 
 ( — The tall Diana of a forest, full 
 Of shrubs to honour her — ); — the guelder-rose, 
 
 A-blossoming with balls , as white as wool ;• — 
 The choice syringa , that an odeur throws 
 
 At limes as luscious as the atur-gul, 
 For whom the Hafiz of the feather'd throng 
 In Persia pours his most melodious song; — 
 
 The sumach , with its dark , congenial leaves , 
 So fitly form'd some welling fount to shade 
 
 By where the world-eschewing poet weaves 
 His sonnets to Vaucluse, or, fondly laid, 
 
 The lover with a pleasing sorrow grieves , 
 And paints the virtues of his absent maid , 
 
 And tells the woods of all her traits so dear f 
 
 As if the woods could either see or hear ! 
 
 — A soft retreat, and one, that softly drew 
 
 The soul of Moschus with the pen of Moore, 
 
 In lines so simple and so polish'd loo , 
 And such as to itself the heart says o'er, 
 
 Recalling , as those placid pictures do , 
 A something it has known or dream'd before, 
 
 xVnd showing to the cold and harass'd breast 
 
 The warm , still images of love and rest •, — 
 
The lilac , with ils load of fleeting grey ; — 
 The rich laburnum , lavish as the heir, 
 
 That squanders all at once his wealth away, 
 And goes the poor, unpili'd morrow bare; — 
 
 The scented hawthorn's seasonable May, 
 That roofs the violets , which , here and there , 
 
 Still linger in the leaves , and ask with sighs 
 
 A further furlough of the willing skies; — 
 
 The many-tinted , many-smelling flowers , 
 — A many-nam'd and many-natur'd show, — ■ 
 Whereof are some , that , lit for Phcebus' bowers , 
 
 Return the fine effulgence of bis glow ; 
 And some , that , op'ning at the ev'ning hours , 
 
 Perfume the dusk, and in seclusion blow, 
 These worshipping the shade , and those the sun , 
 The gay adoring what the quiet shun ; — 
 
 The Rose , coeval with The Queen of Love , 
 
 —The Queen of Flowers with Cupid's mother born , — 
 
 To crown the high festivity of Jove , 
 
 And Paphos with a purple light adorn , 
 And add a grace to Ganymede above, 
 And tip the fairy fingers of the Morn , 
 —The Rose, that blush'd on Helen's cheek , and charm'u 
 The gaze of Troy, and all its ire disarm'd ; — 
 
— 8 — 
 
 The Myrlle, ever typical and true, 
 ( The emblem of her own enchanting isle , ) 
 Which never knows (as Cyprus never knew) 
 
 A change come o'er her, even for a while ; — ■ 
 The Lily, of the wan and slighted hue, 
 
 That wears by day a tear-repressing smile , 
 But hangs her head when darkness veils the lea , 
 And , like Griselda , mourns when none can see ;- 
 
 The stori'd Clytie , — she , that , to her bane , 
 Allur'd of old Apollo's ardent eye , 
 
 Which punish'd her with passion , and , again 
 Averted, blaz'd upon another by, 
 
 Who buri'd out of sight, she pin'd in vain 
 At him , that doom'd her only not to die , 
 
 Transform'd into a thing of gaudy grief, 
 
 Which, loving still, is still without relief, 
 
 For still , a moving monument of woe , 
 From east to west she gradually turns 
 
 Her sun-beseeching face , pursuing slow 
 The slow-revolving splendour as it burns, 
 
 Nor drops her longing look , 'till quite below 
 Th' horizon he is gone , then bowing yearns 
 
 Towards him still , and still without a hope , 
 -The dial of despair, — the Heliotrope; — 
 
— 9 — 
 
 And oihers , loo , of pure poelic cast , 
 Rise with his rise , and with his selling set $ 
 
 As he — whose vivid pow'rs impair'd at last, 
 When age and sickness in his body met,— 
 
 Unconscious was of present and of past 
 
 From twilight to the dawn , but , rallying yet t 
 
 Began to gather with the orient ray 
 
 A dim idea of the yesterday , 
 
 Which kindled into light by warm degrees, 
 
 In common with the earth , and caught the hues 
 Of that recurring god , whose nature is , 
 
 Like Memory, to gild what he reviews. 
 The listening friends , the talk beneath the trees , 
 — Whatever to the mind the mind renews , — 
 All , all , tho' soon to melt as the mirage , 
 Came back upon the sense of old Lesage , 
 
 Who daily with the sun kept even pace, 
 
 And reach'd at noon the zenith of his wit 
 ( Asmodeus Redivivus for the space , 
 
 — The sorry space , — the orb permitted it , ) 
 
 Then sober'd on and on of time and place, 
 Till lo ! once more the parting Glory lit 
 
 The bounds of misty Hesperus , and then 
 
 He sank into fatuity again ; — 
 
— 10 — 
 
 And some there are, that, arrogantly fair, 
 Parade , like silly girls , their beauty brave , 
 
 To wane , like vapid dowagers , that bear 
 Their false and would-be freshness to the grave ; 
 
 But these say nothing to the heart, for where 
 The inward charm the breathing roses have? 
 
 And so with such , in whom ye fail to find 
 
 That more than magic zone, — a winning mind;—r 
 
 And some , again , in simple fashion deck'd , 
 That fill their modest station on the soil , 
 
 With naught the common notice to attract , 
 Are emblems of the mass, who form a foil 
 
 To set the others off, till death collect 
 
 The idly vain , and them , that spin and toil , 
 
 And do the duty of their quiet day, 
 
 And , noteless come , as noteless pass away ; — • 
 
 And some are up and out upon the meads , 
 As when the horned Pan of classic yore 
 
 AVas wont to watch for Syrinx in the reeds , 
 And Pluto gather'd Proserpine, and bore 
 
 The pallid victim with bis sooty steeds 
 Away to Acheron's untimely shore, 
 
 The while her flow'rs kepi dropping in the wake, 
 
 And, wet with tears, made Ceres' heart to ache, 
 
— 11 — 
 
 As many a mortal heart doth ache the same, 
 
 When Youth , the spoil of Atrophy , bequeaths 
 The touching tokens of a sever'd claim , 
 — As full of sorrow as the scatter'd wreaths, 
 That fell from Dis's car, — for love and fame 
 
 To twine into a coronal , that breathes 
 Of early amaranth , and cannot die , 
 Nor Mason's strophe , nor Shelly's monody ; — 
 
 And some , in the Mythology of Flow'rs , 
 The Dryads are , — the genii of the Wood , — 
 
 The same , as witness'd , in the olden hours , 
 Adonis , dying in the solitude , 
 
 And Venus , bent above him , shedding show'rs 
 Of tears , not wholly idle , but endu'd 
 
 With virtue yet, since where Adonis fell 
 
 Th' Anemone arose to deck the dell, 
 
 —A dainty change , allho' the chang'd alas ! 
 
 Was doom'd no more a title to retain , 
 As meet for perpetuity as was 
 
 Or his , whom Envy slew upon the plain , 
 Or his, who por'd upon the fatal glass 
 
 Of Vanity , that fooleth wiser men , 
 Because the sage complacence, that can stoop 
 To Self alone, is sure to be a dupe; — 
 
— 12 -*■ 
 
 And some — the wild and interweaving things , 
 As shy as those small foresters , the elves , 
 
 That link their little hands by mossy springs , 
 And hide in haunts as sylvan as themselves, 
 ( The sweetest sure of sweet imaginings ! ) — 
 Are peeping where the busy dormouse delves 
 
 His tooth into the nut he duly stor'd , 
 
 When drowsy autumn bade him hive his hoard : 
 
 And some , the Naids of the floral crowd , 
 Are found , like Silence , on the river-marge ; 
 
 And some upon the wave , in beauty bow'd , 
 
 Reflected float , with all their leaves at large , 
 -The Lilies of the Nile, as justly proud 
 As Cleopatra , sailing in her barge , 
 
 Who , glancing at the flood , that mirror'd there 
 
 Her queenly face , saw nothing else so fair ; — 
 
 And some are running in the merry brook , 
 To stem it as they may, or, strewn along 
 
 The surface of the pool , to fancy look 
 The lymphy urchins of a fairy throng, 
 
 That , fast asleep in some enchanted nook , 
 Of Avon dream subaqueously among 
 
 The liny caves , which at the bottom be , 
 
 Till lo ! the moon and rising revelry ! — 
 
— 13 — 
 
 And some there are, the Oreads of the year, 
 That, like the vanish'd virgins of the hill, 
 
 Who foremost of the nymphs did Echo hear, 
 Are foremost of the flow'rs to hear her still ; 
 
 For she, when love of her's, nor sigh, nor tear, 
 Could move Narcissus to bewail her ill, 
 
 Bequeath'd , poor shadow ! to the mountain-track 
 
 The voice the mountains sent in pity back. 
 
 And such she is, — a stop-indebted sound 
 
 In solid cliff, in valley, vault, and dyke, 
 -An airy accident , — a chance rebound , — 
 
 According as the voice may chance to strike! 
 But, high or low, above or under gronnd, 
 — Wherever it may be , — is Echo like 
 The memory of man , which lives alone 
 In hollow breath and hollow- worded stone. 
 
 And sometimes , in the subterranean aisle , 
 
 : — The long, — the drear, — the soul-subduing crypt, 
 
 Where Levity itself forgets to smile, 
 
 And Pride of all her arrogance is stript, 
 And Envy pauses at the dusty file 
 
 Of coffin'd kings and royal scions , nipt 
 And canker'd by the worm, that eats the flow'r, 
 In spite of all the sunniness of Pow'r,-^- 
 
— 14 — 
 
 I say , at seasons , in those real homes 
 
 Of Grandeur, out of common sight inurn'd , 
 -Those buri'd sepulcres — those catacombs — 
 Of Grandeur, into common ashes turn'd, — 
 
 As there ye stray, to read amid the tombs 
 A lesson , ever taught , but never learn'd , 
 
 Is Echo , awful spirit of the dead ! 
 
 A sermon in herself at ev'ry tread! 
 
 And sometimes , as a moral-meaning jest , 
 — A satire on the world , wherein she was 
 The prey of slight, by Vanity opprest, 
 
 And meek Desert no other fortune has , 
 But bold Presumption ever fares the best, — 
 
 She lets the low appeal to notice pass 
 Unnotic'd , noticing the loud and vain , 
 And shouting to the fool his laugh again ; 
 
 And sometimes , in a sort of plaintive mirth , 
 ( As men , at whiles , take up the catch of care . 
 And ring the changes on a woe of earth , ) 
 
 Or loth to be the only echo there, 
 She gives another and another birth, 
 
 Till, liner even than the ear of air, 
 The word, she made her melancholy play, 
 Has died among the rocks... away..... a.... way! 
 
— 15 — 
 
 The flow'rs ! the flow'rs , the children of the show'rs ! 
 
 The issue of the cloud and dewy sky ; 
 The garlands of the azure-loving hours , 
 
 Once more around their happy heads to lie J 
 The many-shaded , many-graded flow'rs f 
 
 That form a more than prism to the eye, 
 And charm the sense in many a dear degree, 
 The flow'rs ! the flow'rs ! how beautiful they be ! 
 
 The scatter'd fragments of a glorious light, 
 That puts to shame the seven-colour'd bow 
 
 Of Eve, and saddens Iris with the sight, 
 How bravely well the living atoms blow ! 
 
 AVould seem as if, thus emulously dight, 
 They hail'd the birth of Hermes, or as tho' 
 
 They met upon the soil , so richly gay , 
 
 To keep the anniversary of May, — 
 
 For May is come again ! — again is come 
 Soft, leafy, sunny, sweet, melodious May; 
 
 The wonted music and the Avonted hum , 
 Bees on each bank , and birds on ev'ry spray ; 
 
 And swarming butterflies , — a swelling sum ! — 
 With all the rival colours they display, 
 
 That, now at rest, and now upon the wing, 
 
 Subscribe their happy homage to the Spring! 
 
BROKEN- HE ARTID PAUL. 
 
 -oo- 
 
 Yirginia ! oh ! my perish'd love ! 
 
 My lost delight ! my earthly all ! 
 Though tears be things unknown above, 
 
 Still, still in pity to thy Paul, 
 
 Since only now thy spirit came 
 My short-sleep'd anguish to beguile, 
 
 And call'd me by my wonted name, 
 And smil'd as thou wast wont to smile , 
 
 Come once again , and tell me where 
 (What they will not) thy form doth lie, 
 That I my heart may anchor there, 
 Discharge its wretched freight , and die. 
 
— 18 — 
 
 Alas ! in lieu of tramping feet 
 
 And sick'ning round of dale and hill , 
 
 To woo the rest , that shuns me yet , 
 And fly the thought , that follows still , 
 
 How better to have surely known 
 Thy body stranded by the wave , 
 
 That so my centred grief might own 
 A whereabouts to weep — thy grave ! 
 
 Thy grave ! thy grave ! — Almighty God ! 
 
 And is it come indeed to this , 
 That I could bear to see the sod , 
 
 Aye , think the sight a happiness ! 
 
 Then come , in whatsoever guise , 
 — In pity to this aching brain , 
 This crying heart , these longing eyes , 
 — In common pity , come again ! 
 
 Albeit from a wat'ry tomb , 
 
 With dripping weeds and dripping hair, 
 Oh ! come again , in pity come ! 
 — Virginia ! speak to my despair ! 
 
— 19 — 
 
 For I , for ever from that night 
 Unutterable pangs have borne, 
 
 And through the darkness and the light 
 Myself have to a shadow worn 
 
 With woe, that never flags, — a woe, 
 That drives me onward till I drop ; 
 
 So weary , yet compell'd to go , 
 Too faint to move, too sad to stop. 
 
 Or if, by many a plodding league 
 Enforc'd , the snatchy sleep betide , 
 
 And stretch me , helpless with fatigue , 
 The mournful gully's gush beside , 
 
 Or haply on the lonely lea , 
 
 Or haply in the silent dell , 
 Or haply by the sobbing sea , 
 
 My dreams , by some connecting spell , 
 
 Cameleon-like , their colour take 
 From what the vision last did view 
 
 Love's shatter'd images remake , 
 And e'eu our infancy renew. 
 
— 20 — 
 
 But most ( ah ! were it but a dream ! ) 
 I see thee on the piteous wreck, 
 
 The while the livid lightnings gleam, 
 And flash around thee on the deck , 
 
 And then , amid the ghastly blaze , 
 As thou upon thy knees dost fall , 
 
 I see thy shrinking form upraise 
 One hand to Heaven and one to Paul - 
 
 And see no more. I only know 
 A sort of scuffle on the shore , — 
 
 A buri'd bandying to and fro , — 
 
 A dashing shock , — and nothing more. — 
 
 A long bad sleep , — a slow dull wake , 
 With bruised limbs and troubled head , 
 
 While things , that made my senses ache , 
 Like spectres, throng'd about my bed. 
 
 Though all familiar was , I wist 
 
 Nor whose the face, nor where the spot. 
 Like daily objects in a mist , 
 
 I saw the truth , but knew it not. 
 
— 21 — 
 
 Yet one clear thought , distinct as now , 
 Show'd forth in my dim memory, 
 
 And that — what could it be but thou ? 
 And still my question was of thee. 
 
 I ask'd of this,— I ask'd of that, — 
 Of all , that came and stood by me , — 
 
 And of my Mother, as she sat 
 And watch'd , I ask'd the same , but she 
 
 With meaning eyes , that melting moum'd , 
 Look'd at me hard, but nothing said. 
 
 And then my wandering wits return'd , 
 For then I knew , that thou wast dead. — 
 
 As Paul sits silent and overcome , a nightingale sings. He listens , and then 
 apostrophizes the bird thus : 
 
 Poor bird ! that shedd'st thy plaining tears , 
 "Where yon dishevell'd willows hang 
 
 Their boughs, as in those hapless years, 
 When thus thy feather'd lathers sang 
 
— 22 — 
 
 By Babel's stream , and Judah kept 
 A list'ning silence at the lay , 
 
 Save where her sobbing daughters wept , 
 And thought of Sion far away. 
 
 Thy changeless cry doth tell me this : 
 That Nature's of all time and place , 
 
 And Grief a thing immortal is , 
 For sure in thy undying race 
 
 Some metamorphos'd spirit sings 
 Of Love and its unlasting joys , 
 
 And sweetly opes the gushing springs 
 Of human Sorrow with thy voice ! 
 
 Tereu! Tereu! » — that woeful tale, 
 How well it suits my mateless mood ! 
 
 And well dost thou , poor bird ! bewail 
 Thy lost Virginia of the wood ! 
 
 Then still pour on thy liquid strain , 
 For lo ! my heart's a fountain too , 
 
 And , falling like the summer rain , 
 My tears respond « Tereu ! Tereu ! » 
 
— 23 — 
 
 He continues to listen and to shed tears, until — the song dying away — he 
 gradually falls asleep , when , as it would seem , the vision of Virginia appears 
 !o him , since he thus concludes : 
 
 Stay , stay , my love ! I'll go with thee ! 
 
 — Virginia! What! another dream! 
 
 But blessed may its warning be , 
 Since slowly from the orient beam 
 
 Thou pointedst to the welcome west, 
 Then , beck'ning with thy hand as slow , 
 
 Dissolvedst to thy place of rest, 
 Where Paul at set of sun shall so! 
 
home-:. 
 
 My name to that endearing isle 
 Of happy hearths I trace , 
 Where home and comfort ever smile 
 
 In one another's face, 
 And , though my vari'd worship be 
 As common as humanity , 
 I hear but on a single shore 
 A word for what the rest adore. 
 
 To fix unsteady man are mine 
 
 A thousand tender ties , 
 Which bind him to the torrid line, 
 
 And 'neath the polar skies , 
 For there , as in each milder zone , 
 My votaries I fondly own , 
 Attaching , with an equal law , 
 The Hottentot and Esquimaux. 
 
— 26 — 
 
 The one , the burning air (o flee , 
 
 Doth shelter in his hut , 
 The other out to icy sea 
 
 In leafless summer put , 
 Yet they , that shun the breath of noon , 
 And they , that seek the whale in June , 
 Unharbouring a wish to roam , 
 But cling the more to happy home. — 
 
 The Arab , from the morning light 
 
 That never draws the rein, 
 Till lo ! another dusky night 
 Is shadowing (he plain , 
 Accustom'd , as he is , lo range 
 The wild at will , would he exchange 
 His solitude of native sand 
 For gay Grenada's fattest land? 
 
 Let others talk o' Spanish soil , 
 
 And quaff the muscadel , 
 To him the date is corn and oil , 
 
 His wine the blessed well. 
 On downy beds let others lie , 
 Be his beneath the open sky 
 To pillow on the weary steed , 
 That stretches there his limbs o T speed. 
 
— 27 — 
 
 But , soou as e'er another sua 
 
 Begilds the yellow plain , 
 So soon , another race to run , 
 
 The Arab's up again , 
 And, bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Is sweeping like the wind , for now 
 He sees the ostrich stride away, 
 -The same , that beat him yesterday. 
 
 Should he , by foreign tongue beguii'd , 
 
 Forsake for foreign land 
 The freedom of his native wild , 
 
 — His solitude of sand , — 
 And in the crowded city view 
 The desert-bird in narrow mew , 
 He bans the hour, that bade him roam. 
 And heaves a sigh for happy home — 
 
 The swain , but just aware , that he 
 
 'S the subject of a realm , 
 Who nothing knows of majesty 
 
 Beyond the oak and elm, 
 Content to pass away his span 
 From youth to age , from child to man , 
 And lead the life the Dryads led , 
 Where boughs are arching overhead , 
 
— 28 — 
 
 The swain , that passes thus away 
 
 His being in the woods , 
 Where , hidden by the month of May , 
 
 The timid turtle broods , 
 And where amid the leaves is heard 
 The voice of many a blither bird , 
 And where a watch the herons keep 
 Beside the fishy waters deep , 
 
 -Would he , with Nature-loving heart 
 
 So wedded to the trees , 
 Their music give for all the art 
 
 Of all the Milanese, 
 And , silting in the Scala , share 
 The dilettanti raptures there, 
 Or slight for Persiani's note 
 The gush of Philomela's throat;' 
 
 No , no , his simple soul has been 
 
 Habituate loo long 
 To hear i' lh' old familiar scene 
 
 The old familiar song 
 The mavis to each other sing, 
 And linnets in the early spring, 
 And sylvan larks , that warble low 
 The strains , that mov'd him long ago. 
 
— 29 — 
 
 Enchanting is the month of May , 
 
 The murmur of the dove, 
 The mavis has a winning lay , 
 
 The linnet melts the grove, 
 And well the sylvan lark may stir 
 The feelings of the forester, 
 And touch his quiet spirit well , 
 But home it is, that forms the spell. 
 
 And he , to whom the dizzy crag 
 
 A cheerless cradle was , 
 Where Autumn blows without a flag , 
 
 And Spring without a pause , 
 And where , at most , ( too nudely high 
 To tempt the heather-game to fly , ) 
 The summits , in their seasons , view 
 The ptarmigan and stone-curlew ; 
 
 And where his very mountain-goats 
 
 Can scarce a footing find , 
 As , wincing in their shaggy coats , 
 
 They sidle at the wind 
 Of bitter and subversive March , 
 And where a sole surviving larch 
 The shock , perhaps , has still defi'd , 
 Like poverty upheld by pride, 
 
— 30 — 
 
 And here and there's a fallen fir. 
 
 With shiver'd limbs to match, 
 And here and there's a cottager , 
 
 As ragged as the thalch 
 The lumps o' granite overlay , 
 For fear the roof be torn away , 
 And scatter'd by the whirling blast , 
 Like leaves , at rapid random cast. 
 
 And here and there's a mimic flock 
 
 Of small and sooty sheep , 
 That nibble on the patchy rock 
 
 Their miserable keep ; 
 And here and there's a lowing cow, 
 Of dwarfish size, supported how? 
 And here and there , by way o' steed , 
 A satire on the Shetland breed. 
 
 A desolate abode is his , 
 
 Yet ask the mountainneer 
 
 To change his savage Hebrides 
 For valleys of Cashmeer, 
 
 With all her aromatic bowers , 
 
 Perfumed fruits and otto'd flowers 
 
 -Her goats for him in spice may roam , 
 
 Since what are they to his and home?- 
 
— 31 — 
 
 The hind , whose sorry farm is in 
 
 The fens , that never cease 
 To echo the discordant din 
 Of waterfowl and geese 
 And ravens , croaking loud and harsh , 
 And bitterns , booming in the marsh , 
 Where evil exhalations clog 
 The dripping air with fever-fog; 
 
 And where the livid loam reveals , 
 
 At ebbing of the flood , 
 The sinuous and slimy eels 
 
 And crabs, that love the mud, 
 And summer sees the winter wall 
 To hard and heavy pieces fall , 
 When long , with many a ihirsly chink , 
 The marly dyke has gap'd for drink ; 
 
 -To him's an azure-elher'd Greece 
 
 That misly level dim ; 
 The gabble of his noisy geese 
 
 Is harmony to him. 
 And what if swamp beset his cot? 
 It stands on the paternal spot. 
 And what if ague shake his frame? 
 It shook Ids father's just the same. 
 
— 32 — 
 
 Can he survey at sixty there 
 Without a thankful joy 
 The shallow pond of rushes , where 
 
 He paddled when a boy? 
 With both his brothers lost at sea , 
 His sister dead at far Tralee , 
 Let such , as will , at random roam 
 Be his to live and die at home. 
 
 The miner's self, that, strange to say. 
 
 Was born the earth below , 
 And never saw the orb of day 
 Its shifting shadow throw 
 From rosy rise to purple set, 
 Nor silver stars together met 
 Around their more refulgent queen , 
 As Dian's nymphs may once have been , 
 
 Nor mark'd a cloud above him sail 
 
 Athwart the waveless blue , 
 Nor hill beheld , nor mead , nor vale , 
 
 With river winding through , 
 Nor ashy stream , nor willow'd lake , 
 Nor aught of all the things , that make 
 To healthy minds and healthy eyes 
 This vari'd word a Paradise. 
 
— 33 — 
 
 Go , bid him in your pity leave 
 
 His excavated den , 
 To share the common morn and eve , 
 
 That shine for other men , 
 The glowing east , the glowing west , 
 The moon , the stars , and all the rest , 
 That make to healthy minds and eyes 
 This vari'd world a Paradise. 
 
 Ere use has taught his dazzled sight 
 
 The wonders to discern , 
 Reverting to his nether light, 
 He'll vaunt to ye in turn 
 The marvels of his buri'd town , 
 Where , fathoms after fathoms down , 
 Extends the mighty mass o' vault , 
 The Elephanta Caves o' salt ! 
 
 —A catacomb , with life replete , 
 Where in the salt abound 
 The movements of the busy street , 
 
 * A Ludgate under ground ! 
 And where eternal lamps illume 
 The chambers of defeated gloom , 
 And torches ever flitting be 
 From gallery to gallery 5 
 
 * Whoever would see the stream of human life at its high tide has but to be un Ludgate til 
 about 3 <>' clock p. m. of a week-day. Or London Bridge will do as well. 
 
— 34 — 
 
 Where mass is sung , and prayers are said , 
 
 As rings the chapel-bell , 
 And beads are told , and vows are paid 
 
 To saints in mineral , 
 And where, the solemn service o'er, 
 The urchins on the gleamy floor 
 Rim out to play , as others run 
 To gambol in the open sun ; 
 
 And where , the glory of the mine ! 
 
 The weeping wife of Lot 
 Is even as the sparry shine 
 
 In Antiparos' grot , 
 And , pouring from a hazy steep , 
 The waters , with a fearful leap , 
 Come ghastly down , and overflow 
 A briny bed of scemina snow. 
 
 And such the tale the miner tells , 
 Who back again would go , 
 
 But what the rare magnetic spells , 
 That draw him to below ? 
 
 Association , friends , and wife, 
 
 And children , there that came to life , 
 -Then check ye that derisive smile , 
 
 To hear him talk of home the while. — 
 
— 35 — 
 
 The soldier at his silent post, 
 
 The sailor on the sea 
 Regard the heav'n-bestudding host, 
 
 And then remember me ; 
 For sure as Earth is hush'd to rest , 
 And Ocean heaves his placid breast , 
 Of them , that watch by land or sea , 
 I turn the wistful thoushts to me. 
 
 The more upon the scene they gaze , 
 
 The more and still the more 
 To me recurring fancy strays 
 
 As fondly as before , 
 Till , even as the swelling sum 
 Of stars, the recollections come, 
 And , not without a sense of pain , 
 O'erspread the homeward heart again. 
 
 That dewy light, that perfect calm 
 
 That glitter on the deep 
 Recall the hour of breathing balm , 
 
 When Nature was asleep , 
 And Phoebe lit , with quiet beam , 
 The soldier's own beloved stream , 
 And sparkled on the lively rill , 
 That glads the sailor's native hill. 
 
— 36 — 
 
 Twas there, that, in a cabin born 
 
 Beneath the shelving straw, 
 They heard , at peep of piping morn , 
 
 The blackbird in the shaw, 
 And stole , at noon , from tree to tree , 
 To where the cuckoo seem'd to be , 
 And crept , at eve , adown the dell 
 To spy the bird , that sang so well. 
 
 And there it was , in pleasant fields , 
 When weary of their play , 
 
 They cull'd the flowers the meadow yields 
 With girls as young as they , 
 
 And sat beneath the cooling quiver 
 
 Of aspens by the shaded river, 
 
 Whose memory is sweeter yet 
 
 Than e'en its banks of violet. 
 
 And there it was , ( for love pervades 
 
 The universal plan , 
 Unheedful of the silly grades , 
 
 By man assign'd to man , ) 
 That Cupid pli'd his wizard power, 
 And most at that bewitching hour, 
 When softest oaths and softest eyes 
 Are soften'd by the softest skies. 
 
— 37 — 
 
 Yea , there it was , that either boy , 
 
 Willi her he held so dear, 
 -Opprest by that uneasy joy, 
 
 Whose token is a tear, — 
 Would wander in the wonted grove , 
 When all the aiding air was love , 
 And tender Yenus, looking on, 
 With tutelary lustre shone. 
 
 That passion soon was found to wane 
 
 And wither as the rose , 
 Which hastens in the hedgey lane 
 
 To die the day it blows , 
 But , link'd to what can never fade , 
 The memory of either maid 
 Still follows wheresoe'er they roam , 
 And forms a part of happy home. — 
 
 The likeness of a thing or place 
 
 To one ye left behind, — ■ 
 The features of a passing face 
 Renew me to ihe mind. 
 An oak , with mossy branches spread . 
 The fashion of a rural shed , — 
 A ruin'd wall , — a fairy-ring , — 
 Can back my lov'd idea bring. 
 
— 3S — 
 
 I know a surer sorcerer, 
 
 Than ever wav'd the rod 
 Above an eastern sepulere , 
 — The daisy on the sod ! 
 The daisy , which , with magic fraught , 
 The spirits of departed thought 
 Can conjure in a moment up, 
 As can the potent buttercup ! 
 
 Were fewer far than mine , I ween , 
 The shapes , that Nereus wore , 
 Or he, that fed his flock marine 
 
 Along the sedgey shore , 
 And who by turns a beast became , 
 A bird , a reptile , air and flame , 
 And in a gush of water would 
 His questioner at times elude. 
 
 To some I am the level lea ; 
 
 To some the mountain-side ; 
 To some the old accustom'd sea 5 
 
 To some the verdure wide , 
 "Where , bounded by the azure sky , 
 The beautiful savannas lie , 
 And onward , onward , onward go , 
 Like Ocean's green and forward flow. 
 
 Proteus. 
 
— 39 — 
 
 To some I am the thymey down , 
 
 To some the gorsey moor ; 
 To some the rich commercial town ; 
 
 To some the faded bourg ; 
 To some the vast metropolis , 
 Whose noise a very Babel is ; 
 To some the small sequester'd glen , 
 Far sunken from the mob of men. 
 
 To some I am the eite-forte , 
 
 With many-soldier'd street ; 
 To some I am the peaceful port, 
 
 Where many merchants meet ; 
 To some the idle spa ; to some 
 A Sheffield with its busy hum , 
 Or Lyons at the silky loom , 
 With hundreds in a shuttled room. 
 
 The Swiss , compell'd to leave betimes 
 
 The land , that gave him birth , 
 And take the gold of other climes , 
 
 And fight for other earth , 
 Or guard within a palace keep 
 To shield a monarch's menac'd sleep, 
 And risk his unbelonging life 
 On foreign soil at civil strife , — 
 
— 40 — 
 
 The Brelon , forc'd to lay aside 
 
 For war's unquaint allire 
 The garb , that form'd his fathers' pride 
 
 From simple sire to sire , 
 And hear the loud rappel in lieu 
 Of Hymen's pipe , the brisk biniou , 
 Which musters , with its merry strain , 
 The wedding-guests' gavotte-mg chain ,— 
 
 When novelty , that sooths the grief, 
 
 Which harasses the young , 
 Supplies no more the same relief 
 To ease what sorrow wrung, 
 And gone are all the early charms, 
 That dazzle in the trade of arms , 
 And frequent change forbids the mind 
 In change itself a change to find , — 
 
 When every * human use alas ! 
 
 Is weary , flat , and stale , 
 Then , then , as in a magic glass , 
 
 Returns the wonted vale , 
 The lengthy lake , the soaring height , 
 t The heath , that stretches out of sight , 
 The woods , that wave , the falls , that foam , 
 And look and sound of happy home. 
 
 * « How flat . stale , weary and unprofitable 
 
 « Are all Die uses of humanity'. » SHAKEsrEAiiE. 
 
 f In the French, lande . for which La Basse- Bretagne is more particularly remarkable. 
 
— 41 — 
 
 In fancy on ihe Alp again , 
 
 In fancy on the hill, 
 The one reviews his native plain , 
 
 His chalet and the mill ; 
 The other, for the Ranz-de-vaclie 
 Across the hazy torrent's dash, 
 Is drinking in, with dreaming ear, 
 A ballad of the Finistere. 
 
 And either in his thought can smell 
 
 The odour of the pine, 
 And either hear the truant bell 
 Of her, that leads the kine 
 To where the hot and glowing glade 
 Is border'd by the forest-shade , 
 And buzzing flies and buzzing bees 
 Beset the blossom-bearing trees. 
 
 And thinking of the dear perfume, 
 
 Exhaling from the pine, 
 And thinking of the yellow broom , 
 
 So wanderingly fine , 
 And thinking of the fern , that grows 
 As wildly as the other blows , 
 And whatsoever else there be 
 Of primitive and fresh and free, 
 
— 42 — 
 
 The sighing Swiss is overcome , — > 
 
 The Breton is subdu'd , — 
 He sickens at the daily drum , — 
 He loathes his daily food , — 
 Till , tears his only meat and drink , 
 The pow'rs of mind and body sink , 
 And , sobbing in his barrack-bed , 
 He lifts no more his heavy head. 
 
 The leech essays to cure in vain 
 
 A morbid moral ill , 
 Whose seeds are in the absent plain , 
 
 The mountain and the hill , 
 -A hopeless harm , — a dire disease , — 
 That mocks at human remedies , 
 And eats the very heart away , 
 -The melancholy « mal-du-pays ! » — 
 
 The world-forgotten exile , who 
 
 Is doom'd to die afar, 
 Where , worse than their depressing hue , 
 
 The long white winters are , 
 And where the sad Siberian field 
 Doth little to the vision yield 
 Beside the sable-thinning bear , 
 That helps the wolf to rob him there , 
 
— 43 — 
 
 As soon as e'er the tardy spriog 
 
 Is breathing on the wild , 
 His daughter, dear devoted thing! 
 
 — His uncomplaining child , — 
 Willi voice as sweet as dulcimer's , 
 Will take his passive hand in her's , 
 And , smiling as she gives the other 
 As fondly to her mournful mother, 
 
 Will lead them to the sunny spot, 
 
 Where emulously blows , 
 To charm with her the cheerless cot, 
 
 Their own Crimean rose! 
 -Their own Crimean rose , the flow'r 
 The lady in the bitter hour 
 Of parting took , when forc'd to roam , 
 And sever from their happy home. 
 
 And , gazing on the pledge o' spring , 
 
 Transported to the wild , 
 And then upon that kindred thing, 
 
 Their desert-sharing child , 
 The banish'd couple shed a show'r 
 Of tears on each affecting flow'r, 
 As I, a thought of weeping pain, 
 Come back upon the heart again. 
 
NOTES 
 
 TO 
 
 Stanzas on the Spriug. 
 
 00- — 
 
 (1) — « And, like the dial-shade before my eyes, 
 
 « — Yon tablet, with its solar index thin, 
 
 « Whose shadow stops when shadows intervene, — 
 
 « Doth number none but only hours serene. » 
 
 IIouas non nctiero nisi serenas, — the felicitous motto for a sun-dial, which, as 
 met with in the garden of an Italian monastery, suggested to the writer, William Ilazlitt . 
 one of his happiest and finest passages. 
 
 (2) — « And where the zephyr 'd periwinkles twine, 
 
 « And whisper of Rousseau , » etc . 
 
 « Je donnerai de ces souvenirs un seul exemple, qui pourra faire juger de leur force 
 et de leur verite. Le premier jour, que nous allames coucher aux Charmettes, maman 
 etait en chaise a porteurs, et je la suivais a pied. Le chemin monte; elle etait assez 
 pesante; et, craignant de trop fatiguer ses porteurs, elle voulut descendre a peu pres a 
 moitie chemin pour faire le reste a pied. En marchant, elle vit quelque chose de bleu 
 dans la haie, et me dit : « Voild de la pervenche encore enfleur. » Je n'avais jamais vu de 
 lapervenche, jenemebaissaipaspourl'examiner, etj'ai la vue trop courtepour distin- 
 guer a terre les plantes de ma hauteur. Je jetai seulement en passant un coup d'ceil sur 
 celle-la, et pres dc trente ans se sont passes sans que j'aie revu de la pervenche, ou que 
 j y aie fait attention. En 1764 , etant a Cressier avec mon ami , M. de Peyrou , nous mon- 
 tions une petite montagne, au sommet de laquelle il a un joli salon , qu'il appelle avec 
 raison Bellevue. Je commencais alors d'herboriser un peu. En montant et regardant 
 parmi les buissons, je pousse un cri de joie : Ah! voila de la pervenche ! et e'en etait 
 en effet. Du Peyrou s'apercut du transport, mais il en ignorait la cause; il l'apprendra, 
 jel'espere, lorsqu'un jour il lira ceci. Le lecteur peut juger par l'impression d'un si petit 
 objet de celle , que m'ont faite tous ceux , qui se rapportent a la meme epoque. » 
 
 J*-J. Rousseau. 
 
— 4G — 
 
 ( 3 ) — « as potent as the musk 
 
 <c Of Asiatic goats , that ramble in 
 
 k Their wilderness o' spice from dawn to dusk , 
 « And batten on aroma, » etc. 
 
 « L'odeur forte et penetrante du muse » (dit M. Daubenton) « est trop sensible pour que' 
 ce parfum n'ait pas ete remarque en meme temps que l'animal , qui le porte ; aussi leur 
 a-t-on donne a tous les deux le meme nom de muse. Cet animal se trouve dans les 
 royaumes de Boutan et de Tunquin , a la Chine et dans la Tartarie chinoise , et meme' 
 dans quelques parties de la Tartarie moscovite. » 
 
 Buffon. 
 
 ( 4 ) — « As pert as ivrens^ and bold as robins be. 
 
 Close to the door of a back-yard , which opened upon the kitchen-garden of a former 
 residence of mine, a couple of wrens had built and brought up their brood in the hol- 
 low of a cut cabbage , quite regardless of the thorough-fare. As for the robin , — called 
 by the English peasantry « God Almighty's bird, — he is, like Mahomet and Parson 
 Trulliber, of a most pugnacious quality. I recollect seeing, in the porch of a Cathedral , 
 a desperate battle between one of these quarrelsome little fellows and a cock-sparrow , 
 when the latter, though he laid about him like the cad of an omnibus , was drubbed 
 within a feather of his life. The combatants were so absorbed by their animosity, as to 
 go on fighting at my very foot , reminding me ( to compare small things with great ) of- 
 the Roman and Carthaginian armies by the lake of Thrasymenus , where 
 
 « beneath the fray 
 « An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! » 
 
 ( 5 ) — « Or childhood , with th' assurance of an age , 
 
 « That stands not on respect of rank or years , 
 « But , e'en as Cupid , ready to engage 
 
 « The giant of Convention , freely peers 
 « Its face into a king's , » etc. 
 
 See, in Shakespeare, the scene between the usurping Richard and the two young 
 Princes, or, in Sallust, a somewhat similar one between Jugurtha and his juvenile 
 cousins. The boys , in either case , hit hard and strike home. 
 
 Of the many anecdotes of Frederic the Great the following is surely not the least amusing. 
 The monarch , it appears, was, one day, busily engaged with a mass of papers, while 
 the heir to the throne — his nephew, then a mere child — was playing in the room, just 
 as busy with his battledore and shuttlecock. The king, who had borne the interruption 
 as long as he could, losing all patience at last, took up the shuttlecock, which had once 
 more fallen upon the table, and, putting it into his pocket, resumed his occupation. 
 
The resolute urchin, after having begged in vain to have it restored to him, losing 
 patience in his turn , stuck his little arms a-kimbo , and , looking the hero of Rosbach 
 fiercely in the face , asked him , with a menacing tone : « Does your majesty intend to 
 < give me back my shuttlecock or wo?» uBravohi said Frederic, laughing, as he patted 
 the boy on the head , and returned him his plaything , — « Bravo ! you'// never give up 
 « Silesia , I see. » 
 
 (6,1 — « and to the sage 
 
 « Responds as icide as Hotspur, » etc. 
 
 « I then , all smarting with my wounds being cold 
 <c To be so pester'd with a popinjay, 
 « Out of my grief and my impatience, 
 « Answer'd neglectingly , I know not what, 
 « He should , or he should not. 
 
 Shakespeare , Part I of Henry IV. 
 
 ( 7 ) — « The choice syringa , that an odeur throws 
 « At times as luscious as the alur-gul , 
 « For whom the Hafiz of the feather'd throng 
 a In Persia pours his most melodious song ; » etc. 
 
 As Hafiz among the Persian poets, so is the Bulbul among the Persian singing-birds. 
 Though , being ignorant of the oriental originals , I cannot speak to the fidelity of Miss 
 Louisa Costello's Translations , I am competent to say , that her «. rose garden of 
 Persia » reads as if the renderings were as excellent as they are elegant. The nightingale 
 is a fine feature therein. The Eastern Tales of Byron have told us, that the Atur-gul is 
 the Otto-rose. 
 
 ( 8 ) — <( The sumach , with its dark , congenial leaves , 
 « So fitly form'd some welling fount to shadi 
 « By where the world-eschewing poet weaves 
 « His sonnets to Vavcluse , » etc. 
 
 « The immediate result of the reflections, thus awakened, was his retirement, to Yau- 
 cluse. When a boy, he had visited this picturesque valley and its fountain , in company 
 with his father, mother, and brother. He had then been charmed by its beauty and 
 seclusion : and now , weary of travelling , and resolved to fly from Laura , he took refuge 
 in the solitude he could here command. 
 
 « He bought a small house and field , removed his books , and established himself. 
 Since then, Vaucluse has been often visited for his sake; and he, who was enchanted by 
 its loneliness and beauty, has described , in letters and verses , with fond and glowing 
 
— 48 — 
 
 expressions , the charm that it possessed for him. The valley is narrow, as its name tes- 
 tifies, — shut in by high and craggy hills; the river Sorgue traverses its depth; and on 
 one side , a vast cavern in the precipitous rock presents itself, from which the fountain 
 flows , that is the source of the river. Within the cave , the shadows are black as night; 
 the hills are clothed by umbrageous trees, under whose shadow the tender grass , star- 
 red by innumerable flowers, offers agreeable repose. The murmur of the torrent is 
 perennial : that and the song of the birds are the only sounds heard. Such was the 
 retreat, that the poet chose. He saw none but the peasanls, who took care of his house, 
 and tended his little farm. The only woman near was the hard-working wife of the 
 peasant, old and withered. No sounds of music visited his ears : he heard , instead , the 
 carolling of the birds and the brawling waters. Often he remained in silence from 
 morning till night , wandering among the hills while the sun was yet low ; and taking 
 refuge , during the heat of the day, in his shady garden , which , sloping down towards 
 the Sorgue , was terminated on one side by inaccessible rocks. At night, after performing 
 his clerical duties , ( for he was canon of Lombes ) he rambled among the hills ; often 
 entering , at midnight , the cavern , whose gloom , even during the day , struck the soul 
 with awe. 
 
 « The peasantry about him were poor and hardworking. His food was usually black 
 bread; and he was so abstemious, that the servant, he brought with him from Avignon, 
 quitted him , unable to endure the solitude and privations of his retreat. He was then 
 waited on by the neighbouring cottager, a fisherman , whose life had been spent among 
 fountains and rivers, deriving his subsistence from the rocks. "To call this man faithful," 
 says Petrarch, "is a tame expression : he was fidelity itself." Without being able to 
 read , he revered and cherished the books his master loved ; and , all rude and illiterate, 
 his pious regard for the poet raised him almost to the rank of a friend. His wife was yet 
 more rustic. Her skin was burned by the sun till it resembled nothing human. She was 
 humble , faithful , and laborious ; passing her life in the fields , working under the 
 noonday sun ; while the evening was dedicated to indoor labour. She never complained, 
 nor ever showed any mark of discontent. She slept on straw : her food was the coarsest 
 black bread ; her drink water, in which she mingled a little wine , as sour as vinegar. 
 
 « It was here, that Petrarch hoped to subdue his passion, and to forget Laura. " Fool 
 that I was," he exclaims in after-life , "not to have remembered the first schoolboy 
 lesson ,— that solitude is the nurse of love ! " How, with his thoughts for his sole com- 
 panions, preying perpetually on his own heart, could he forget her, who occupied him 
 exclusively in courts aud cities? And thus he tells, in musical and thrilling accents, how, 
 amidst woods, and hills, and murmuring waves, her image was painted on every object, 
 and contemplated by him till he forgot himself to stone, more dead than the living rocks, 
 among which he wandered. » 
 
 Life of Petrarch. 
 
_ 49 — 
 
 (9) — « A soft retreat, and one, that softly drew 
 
 (( The soul of Hoschus with the 'pen of Moore , 
 
 « In lines so simple and so polish' d too , 
 « And such as to itself the heart says o'er, 
 
 « Recalling , as those placid pictures do , 
 
 « A something it has known or dream'd before, 
 
 « And showing to the cold and harass' d breast 
 
 (( The warm, still images of love and rest; — - » 
 
 Who , of that time of day, can forget Moore's popular song of the woodpecker , 
 thereof the second stanza begins thus : 
 
 « By the shade of yon sumach , whose red berry dips 
 « In the gush of the fountain , how sweet to recline , 
 
 « And to know , that I sigh'd upon innocent lips , 
 « Which ne'er had been sigh'd on by any but mine ! »■ 
 
 (10) — « The Rose, coeval ivith the Queen of Love, 
 
 — « The Queen of Flow'rs with Cupid's mother bom, » — 
 
 I beg to acknowledge, for the first six lines of this stroph, my poetic obligations 
 to Parny's « Naissance de la Rose, » which elsewhere I have done into English. 
 
 (11) — « The Rose, that blush' d on Helen's cheek , and charm' d 
 
 « The gaze of Troy , and all its ire disarm' d. » 
 
 How exquisite is Homer ! Have the ages , which have intervened , produced a truer, 
 a finer, a more touching tribute to the power of Beauty than the tender treatment 
 of Helen in the Iliad? Take, for instance, that part of the third book , where Priam 
 and his grey-haired counsellors are sunning themselves on the ramparts of the devoted 
 city, which, owing to her, is doomed so soon to fall! 
 
 « These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tow'r, 
 
 « In secret own'd resistless beauty's pow'r : 
 
 « They cri'd, No wonder such celestial charms 
 
 « For nine long years have set the world in arms. 
 
 (( What winning graces ! what majestic mien ! 
 
 « She moves a Goddess , and she looks a Queen ! 
 
 « Yet hence, oh heaven! convey that fatal face, 
 
 « And from destruction save the Trojan race. 
 
 « The good old Priam welcom'd her, and cri'd, 
 
 « Approach , my child , and grace thy father's side. 
 
 « See on the plain thy Grecian spouse appears, 
 
 « The friends and kindred of thy former years. 
 
— 50 — 
 
 « No crime of thine our present suff'ring draws , 
 « Not thou , but heaven's disposing will , the cause ; 
 « The Gods these armies and this force employ, 
 — « The hostile Gods conspire the fate of Troy. » 
 
 Pope. 
 
 (12) — « The Myrtle, ever typical and true, 
 
 « ( The emblem of her own enchanting isle , ) 
 « Which never knows fas Cyprus never knew) 
 <c A change come o'er her, even for a while ; » — 
 
 « Chypre , Tune des plus grandes isles de la mer M^diterranee. On la nomma 
 autrefois Macaria, i. e. , hen-reuse, fortune'e. On prdtend, que ce fut a cause de 
 sa fertilite. Les principales villes 6taient Salamis et Paphos , dont l'une avait un 
 lemple de Jupiter et l'autre de Venus. Toute l'isle dtait consacree a cette D^esse , 
 
 que Stetichore et Horace appellent Cypregenie , i. e., nee en Chypre Chypre 
 
 est un des plus delicieux sejours du monde : l'air est si doux, que les jardins y sont 
 remplis de fleurs en tout temps. » 
 
 Dictionnaire Universel de Trevoux. 
 
 Seeing, that the isle of Cyprus was, par delices, the chosen spot of the most 
 choice among the goddesses , the account of it in Fdnelon's prose epic is surely some- 
 what meagre ; but , perhaps , it was tender ground for an Arch-Bishop to tread upon. 
 
 ( 13 ) — « The Lily, of the ican and slighted hue , 
 
 (i That wears by day a tear-repressing smile , 
 « But hangs her head when darkness veils the lea , 
 « And, like Griselda, mourns ivhen none can see; — » 
 
 The beautiful , affecting story of « The patient Griselda , » known to us from the 
 nursery , has something beside itself to recommend it. * A translation of it into 
 
 « It is a singular circumstance , that one of the last acts of Petrarch was to read the " Decameron." 
 Notwithstanding his intimate friendship with the author during twenty years , Boccaccio's modesty 
 prevented his speaking of the work , and it fell into Petrarch's hands by chance. " 1 have not had 
 lime," he writes to his friend, " to read the whole, so that I am not a fair judge; but it has 
 pleased me exceedingly. Its great freedom is sufficiently excused by the age, at which you wrote 
 it, the lightness of the subject, and of the readers, for whom it was destined. With many gay 
 and laughable things are mingled many , that are serious and pious. I have read principally at 
 the beginning and end. Your description of the state of our country during the plague appears to 
 me very true and very pathetic. The tale at the conclusion made so lively an impression on me , 
 that 1 committed it to memory , that 1 might sometimes relate in to my friends. " 
 
 ■ This is the story of Griselda. Petrarch translated it into Latin for the sake of those , who did 
 not understand Italian, and often read it, and had it read to him. He relates, lhat frequently the 
 
— 51 — 
 
 Latin , after he had learnt Boccaccio's Italian tale by heart , was almost the last 
 literary work of his friend Petrarch , from whom again it was taken and cast into 
 verse by our own rich and racy Chaucer. It is difficult — very, very difficult — to some 
 indeed impossible — to read the touching trials of Lord Walter's wife without tears. To 
 me at least, however much I may have been struck with the vigorous handling of 
 « Palamon and Arcite , » « The Scholar's Tale » ( I am speaking of twenty years ago ) 
 seemed to be the chef-d' centre of old Geoffry. The Canterbury Tales, though unhappily 
 open to the same objection as those of Boccaccio , are as full of .varied genius as can 
 well be. In them it is, that, to the greatest possible extent, we meet with what is 
 called freshness. The opening lines really drop upon the heart like the April showerlets 
 they describe. 1 speak not, however, of the first reading, nor even of the second, 
 for, certes , the old English is a something to overcome; and the old rhythm too , 
 for that matter. But never will trouble be remunerated more. 
 
 (14) — (i The stori'd Clytie, — she, that, to her bane, 
 
 <c Allur'd of old Apollo's ardent eye , 
 « Which punish' d her with passion , » etc. 
 
 « Clytia or Clytie , a daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, beloved by Apollo. She 
 was deserted by her lover for Leucothoe, which so irritated her, that she discovered 
 the whole intrigue to her rival's father, king Orchamus, who ordered his daughter 
 to be buried alive. Apollo despised Clytie the more for all this , and she pined away, 
 and was changed into a sun-flower, which still turns its head towards him in his 
 course, as in pledge of love. » 
 
 Lempriere. 
 
 The story of Clytie forms one of Ovid's charming Metamorphoses, vide Book iv, 
 fable hi. — 
 
 (15) — « And others , too, of pure poetic cast, 
 
 « Rise ivith his rise , and with his setting set , 
 « As he — ivhose vivid poiv'rs impair' d at last, 
 « When age and sickness in his body met, — 
 
 friend, who read it, broke off, interrupted by tears. Among others, to whom he communicated this 
 favourite tale, was our English poet Chaucer, who, in his prologue to the story of Griselda, says, 
 that he 
 
 « Learned it at Padowe of a worthy clcrkc , 
 Francia Petrarch. » 
 Chaucer had been sent ambassador to Genoa just at this lime. 
 
 « The letter to Boccaccio, accompanying the Lalin translation of the story, was probabh the last, 
 that Petrarch ever wrote. » 
 
 Life of Petr,hci[. 
 
— 52 — 
 
 « Unconscious ivas of present and of past 
 
 « From twilight to the daivn , but , rallying yet ,■ 
 « Began to gather ivith the orient ray, 
 « A dim idea of the yesterday, » etc. 
 
 For this very curious and very interesting anecdote — I cannot vouch for the /acf— 
 I am indebted either to sir Walter Scott's « Lives of the Novelists » or to a memoir 
 of Lesage , prefixed to an Edition , which I have in England , of « Le Diable Boiteux. » 
 ( It is sorry work to write notes without books. ) Lesage died at Boulogne-sur-Mer. 
 
 (16) — « And so?ne are up and out upon the meads, 
 
 « As when the horned Pan of classic yore 
 « Was zvo?it to ivatch for Syrinx in the reeds, 
 
 « And Pluto gather 'd Proserpine, and bore 
 « The pallid victim with his sooty steeds 
 
 (( Away to Acheron's untimely shore, 
 (( The while her flow'rs kept dropping in the wake , 
 <i And, wet with tears, made Ceres' heart to ache. » 
 
 Pan and Syrinx, (whence the Pandean pipes,) Pluto and Proserpine, and the' 
 weary-footed search of Ceres for her daughter, — Ovid again, and Milton eke, witness- 
 his 
 
 « Proserpine , gathering flowers , 
 — « Herself a fairer flower, — by gloomy Dis 
 « Was cuU'd. » 
 
 (17) — a As many a mortal heart doth ache the same, 
 
 « When Youth, the spioil of Atrophy , bequeaths 
 « The touching tokens of a sever'd claim , 
 — « As full of sorroiv as the scatter' d ivreaths , 
 « That fell from Dis's car,— for love and fame 
 
 <c To twine into a coronal , that breathes 
 « Of early amaranth , and cannot die , 
 a Nor Mason's strophe , nor Shelly' s monody ; »— 
 
 Mary Tighe, Richard Bowdler, Henry Kirke White, John Keats, John Stirling, (only 
 of the other day, and full of promise,) — such are a scantling of the victims of 
 Consumption, — that fell disease, which has robbed Literature, the Arts and Sciences, 
 to a deplorable amount. 
 
 But of « Mason's stroph and Shelly's monody. » 
 
 The latter, called the Adonais , was written by his warm admirer in honour of 
 poor Keats , author of Endymion , Hyperion , etc. of whom Byron says , in his Don 
 
— 53 — 
 
 Juan, that he makes the gods talk just as we should suppose them to have talked . 
 and a copy of whose poems was found in Shelly's pocket, when his drowned corpse 
 was picked up off the coast of Italy. The former, which for its exceeding and chaste 
 beauty I transcribe, is to be seen on a tablet in Bristol Cathedral. 
 
 EPITAPH ON NT 5 MASON. 
 
 Take, holy earth! all, that my soul holds dear; 
 
 Take that best gift , which Heav'n so lately gave : 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, 
 And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? 
 Speak , dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
 
 E'en from the grave thou shalt have pow'r to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; 
 And, if so fair, from vanity as free, 
 
 As firm in friendship , and as fond in love , 
 Tell them , though 'tis an awful thing to die , 
 ( 'Twas e'en to thee ) yet , the dread path once trod , 
 Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high , 
 And bids «the pure in heart behold their God. » 
 
 (18) — « A dainty change, alt/w' the chany'd alas 1 
 
 « Was doom'd no more a title to retain , 
 « As meet for perpetuity as was 
 
 « Or his , whom Envy slew upon the plain , 
 « Or his , who por'd upon the fatal glass 
 
 « Of Vanity , that fooleth wiser men , 
 « Because the sage complacence, that can stoop 
 « To self alone , is sure to be a dupe ; — » 
 
 First , for Adonis. 
 
 « Then on the flow'r sweet nectar she bestows ; 
 
 « The scented blood in little bubbles rose 
 
 « Short time ensu'd , till , where the blood was shed , 
 * « A flow'r began to rear its purple head... 
 « Still here the fate of lovely forms we see , 
 « So sudden fades the sweet anemonie. 
 
 * « Flos e sanguine concolor ortus. » 
 
— 54 — 
 
 « The feeble stems , to stormy blasts a prey , 
 « Their sickly beauties droop and pine away. 
 * « The winds forbid the flow'rs to flourish long, 
 K Which owe to winds their names in Grecian song. » 
 
 Ovid's Metam. Book X. 
 
 The anemone , then , ( from anemos , the wind , ) is obviously the flower, into which 
 the handsome boy was changed, but the', so-called flos Adonis would seem to answer 
 the description still better, quoad the colouring of the leaves.— 
 
 (i Shining as satin from the loom , 
 
 (( Deep glowing with a crimson dye, 
 « Adonises are now in bloom , 
 
 <c Call'd by the rustic , pheasant's eye. » 
 
 Wild-Flowers , by A. S. T. 
 
 Loudon , in his elaborate « Encyclopwdia of Plants , » writes : « Adonis , the -plant , 
 which sprang from the blood of Adonis , when killed by the boar.)) The Ovid-reader 
 and the botanist must settle the point between them. 
 
 Slyacinthus was killed by Zephyrus , who , as the boy was playing quoits with 
 Apollo, (how very funny!) enviously blew the iron ring upon his head. Apollo 
 changed him into the flower, which bears his name. Narcissus requires no other 
 mention, than that the exquisite original of Ovid is most marvellously well rendered 
 by Addison. To throw the matter of two notes into one, let me add, that the 
 nymph Echo, slighted by Narcissus, pined herself into a mere voice, — « vox et 
 prwterca nihil. » — 
 
 ( 19 ) — « And some — the wild and interweaving things , 
 « As shy as those small foresters , the elves , 
 « That link their little hands by mossy springs , 
 (( And hide in haunts as sylvan as themselves , 
 it (The sweetest sure of sweet imaginings ! J » — 
 
 If the reader wishes for a rare treat, and to love Shakespeare still more, let 
 him peruse « The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, » by Thomas Hood, whose comica- 
 lities of rhyme, however clever, are, in my opinion, very inferior to hisother— and 
 especially his serious — poetry. « Miss Kilmansegg and her precious leg , » to be sure, 
 is enough to make a body laugh in its coffin , being , like his novel of Tilney Hall j 
 a perfect fusillade of fun , — a regular mitraille of merriment. 
 
 " n Namque male ha?rentem , et nimia levitate caducum , 
 « Excuiiunt idem , qui prwstant npmina , venii. » 
 
— 55 — 
 
 20) — « The Lilies of the Nile, as justly proud 
 « As Cleopatra , sailing in her barge , 
 « Who, glancing at the flood, that mirror' d there 
 k Her queenly face , saw nothing else so fair ; » — 
 
 « The barge she sat in , like a burnish'd throne . 
 « Burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; 
 « Purple the sails , and so perfumed , that 
 « The winds were lovesick with them ; the oars were silver , 
 « Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
 « The waters, which they beat, to follow faster, 
 « As amorous of their strokes. For her own person , 
 « It beggar'd all description : she did lie 
 « In her pavilion , ( cloth of gold , of tissue , ) 
 « O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 
 a The fancy out-work nature : on each side her 
 <( Stood pretty dimpled boys , like smiling Cupids , 
 « With diyers-colour'd fans , whose wind did seem 
 <c To glow the delicate cheeks , which they did cool . 
 « And what they undid', did. 
 Agr. 0, rare for Antony! » — 
 
 Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 (21) — « And sometimes, in a sort of plaintive mirth, 
 
 it. (As men, at whiles, take up the catch of care, 
 « And ring the changes on a woe of earth,) » 
 
 « Lamb never fairly recovered the death of Coleridge. He thought of little else 
 , his sister was but another portion of himself) until his own great spirit joined 
 his friend. He had a habit of venting his melancholy in a sort of mirth. He would , 
 with nothing graver than a pun, cleanse his bosom of the perilous stuff, that 
 weighed upon it. In a jest, or a few light phrases, he would lay open the last 
 recesses of his heart. So in respect of the death of Coleridge. Some old friends 
 of his saw him two or three weeks ago , and remarked the constant turning and 
 reference of his mind. He interrupted himself and them almost every instant with 
 some play of affected wonder, or astonishment, or humourous melancholy on the 
 words « Coleridge is dead.)) Nothing could divert him from that, for the thought 
 of it never left him. » 
 
 Biographical Memoir of Charles Lamb. 
 
' — 56 — 
 
 (22) — « The scatter 'd fragments of a glorious light , 
 
 « That puts to shame the seven-colour' d bmv 
 « Of Eve , and saddens Iris with the sight , 
 « Hoiv bravely well the living atoms blow ! » 
 
 Of the six and twenty stanzas , which compose Cowley's Hymn to Light , the 
 subjoined three are by no means the best; the reader, then, not conversant therewith, 
 may think what delicious poetry it is ! 
 
 « All the world's brav'ry, that delights our eyes , 
 « Is but thy sev'ral liveries ; 
 « Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st : 
 « Thy nimble pencil paints this landskip as thou go'st. 
 
 « A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st ; 
 « A crown of studded gold thou bear'st; 
 « The virgin-lilies , in their white , 
 « Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. 
 
 « The violet, Spring's little infant, stands 
 « Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands-; 
 « On the fair tulip thou dost doat , 
 « And cloth'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat. » — • 
 
 (23) — « Would seem, as if, thus emulously dig/tt , 
 
 « They hail'd the birth of Hermes , or as tho' 
 (i They met upon the soil , so richly gay , 
 « To keep the anniversary of May; » — 
 
 Hermes , or Mercury , was the son of Maia and Jupiter. 
 
VOTES to HOME. 
 
 (1) — « And, though my vari'd worship be 
 « As common as humanity, 
 « / hear but on a single shore 
 « A word for what the rest adore. » 
 
 Our endearing word of a Home, » in its wide acceptation , is by no means matched 
 by the German one of «heim,» which merely seems to apply to tone's native country. » 
 In a domestic sense, ««ac/t» or «zu hausev is but a sorry reading for uat Home. » 
 
 (2) — « His wine the blessed well. » 
 
 From their intrinsic value and their scriptural associations , the wells in the desert , 
 like Mercy, are « twice blessed." No wonder they should be held sacred. 
 
 (3) — « And, bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 
 « Is sweeping like the wind, for now 
 <( He sees the ostrich stride away, 
 ■ — « The same , that beat him yesterday. » 
 
 « Pour essayer la force de ses animaux , je fls monter un negre de taille sur la 
 plus petite , et deux autres sur la plus grosse : cette charge ne parut pas dispro- 
 portionnee a leur vigueur 5 d'abord elles trotterent un petit galop des plus serres •, 
 ensuite, lorsqu'on Ies eiit un peu excitees, elles etendirent leurs ailes comme pour 
 prendre le vent , et s'abandonnerent a une telle vitesse , qu'elles semblaient perdre 
 terre. Je suis persuade , qu'elles auraient laisse bien derriere elles les plus fiers 
 chevaux anglais. » 
 
 M. Adanson, Voyage en Senegal. 
 
 « Les Arabes peuvent done diriger leur marche sur un cercle concentrique interieur, 
 par consequent plus etroit, et les suivre toujours a une juste distance, en faisant beau- 
 coup 'moins de chemin qu'elles. Lorsqu'ils les ont ainsi fatiguees et affamees pendant 
 un ou deux jours , ils prennent leur moment , fondent sur elles au grand galop , en les 
 menant contre le vent autant qu'il est possible, et les tuent a coup de baton pour 
 que le sang ne gate point le beau blanc de leurs plumes. » 
 
 Buffon. 
 
 ( 4 ) — <c And in the crowded city view 
 
 <( The desert-bird in narrow mew , 
 
 « He bans the hour, that bade him roam, 
 
 <( And heaves a sigh for happy HOME. » 
 
— 58 — 
 
 As I was sauntering, some years ago, through the Zoological Gardens in The 
 Regent's Park, I was struck by the appearance of a white-turbaned , white-vested 
 foreigner, who was holding out his hand, with a few pebbles in it, to the ostrich 
 of the menagerie. After standing by his side a minute or two in silence, I ventured 
 to say to him in French, a Apparemment , Monsieur, cet oiseau-la est de vos con- 
 naissances? nOui,i> replied the Arab with a sigh, «je pense a rnon pays.)) 
 
 ( 5 ) — « The hind , whose sorry farm is in 
 a The fens , that never cease 
 « To echo the discordant din 
 
 « Of waterfowl and geese , » etc. 
 
 « Halloo I halloo ! » shouted out a duck-shooter to his missing brother-sportsman 
 in an osiered swamp of the Lincolnshire fens. « Ya-hipl Ya-hiph) responded the voice 
 of the other. « Whereabouts are ye?v « here. » — « What are ye up to ? » « my middle, n 
 The answer was worthy of a Scotchman. 
 
 ( 6 ) — (c To him's an azure-ether' d Greece 
 « That misty level dim; » etc. 
 
 M r N. P. Willis, in his 'Pencillings by the Way,' describes the sky of Greece 
 as finer even than that of Italy. They, that love disputation, may find a rare field 
 for it in the following thesis : The influence of atmosphere on the intellect of man. 
 Egypt, the cradle of the arts and sciences, Greece, Italy, Sicily, and Spain, — we 
 all of us have heard of their glorious air and of the glorious minds , which would 
 appear to have been fostered by it. What then? not to multiply instances, the heart of 
 foggy England gave birth to astonishing Shakespeare ; Newton was a native of Lincoln- 
 shire; two narrow streets of London and of Paris, long before the days of city-ventilation, 
 produced, respectively, Milton and Moliere; Burke and Sheridan, Swift and Sterne, 
 came from rainy Ireland ; Johnson and Garrick have immortalized Lichfield ; the 
 learned Grotius was born at Delft, and the great Erasmus at Rotterdam; Verrier, — 
 he of the eighth planet, — who, with a sublime deduction like that of Columbus, 
 discovered, but the other day, a world of light in the sea of space, is of Granville, 
 a dirty sea-port town on the coast of Normandy, etc. etc. etc. 
 
 (7) — k The miner's selj , that , strange to say, 
 u Was born the earth below , 
 « And never saw the orb of day 
 
 <( Its shifting shadow throw » etc. 
 
 « These celebrated excavations are about five miles distant from the city of Cracow, 
 in a small town named Wielicza, which is entirely undermined , the cavities reaching 
 
— 59 — 
 
 to a considerable extent beyond its limits. The length of the great mine, from east to 
 west . is six thousand feet ; its greatest depth eight hundred : but the veins of salt are 
 not limited to this extent , the depth and length of them , from east to west, being yet 
 unknown, and their breadth only hitherto determined. There are at present ten shafts, 
 but not a single spring has been discovered throughout the extent of the mine. 
 
 « In descending to the bottom , the visitor is surprised to find a kind of subterraneous 
 commonwealth , consisting of many families, who have their peculiar laws and polity. 
 Here are likewise public roads and carriages , horses being employed to draw the salt 
 to the mouths of the mine, where it is taken up by engines. These horses, when once 
 arrived at their destination , never more see the light of the sun ; and many of the 
 people seem buried alive in this strange abyss, having been born there, and never 
 stirring out ; while others are not denied frequent opportunities of breathing the fresh 
 air in the fields, and enjoying the surrounding prospects. The subterraneous passage's, 
 or galleries, are very spacious , and in many of them chapels are hewn out of the rock- 
 salt. In these passages crucifixes are set up, together with the images of saints, before 
 which a light is kept constantly burning. The places, where the salt is hewn out, and 
 the empty cavities , whence it has been removed , are called chambers , in several of 
 which, where the water has stagnated, the bottoms and sides are covered with very 
 thick incrustations of thousands of salt crystals, lying one on the other, and many of 
 them weighing half a pound and upwards. When candles are placed before them , the 
 numerous rays of light, reflected by these crystals, emit a surprising lustre. 
 
 « In several parts of the mine huge columns of salt are left standing , to support the 
 rock; and these are very fancifully ornamented. But the most curious object in the 
 inhabited part , or subterraneous town , is a statue , which is considered by the im- 
 mured inhabitants as the actual transmutation of Lot's wife into a pillar of salt; and , 
 in proportion as this statue appears either dry or moist, the state of the weather 
 above ground is inferred. The windings in this mine are so numerous and intricate, 
 that the workmen have frequently lost their way ; and several , whose lights have been 
 .extinguished, have thus perished. The number of miners, to whom it gives employ- 
 ment , is computed at between four and five hundred; but the whole amount of the 
 men employed in it is about seven hundred. » 
 
 Rev d C. ,C. Clarke. 
 
 ( 8 ) — « The Elephanta Caves 
 
 «An anecdote is related by M r Forbes, in his Oriental Memoirs, relative to these 
 sculptured monuments. He accompanied an eminent English Artist on his first visit 
 to the Elephanta. "After the glare of a tropical sun, during the walk from the landing- 
 place, it was some time before the eye had accommodated itself to the gloom of these 
 subterraneous chambers, sufficiently to discriminate objects in that sombre light. We 
 remained for several minutes without speaking, or looking particularly at each other: 
 
— 60 — 
 
 at length, when more familiarized to the cavern, my companion still remaining silent, 
 I expressed some fear 'of having been too warm in my description , and that , like 
 most other objects, the reality fell short of the anticipated pleasure. He soon relieved 
 my anxiety by declaring , that , however highly he had raised his imagination , he 
 was so absorbed in astonishment and delight, on entering this stupendous scene, 
 as to forget where he was. He had seen the most striking objects of art in Italy and 
 Greece; but never any thing which filled his mind with such extraordinary sensations. » 
 
 ( 9 ) — « Is even as the sparry shine 
 
 « In Antiparos' grot. » 
 
 « The mode of descent is by ropes , which , on the different declivities , are either 
 held by the guides, or are joined to a cable, which is fastened at the entrance around a 
 stalactite pillar. In this manner, we were conducted first down one declivity, and 
 then down another, until we entered the spacious chambers of this truly enchanted 
 grotto. The roof, the floor, the sides of a whole series of magnificent caverns, were 
 entirely invested with a dazzling incrustation as white as snow. Columns, some of which 
 were five-and-twenty feet in length , pended in fine icicle forms above our heads : 
 fortunately, some of them are so far above the reach of the numerous travellers, 
 who , during many ages, have visited this place, that no one has been able to injure 
 or to remove them. Others extended from the roof to the floor, with diameters equal 
 to that of the mast of a first-rate ship of the line. The incrustations of the floor, 
 caused by falling drops from the stalactites above, had grown up into dendritic and 
 vegetable forms, which first suggested to Tournefort the strange notion of his having 
 here discovered the vegetation of stones. Vegetation itself has been considered as a 
 species of crystallization; and, as the process of crystallization is so surprisingly 
 manifested by several phaenomena in this grotto , some analogy may perhaps be 
 allowed to exist between the plant and the stone ; but it cannot be said , that a 
 principle of life, existing in the former, has been imparted to the latter. The last 
 chamber, into which we descended, surprised me more by the grandeur of its exhibition 
 than any other. Probably, there are many other chambers below this, yet unexplored, 
 for no attempt has been made to penetrate farther : and , if this be true, the new 
 caverns , when opened , would appear in perfect splendour, unsullied , in any part 
 of them, by the smoke of torches, or by the hands of intruders. » 
 
 D r Clark. 
 
 (10) — « / know a surer sorcerer, 
 
 <( Than ever ivav'd the rod 
 « Above an eastern sepulcre , » etc, 
 
 I was once the stage-coach companion of a military officer, who had recently returned 
 from India by the overland route. His description of certain feats of magic, such 
 
— 61 — 
 
 as showing the faces of departed persons in a mirror, which he stated himself to 
 have seen performed at Aleppo or Damascus , was absolutely quite startling. He spoke 
 with great earnestness upon the subject, and confessed himself at an utter loss how 
 to account for what he had witnessed. The conjurers of the East have ever had a 
 great name. That their skill w r as eminent, even in the time of our Saviour, may 
 be safely inferred by the following citations from Paley's Evidences of Christianity, 
 Chap. v. Part. in. 
 
 aBut to return to the Christian apologists in their order. Tertullian :— "That person, 
 whom the Jews had vainly imagined , from the meanness of his appearance , to be 
 a mere man , they afterwards , in consequence of the power he exerted , considered 
 a magician, when he, with one word, ejected devils out of the bodies of men, 
 gave sight to the blind , cleansed the leprous , strengthened the nerves of those , that 
 had the palsy, and , lastly, with one command , restored the dead to life ; when he , 
 I say, made the very elements obey him, assuaged the storms, walked upon the 
 seas , demonstrating himself to be the Word of God. » 
 
 (dn another passage of the same author, we meet with the old solution of magic, 
 applied to the miracles of Christ by the adversaries of the religion. "Celsus," 
 saith Origen, "well knowing what great works may be alleged to have been done 
 by Jesus, pretends to grant, that the things, related of him, are true; such as healing 
 diseases, raising the dead, feeding multitudes with a few loaves, of which large 
 fragments were left." And then Celsus gives, it seems, an answer to these proofs 
 of our Lord's mission, which, as Origen understood it, resolved the phenomena 
 into magic; for Origen begins his reply by observing, "You see, that Celsus in 
 a manner allows, that there is such a thing as magic. » 
 
 «This magic, these daemons, this illusory appearance, this comparison with the 
 tricks of jugglers , by which many of that age accounted so easily for the Christian 
 miracles , » etc. 
 
 ( 1 1 ) — « The Breton , forc'd to lay aside 
 « For ivar's unquaint attire 
 (( The (jarb , that form'd his fathers' pride 
 
 <( From simple sire to sire , 
 « And hear the loud rappel in lieu 
 « Of Hymen's pipe, the brisk biniou, 
 « Which musters, with its merry strain , 
 « The wedding-guests' gavotte-zwjr chain, » 
 
 « In hereditary breeches, transmitted petticoats, and old ancestral shoes, they dance 
 their national gavotte au biniou, (a large stride and a little skip, to the sound of 
 the bag-pipes,) two hundred in a string, and not a smile among them all. » 
 
 Letter from the far west of France. 
 
— 62 — 
 
 (12) — « And thinking of the dear perfume , 
 « Exhaling from the pine, 
 « And thinking of the yellow broom , 
 
 « So wanderingly fine , 
 <( And thinking of the fern , that grows 
 « As wildly as the other blows, 
 « And whatsoever else there be 
 <( Of primitive and fresh and free , 
 
 « The sighing Swiss is overcome, 
 ■ — « The Breton is subdu'd, — 
 « He sickens at the daily drum, 
 « He loathes his daily food , 
 « Till , tears his only meat and drink , 
 « The poiv'rs of mind and body si7ik , 
 <( And, sobbing in his barrack-bed, 
 (( He lifts no more his heavy head. » 
 
 The love of birthplace — the recurrence of the mind to absent scenes— the pining 
 for one's native country — the yearning after home in short — is, as a pathological 
 fact, too notorious to dwell upon. * The feeling is an overpowering one. The Greeks 
 had a word for it, -J- nostalgia ; if not a word , the Hebrews had at least the thing: — 
 H By the waters of Babylon ive sat down and wept, when ive remembered thee, O Sion. » 
 Of modern people , the Swiss and the Bas-Bretons , it appears , are the most subject 
 to , and the most affected by, this § distressing malady, — for such , indeed , it is. 
 The expatriated negros, however, are said to eat dirt to kill themselves. The Laplanders, 
 loo, and the Greenlanders, and the Scotch, are acutely attached to their native soil. 
 
 A decided , though not a directly fatal , case of nostalgia , or mal-du-pays , or 
 
 * We read in the history of Venice and Hie page of Byron , that the younger of the two Foscari , 
 who had been banished hy the Slate for some political offence , persisted in returning to the sea- 
 built city, though the penalty for so doing was the dungeon and the rack. 
 
 -|- Derived from nostos , return, and algos , grief, ennui. 
 
 § o Empathejia atowcub. Impassioned depression. 
 
 « The ardent desire , which is distinguished by the name of Longing , is directed towards objects 
 of various kinds , that are absent, and equally relate to places and persons. It is a painful and 
 exhausting emotion, compounded of hope, love, and fear, and peculiarly agitates the prcceordia , 
 and hence the beautiful and striking apophthegm of the wise man : « Hope deferred maketh the 
 heart sick. » There are three modifications of it, viz. home-sickness, country-sickness, and love- 
 sickness, the first being felt by children, the second (the heimwehr of the Germans) by foreigners, 
 who have a strong and inextinguishable love for their countiy, and are anxious to return to (he 
 scenes and companions of former times , and the third by the youthful pair, who » etc. etc. etc. 
 
 D r Good's • Study of Medecine , » by S. Cooper. 
 
— 63 — 
 
 home-sickness , occurred at Dinan, a few years ago, in the person of a Polish lady 
 uf great amiability and accomplishments, Madame Swartz. With but small inducement 
 to return to Bussia-rueing Warsaw, and though she was surrounded here by her 
 nearest and dearest relatives on earth, and by friends and acquaintance, who loved, 
 esteemed, and honoured her, her thoughts, from whatever cause, so forcibly reverted 
 to the plains of Poland, that her spirits gave way, her body fell sick, her mind 
 became enfeebled, and her singular energy forsook her quite. She wept, as if she 
 had the jaundice, and her appetite was gone. Her exemplary husband, who was 
 every way worthy of the pure devotion she had shown for him , and to whom her 
 presence was a blessing and a prop, not merely consented, that she should, but 
 entreated, that she would, set out for Warsaw, and all was accordingly prepared 
 for her departure, when conjugal and maternal love prevailed, (what a scene it 
 must have been! ) and wrought a revulsion of feeling, though not in time alas! 
 to restore her health , which , impaired beyond recovery, turned to consumption , 
 and bore her to the grave, shortly afterwards, at the early age of thirty seven. 
 Her excellent partner survived her but two or three years, dying at Paris, as there 
 is but too much reason to believe, of a broken heart. Would I could only add, 
 that, as a comfort to either shade, their ashes sleep together in the Burial-ground 
 of Dinan, where she and their lovely child are lying side by side. Poor Monsieur 
 Swartz ! it is hard to conceive a sadder thing than his sense of loneliness at Paris , 
 -or a more touching one than his wife-unsolaced death! 
 
 ( 13 ) — « The leech essays to cure in vain 
 « A morbid moral ill, 
 « Whose seeds are in the absent plain, 
 « The mountain and the hill, 
 — « A hopeless harm, a dire disease, 
 ci That mocks at human remedies, 
 « And eats the very heart away, 
 — « The melancholy mal-du-pays. » 
 
 Not always. In one of his reported conversations , the emperor Napoleon describes 
 himself, when the contagious nostalgia broke out among his Swiss troops, to have 
 arrested its progress and dissipated its symptoms by causing their favorite Banz- 
 de-vache to be played to them \ and the same great man showed himself fully 
 sensible of the service, rendered him by an army-surgeon, — the thenceforth well 
 known D r Majendie,— who effected a similar cure upon a large corps of Bas-Bretons 
 by talking to , reasoning with , and consoling the poor fellows * in their native tongue. 
 
 * As a touring quartelt of as were waiting , some 20 months ago , for our horses to be put lo 
 atChateaulin to continue our route to Brest, I was accosted on the quai by a young person, who hid 
 recently been in the service of Monsieur L— , the late Sous-prefet of Dinan. To my question why 
 
— 64 — 
 
 (For the latter anecdote, as well as for the medical extract above, I am indebted 
 to my very intelligent friend and brother-colonist, D r Read, of Dinan. To Messieurs 
 Victor Aubry and Richard Rowed I beg to express my obligations for the sight of 
 a long and highly interesting article on Nostalgia, contained in the ^Dictionnaire 
 des Sciences Medical.es, » which they, who can get access to the book, will do well 
 to read. To begin to quote were to copy it entire, so interesting and all of a piece 
 it is. I , therefore , again recommend a perusal to such , as can manage to see the 
 volume. ) 
 
 ( 14 ) — « As soon as e'er the tardy spring 
 « Is breathing on the ivild , 
 (i His daughter, dear devoted thing ! 
 
 — « His uncomplaining child, — 
 « With voice as sweet as dulcimer's , 
 « Will take his passive hand in Iter's , 
 h And , smiling as she gives the other 
 « As fondly to her mournful mother , 
 
 « Will lead them to the sunny spot , 
 
 « Where emulously blows , 
 « To charm with her the cheerless cot , 
 
 (c Their own Crimean rose ! » etc. 
 
 The reader will have been at once reminded of « The Exiles of Siberia , » where 
 it is the father, however, and not the daughter, who calls attention to * the flowers 
 of spring. The story, as told by Madame Cottin, is a very charming one, and well 
 deserves its high reputation; but was it not a thousand pities to poetise the simple 
 truth? In the way of love, sufficient was the filial : Smoloff is not only a fiction , 
 but an impertinence as well. This very thought, perhaps, crossed the authoress's 
 mind, when she wrote as follows : ctNon, Mademoiselle," says the father of her 
 lover in his letter to Elisabeth , « ce n'est point avec mon fils , que vous devez 
 partir; je ne doute point de son honneur, mais le votre doit etre a Fabri de tout 
 soupcon. En allant montrer a la cour de Russie des vertus trop touchantes pour 
 
 she had left the latter town , she made this characteristic answer : « Ah ! Monsieur ! que voulez-voui? 
 On aime teujours son propre pays. J'etais si tritte a Dinan : il n'y avait personne la. qui 
 parldt breton. o 
 
 * « Au midi , Springer avait pratique une espece de serre , ou il cultivait, avcc tin soin parli- 
 culier, certaines fleurs, inconnues a ce climat; cl quand venait le moment de leur fleuraison , il les 
 pressait contro jes levres , il les montrait a sa femme, el en ornail le front de sa fille en lui disant : 
 • Elisabeth , pare-toi des fleurs de la patrie , elles te ressemblent : eomme toi , elles s'cmbellissent 
 dans l'eiil. Ah ! puisses-tu n'y pas mourir comme elles 1 » 
 
— 65 — 
 
 n'etre pas eouronnees, il ne faut pas risquer de faire dire que vous avez ete conduite 
 par votre amant, et fletrir ainsi le plus beau trait de piete filiale, dont le monde 
 puisse s'honorer. Dans votre situation , il n'y a de protecteurs dignes de votre inno- 
 cence que Dieu et votre pere : votre pere ne peut vous suivre , Dieu ne vous aban- 
 donnera pas. La religion vous pretera son flambeau et son appui : abandonnez-vous 
 a elle. » 
 
 I , for one , certainly prefer to the drawing-room version of the tale « La Jeune 
 Siberienne , » by Xavier de Maistre , whose veracious little work commences thus : 
 
 « Le courage d'une jeune fille , qui , vers la fin du regne de Paul I er , partit a pied 
 de la Siberie, pour venir a Saint-Petersbourg demander la grace de son pere, fit 
 assez de bruit dans le temps pour engager un auteur celebre a faire une heroine 
 de roman de cette interessante voyageuse. Mais les personnes , qui l'ont connue , 
 paraissent regretter, qu'on ait prete des aventures d'amour et des idees romanesques 
 a une jeune et noble vierge , qui n'eut jamais d'autre passion que l'amour filial 1c 
 plus pur, et qui, sans appui, sans conseil, trouva dans son cceur la pensee de 
 Taction la plus genereuse et la force de l'executer. Si le recit de ses aventures n"offre 
 point cet interet de surprise, que peut inspirer un romancier pour des personnes 
 imaginaires, on ne lira peut-etre pas sans quelque plaisir la simple histoire de sa 
 vie, assez interessante par elle-meme, sans autre ornement que la verite. Prascovie 
 Lupouloff elait son nom. » 
 
 Let me conclude by saying, that poor Praskowja Lupolowa died in the convent of 
 Novogorod, in 1810, six years after her generous devotion. She appears never to 
 have recovered from the hardships she endured in her terrible journey of 2400 miles. 
 Like Grace Darling, she was carried off by consumption. 
 
 PRINTED BY J.-B. I1UART. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SKETCH OF LEW'S WAREHOUSE ft 1838, 
 
 -*t>> — 
 
 From TME FIRE AND THE FAGGOTS, a tiacam. 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, A. M. 
 
 Author of 
 
 TINTERN ; STONEHENGE ; THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON ; THE ROCKS OF PENMARC'H ; SPECIMENS OF 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCn; LE GRAND-BEY OR THE TOMB OF CHATEAUBRIAND; etc. , etc. 
 
 J.-U. HUART. 
 
 EIIXAS. 
 1051. 
 
SKETCH OF LEVY'S WAREHOUSE IN 1858. 
 
 ^roiii THE FI1IE MP THE FA&CiOTS , a dream. 
 
 — *®° — 
 
 BY STEPHEN PRENTIS, A. M. 
 
 Author of 
 
 TINDERN ; STONEnENGE ; THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON ; THE ROCKS OF PENMARC'H ; SPECIMENS OF 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH ; LE GRAND-BEY OR THE TOMB OF CHATEAUBRIAND ; etc. , etc. 
 
 oCJ° 
 
 John Levy , the founder and possessor of perhaps the most singular business 
 and the most singular store in the kingdom, commenced his career at Chatham, 
 the natural importance of which , whether as a maritime or military town , was 
 magnified , of course , by our stirring war with Buonaparte. During that 
 eventful period in particular, the local opportunities of making money were 
 manifold and great, and the sensible Levy, already on the «.lide, that leads 
 to fortune, took, » with his native tact , « the current when it serv'd. » The 
 success of his speculations and the corresponding increase of his trade , as a 
 general dealer, ultimately led to the erection of the present spacious building 
 on St Margaret's bank , the which , in the large district , 'so largely beholden 
 to its various articles of utility, speedily became, under the title of « Levy's 
 Warehouse , » really and truly a household word. Of the business itself he 
 
— 2 — 
 
 said lo the penner of these lines, (as doubtlessly to divers other parties,) that 
 he knew of nothing of the sort , which could fairly be put in competition with 
 it, and that, besides himself, there was only one individual capable of conducting 
 it , viz. his son and partner, who , at this writing , discharges the honorable 
 duties of a City Magistrate at Rochester. 
 
 His purchase , at a Government Auction , of a condemned man-of-war, with 
 his characteristic calculation down to the very nails , and his hackney-coaching 
 it, in 1825, to a great London Banking-House , with his money-bags in hand, 
 in generous aid of the endangered Firm , are, with other traits of his, as much 
 the matter of local history as his personal mien and gait of local recollection. 
 To each of these there is allusion in some etchy lines below. 
 
 But, to conclude where all of us must end, John Levy, arrived at an advanced 
 age, the owner of a hundred houses and of a stock-in-trade amounting to nobody 
 could tell what , etc. , etc. , paid the common debt of Nature in or about the 
 year 1840, leaving' alike to his family and his fellow-citizens a good example 
 and a good name, — a useful lesson of thriving perseverance, and the valuable 
 memory of a very clever and a very honest man. 
 
 Having yesterday ventur'd on more than enough 
 
 Macaroni at dinner, — « that perilous stuff, » 
 
 Which , as heavy as guilt on the soul of Macbeth , 
 
 When he'd put with a dagger old Duncan to death , 
 
 Weighs at once on the stomach , the brain , and the eyes 
 
 Save of such , as beneath Neapolitan skies , 
 
 Gulp it down by the yard, — the inur'd lazzaroni , 
 
 Who are us'd to eat naught, (barring fish,) that is bony, 
 
 -Having yesterday made of myself, as I say, 
 
 Such a pig at the principal meal of the day , 
 
 When the dinner was done and the cloth was remov'd , 
 
 And a smack of the lips of the port had approv'd , 
 
 With a lethargy seiz'd, I am bound to declare, 
 
 That , in spite of my host and the company there , 
 
 I , as fast as a top , fell asleep in my chair ! 
 
— 3 — 
 
 Be the theory false or the theory true , 
 That the whole of a life in a minute or two 
 May be run in a vision as rapidly over 
 As the submarine line between Calais and Dover , 
 — Tout cela m'est egal; — all I wish to aver is, 
 That my fancy was off in the biggest of hurries , 
 When , in spite of my host and the company there , 
 Overcome , as I said , by that succulent fare , 
 Which was superinduc'd on a civet of hare , 
 I , as fast as a top , fell asleep in my chair ! 
 
 No! there's nothing to me so irrelevant seems 
 To the nature of sense as the nature of dreams , 
 Of the which , as a proof how philosophers fail , 
 Neither Brewster nor Brougham can make head or tail, 
 So the reader , whoever has chanc'd to go thro' em , 
 Will not expect me to beat Brewster and Brougham , 
 But allow me de novo to simply declare , 
 That , in spite of my host and the company there , 
 Overcome , as I said , by that succulent fare , 
 Which was superinduc'd on a civet of hare , 
 I , as fast as a top , fell asleep in my chair ! 
 
 What a higgledy-piggledy chaos of things 
 To the somnolent sinner Dyspepsia brings, 
 So bizarre and so heterogeneous quite, 
 That , if ever he's witness'd that singular sight , 
 ( What from hear-say alone he could never conceive ) he 
 Might imagine himself in the warehouse of Levy, 
 With its ocean of objects, too full of confusion 
 For a catalogue e'er to achieve a conclusion ! 
 
Out o' doors , there is iron in pieces and hoops , 
 
 And there's hutches and hatches and kennels and coops , 
 
 And there's flint, and there's cobhle for paving, and flag, 
 
 And the stone of the county, indigenous rag, 
 
 And a cart to dispose of, a eow and a waggon, 
 
 And a trough and a tank, and St George and the Dragon, 
 
 And a sign of The Swan , with a neck that 's quite risible , 
 
 And a furlong of fence, that ye see, tho' invisible, 
 
 And a lot of new weathercocks , rang'd in a row , 
 
 That belong'd to a tinman a short time ago , 
 
 And a parcel of hides from a tanner at Mailing , 
 
 And the sorry effects of a smithy at Hailing, 
 
 And, the very bad debt of a farmer near Chatham, 
 
 Seven pothery sheep and some turnips to fat 'em ! 
 
 And there's coal and there's coke and there's lime high and dry, 
 
 Which a curious piebald present to the eye, 
 
 And a heap of odd wood and of gorse and of heather, 
 
 (For a furnace perhaps) that are jumbled together, 
 And there's faggots enough for a victualling baker , 
 And there's bricks , that , laid single , would cover an acre , 
 And the elegant hearse of a late undertaker, 
 That was put up in Strood and knock'd down by a quaker, 
 And a boat and a buoy and a box for the sentry , 
 And a famous French-horn for the fox-hunting gentry, 
 And , the refuse of many and many a hovel , 
 A collection of rags , that's intended for Tovil , 
 And a cider-press , bottle-rack , grin'stone and railing , 
 A verandah, a hut upon wheels, and a paling, 
 And the font of a church and a window call'd oriel , 
 And a Cupid , blown off by a blast that was boreal , 
 
 [ And a Turk of a cock , with his harem of course , 
 
 < And a raven, as usual, exceedingly hoarse, 
 
 [ And a guinea-pig, under a red rocking-horse, 
 And a barrow of bones, and a wheelbarrow fill'd 
 
— 5 — 
 
 Full o' squirts, and loose timber sufficient to build 
 All the houses of them, that go out to new Zealand, 
 ( How rejoic'd the poor passengers must be to see land ! ) 
 And a cucumber-frame and a sensible roller, 
 And a garden-pump, bought for the Customs' Comptroller, 
 And the pots and the pans and the floral set-out 
 Of a maiden deceas'd , and departed no doubt 
 For the Eden above, where, by envy unharri'd, 
 As an angel , of course she will — never get marri'd ! 
 And a ( pick'd up at sea ) chest of nautical habits , 
 And a barrel, that holds— a fine litter of rabbits, 
 And a plough and a faro -like lantern of horn, 
 And a novel invention to winnow the corn, 
 And a go-cart , a pulpit , tin , tallow , and pitch , 
 And a crow-bar and jemmy, dug up in a ditch, 
 And a threshing-machine and a couple of harrows , 
 And a round-about cage to inveigle the sparrows , 
 ( And a helm and a hawser, and cordage and thongs, 
 \ And an eel-trap and rigging , a pickax and prongs , 
 [ And a bundle of Dibdin's appropriate songs 
 For our tars , with a parrot upon it , as tho' 
 She was looking for « Poll and my partner Joe , » — 
 And a chain and an anchor and many a spar, 
 That was « wounded severely » at hot Trafalgar , 
 And a cauldron and coppers , and gutters of lead , 
 And the mast of a ship and a huge figure-head 
 Of the Dutchman de Winter, with such a cock'd-hat on , 
 As would keep from the snow whosoever had that on ! 
 
 And there's Levy himself, with his brass-button'd blue coat, 
 Which but yesterday week , as he says , was a new coat , 
 And his beaver, already discolour'd and brown, 
 That's so wide in the brim and so low in the crown , 
 
— 6 — 
 
 And his large-lidded eye , that's so deep in the socket , 
 
 And his either hand hid in his either coat-pocket , 
 
 And his leisurely answer and lazy look round , 
 
 Ere he saunters to where what you want's to be found 
 
 In a world of odd items, so dusty and fluey, 
 
 Or refers you to one of his people or « Lewie. » 
 
 — Such is Levy , all matters that cooly doth take so , 
 And that seems half-asleep , tho' no man is awake so , 
 Be it here in the midst of his busy bazaar , 
 Or in Town at the sale of an old man-o'-war, 
 When the Cockers are working the value together , 
 While a lounger and he are discussing the weather. 
 Of the whereabout sure by a mode of his own , 
 His irrelevant chat is « The Speech from the Throne , » 
 
 [ As he nods for the « Mars » with as little ado 
 
 I As he yesterday did for another « Belle-Vue , » 
 
 ' And will carry the day and his ten-per-cent too ! 
 
 -*-Such is Levy, whose wit is a wealth-giving wand , 
 And whose aid is his son, and whose word is his bond, 
 
 — Such is Levy, that acted so thoroughly handsome , 
 In the time of the panic , by run-upon Ransom , 
 When the counter itself was entranc'd to behold 
 Such a bright apparition of bank-saving gold ! 
 
 — Such is Levy, I say , with his wonderful « nous , » 
 Going over a hulk or inspecting a house , 
 And as quietly bidding for both in their turn 
 As a Justice of Peace for a copy of Burn ! 
 
 Under cover again , in that trio of rooms , 
 — In those long-bodi'd stores , — is a legion o' brooms , 
 Mops , matting , and brushes , and brush-bottom'd scrapers , 
 Bells , knockers , and ropes , and the last-fashion'd papers , 
 Locks , latches , and holdfasts , and hammers and nails , 
 
— 7 — 
 Pot-bangers and hooks and suspenders and scales , 
 Planes , chisels , aud balls out o' number o' string , 
 And a crane and a pulley , a target and swing , 
 Rugs, carpets, and floor-cloth, and curtains of silk 
 And of muslin , not quite the complexion of milk , 
 Blinds, steddles, and cupboards, and tables and stools, 
 Chairs , benches , and forms for tea-gardens and schools , 
 Fire-irons and fenders and plenty of bedding 
 To furnish the inns between London and Reading, 
 
 ( And a plenty o' glass to astonish a butler, 
 
 \ And a plenty o' steel to astonish a cutler, 
 
 V And of things in his line to astonish a suttler, 
 Or a china-man , cabinet-maker or brazier, 
 Or a smith or a wright or a plumber-and-glazier, 
 Or a currier, sadler, or dealer in slates , 
 Or a seller of bottles or vendor of weights , 
 Washing-tubs and the lines your wet linen to dangle , 
 With the pegs , and a hundred of soap and a mangle , 
 And utensils for family-brewing complete , 
 And that sine-qud-non for your beer, Fahrenheit, 
 (Since the difficult point after all is the setting , 
 Why, be cautious alike of the chilling and fretting , 
 
 — Over-cool , it wo'nt work , over-warm , you will fox it ) — 
 And a box with a compass for such as can box it , 
 And a mace and a thing to catch crabs and a float , 
 And a coat for your horse and a tree for your coat , 
 And a jack for your boots and a horse for your towel , 
 And a plumb and a square and a hod and a trowel , 
 And a truck and a sink and a manger and rack, 
 And a barrel of tar and a barrel of black , 
 
 i And the green upper-half of a pleasure-ground god , 
 
 \ And a ponderous beater to settle the sod , 
 
 ' And a seine to take salmon and tunny and cod , 
 And a curious chair, made o' branches of oak , 
 
•— 8 — 
 And a fungus , that came from abroad , and a yoke , 
 And a weighing-machine and a board to play billiards, 
 And a set to play bowls and convenient steel-yards, 
 And a hip-bath and slipper- , a dozen of bladders , 
 And a library-steps and two twenty-foot ladders , 
 And a spud and a spade , a tarpaulin and sail , 
 And a scythe and a rake and a sickle and flail , 
 And a bit for your colt and a chain for your monkey, 
 And a poke for your pig and a clog for your donkey, 
 And a thing to give musical misses an ear, 
 (« Metronome » is the name ) and a harpsicord near, 
 And a cape, that is hung on the horns of a deer, 
 And a sand-colour'd wig, that was worn by King Lear 
 At the time (but I cannot remember the year) 
 M r Booth acted Kean so successfully here ! 
 And a magical strop of the pattern-farm Mechi , 
 And a pouch for some modern Tom Pipes to put « baccy , » 
 
 !And a hone and a pair of mysterious fetters , 
 And a board with beware of the bull in large letters , 
 And another with pray , sir , remember the debtors , 
 As , in sooth , the poor creditors commonly do , 
 When they look with a sigh at each pale i o u ! 
 A settee in the rough , and a sofa unfurnish'd , 
 A sedan out of date and a kettle unburnish'd, 
 A cheval-glass, a screen, and all manner of candlesticks, 
 And a couple of cudgels for him , that can handle sticks , 
 And a prime Bramah lock and the lathe of a turner, 
 And some egg-cups in wood and a warranted burner, 
 And a shoemaker's last and a loom and a shuttle, 
 And a pallet and knife , and a scoop and a scuttle , 
 And a pestle and mortar and roller for paste, 
 (Mem. the lightest is made with tight hands and in haste,) 
 And a sack and a sieve and a stove and a colander, 
 And a garment, that clearly belong'd to a Hollander, 
 
— 9 — 
 
 And a Venus in bronze and a wide-winged Hope, 
 
 And a bowl to make toddy and bishop and pope, 
 
 And a midshipman's dirk , and a bat to play cricket., 
 
 With the bails and a ball too, to drive at the wicket, 
 
 And a sugar-box , full of Mahomedan slippers , 
 
 And a dais, that cushions a cat and the nippers, 
 
 And the feathery crown of the sooty king Kibo , 
 
 And the jaw of a shark and the head of Ohibo , 
 
 And a cap and a gown of the classical cloisters ., 
 
 And a long bowie-knife and another for oysters, 
 
 And a roquelaire cloak and a warm Jersey jacket , 
 
 And a chess-board , a castle , two pawns , and a racket , 
 
 And a mimic turn-out of the first of September, 
 
 And a Lillipnt show of the ninth of November, 
 
 Where the coaches , of course , of the Sheriff and the Mayor, 
 
 With their gilt , are the two « smartest booths in the fair, » 
 
 And a Dimmock a-cock-horse , and arm'd cap-a-pie, 
 
 And a dear little service for coffee and tea, 
 
 And a thunderbolt found in the village of Cuxton, 
 
 And some beautiful spars from the beautiful Buxton, 
 
 And a plated tureen and a suitable ladle , 
 
 And a curry-comb, cornbin, and sponge for the stable, 
 
 And a coral , with bells , for your child in the cradle , 
 
 And a crib , with a brave wicker-guard for his noddle, 
 
 When the poor little devil commences to toddle, 
 
 And a Russian pelisse and an African quiver, 
 
 Which was borne by the Niger or some other river, 
 
 And a spirit-stand (gilt) and a curious basket, 
 
 And an organ to grind with the hand, and a casket, 
 
 And the fleece of a ewe , that was thorough-bred Leicester, 
 
 And a water-proof cap , that is call'd a sou'wester, 
 
 And a muff and a shawl and a Mexican spear, 
 
 And the helm of a fire-man or French cuirassier, 
 
 And a model in brass of a pack of artillery, 
 
— 10 — 
 And a funny wood-cut of a man in the pillory, 
 
 ;Oh! that witty Sam Foote, with his « thro' the wood, laddie!*) 
 And the staff of a * « crusher, » an urn and a caddy , 
 And a little bone fleet , with its white vis-a-vis- , 
 All in battle array on a tough little sea, 
 And a mannikin rider his little blue nag on , 
 And a doll for your daughter with never a rag on , 
 And a spit, and a perfect gradation o' skewers, 
 And a domino-box , and a case for liqueurs , 
 And a drum and a pair of ridiculous bellows , 
 And a stand without snuffers , and gloves without fellows , 
 And a specimen ( stuff 'd) of the savage Deccan-kite, 
 And an owl with glass eyes and a capital man-kite, 
 And a dormouse awake , and a saddle and bridle , 
 And a cage with a squirrel , that never is idle , 
 And a self-winding jack and a safe to keep meat in , 
 And a d — d pair of stocks , such as Roffy my feet in 
 Compell'd me to put , when he taught me to dance , 
 Forty years at the least , before , settled in France , 
 I had scribbled a rhyme on the banks of the Ranee, 
 And a toast-rack , a vinegar-cruet and castors , 
 Buonaparte in « biscuit , » and two alabasters , 
 
 -Of Apollo the one , and the other of Pallas , — 
 Which at Dover were seiz'd , because smuggled from Calais , 
 And a sackbut, that nobody knows how to play, 
 And a bottle , mark'd rum , and a Sallust astray, 
 
 ' Which was own'd (from the scrawl) by a pupil of Knox's, 
 
 I An alarum , a lute , and three musical boxes , 
 
 , And a platter, recalling a trait of the fox's, 
 When he fete-ei the stork , on which jolly occasion , 
 Avec beaucoup de jugement et beaucoup de raison, 
 The repast ( not a trite one of frogs or their fish ) 
 Was a bouillon of game — in a flat-bottom 'd dish .'— 
 And a gay robe-de-chambre and a sad-colour'd tabinet, 
 
 The slang term for a policeman. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 And a grand-mother's hood, and a China-made cabinet. 
 
 With its figures , that stand , whether dumpy or tall , 
 
 Like the Brahmin's big tortoise , on nothing at all ! — 
 
 And a flute and a fife , and a choice of old dials , 
 
 And a board to play drafts and a fabric of phials , 
 
 And a net to catch shrimps and the dress of a satrap , 
 
 And a Persian brocade and a new-fashion'd rat-trap, 
 
 And a lamp and a vase and a gong and a puzzle, 
 
 And a whip and a wrench and a leash and a muzzle, 
 
 And a foil and a glove and a jerkin and mask , 
 
 And a whistle , a gun , and a portable flask , 
 
 And a bagatelle-board with the cue, and a cluster 
 
 Of anomolous shells on a tray, and a lustre , 
 
 And an instrument-case, and a box with the dice , 
 
 And a windlass, a rattle, a winch and a vice, 
 
 And a magnet , a globe , and a glass ye call pier, 
 
 And , suspended , a ship and a large chandelier, 
 
 And a drugget , as good as ye get at the draper's , 
 
 And a verdigris coil of diminutive tapers, 
 
 And a card-rack and calandar, pickles and capers, 
 
 And the sauce of Tomata to eat with your mullet, 
 
 And a pistol to settle your love with a bullet , 
 
 And a throne of a sort of a palanquin fashion , 
 
 Such as figures away in a papal procession , 
 
 And a shell from the shore of the far Coromandel , 
 
 And the cast of an amphora, minus a handle, 
 
 And the horn of a whale (pray acquit me of scandal,) 
 
 Which is almost as long as a Catholic candle!— 
 
 And a dressing-case, pencils and penknives and razors, 
 
 And a lens to delight astronomical gazers , 
 
 And « the paddy , » ( a model , ) impell'd by the screw , 
 
 And a clay-more and kilt and a bonnet o' blue, 
 
 And an iron for lace and an iron for rucks, 
 
 And a piece to shoot deer and a piece to shoot ducks, 
 
— 12 — 
 
 And an hour-glass, as thin in the waist as a wasp, 
 
 And a chain for your pug , with a collar and clasp , 
 
 And a sword with a sheath and a knife with a hasp, 
 
 And decanters and stands, cellarets and a cooler, 
 
 And a clock for your hall and a genuine Beulah , 
 
 And a time-piece from Paris , excessively beau , 
 
 With a man on a horse like Bucephalus, tho' 
 
 Neither one of the three ever offers to go! — 
 
 And a waggoner's hat and a coarse gaberdine, 
 
 And a corkscrew and funnel for delicate wine, 
 
 And for you, Sir, with whom it's a serious question 
 
 Both to keep up your strength and to hasten digestion, 
 
 There's a conical flannel to filter your jelly with , 
 
 And a hammer on purpose to pummel your belly with ! 
 
 And a cannon , complete to its miniature trunnions , 
 
 And a bunch overhead of fine Portugal onions, 
 
 And a grim tomahawk and a Spanish guitar, 
 
 And an Indian bow and a baby bazaar, 
 
 And an image in wax of the bonnie Queen Bess, 
 
 As she went to St. Paul's, and a masquerade dress, 
 
 And the hide of a wolf and the slough of a boa , 
 
 And a skinny canoe and the mansion of Noah, 
 
 With its beasts of the field and its fowls of the air, 
 
 Like himself and his wives and the families fair 
 
 Of his sons , Shem and Japhet and Ham , here and there , 
 
 And a scatter of cards , « all at sixes and sevens, » 
 
 And a plan of Lord Orrery's « Plan of the Heavens , » 
 
 Which is merely in want of the Sun and the Moon , 
 
 And a quadrant for altitude-takers at noon , 
 
 And an Esquimaux suit and a sealer's harpoon, 
 
 And a stuff d cockatoo and a German bazoon, 
 
 German pipe and a (regular English) spitoon, 
 
 And a statue of Pan and a living racoon , 
 
 That is ty'd to a nymph on a parcel of shavings, 
 
— 13 — 
 
 And a magpie , decidedly fond of engravings , 
 That keeps hopping about , and admires at his ease 
 
 « The Miraculous Draught » and <c The Bear and the Bees , » 
 And « A Wreck » and « The Seven wise Virgins » a-jam 
 With « Tom Crib » and « The Seige of Seringapatam , » 
 And the brave « Chesapeake » and the « Shannon , » that fought her, 
 And « The finding of Moses » and « Fish out of water, » 
 And the lucky <c Tom Thumb , » ( may he never grow larger ! ) 
 And « The Duke* and « The head of St. John on a charger .'» 
 And a likeness of Mynn , and of Wenman and Pilch , 
 And a likeness of Peachum and Lockit and Filch, 
 And a likeness of Liston and Philip-le-Bel , 
 And « A Scene in the Desart » and « Knaseborough Well , » 
 And the glorious jump of the patriot « Tell, » 
 And that deep little « Thiers , » who of course is to sell ! 
 And « St. Simon » aside of that rogue « Major Semple , » 
 
 « Harry Holt » and « The beautiful gate of the Temple , » 
 And « The death of Lord Chatham » and « Boors » hob-a-nob , 
 And « The Fall of the Angels » and « White-headed Bob, » 
 
 « Galatea and Acts » and huge « Polyphemus , » 
 And « The murder of Beckett » and wall-hopping « Remus , » 
 And « Jem Belcher » and « Cowper,\)Jack Randall » and « Shelly, » 
 
 « Catalani » and « Pasta » and sweet « Farinelli , » 
 And « Eclipse » and « Godolphin » and « Machievelli , » 
 
 « Ariosto » and « Hector » and « Alderman Kelly, » 
 And « Sir W. C, » that lov'd alderman's jelly, 
 And whose guest was his king, and whose God was his belly! 
 
 « Clara Fisher, as Shy lock , » and « Kean , as Othello , » 
 And a « Fete-day at Rome , » with its sure Punchinello , 
 
 « The Regatta at Cowes » and « The Gull » and « The Dasher, » 
 And « A Gale » and « The Dying Request » and « The Slasher, » 
 And American Reed , with his ogle upon her, 
 Who's a-jumping « Jem Crow » to a smirking a Madonna, » 
 Tho' « St. Paul » with his staff appears ready to beat her, 
 
— 14 — 
 
 While « Mendoza » 's a^squaring away at « St. Peter ! » — 
 
 And « The Race , » where the lover, no longer a martyr, 
 
 Is as happy as Sam if he— catches a Tartar! 
 
 And « The Anchor a-trip , ii 77ie Return of the Smack , » 
 
 And « A Bedouin Arab » and « Gentleman Jack , » 
 
 And « Dick Turpin , » that gallopp'd from London to York , 
 
 And contriv'd by the feat his accusers to balk , 
 
 Tho', in limbo at last and the sad prison garb, he 
 
 For his either leg ended by winning the darby, 
 
 Which he wore , till . as gallows as gallows could be , 
 
 He was mounted for Tyburn or some other tree , 
 
 With a crowd in the rear of promiscuous folks, 
 
 Like that jockey King Charles , when he ran for the oaks. 
 
 -An anomalous lot! and the books are as bad 
 To a regular mind , by disorder made mad ; 
 But , if aught in the jumble at variance be 
 With the proper, why , Madam , reflect and agree , 
 That the fault's in the juxta-position not me , 
 Whose poetical duty's to sing what I see. 
 
 First of all , is a tatter'd « Legation of Moses , » 
 And a Newton on « Light » and Lavater on « Noses , » 
 And the <c Justice » of Burn and the « Homer » of Clark , 
 And « The Traveller's Guide , by the late M rs Stark , — 
 ( M rs Starkie , I mean , ) and « The Building of Babel , » 
 And « The love of one's self » and the « Interest Table , » 
 And the learned c JosepJms , » translated by Whiston , 
 And an « Air for the flute and, the cornet-a-piston , » 
 And « A Run to the islands of Orkney and Shetland, » 
 And Agricola's « hint » on the draining of wet land , » 
 And <( The spirit of Laws » and « The Laivs of Excise , » 
 
— 15 — 
 
 And « The Letters of Lamb » and « The Wolf in disguise , » 
 And a Cobden on « Corn » and « The Wheat and the Tares , » 
 And « Escheiu the broad path » and « A Week at Broadstairs , » 
 And « A View of the North » and « The Wines of the South , » 
 ADd the « Logic » of Locke and the « Grammar r> of Lowth, 
 And « The JEgis of Health , » or the seed of white mustard , 
 And a volume of Buffon , containing the Bustard 
 And a score of good birds with the Goose and the Gander, 
 And (( Botanical Walks » by the doctor Solander , 
 
 !Who took , by the bye , an unpleasant one , when , 
 With his friend , M r Bankes , and two seafaring-men , 
 He was nabb'd by the cold , and could scarcely come to again ! 
 And « The Peacock at home » and the story of « Rimini, » 
 And <c A Sign of the Times , » and « The Sign oj the Gemini , » 
 And « The Sign of the Fish, » and « The Sign of the Scales, » 
 And a work upon « Weights » and « The Angler in Wales , » 
 And « The Beauty of Death , » and « A ivord to the wise 
 « On the ivay to make friends , » and « The way to make flies. , » 
 And « A Page upon Pigeons, » — crop, tumbler, and fan-tail, 
 And « The Dove of Medina, » a true Caravan-tale! 
 And the « Tales of the Tap , » and « My Life at the Bar, » 
 And the close of Col : Napier's « Peninsular War, » 
 And « The Man of the day, » — how he came to be seedy, 
 And « The Folly of Fashion , » by Experto crede , 
 And « The Perilous Plight of the Isabel Whaler, » 
 And a « Memoir of Stults , » the baronial tailor, 
 And the « Thoughts of a Gunner » —on breeching the swivel , 
 And a methodist's « Slap in the Face for the Devil , » 
 And the bold Tiger-Davis's « Sports in the East , » 
 And a « Gaution to Bakers » — in choosing their yeast , 
 
 !And « The Bising of Satan, » set solemnly down 
 By the reverend Titus Theophilus Brown , 
 And Charles Dicken's « Life of Grimaldi , the Clown , » 
 « The Arabian Nights » and « The Story of Fatima , » 
 
— 16 — 
 
 And « The silly Xaloun , » and the « Sermons of Latimer, » 
 Who averr'd, (to the bench what was pleasant as hyssop,) 
 That Old Niek of them all was by far the best Bishop ! 
 M rs Glass upon « Soups , » and « The Supper of Plato , » 
 And a « Guess » why the rot should attack the potato , 
 
 « The Conversion of Said » and « The purport of Parable , » 
 And « The Woeful Conversion » ( of pasture to arable ) 
 By a bard of the place , whose congenial pity 
 Turn'd the debts of a duke into food for a ditty! 
 
 « The Whole Duty of Man , » ( who his duty doth do so ! ) 
 And « The Loss of The Drake » — when the hurricane blew so, 
 And a ragged odd volume of « Robinson Crusoe, » 
 And a Cobbet on « Parsonage-houses and Glebes , » 
 And that woDderful work on the wonderful Thebes, 
 And <( A Wonderful Cure » ( not a matter for scorning ) 
 By a crust of bread taken betimes in the morning ! 
 
 And (to turn to the goods and the chattels again, 
 And attempt to describe the effects that remain, 
 From the bandaging swathe to the funeral pall , 
 Which , the one and the other, are common to all , ) 
 There's... but no! the endeavour, I feel, were absurd, 
 So to wind up the warehouse with one little word, 
 When old Charon across the sad river shall ferry you, 
 There's a capital coffin all ready to bury you ! 
 
— 17 — 
 
 MOTES. 
 
 (1) — « thai perilous stuff, 
 
 « Which, as heavy as guilt on the soul of Macbeth, 
 
 « When he'd put with a dagger old Duncan to death, 
 
 i' Weighs » etc. 
 
 « Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ; 
 
 « Pluck from out the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
 
 « Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; 
 
 (i And , with some sweet oblivious antidote , 
 
 « Cleanse the stufl'd bosom of that perilous stuff, 
 
 « Which weighs upon the heart? » 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 (2) — « Save of such, as, beneath Neapolitan skies, 
 
 « Gulp it down by the yard, — the inur'd lazzaroni, » 
 What an arbitrary thing is Man's conception of felicity ! The Mahomedan's , for instance , is a harem of 
 black-eyed houris : the Esquimaux's is unlimited blubber. The Indian dreams of The Happy Hunting- 
 ground, while the heaven of the Laplander is a boundless range of never melting snow, a well provided- 
 sledge , and deer that never tire. The poet Gray , again , in one of his easy letters , assures a 
 friend , ( a curious fancy , by the bye , for « the most learned man in Europe » and a denizen of cle- 
 rical Cambridge,) that he can form no better notion of Paradise than to loll upon a sofa and read the 
 novels of Crel)illon. The beau-ideal of bliss, as entertained by my father when a boy, was to swing 
 away the summer on a park-gate and eat ham. The lazzaroni's acme of beatitude ( which , lucidly for 
 him , is a daily reality , ) is to bask upon his back in the delicious sun of Naples , and give his gaping 
 throat a continuous string of macaroni , long enough , as the saying is , to reach from here into the 
 middle of nest week. What a pity is it , that he cannot wash it down , from time to time , with a * 
 yard of Kentish ale ! 
 
 (3) — « And a smack of the lips of the port had approv'd, » 
 
 To say nothing of sundry articles of good cheer, indigenous to Great Britain , and had over from the 
 Channel Islands for the especial delectation of « nous aulres anglais , » the best glass of port wine I 
 ever tasted, as well-appointed parties as I was ever at, and some of the most social hours I ever spent 
 in my life, are, -j- with weightier obligations, due to the little town of Dinan. And here a word — a 
 
 * At a public-house on the road-side, (I think at Farningham,) between Maidstone and London, ale 
 is , or used to be , sold , like Cambridge butter, by the yard. I have bought a pint of eels in the Isle 
 of Wight. 
 
 ■J- On the eve of setting off, in 1828, for the then usual foreign lour, I was prepared by the widow 
 of a great poet, mother of the present Sir Percy Florence Shelley, to find the French precisely what I 
 have found them , — a the most amiable people on the face of the earth. » With respect to their 
 political standing, were the y only as stable as able, it might be still higher than it is ; but, as it is, on 
 the vast continuity of terra firma from Calais to King-ching , they are , as a nation , « facile el egregie 
 « summi. » 
 
uOn.Oi 
 
 — 18 — 
 
 passing word, applied to no particular colony, and least of all to my own, — of English Comfort ou 
 the Continent. 
 
 In addition to the two large classes of Smellfungus and Mundungus , wjps n travel from Dan lo 
 « Bcersheba, and cry that all is barren, » there is a third, — the settlers abroad, — too many of whom, / 
 
 though vitally indebted to its various advantages , derive a morbid and ungrateful pleasure ( like Crab 
 in the « Tales of the Colonies, » ) from maligning the land of their adoption , often , it is true , the 
 residence of choice , the resort of parents for prudential or educational purposes , but often , let us 
 own , the asylum of extravagance or worse. Quite regardless of the adage , which enjoins us to « speak 
 'i well of the bridge, that carries tis safely over, » these individuals, devoid alike of common courtesy 
 and common sense, do nothing but abuse it. As for the section of them , who , from circumstances , 
 are at no sort of liberty to give themselves any sort of dissatisfied airs , and yet are grossly guilty of 
 such, they should bear in mind- Doctor Priestley's implied rebuke of a stage-coach companion, to whose 
 pampered palate , forsooth , nothing on the road was palatable , and with whom it was constantly, 
 « Humph! very unlike what one gels at home! »,...« Very unlike what one gets at home! » . . . 
 ■< Very unlike what one gets at home! >• . . . a Yes,» said the Doctor at last, out of all patience, and 
 looking the grumbler significantly in the face , « Fes , Sir, it is , J suspect , very unlike what some of 
 « us do gel at home- » The cap fitted , and there were no more complaints. 
 
 Of the expatriated malcontents of Albion the three great tribes are , 1° the John Bulls a loute 
 f'preuvc , who are fit for nothing in the world but to stop in England and gather prejudices in their 
 silly noddles, just as spiders gather poison in their bloated bags; 2° the muddlers, who, no matter 
 where, will always make a mess of it; and 5° the wilful uncomforlables, who, stupidly bent (because 
 from home ! ) on shutting the door against even the commodities of life , deserve , of course , to reap 
 as they have sown. The first, by way of proving what patriotic Solomons they are and of bettering 
 the position, in which it has pleased the Lord knows what to place them, manfully eschew the foreign 
 vernacular; the second, as the surest means of their darling hugger-mugger, hire a very cheap, id 
 est, a very bad domestic; and the third, of ample income and decided gentlefolks, * deceive you 
 bitterly by asking you to dinner. But to conclude. If you really wish to be morally and physically com- 
 fortable on the Continent, you should be cautious in your acquaintances, which, if badly formed, will 
 prove a serious inconvenience , like the insular pride , that makes us unpopular, and the insular pre- 
 judice , that makes us blind ; you should determine to speak the language of the country, and , in 
 default of grammar, talk a steeple-chase ; you should choose your house with judgement , and go a 
 part towards improving it; you should furnish it well and warmly; you should engage, at a fair priee, 
 a good -j- native cook and a good native house-maid ; you should be at the necessary pains with your 
 company-keeping, if company you keep ; and , ( to close where we commenced,) since the from- 
 Oporto-direet-imported port of my worthy friend , William H. Kerr, Esq 1 ', is not attainable by you and me , 
 you should buy your claret and your burgundy of a rich and honest man , like Monsieur Charles Larere. 
 
 * « Et n'diibliez jamais dans le cours de la vie , 
 « Qu'un diner sans facon ffit une perfidie. » 
 
 « La Gastronomic » de Bekchoux. 
 The fashionable Count d'Orsay is said to have announced his intention of calling out an individual , 
 remarkable for the badness of his dinners , in case he should receive an invitation to one of them. 
 The declaration was worthy of Brummel himself. 
 
 ■f Dean Swift, in some characteristic lines upon Courtship, gives a capital receipt for making a 
 couple of fools in a couple of months : an old stager on. the Continent could give as good an one, in a 
 couple of words, for making a new-come couple mad in a couple of days, viz. an English servant : « Oh! 
 « I do assure you, a most respectable young woman indeed," — that turns up her nose at every thing, 
 and wants a vast deal more waiting on in the kitchen than her master and mistress do in the parlour. 
 To this general rule there is an occasional exception, when, after the first ridiculous dilemmas are 
 over, she is indeed « a perfect treasure , >■ especially to your young children. 
 
— 19 — 
 
 (i) — '< Be the theory false or the theory true, 
 
 « That the whole of a life , in a second or two , 
 
 n May be run in a vision as rapidly over 
 
 a As the submarine line between Calais and Dover, 
 
 « No ! there's nothing to me so irrelevant seems 
 
 a To the nature of sense as the nature of dreams , 
 
 « Of the which, as a proof how philosophers fail, 
 
 « Neither Brewster nor Brougham can make head or tail, » 
 Sir David Brewster and Lord Brougham have written respectively on Natural Magic and Natural 
 Theology. It is in the latter work , that the * theory of dreams , aliove alluded to , is to he found. 
 Lord Byron gives much more latitude of time : 
 
 « I would recall a vision , which I dreamt , 
 
 a Perchance in sleep , — for in itself a thought , 
 
 « A slumbering thought , is capable of years , 
 
 « And curdles a long life into one hour. » 
 
 The Dream. 
 
 (b) — « A collection of rags , that's intended for Tovil. >■ 
 Maidstone , ( 8 miles from <c the three towns » of Rochester, Chatham , and Strood , ) with its neigh- 
 bourhood , Sandlin , Tovil , Loose , etc. , is famous for its paper-mills. 
 
 (6) — « and many a spar, 
 
 « That ivas « wounded severely » at hoi Trafalgar, » 
 The author of n Don Juan » is indebted for his amusing 
 
 « Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords , 
 « And wounded several shutters and some boards, » 
 
 * '< The bodily functions are in part suspended during sleep , that is , all those which depend upon 
 n volition. The senses, however, retain a portion of their acuteness; and those of touch and hearing, 
 <t especially, may be affected without awakening the sleeper. The consequence of the cessation, which 
 « takes place of all communication of ideas through the senses , is , that the action of the mind , and , 
 « above all, of those powers connected with the imagination, becomes much more vigorous and unin- 
 n terrupted. This is shown in two ways — first, by the celerity, with which any impression upon the 
 « senses, strong enough to be; felt without awaking, is caught up and made the groundwork of a new 
 k train of ideas , the mind instantly accommodating itself to the suggestions of the impression , and 
 (i making all its thoughts chime in with that; and, secondly, by the prodigiously long succession of 
 « images, that pass through the mind, with perfect distinctness and liveliness,. in an instant of time. » 
 
 « One second only is the duration of the dream, which yet seems to last 
 
 n for years, so numerous. are the images that compose it. » 
 
 « There seems every reason to conclude , from these facts , that we only dream during the instant 
 « of transition into and out of sleep. That instant is quite enough to account for the whole of what 
 n appears a night's dream. » 
 
 An intellect like Lord Brougham's can do all but impossibilities : granting him right about his 
 marvellously comprehensive moment of lime , the enigma of dreams is still unsolved and unsolvable , 
 even by him. Sometimes prophetic , sometimes sustained , sometimes unconnected, sometimes highly 
 intellectual, sometimes downright absurd, who can pretend to expound them properly? A double 
 instance of the last case happened, in one and the same night, to a boy by the name of Spence 
 (my bedfellow at D 1 ' Burney's) and myself, the one of us having dreamt, that he had been playing 
 fives with the Princess Charlotte, and the other, that he had been catching crabs with ..Eneas! Would 
 our waking thoughts have ever taken so preposterous a turn ? 
 
— 20 — 
 
 to nautic phraseology , comme le void : 
 
 k The fore-topmast of the Defence and the mizeu-topmast and fore and main top-gallant masts of 
 « the Alexander were shot away , and the latter's main-topmast also fell on the 3 d , in consequence of 
 « the wounds it had received. » 
 
 Allen's « Baltics of the British Navy. » 
 
 a Thus crippled , and having all her sails riddled , and her remaining masts badly wounded , the 
 « Mermaid ceased firing. » 
 
 Idem. 
 « A heavy gale came on shortly after the action had ceased, and the Mermaid's foremast, in eonse- 
 « quence of its severe wounds , fell. » 
 
 Idem. 
 « The Sybille had all her masts and yards on the main and mizen masts wounded , and her sails am! 
 « rigging very much cut , » etc. 
 
 Idem. 
 « The action continued unabated until 5 h. p. m. by which time the Immortality, having hermizen- 
 « mast shot away, — her other masts badly wounded, — very leaky from shot holes, i> — etc. 
 
 Idem. 
 
 (7) — « and a huge figure-head 
 
 « Of the Dutchman, de Winter, with such a cock'd hat on, 
 « As ivould keep from the snow whosoever had that on ! » 
 « In reviewing the events of this action , » ( the battle of Camperdown , fought by the English and 
 Dutch fleets , the one under the command of Admiral Duncan and the other under that of Admiral de 
 Winter, on the II th of October, 1797,) « the details of which, owing to the unavoidably confused 
 k nature of the attack , cannot be clearly given or comprehended , it is hard to know which to admire 
 « most , — the conduct of the gallant Duncan and his brave followers , or the courage of the enemy. 
 « Not a ship was surrendeied while in a condition to fight, and, while lauding the skill and good 
 o seamanship of our own countrymen , we must not omit to do justice to the valour of the Dutch. » 
 
 Idem. 
 
 (8) — « And there's Levy himself, with his brass-butlon'd blue coat, 
 
 « Which but yesterday week, as he says, was a new coat, 
 « And his beaver, already discolour'd and brown, » 
 
 Though the wear-and-tear of clothes in such a business would be considerable , I was nevertheless 
 a good deal surprised when the master of it said to me : « There , Sir, nobody would believe it , but 
 « the coat and hat , I have now on , were quite new only eight days ago. » 
 
 (9) — « Such is Levy , all matters that cooly doth lake so , » 
 
 So far as the observation of an idler is worth anything , I should pronounce a certain quietude of 
 manner the certain criterion of a genuine man of business. Chaucer, in his inimitable « Canterbury 
 •< Tales, » strikes off, in a couple of lines and in the person of a lawyer, the whole genus of fussers : 
 a So busy a man as he there n'as , 
 n And yet he seemed busier than he was. » 
 
 (10) — « Or in Town at the sale of an old man-o'-war, 
 
 « When the Cockers are working the value together, 
 « While a lounger and he are discussing the weather* »■ 
 
— 21 — 
 
 At the close of the sale', which ended in the leviathan lot being knocked down to Levy, the pencillers 
 rame up to him, and were for making out, that, for once in his life, he had burnt his fingers. « How 
 « so? » was the inquiry. They then showed him their calculations. « Yes, Gentlemen, » said Levy, 
 « that's all very well as far as it goes, but you have forgotten the copper-headed nails, » — no in- 
 significant item in a 90-gun ship ! 
 
 (U) — « As he nods for the 'mars' with as little ado, 
 « As he yesterday did for another 'belle vue.' » 
 
 Such, I believe, is the name of the charming villa at GiUingbam, near Chatham, the some-time resi- 
 dence of the late Admiral Sir John Marshall, the view of the « Beach » from the drawing-room window 
 of which is indeed a fine one. 
 
 (12) — a At the lime (but I cannot remember the year) 
 
 « M T Booth acted Kean so successfully here. » 
 Booth , who went through Kean's favorite parts at Rochester, was so determined and so close an 
 imitator of that wonderful actor, that the latter, resolved to put a stop to it , bullied his histrionic 
 shadow so unmercifully in the famous scene between Othello and Iago , that poor Booth ventured on 
 no more of his ( really very clever ) fac-similes. My informant , who was present at this acting-down 
 at Drury Lane , described Kean as magnificent on the occasion. His Othello , at all times , was worth 
 living for, — a perfect chef-d'muvre in a most difficult art. 
 
 (13) — « And a magical strop of the pattern-farm Mechi , » 
 
 There was a long account in Galignani's « Messenger, » some months ago , of the great cutler's model- 
 farm at Highgate, and of the numerous and distinguished visitors, who, on a grand show-day, honoured 
 him with their admiration and their — appetite. 
 
 (14) — « And another with « Pray, Sir, Remember the Debtors, » 
 
 « As, in sooth, the poor creditors commonly do, 
 « When they look with a sigh at each pale 10 U! » 
 The celebrated Crockford papered one of his rooms in a very noble manner indeed, viz. with IOUs! 
 
 (15) — « And a bowl to make toddy and bishop and pope, » 
 
 The first is a « very pretty tipple, » composed of any sort of spirituous liquor, sugar, and hot water; 
 the second, of mulled port wine, nutmeged, and a spicy orange or lemon floating therein, with plenty 
 of sugar; the third, of claret, instead of port, etc. etc. As another proof of how we English carry our 
 habits with us, I recollect, in the Valley of Chamouni, one of a knot of young men asking the waiter, 
 at the Hotel de l'Union , if lie knew how to make « bishop? » « Certainly, Sir, » was the answer of 
 the Swiss garcon, it only, having no port, I hope vous aulres Messieurs won't object to pope 
 « instead IV. » He told us, that the English often made the same demand. We emptied three brimming 
 bowls, and retired to rest with our intellects not quite so bright as the eyes of Madame de StaeT or of 
 Madame de Recamier. * 
 
 (16) — a and a roller for paste, 
 
 « (Mem. the lightest is made with light hands and in haste,) » 
 — a truism, depend on't, though poked in a parenthesis. It is a common saying, that « The Almighty 
 « fits the back to the burden. » — Sure it is, that certain individuals carry their weight of ill surprisingly 
 
 * n This is the first time , » said some tilled trifler, whom bis rank had placed , at a « grand soupcr, » 
 between those illustrious ladies, « that I ever sat between Wit and Beauty. » « And this is the first 
 « time, » replied Madame de Staei with a ready delicacy, which did equal honour to her head and 
 heart , « that I ivas ever thought handsome. » 
 
— 22 — 
 
 well, an instance of which came under my own knowledge in the person of — , who, beginning life 
 with 10,000 L, ended it with all his worldly goods, exclusive of the gear he had on, packable in a 
 pocket hand-kerchief. A year or two before he died , he called upon his youngest sister, who , as it 
 happened, was busy in the pantry preparing a pie. As he would'nt hear of her leaving her occupation, 
 he uufolded his tale of misery on the spot, but presently broke off with « Lord! Jemima, that is 'nl 
 « the way to make paste! I '11 show you how to make paste. » Whereupon he began kneading 
 and flouring and sprinkling and buttering and rolling away at a great rate. « There, » said he , at the 
 end of two or three minutes , « that 's the way to make paste ! » and then resumed his catalogue 
 of calamities, stating how he was the most unfortunate fellow in the world, did'nt have a shilling in 
 it, etc. Stopping to discuss the pie, which he had helped to make, he kept his sister and her husband 
 in a roar of laughter with his convivial powers till 12 o' clock at night! 
 
 (17) — ii (Oh! llial witty Sam Foote , with his 'Thro' the wood, laddie!' )» 
 
 A brother-actor, well aware of Foote's inveterate habit of punning, laid him a heavy sum, that he 
 would not travel from London to York (where they were going to perform) without giving a proof of 
 it. The bet was taken, and they started by the Dilly. Arrived at Stamford, they saw a man standing 
 in the pillory. Foote , perfectly on his guard thitherto , vented his joke , without compromising his 
 money, by whistling the then-popular air of « Thro' the wood, laddie, » — a charming little song, by 
 the bye. As pithy a correspondence, as is fouud on record , is connected with the name of Foote. It 
 runs as follows : 
 
 « Dear Mother, 
 
 ii I am in debt and in prison. 
 
 i< Your dutiful son , 
 
 ii Sam : Foote. » 
 To which the answer was : 
 « Dear Sam , 
 
 « So am I. 
 
 « Your affectionate mother, 
 
 « Mary Foote. » . 
 
 (18) — cr And a d — d pair of slocks, such as Roffe my feel in 
 
 « Compell'd me to put, » 
 
 Gentle reader, if, at an unseasonably early period of life , you, too, should have given up dancing, 
 it was , I hope , for some more satisfactory reason than mine, — t!ie having nothing to say to your 
 partner. <• Apropos » of small talk , Miss Edgeworth , in a note to her clever novel of « Belinda , >. 
 instances the fact of a booby young baronet , who particularly requested to be introduced to a great 
 beauty and heiress at the County-Ball. His request was complied with , and he led her out to dance. 
 After a dead silence of ten minutes, he mustered up '< esprit » enough to say to her : « Pray, Jl/iss, 
 « don't you think those candles want snuffing famously? •> — Me voila!. 
 
 (19) — it Buonaparte in « biscuit , » 
 
 Not the baker's , but the potter's. The choice clay, of which it is composed , is found at Limoges , 
 in France , where the great manufactories are. 
 
 (20) — ii Which ivas own'd (from the scrawl) by a pupil of Knox's, » 
 
 Doctor Knox , late head-master of Tunbridge Grammar School , in Kent , one of the best endowed in 
 the kingdom, and well worth the thought and inquiry of parents. 
 
— 23 — 
 
 (21) — « and a ' China-made cabinet, 
 
 « With its figures, that stand, whether dumpy or tall, 
 •t Like the Brahmin's big tortoise, on nothing at all. » 
 
 The Brahmins, bothered about the gravitation, came to the ingenious conclusion, that the earth 
 was supported by an enormous elephant , which stood upon an enormous tortoise , which , in turn , 
 stood upon — nothing at all ! 
 
 (22) — « And the sauce of Tomata to eat with your mullet, » 
 
 One of the best dishes at Monsieur Carre's excellent table -d' hole at Quimper, Lower Brittany, was 
 (to my taste at least) the rougcl, dressed with red sauce. Excellent fish, excellent poultry, excellent 
 game, — such are the gastronomic recommendations of Le Finistere : the poetic and pictorial ones are 
 correspondingly great. But, if of a feverish temperament, don't reside there. 
 
 (25) — it And a pistol to settle your love with a bullet, » 
 There's nothing like a little bit of sentiment. Some years ago, a young German , « a sallow, sublime, 
 « sort of Werter-fac'd man , » hopelessly enamoured of an English fair one, blew out his brains in Hyde 
 Park with a pistol , loaded with a silver ball , and tied about with pink ribbons ! 
 
 (24) — cc And a shell from the shore of the far Coromandel , » 
 
 The finest specimens of conchology come from the two Indies : the eastern, I believe, are reckoned 
 the « ne plus ultra. » 
 
 * H I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house, I inquire 
 <i for the china-closet, and next for the picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference but 
 n by saying, that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering 
 « distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first play, and the first exhibition , 
 « that I was taken to ; but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced 
 « into my imagination. 
 
 (i I had no repugnance then — why should I now have? — to those little, lawless, azure-tinctured gro- 
 « tesques , that , under the notion of men and women , float about , uncircumscribed by any element , 
 " in that world before perspective — a china tea-cup. 
 
 « I like to see my old friends — whom distance cannot diminish — figuring up in the air (so they appear 
 ■i to our optics), yet on terra firma still — for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper 
 « blue, which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, has made to spring up beneath their sandals. 
 
 « I love the men with women's faces, and the women, if possible, with still more womanish expres- 
 « sions. 
 
 « Here is a young and courtly Mandarin , handing tea to a lady from a salver — two miles off. See 
 it how distance seems to set off respect! And here the same lady, or another, — for likeness is identity 
 ii on tea-cups, — is stepping into a little fail y boat, moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, 
 ii with a dainty mincing fool, which in a right angle of incidence (as angles go in our world) must 
 « infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead — a furlong off, on the other side of the same 
 ii strange stream ! 
 
 <i Faither on — if far or near can be predicated of their world — see horses , trees , pagodas , dancing 
 ii the hays. 
 
 ii Here — % cow and rabbit couchant , and co-extensive — so objects show, seen through the lucid 
 ii atmosphere of line Cathay. » 
 
 n And now do just look at that merry little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella , big enough for a 
 •i bed-tester, over the head of that pretty insipid half'-Madona-ish chit of a lady in that very blue 
 <| summer-house. » 
 
 Essay on « Old China , » by Elia , i. e. Charles Lamb. 
 
— 24 — 
 
 (25) — « And the horn of a whale, (pray acquit me of scandal,) 
 n Which is almost as long as a Catholic candle'. » 
 
 Of the Sea-Unicorn , or Narwhal , the « Nouveau Dictionnaire d'Bistoire Naturelle » ( translated ) 
 thus writes : « It is a species of cetaceous fish , remarkable for its long conical tooth furrowed spirally, 
 « and which protrudes horizontally from its upper jaw. This tooth , of a fine grain and as white as 
 « ivory, is straight , and more than ten feet long. The animal ought to have two , but the second is 
 « generally broken. It is a weapon , with which the narwhal defends itself against the seals and the 
 (i dolphins , that attack it ; it contrives , too , to pierce the whale with it in the battles, which occur- 
 « between them. The * Land-Unicorn is a fabulous creature. » 
 
 The Narwhal, according to Button, (or, rather, Lacepede, for Button stopped at the birds,) runs his 
 dinner through and eats it off the spit , which , of course, saves a good deal of trouble. In a soi-disant 
 translation of the above, I have read, that the narwhals swim along in such mighty shoals, that, from 
 whatever secondary cause, ( irritation perhaps, ) they thrust their weapons into one another, constituting 
 (as brother Jonathan would say,) «a regular fix. » Button's work itself, however, informs us, that 
 the animal , which happens to be in the rear, lays his « defense » on the back of his friend in front , 
 making him his porter for the nonce, — a clever dodge again. The fish is no fool. I remember seeing 
 a very handsome horn in a drawing-room at Maidstone , belonging to the gentleman , who conducts 
 « The Maidstone Journal. » « Le Musie » at St. Denis , near Paris , was excessively proud of a similar 
 possession. 
 
 (26) — « While « Mendoza's » a-squaring away at « St. Peter ! m 
 
 Another Dutch story ! Mynheer — , who had taken to farming in the immediate vicinity of Gravesend , 
 was equally surprised and annoyed, as he was standing in his farm-yard one day, to hear the report of 
 a gun and to see a pigeon fall dead. Running to the adjoining field , he found the delinquent quietly 
 bagging the bird. Collaring him in a fury, he spluttered out all manner of menaces and all manner 
 of oaths , <i donner and blitzen » being violently mixed up with the English shibboleth. The poor 
 fellow was all penitence and submission, which, as is usual, only exasperated the Dutchman the more. 
 « What is your name, you d — d rascal! What is your name, I say? » — « Oh! Sir! I hope you'll 
 « let me off this once. » — « What is your name , I say? tell me directly , or I '11 beat all the breath 
 « out of your body!» — « Oh! my name, Sir, is Daniel Mendoza. » « Daniel Mendoza! said the 
 Dutchman , letting go his collar instantly and drawing a very long breath , . . . . — « Ah ! Mister 
 " Mendoza! (in a earnying tone, and patting the famous boxer affectionately on the shoulder,) « Ah! 
 " Mister Mendoza ! you should not shoot my pigeon ! » 
 
 (27) — k And a hammer on purpose to pummel your belly with, » 
 
 — the morning habit of a certain very able and very active County-Member, whose constituents are 
 bound to pray, that he may pummel himself for twenty years to come ! 
 
 (28) — k And an image in wax of the bonnie Queen Bess, 
 
 « As she went to Saint Paul's, » 
 
 to thank God ( as well she might ) for the Providential destruction of The Spanish Armada. 
 
 * « Every thing leads us to suppose , that the knowledge of the narwhal's existence , in the middle 
 « ages , recalled the fable of the Unicorn of old. It is , at all events , at that period of feudalism , 
 « when every ennobled person adopted arms and crests, that we see the weapon of the narwhal figure 
 « upon the head of a horse, thus transmitting, in the devices of heraldry, a proof of the ignorance of 
 « yore. » 
 
 BUFF9N. 
 
— 25 — 
 
 (29) — « and a masquerade dress, » 
 
 A fair young colonist of Dinan , who revisited England some time ago, said, that, among other 
 London gaities, she had assisted at a bal-masque , where a couple of characters entered the room 
 arm-in-arm , dressed up, respectively, as a cod's head-and-shoulders and oyster sauce ! 1 know not 
 which amused me most, the singular whim of the two deguises , or the singular gravity, with which 
 the foolery was recounted. 
 
 (30) — « And a roquelaure cloak and a warm Jersey jacket, » 
 
 The genius of Sterne has rendered the roquelaure cloak of « my uncle Toby » as classical as the 
 clilamys of Priam or Ulysses. As to the Jersey jacket, it is, like the French camisole, of woollen 
 texture , and has alternate stripes of hlack and white. 
 
 (31) — * « German pipe and a (regular English) spiloon, » 
 The story goes, that one of our metropolitan merchants, quickly finding out his Turkish carpet was 
 by no means improved by his smoking correspondent from Rotterdam, purchased a safe-guard for it 
 in the shape of a painted spitoon , which , at the next visit , was placed near his Dutch friend 
 accordingly. The Hollander, after being at infinite pains about the matter, cried out at last in a pet : 
 « By gar, Saar, if you no take dal pretty ting away , I shall spit in il presently ! » 
 
 (32) — « And the brave Chesapeake and the Shannon , that (ought her, » 
 This naval tournament, where the challenge was sent by the English officer, Captain Broke, of the 
 Shannon, to Captain Lawrence, came off somewhere about the l sl of June, 1813, in Boston Harbour, 
 and was decided in favour of the former in the short space of eleven minutes. In every way the 
 honour of the tilt was with the British. I well recollect the illumination for the victory at Rochester, 
 and the patriotic transparency at The Crown. 
 
 (33) — « And the lucky « Tom Thumb, » (may he never grow larger!) » 
 ■< General Tom Thumb » has had the distinguished honour of being kissed by the first potentate in 
 Europe. Could Fortune do more? 
 
 (34) — « And a likeness of « Mynn » and of « Wenmann » and « Pilch, » 
 — three famous cricketers in Kent. 
 
 (3b) — « And a likeness of «Peachum» and « Lockit» and « Filch, » 
 — three famous rogues in « The Beggar's Opera. » 
 
 (36) — « And the glorious jump of the patriot Tell, » 
 
 In the lake of Lucerne , alias of the four Cantons , tradition points out a rock , whence , escaping 
 from the Austrian and his boat , the Swiss Wallace sprang to the shore and darted up the mountain. 
 Ever excepting that of Sergeant John White , who ( with no mad bull after him either) leapt a foss 
 eight and twenty feet broad (!!!) it is, of course, the Jupiter of jumps. But alas! the same mischievous 
 spirit of Pyrrhoism , which questions the reputed prowess of Horatius Codes , is growing sceptical of 
 William Tell. And thus it is : 
 
 « I've heard Troy doubted : Time will doubt of Rome. » 
 
 (37) — « And « Sir W. C. , » that lov'd alderman's jelly , 
 
 « And whose guest was his king , and whose God was his belly ! » 
 
 By mistake, the note npon Mendoza and the Dutchman (26) has been made to precede the present 
 one , to which , by rights , it ought to have been posterior. 
 
— 26 — 
 
 A report was rife, that his Majesty, George IV, used occasionally to dine incognito with the cele- 
 brated bon-vivanl , whose lunchion of two 15-shilling basins of real turtle assuredly did not augur ill 
 for 8 o' clock , p. m. 
 
 (58) — «Clara Fisher, as Shylock, » 
 If , according to the acumen of Charles Lamb , ( see Elia's excellent essay * a On the Tragedies of 
 « Shakspeare , ») the prime plays of our great dramatist are essentially beyond the reach of repre- 
 
 * « It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion, that the plays of Shakspeare are less 
 u calculated for performance on a stage , than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their 
 « distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so. There is so much in them, which 
 « comes not under the province of acting, with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to do. 
 « The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion and the turns of passion ; and the more 
 « coarse and palpable the passion is, the more hold upon the eyes and ears of the spectators the per- 
 il former obviously possesses. For this reason , scolding scenes , scenes where two persons talk 
 « themselves into a lit of fury, and then in a surprising manner talk themselves out of it again, have 
 « always been the most popular upon our stage. And the reason is plain , because the spectators are 
 « here most palpably appealed to, they are the proper judges in this war of words, they are the legi- 
 « timate ring, that should be formed round such " intellectual prize-lighters. " Talking is the direct 
 « object of the imitation here. But in all the best dramas, and in Shakspeare above all, how obvious 
 « it is, that the form of speaking, whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and 
 <i often a highly artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into possession of that knowledge of 
 « the inner structure and workings of mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have arriv- 
 k ed at in that form of composition by any gift short of intuition. We do here as we do with novels 
 « written in the epistolary form. How many improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do we 
 « put up with in Clarissa and other books, for the sake of the delight, which that form, upon the 
 « whole , gives us ! 
 
 ii But the practice of stage representation reduces every thing to a controversy of elocution. 
 k Every character, from the boisterous blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of woman- 
 k hood, must play the orator. The love-dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of 
 n lovers' tongues by night; the more intimate and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an 
 t< Othello or a Posthumus with their married wives, all those delicacies, which are so delightful in the 
 « reading , as when we read of those youthful dalliances in Paradise ,— 
 
 « As beseem'd 
 « Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league , 
 « Alone : » 
 n by the inherent fault of stage representation , how are these things sullied and turned from their 
 « very nsture by being exposed to a large assembly ; when sueh speeches as Imogen addresses to her 
 •I lord come drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress, whose courtship, though nominally address- 
 « ed to the personated Postbumus , is manifestly aimed at the spectators , who are to judge of her 
 it returns of love. 
 
 ii The character of Hamlet is perhaps that, by which , since the days of Belterton , a succession of 
 •i popular performers have had the greatest ambition to distinguish themselves. The length of the 
 ii part may be one of their reasons. But for the character itself, we find it in a play, and therefore 
 it we judge :t a fit subject of dramatic representation. The play itself abounds in maxims and reflex- 
 tt ions beyond any other, and therefore we consider it as a proper vehicle for conveying moral instruc- 
 « tion. But Hamlet himself — what does he suffer meanwhile by being dragged forth as the public 
 ii schoolmaster, to give lectures to the crowd! Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are 
 « transactions between himself and his moral sense , they are the effusions of his solitary musings , 
 I- which he retires to holes and corners and the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth ; 
 it or rather, they are the silent meditations , with which his bosom is bursting , reduced to words for 
 it the sake of the reader, who must else remain ignorant of what is passing there. These profound 
 * sorrows , these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations , which the tongue scarce dares utter to deaf 
 
— 27 — 
 
 sentarion , what shall we say to the personating of some of his characters — not only by a Master Belly 
 but — by a girl in her teens??? Fancy Ihe high indignation — the classical disgust — of a John Kemble 
 at such a desecration !!! The real province of Clara Fisher was just such a role as I myself saw her 
 fill in an interlude , where the dry, hard , admirable Terry enacted the part of a crabbed old gouty 
 bachelor-nabob of an uncle , to disabuse whose aversion from a female heir to his wealth she ( the 
 neice) drives him nearly crazy, first as one unmanageable urchin of a nephew and then as another. 
 When j completely sick of the boys , he has fixed upon his « dear Utile girl » in preference to them 
 all, she avows the various travesties she has practised on him. It was really a capital piece. The 
 humped-backed glutton ealing buns and the gout-tied uncle's nervous agony about his choking was 
 a particularly droll scene. 
 
 (39) — « And a A fete-day at Itome,» with its sure « Punchinello , » 
 
 In Naples, at least, « Mister Punch » is a personage of great political importance, being the mouth- 
 piece of the current opinions of the day on public matters. He knows how to shake his foolscap in 
 England too ! 
 
 (40) — « And American Reed , with his ogle upon her, 
 
 « That's a-jumping « Jem Crow , » to a smirking « Madonna , » 
 This transatlantic buffoon is said to have realized 6000 L by his nonsense , while men of genius are 
 often left to starve ! 
 
 (41) — it And « The Race, » where the lover, no longer a martyr, 
 
 « 7* as happy as Sam , ivhen he — catches a Tartar ! » 
 A Calmuck courtship is on horseback , the fair one having « plenty of law » If she is caught , we 
 may presume it to be on purpose, and on the old-established principle of all wooings, where « kissing 
 « goes by favour. » With respect to 5am , should the reader wish to know who he was or in what 
 his peculiar happiness consisted , I am bound to confess my ulter ignorance on the point. Sam 
 Russel, to be sure, was very happy :n <c Jerry Sneak, h but I don't suppose, that he was the indivi- 
 dual in question. « A happy Sam » is an inexplicable expression to me. 
 
 (42) — k And « A Bedouin Arab » and « Gentleman Jack, » 
 The only difference I can discover between a wild son of Ishmael and a modern highwayman is , 
 that civilization has put a stop to the rides of the latter, while the former continues as great a nui- 
 sance , as great a vagabond , and as great a thief as ever. 
 
 (43) — k And k Dick Turpin , » thai gallop'd from London to York , 
 
 « And contriv'd by the feat his accusers to balk, 
 
 ii Tho', in limbo ai last and the sad prison garb , he 
 
 « For his either leg elided by winning the * darby, » 
 
 Memory, at all times treacherous, may well be mistrusted at the lapse of five-and-thlrty years, since 
 
 when I have never again met with « The Newgale Calendar. » So far as my recollection serves , the 
 
 « walls and chambers , how can they be represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes and mouths 
 c them out before an audience , making four hundred people his confidants at once? I say not, that it 
 « is the fault of the actor so to do ; he must pronounce them ore rolundo , he must accompany them 
 « with his eye , he must insinuate them into his auditory by some trick of eye , tone , or gesture , or 
 « he fails. He must be thinking all the ichile of his appearance, because he knows, that all the 
 a while the spectators arc judging of it. And this is the way to represent the shy , negligent , 
 « retiring Hamlet ! » 
 
 * A pair of darbies, slangici, is a pan 1 of fetters. Every body has heard of the Derby ( pronounced 
 Darby) stakes and the Okes. 
 
— 28 — 
 
 hold butcher performed his very extraordinary feat on two horses , having exchanged the one , on 
 which he started from London , for another, taken out of a field somewhere about half-way between 
 the two large cities. Arrived at York, he gave his panting hack to a ostler, and, sauntering to the 
 bowling-green of the Inn , just as the Minster was chiming 6 in the evening , carelessly asked of the 
 players what o' clock it was! If Dick Turpin did'nt know, who the devil did? He was hanged all 
 the same though, but I quite forget ivhere or for what. Ainsworth 's episode of him, in the romance 
 of « Rookwood , » is a palpable , though powerful , extravagance. That even two horses should have 
 done such a distance on such roads in such a space of time is sufficiently wonderful of itself. 
 
 (44) — « till, as gallows as gallows could be, » 
 
 « So , old mother ! tip us a glass of gin , 
 « That we may look gallows as we go in. » 
 
 Slang Song. 
 
 (45) — « Like that jockey , King Charles , when he ran for the oaks ! » 
 
 — a jockey indeed ! In his reigning way, Newmarket itself never produced a bigger. See the respect- 
 ive characters of him by Lingard , Hume , and Smallet. 
 
 (46) — « and Lavaler on « Noses, «... 
 
 Amid the desultory reading, to which youth is so prone , I wandered to Lavater. A near and dear 
 relation, now alas! no more, on opening his eyes one morning, was surprised to see me intently 
 gazing on his face , and was equally amused wdien I seriously said to him : « Ah ! H. my boy ! if the 
 « bump in your nose were a little bigger, you'd be a clever fellow I » 
 
 (47) — « And « Botanical Walks « by the Doctor Solander, 
 « Who look, by the bye, an unpleasant one, when, 
 « With his friend, M r Banks, and two seafaring men, 
 « Be was nabb'b by the cold, and could scarcely come to again. » 
 
 The celebrated Cook, who commanded the Expedition to the island of Otaheile, in the south seas, 
 for the astronomical purpose of observing the Transit of Venus, June o (1 , 1769, was accompanied by 
 the scientific M r (afterwards Sir Joseph) Banks and D r Solander, the naturalist, and favorite pupil of 
 his great countryman , Linnanis. On the occasion , alluded to above , two poor blacks were frozen to 
 death , and the Doctor had a most narrow escape of it. The account , though extremely interesting , 
 is too long to quote. 
 
 (48) — « And « The dove of Medina, » — a true Caravan-tale ! » 
 
 The learned Grotius, in his work upon the truths of Christianity, tells us, that the familiar spirit of 
 Mahomet was a dove , which would perch upon his shoulder and apparently whisper its divine revela- 
 tions in his ear. Washington Irving, however, maintains, that it was his fanatic disciples and not he, 
 that set such absurdities afloat. Grotius unrolls a precious list of them ! 
 
 (49) — <c And a « Memoir of Slulls, » the baronial tailor, » 
 
 This celebrated « builder, » after twenty years of Metropolitan and University vogue, is said to have 
 retired to his native land , and there have purchased a barony of the highest caste. 
 
 (50) — « And a melhodisl's « Slap in the face for the Devil, » 
 
 The titles of certain methodistical tracts are vulgar even to indecorum Being on the subject of 
 
 Low-Church, I may mention here, that as characteristic a thing, as is told of the well-known Rowland 
 Hill, occurred a short time before he died. His chapel, one sweltering Sunday afternoon, was, as 
 usual , crowded to excess. In the middle of the sermon , there was such a stir in the Gallery, that 
 
— 29 — 
 
 Jiis reverence cried out at last : « What's the mailer there? it seems as though the Devil were among 
 ye'.» "floa, Sir, » replied a countryman, « it bean' I the Devil, but a werry fat lady wot's fainted 
 « and warn't come to again. » Oh ! rejoined the eccentric preacher, « if that's the case , I beg the 
 11 lady's pardon — and the Devil's loo! » 
 
 (51) — « and the « Sermons of Latimer, » 
 
 « Who averr'd, (to the bench what was pleasant as hyssop,) 
 a That Old Nick of them all was by far the bcsl bishop! » 
 
 n And now I would ask a strange question ; who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in all Eng- 
 ii land, and passeth all the rest in doing his office ? I can tell , for I know him who he is ; I know him 
 « well : but now methinks I see you listening and hearkening that I should name him. There is one 
 « that passeth all the other, and is the most diligent prelate and preacher in all England. And will ye 
 « know who it is? I will tell you : it is the devil. He is the most diligent preacher of all other; he 
 a is never out of his diocess; he is never from his cure; ye shall never find him unoccupied; he is 
 « ever in his parish ; he keepeth residence at all times ; ye shall never find hint out of the way, call 
 it for him when ye will ; he is ever at home , the most diligent preacher in all the realm. He is ever 
 ii at his plough ; no lording nor loitering may hinder him ; he is ever applying to his business ; ye 
 •I shall never find him idle , I warrant you. » 
 
 (52) — « And « The Woeful Conversion!) (of pasture to arable) 
 « By a bard of the place, ivhose congenial pity 
 « Turn'd the debts of a duke into food for a ditty ! » 
 
 One of the finest parks in the kingdom ( whose sylvan beauties have been very nicely sung by a 
 poet named Luttrel) was cruelly trenched upon by the plough, in IS — , being let off in farms, to 
 liquidate the incumbrances of the deceased duke. The timber felled on the occasion would , in my- 
 thologic times , have provoked a remonstrance from the Dryads , the Satyrs , aud the Fauns. 
 
 (55) — ii And that wonderful work on the wonderful Thebes, » 
 
 ii Sir G. Wilkinson » (says Miss Harriett Martineau in the preface to her « Eastern Life, past and 
 « present, ») must be almost tired of the testimonies and thanks of gratelul travellers, but I must 
 « say, that he was , by his books , a daily benefactor to us in Egypt. It is really cheering to find , 
 ii that any one can be so accurate , and on so large a scale , as his works prove him to he. Such 
 « almost faultless correctness requires an union of intellectual and moral powers and training , which 
 ii it is encouraging for those , who are interested in the result of travel , to contemplate. After 
 ii making the fullest use of his « Modern Egypt and Thebes, » we find only about half a dozen points, 
 ii in which we differ from him. » 
 
 (54) — « And a i< Wonderful Cure » ( not a matter for scorning ) 
 ii By a crust of bread taken betimes in the morning ! » 
 Does the reader recollect a popular pamphlet on the marvellous digestive virtues of a crust of bread , 
 if elaborately chewed and taken early in the morning ? — a specific , which , like the seed of white 
 mustard , can , at any rate , do no harm. Cut here opens upon us the wide question of English 
 quackery. According to surgical dictum , the English , as a people of thews and sinews and general 
 physical power, rank almost number I, and yet what everlasting calomcl-and-black-dose-ing, blue-pill- 
 and-castor-oil-ing , salts-and-senna , rhubard-and-magnesia , seidlil; powders, domestic medicines, 
 patent medicines, etc. etc. etc. do we not hear of! * For every little head-ache, for every little 
 
 * ii You English," said Monsieur Valettez, (a gallico-italian Professor at Paris, in 1825,) to 
 seven of us, (hispensionnaires,) «You English do all you canto kill yourselves with your confounded 
 
— 30 — 
 
 nausea, for every little this or that, immediate recourse is hail to a mischievous, debilitating; effe- 
 minate something or other! If our grandfathers never heard of « nerties-, » Plato, in lis Republic, 
 wants to know what is meant by « the novel terms of colds and catarrhs!!! » What would the phi- 
 losopher say now??? To what is this degeneracy due? to doctors and doctoring. 
 
 n At thirty years man thinks himself a fool , 
 « Knows it at forty and resolves to mend. » 
 I myself, albeit alas! two lustra behindhand in other respects, arrived, at least, at that knowledge 
 at that age, and ceased (as the French say) « to me perdre l'eslomac» with drugs and pharmacies, 
 laying to heart, instead of the formulae of Buchan and of Graham , the wise witticism of Moliere : 
 
 « De qnoi , done , est-il mort ? » it De deux medecins et un apothicaire. » 
 
 « But what did he die of ? a . . . . . . « Two surgeons and an apothecary, u 
 
 Away, then, with your fanciful complaints, my dear compatriot! away, then, with your fanciful 
 complaints! « throw physic to the dogs! » (they won't take it , by the bye,) and be assured by one, 
 who wishes you well, that the doctors, which Nature intended for mankind, are Doctor Temper- 
 ance and Doctor Twolegs ! 
 
 (55) — « And, when Charon across the sad river shall ferry ye, 
 « There's a capital coffin all ready to bury ye! » 
 « M r Levy, » said one of two military officers , who sauntered into his warehouse together, « my 
 « friend here and I have a small bet, he having laid, that you have not a coffin for sale, I, that 
 « you have. Which of us is right ? » — « If the gentleman will step this ivay, » replied Levy, in his 
 own quiet manner, «J can show him one, which will fit him exactly. » I myself saw three of 
 those enlivening objects all in a row!!! 
 
 « medicine. I will lay an even bet , that each of you young men , at this moment , has a box of 
 « pills. » And so it proved , and none of us the same , the first having the pills of D r Baillie ; the 
 second , the pills of Sir Henry Halford ; the third , the pills of D r Paris ; the fourth , the Abernethy 
 pills ; the fifth, the anti-bilious pills; the sixth, the anti-dyspeptic pills; and the seventh (a Melton- 
 Mowbray man ! ) the pills of all pills , the Immortal Cockles ! At every fresh confession , there was 
 another roar of laughter; and Madame Valettez (a healthy little woman, who avoided even tisan, ) 
 sat , with uplifted eyes , ejaculating to the ceiling : « Ah I mon Dieu ! est-il possible ? quelle drole de 
 « manie! quelle drole dejeunesse! » 
 
 9 
 
 DINAJN. — rr.l^TED BY J.-B. HUAKT. — 1S51. 
 
A TRANSLATED COMPILATION. 
 
 --oo- 
 
 By 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTSS, A. M, 
 
 Author of 
 
 TINTERN; STONEHENGE; THE WRECK OF THE ROSCOMMON; THE ROCKS OF PENMARC'H ; 
 LE GRAND-BEY, OR THE TOMB OF CHATEAUBRIAND; SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION 
 FROM THE FRENCH; SKETCH OF LEVY'S WAREHOUSE; etc., etc. 
 
 ■J&?>- 
 
 J.-B. HU1R1, 
 
 1881. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Setting down as nothing the biographic mention of de Lisle , 
 there has been , in the following pages , no attempt at original 
 composition. Perhaps there was no need of it, things speaking 
 for themselves. It is better thus. The translator of the « Mas- 
 « sacre de Septembre 7 » 1792, has not forgotten (who has?) the 
 u Insurrection de Jui?i, » 1848. Either event was a question of 
 humanity, — of all-concerning humanity, — cruelly derided, sa- 
 vagely insulted, truculently wronged; and the human bile will 
 rise. May the native reader of Lamartine's powerful description 
 of the former (whereof but a few paragraphs are here given) 
 lay them both to heart! They are pregnant with thought, es- 
 pecially the last ; and these are times to think. The present crisis 
 is of mighty moment, involving, as it does, a mighty principle, 
 together with the happiness , prosperity, and peace — not of 
 France alone , but what is ever dependant upon her's , — of the 
 Continent, nay, of Europe at large. The compiler says no more, 
 excepting (to descend to himself) that, in this little book, which 
 contains , inter alia , the « Execution de Louis XFI » and the 
 « Supplice des Girondins, » he, of course, has been careful 
 to adduce some indemnifying matter, and has therefore 
 quoted such passages of the battles of Valmy and Jemmappes, 
 as display « La Marseillaise » in its best , appropriate , author- 
 intended light, viz, as a war-song for the defenders of their 
 country, and not as a song of triumph over a decapitated king, 
 nor as the death-song of a Vergniaud on the scaffold-floor. As 
 to the worst phases of it, with Lamartine in his hand, he 
 shuddered as he read; and writing, for his English version, of 
 those crimson days, — those crimson nights, — of the Abbaye, 
 
the Conciergerie, and the Carmes, — of those horrid heaps of 
 human carcases, — of those jaded butchers in the human sham- 
 bles, — of that fearful cloven corpse and the draught of human 
 blood, — of that hellish torture of « La Belle Boucjuetiere , » 
 and her cries beyond the Seine , — of those petticoated demons 
 with their burning pikes, — of those impy children and the 
 « Carmagnole , » — writing of all them, 1 say, the very quill 
 seemed conscious of its work, and faltered like the hand that 
 held it. And such , then , is « La Marseillaise ! » — a thing of 
 proud and humbling recollections , of bright and blushing remi- 
 niscences, — decus et tutamen , dedecus et damnum, — a glory 
 and disgrace ! — a call to keep awake the liberties of France, 
 and yet, again, at Saturnalia like those, — evoking anarchy, 
 evoking murder, — her pest and her * enslaver, her sorrow 
 and her shame ! 
 
 * Buonaparte, ' the child of the Revolution ,' wherein « La Marseillaise, » for good 
 and ill, played so conspicuous a role, retarded (says the historian of the Girondins) the 
 march of freedom and civilization an entire century. His sceptre was indeed an iron 
 one! At certain seasons, words are things. « La Marseillaise, » at all events, as 
 yelled upon the Place de Greve, assisted, in its way, to hring about a military despotism. 
 Yes, in their degree, those hymners of the ax — those patriotic gloaters upon blood- 
 induced the tyranny that followed, though nothing like the tyranny they saw, nor such 
 as their consummate crimes deserved, t Many of them, to be sure, — the victims of the 
 guillotine or of violence in other shapes, — were added to the human hecatombs , — the 
 righteous retribution of that avenging God, Whom, in the name of Reason , and yet 
 
 in the very face of it, they had dared, denied, and most iniquitously mocked! 
 
 « Coming events cast their shadows before. » Madame de Stael was right. « La 
 « Revolution s'est faite homme : » she said it would be so. The lists of Marius and 
 of Sylla led to the ascendancy of Cssar : the lists of Danton and of Robespierre 
 led to the ascendancy of Buonaparte. The imperial power was the consequence of 
 a consequence, — the next great link in the chain of servitude, which was gilded 
 by Victory I grant... With respect to 1848, Paris, Lyons, Arras, Limoges, Saint- 
 Ktienne, etc. , after the days of June, were put into a state of seige, — a form of slavery 
 at least. A little more, and to what would France have not been brought (for a 
 time, at any rate,) by the hackers of the faubourgs,— those Hurons of «La Mar- 
 it seillaise ? » 
 
 -J- Sea the Appendix. 
 
TALiM© ©W Y$l&mLArmM§ b etc. 
 — o — - 
 
 <(M. jourdain. — Parma foi, il y a plusde quarante ans que je dis de la prose sans que j'en susse rien; et 
 je vous suis le plus oblige du monde de m'avoir appris cela. Je voudrais done lui mettre dans un billet : 
 Belle marquise, vos beaux ycux me font mourir d'amour; mais je voudrais que cela fut mis d'une 
 maniere galante , que cela fut tourne gentiment. 
 
 le maItre de philosophie. — Mettez que les feux de ses yeux reduisent votre cosur en cendres; que 
 vous souffrez nuit et jour pour elle les violences d'un 
 
 M. jourdain. — Non , non , non ; je ne veux point tout cela. Je ne veux que ce que je vous ai dit : 
 
 Belle marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. 
 
 le maitre de philosophie. — II faut bieu etendre un pcu la chose. 
 
 m. jourdain. — Non, vous dis-je; je ne veux que ces seules paroles-la daus le billet, mais tournees 
 a la mode , bien arrangees comme il faut. Je vous prie de me dire un peu , pour voir, les diverses 
 manieres dont on les peut mettre. 
 
 le maItre de philosophie. — On peut les mettre premierement comme vous avez dit : 
 
 Belle marquise , vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. 
 
 Ou bien : D'amour mourir me font , belle marquise , vos beaux yeux. 
 
 Ou bien : Vos yeux beaux d'amour me font, belle marquise , mourir. 
 
 Ou bien : Mourir vos beaux yeux, belle marquise, d'amour me font. 
 
 Ou bien : Me font vos yeux beaux mourir, belle marquise, d'amour. 
 
 m. jourdain. — Mais de toutes ces fagons-la laquelle est la meilleure ? 
 
 le maitre he philosophie. — Celle que vous avez dite : Belle marquise, vos beaux yeux me font 
 mourir d'amour. » 
 
 » Le Bourqeois Genlilhomme » of Moliere. 
 
 And my own opinion, in the present little work, was precisely similar. The exigencies of a different 
 tongue and of a different ideoni being met , I , in my subordinate capacity, conceived myself at liberty 
 to alter nothing else. As far as it was feasible , the construction of the French (no matter whose) has 
 been carefully retained. The demands of rhythm will be uuderstood of course : nobody — writer or not — 
 can hesitate to grant, that the calls of euphony, in the rendering of be it what it may, must lead, nl 
 times, to verbal inlidelities at least. A collocation of words, which is music in one language, would, 
 if exactly copied, be discord in another; hence the almost impossibility, on the part of a translator, of 
 being , at once , harmonious and correct. Here , as elsewhere , I have done my best , and here , as 
 elsewhere , I am sorry that my best should be no better. In spite of the pains , bestowed upon my 
 task , and especially on the style of the eloquent Lamartine , there are passages of mine , 1 am well aware , 
 that would never have passed muster with Quintilian. The historian of the Girondins, in his brilliant 
 book, is thoroughly possessed with the spirit of the god, yet as thoroughly commands all the requisites 
 of prose , — the achievement of a gifted few, and of easy imitation by none. 
 
 As to misreadings, thanks to the matter and the manner of the text, there was really but very little 
 room for them. I seize the opportunity, however, of confessing to a probable mistake in my construe 
 of « les enfans perdus de Paris, » (hataille de jemmappes , page 18) which I, though not without a 
 pause , have interpreted ( wrongly, I fear, ) « the friendless children of the streets. » The phrase in 
 question is open to a treble meaning, since «per>dus» signifies, as may happen , «abandoncd,» «spoilt,» or 
 " ruined. » With the sentence for his guide, the reader may choose between the three. My render of 
 il , I suspect , is faulty altogether. 
 
 Touching the so-called errata, they are, to the best of my belief, confined to « vanquished » instead 
 of « vanquished , » (page 15) « composed" instead of « compassed, » (page 55) « reliques » instead of 
 « relics » (page 59) with here and there an undiscovered oversight, to which a regular corrector of the 
 press (and I have had the benefit of none) would, perhaps, have been as liable as I. 
 
 With respect to La Marseillaise again , should it be permissible to speak of it in a jocular tone , I 
 would just observe in conclusion , that , owing to whatever tradition , an idea has got abroad , that Rouget 
 de Lisle composed it when under the inlluence of wine. If such were indeed the case, we are led to 
 recollect an entry in Ben Jonson's diary : « Thursday 16. Ul Supped at The Mermaid with Will Shakespeare. 
 <; Drank four bottles of Port. Noble thoughts. Mem.— Drink no more water as long as I live! » 
 
s&a&s aaa sa&aa&ass,, 
 
 Notice deRouget de Lisle (en anglais) I 
 
 La Marseillaise 4? 
 
 Extraits des Feuilletons du Steele, par Felix Deriege W 
 
 Extraits de l'histoire des girondins, par A. de Laraartine. 
 
 1. Marche des Marseillais et leur entree en Paris 16 
 
 2. Rouget de Lisle et composition de la Marseillaise 18 
 
 3. La Chapelle des Tuileries 20 
 
 4. Massacre des Gardes Suisses 22 
 
 5. Massacre de Septembre 24 
 
 6. Bataille de Valmy 34 
 
 7. Louis XVI apres son interrogatoire 36 
 
 8. Execution du Roi 38 
 
 9. Enrolement et marche des volontaires 44 
 
 10. Bataille de Jemmappes 48 
 
 11. Souper funebre et supplice des Girondins 54 
 
 APPENDICE. 
 
 Les assassins de Septembre 06 
 
 Theroigne de Mericourt 68 
 
 La Carmagnole , ■ .... 72 
 
 Notice militaire de la Marseillaise 76' 
 
 Notice des peines infamantes. 76 
 
 it! 
 
I?£132i3 OS S©S}SSSSfi?S a 
 
 Notice of Rouget de Lisle 1 
 
 La. Marseillaise 5 
 
 Extracts from the Feuilletons of le Steele , by Felix Deriege 11 
 
 Extracts from the history of the girondins, by A, de Lamartine. 
 
 1 . March of the Marseillais and their entry into Paris : ... 17 
 
 2. Rouget de Lisle and composition of la Marseillaise 19 
 
 3. The Chapel of the Tuilleries 21 
 
 4. Massacre of the Swiss Guard 23 
 
 5. Massacre of September 25 
 
 6. Battle of Valmy , 35 
 
 7. Louis XVI after his examination 37 
 
 8. Execution of the King 39 
 
 9. Enrolment and march of the volunteers 45 
 
 10. Battle of Jemmappes 49 
 
 11. Funeral supper and execution of the Girondins. ......... . 55 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 The assassins of September .................. 67 
 
 Theroigne de Mericourt 69 
 
 La Carmagnole t 73 
 
 Military notice of la Marseillaise 77 
 
 Notice of the p«im$ infamantes. 77 
 

 
 
 
Rouget de Lisle, the author of the most effective song in the world, but with 
 nothing before and very little after to requite the researches of biography , was , it 
 appears, born at Lons-le-Saunier, in the Jura, on the 10 lh of May, 1760. Up to 
 the winter or early spring ( no matter which ) of 1792 , when we find him a captain 
 of artillery at Strasbourg, his history is a blank. Whatever degree of notice his 
 graceful talents may thitherto have gained him was clearly of a passing nature, and 
 confined , we may fairly infer, to the circle of his friends. His polished manners , 
 as a Frenchman of birth, his turn for poetry, and a decided taste for music (three 
 drawing-room recommendations) must, in any provincial town, have made him a 
 pleasing companion and a welcome guest. And such he was to the family of 
 Monsieur Dietrich, a gentleman of Alsace, and, at that time, Mayor of Strasbourg. 
 France, throughout in a state of fermentation from foreign and domestic causes, 
 was particularly so in the vicinity of the Rhine, on the opposite sides of which 
 river the opposing armies were ready, — the one to invade, the other to repel. The 
 troops of the latter, full of enthusiasm, required an appropriate air — a march — to 
 crown their zeal , and lead them on to victory. A hymn was at hand , — a martial 
 inspiration , which , going forth from a narrow chamber in Strasbourg to all the 
 provinces of France, was destined to stir the soul more strongly than a thousand 
 trumpets ; to be the very watch-word of liberty ; to sound , like the voice of doom 
 itself, in the ears of conscious kings, seated on whatever thrones of Europe, who, 
 like Relshazzar, might be 'weighed in the balance and found wanting;' to magnify 
 the grand and elevate the sublime, as when (a solemn and affecting proof! ) Vergniaud 
 and his twenty brother-Girondins sang it on the floor of death; * and yet, by a 
 strange , unlooked-for , and terrible perversion of its real purpose , — more wide , 
 more sweeping far than in even their case, — to become the signal for wholesale 
 civil murder on the waters of the Loire , the marsh of Lyons , and the stage of 
 rival guillotines ; and so again , in our own astounded day , when all alas ! that 
 was incredible in crime, was done by all, that was incredible in man. No wonder, 
 with such ingredieuts of fame , that La Marseillaise should be a thing apart ! The 
 best accounts of the artistic heat, in which it was stricken off, are furnished by 
 Lamartine, in Book XVI of his « Histoire des Girondins, » 1847, and by Felix Deriege , 
 
 " Rouget de Lisle, a kind-hearted man and who lived to be an old one, must, among the other 
 mistakes of his life , have bitterly regretted the sanguinary burthen of his song , which , however 
 figuratively meant , was only too sure to be literally taken , and remembered on the field of battle. 
 The impending horrors in France he could not possibly foresee at the time of the writing of his lines. 
 With respect to the choice of such expressions, though of the prophet Isaiah's awful chapter of denun- 
 ciations, where similar ones occur, we can, of course, have nothing to remark, we may, perhaps, be 
 permitted to observe of the psalmist David , that , had he lived uuder the Christian instead of under 
 the Mosaic dispensation , he would hardly have written thus : « Blessed shall he be , that taketh thy 
 « children , and dasheth them against the stones. » 
 
in the jeuilleton of * Le Siecle, May, 1848. Though the details differ, the substance 
 of them is the same. Leaving, then, the former to be settled by the curious in 
 such matters, enough for the general reader to be informed, that the young officer, 
 wound up to a pitch of wrathful patriotism by what he had seen and by what he 
 had heard , betook himself from the social table of Monsieur Dietrich to his lonely 
 room ; that there , with his appliances of art about him , and for once a rhapsodist 
 indeed, the storm within his breast broke out in flashes of indignant fire; and that 
 his solitary work of genius was done in a single night. « Le Chant de V Annie du 
 nRhinn — « The Song of the Army of the Rhine » — (for such was its title until the 
 famous entry of « Les FeJeres de Marseille)) into Paris, July, 1792,) was publickly 
 performed on the ensuing day. uAllons, enfans de la Patrie ! » — The appeal was 
 electric , and , like the lightning to its goal , went, in a moment, to the heart. « Aux 
 narmes, Citoyensh) — The barrack, the parade, the theatre, the parlour, the workshop 
 and the street , all of them resounded with the common call , and a Formes vos 
 « bataillons » was in the mouth of every boy. Fame and the local press and the 
 printed copies spread it to beyond the gates; and, as quick as thought, the high- 
 way and the lane , the meadow and the field , the cottage and the crib , were as vocal 
 as the rest, f «Oh! Ciqrid ! prince of Gods and men!)) — War for Love, Strasbourg for 
 Abdera, and Euripides and Song were come again! — The success of it, immediate 
 and immense, — stupendous in fact,— was, especially in a season of such high excite- 
 ment , sufficient to turn the author's head , and seemingly it did. Be that as it may, 
 owing to his sad mismanagement , the triumph of an hour was the defeat of a life. 
 He was ruined by the popularity, which, with common prudence and common tact, 
 would have been the making of him. Nay, independent of his vogue and the essential 
 service, which he had just rendered to his country by the extra impulse, imparted to 
 its spirit, a captain in the army, at the active age of two and thirty, had every thing to 
 expect in the way of advancement , when war was a necessity of position , and fighting 
 was the order of the day. Let him but escape the bullet and the cannon-ball , and hu 
 career was a brilliant one and sure. 
 
 « There is a tide in the affairs of men , 
 
 <( Which , taken at the flood , leads on to fortune ; 
 
 u Omitted , all the voyage of their life 
 
 « Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
 
 « On such a full tide is he now afloat , 
 
 « And he must take the current when it serves, 
 
 « Or lose his venture. » 
 
 Poor de Lisle ! by a series of blunders , his venture was lost beyond recovery. The 
 
 " To the latter source ( supplied me by my worthy friend , D r Guillard , of Dinan , ) I am mainly 
 indebted for the knowledge of what I have here so briefly and so loosely thrown together. There are 
 no less than thirteen feuilletons about Rouget de Lisle , on whose lack of worldly wisdom , though 
 they speak to his warmth of heart and sincerity of purpose, they bear much harder (giving his letters) 
 than I have either done or had the wish to do. We have all our foibles, our errors, and our faults, 
 and he, poor man ! paid dearly for all of his. 
 
— 3 — 
 
 presumption , caused by celebrity , for his « primum mobile » of mischief, his srailiug 
 future was blighted in the bud. An early injudicious vote against the powers that 
 were , and a still more inconsiderate request , that he ( the author of the Marseillaise ! ) 
 might conduct the fatherless young daughter of Louis XVI to Bale , and there effect 
 her exchange against certain deputies, whom the defection of Dumouriez had sacrificed 
 to the Austrians, incurred upon him, in the one instance, a harsh imprisonment, 
 which , but for Tallien , would have ended in decapitation , and , in the other, 
 raised a barrier to his promotion , which , owing to his own fault again , was never 
 removed. Then we have a tissue of correspondence, on his part frequently verbose 
 and always impolitic, 1° about his commission, which, twice thrown up and more 
 than twice begged back again , he ended by losing too effectually for even Hoche 
 to be of service to him ; 2° about the seizure of a Danish vessel by a piratical 
 cruizer of Bordeaux , for which no redress was ever obtained ; and 3° about the. 
 claims of the unpopular Dutch , to which the hero of Lodi would not listen 
 with decent patience , — a correspondence , that bootlessly embroiled him with 
 the Directory, with Carnot, and with * Buonaparte, w r ho , like Tallien, as they 
 doubtlessly alledged , had no option but to « throw him overboard. » <c 11 avait 
 « le tort de trop parler et de trap e'crire , » as Chateaubriand well observes of our 
 uncanny Charles the first, v. He talked too much, and wrote too much;» while, 
 in his small diplomatic way, his system was the very reverse of what Talleyrand 
 so shrewdly impressed upon his agents : v.Surtout, point de zele,» — above all 
 « things, avoid zeal. » Shut out from his profession, and reduced to his own re- 
 sources as poet and composer, he became, in his advanced age, so straitened in 
 his means, that the pension of 1200 francs or 48 L per annum, granted him by 
 Louis-Philippe , was only sufficient for his comfort until 1836, when he died at 
 Choisy-le-Boi , near Paris, — as for many years he had lived, t unnoticed and unknown. 
 And thus ends the mournful history of Bouget de Lisle , a striking example , ex 
 opposilo, of how wise it is in them, that commerce with the great, to bear in mind 
 certain pithy proverbs, and another proof, that, if, in the real sense of the term, 
 few of us are poets, fewer still are poets with impunity. Before, however, we close 
 this rapid and imperfect sketch, let us do justice to his memory as a man, and let 
 the upright nature and generous disposition , which , as we have seen , respectively 
 led him , at his imminent personal risk and great worldly disadvantage , to vote 
 according to his conscience , and favour the cause of the oppressed , atone for an 
 unhappy metaphor, which, literally taken and bandied about from one carnifex to 
 another, so terribly conduced to « soak with blood » the boards of that very guillotine , 
 where his early friend, Dietrich, untimelily had perished, and where he himself, 
 but for the saving hand of Power, would surely have lost his head to the sounds 
 of his own music and the words of his own song. 
 
 " At the instance, however, of the amiable Josephine, he went as envoi to the court of Charles IV 
 of Spain, with presents to the lung, in 1800 — 1801, but, by the fatality of folly, which pursued him, 
 her patronage became his irretrievable disgrace. 
 
 -j- Id est , by his associates of former years. He had contracted many new acquaintances. See the 
 note. 
 

 LA MARSEILLAISE. 
 
 oQo- 
 
 Allons ! enfans de la patrie ! 
 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive! 
 Contre nous de la tyrannie 
 
 L'etendard sanglant est leve ! 
 Entendez-vous dans les campagnes 
 
 Mugir ces feroces soldats? 
 
 lis viennent jusque dans vos bras 
 Egorger nos fils , nos compagnes ! 
 Aux armes , citoyens ! forraez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
 Que veut cette borde d'esclaves , 
 
 De traitres, de rois conjures? 
 Pour qui ces ignobles entraves , 
 
 Ces fers des longtemps prepares? 
 Francais ! pour nous , ah ! quel outrage ! 
 
 Quels transports il doit exciter ! 
 
 C'est nous qu'on ose mediter 
 De rendre a l'antique esclavage ! 
 Aux armes , citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
LA MARSEILLAISE. 
 
 0Q0 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye sons of France ! 
 
 Your country calls : to glory go! 
 Behold the crimson flag advance, 
 — The tyrants , that would lay ye low ! 
 And hear ye not the savage race, 
 
 That tramp the plain with eager roar 
 To slaughter in your close embrace 
 
 Your children and the wives that bore? 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows ! 
 
 What seek this horde of yelling slaves , 
 
 Of bitter traitors , banded kings ? 
 For whom are meant these coward graves, 
 
 These felon chains and gyving rings? 
 For us , for us the cailiff throng 
 
 Intend them all , and us they would 
 With covert — open — madding wrong 
 
 Reduce tft ancient servitude ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows ! 
 
— 6 — 
 
 Quoi ! des cohortes etrangeres 
 
 Feraient la loi dans nos foyers ! 
 Quoi ! ces phalanges rnercenaires 
 
 Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers ! 
 Grand Dieu ! par des mains enchainees 
 Nos fronts sous le joug se ploiraient ! 
 De vils despotes deviendraient 
 Les rnaitres de nos destinees! 
 Aux armes , citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons I 
 
 Tremblez , tyrans ! et vous , perfides ! 
 
 L'opprobre de tous les partis ! 
 Tremblez ! vos projets parricides 
 
 Vont enfin recevoir leur prix ! 
 Tout est soldat pour vous combattre. 
 
 S'ils tombent , nos jeunes heros , 
 
 La terre en produit de nouveaux , 
 Contre vous tout prets a se battre ! 
 Aux armes ! citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
 Francais ! en guerriers magnanimes , 
 Portez, ou retenez vos coups. 
 
 Epargnez ces tristes victimes , 
 A regret s'armant contre nous. 
 
 Mais le despote sanguinaire, — 
 Mais les complices de Bouille , — 
 Tous ces tigres , qui , sans pitie , 
 
 Dechirent le sein de leur mere 
 
 Aux armes , citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons I 
 
What! shall a foreign phalanx dare 
 
 To lord it on our very hearth? 
 Whal ! shall a host of hirelings hear 
 Our native heroes down to earth ? 
 Great God ! shall fetter'd hands presume 
 
 To bow the bold and yoke the free? 
 Or tyrant lips pronounce the doom 
 Of men , that spurn at tyranny ? 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose, 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows ! 
 
 Tremble , ye despots ! Tremble , ye , 
 The shame of each disowning side ! 
 
 The wages of your treason see , 
 
 — The guerdon of your parricide ! 
 
 Tho' fall the young and brave , what then ? 
 The soil itself an army is, 
 
 And legions, starting from the plain, 
 Shall up , and face Our enemies ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows ! 
 
 Like noble Frenchmen as ye are, 
 
 Or smite the bad , or spare the blow. 
 Destroy not with the stroke of war 
 
 The helpless and unwilling foe. 
 But they, the fell oppressive crew, — 
 
 But they , the brothers of Bouille , — 
 But they , the human tygers , who 
 
 Would tear their mother's heart away,- 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly Hows ! 
 
— 8 — 
 
 Amour sacre de la patrie! 
 
 Conduis , soutiens nos bras vengeurs ! 
 Liberte '. Liberie cherie ! 
 
 Combats avec tes defenseurs ! 
 Sous nos drapeaux que la vicloire 
 
 Accoure a tes males accens ! 
 
 Que tes ennemis expirans 
 Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!... 
 Aux armes ! citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un saDg impur abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
 Strophe ales JEiil'ans. 
 
 Nous entrerons dans la carriere, 
 
 Quand nos aines n'y seront plus. 
 Nous y trouverons leur poussiere 
 
 Et les traces de leurs vertus. 
 Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre 
 
 Que de partager leur cercueil , 
 
 Nous aurons le sublime orgueil 
 De les venger ou de les suivre. 
 Aux armes ! citoyens ! formez vos bataillons ! 
 Marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons ! 
 
 Nota. Francois-Claude-Ainour, marquis de Bouille , ne en Auvergne , 1759, homme illustre , sujet 
 1 oyal , citoyen honorable , s'il en fut jamais , et par consequent apostrophe ei-dessus si horriblement a 
 tort , qu'a-t-il fait enfin ? son devoir, toujours son devoir. General , il a reprime l'insurrection ; royaliste , 
 il a tente de sauver le roi ; patriote , il a appel6 l'6tranger a l'aide de la patrie. Quant au dernier de 
 ces trois pretendus crimes, bien des souverains eux-memes, y compris Louis XVI , n'en ont-ils pas fait 
 autant ? Et , lorsque la France 6tait sous le despotisme de Buonaparte , qui a souleve Alexandre et 
 Bernadotte contre lui ? c'etait « cette femme grand-homme , » Madame de Stael. 
 
 Voici une mention , plus detaillee , du beau noni qu'on a voulu noircir : 
 
 Les membres de la famille de Bouille appartiennent a trois branches qui sont separees depuis un certain 
 nombre d'annees. 1° La branche ainee a aujourd'hui pour principal repr^sentant le general, comte Francis 
 de Bouille , ancien aide-de-camp de Charles X , Pair de France , cordon-bleu , ayant rempli pendant 
 plusieurs annexes les fonctions de Gouverneur de la Martinique : sa femme fut Dame d'honneur de 
 M me la duchesse de Berry. 
 
 2° La seconde branche a aujourd'hui pour principal representant M. le baron Francois-Gabriel de 
 Bouille , ancien page de Louis XVI , puis colonel de eavalerie a son service et ensuite a l'armee de 
 Conde ; charge-d 'affaires du roi Louis XVIII en Hollande ; grand prev&t et commandant de plusieurs 
 places sous la Restauration. 
 
— 9 — 
 
 Oh ! sacred Love of Country '. be 
 
 Our aiding arm, our guiding might ! 
 Oh ! Liberty ! dear Liberty ! 
 
 Come, fight for them, for thee that light! 
 Let smiling Conquest march beneath 
 
 Our banners at thy loud halloo , 
 And let thy leagued foes in death 
 
 Thy triumph and our glory view ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows! 
 
 ITlie Children's §tanzn. 
 
 And we will run our fathers' race , 
 — Our patriotic course the same , — 
 And hail their holy dust, and trace 
 
 With worthy steps their path to fame. 
 Uncaring to survive the dead , 
 
 But ready on their bier to lie, 
 Be ours , by true ambition led , 
 
 To — what ? avenge them or to die ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! your rapid front oppose , 
 And soak your fields with blood that rankly flows ! 
 
 3° La troisieme branche avait pour chef, avant la Revolution, le lieutenant-general, marquis de 
 Bouille , aneien Gouverneur des Antilles , commandant , pour le Roi , Metz , Toul et Verdun , general 
 en chef du corps d'armee qui tenta Invasion de Louis XVI. 
 
 Son ills, cnveloppe avec lui dans le decret de proscription lance par l'Assemhlie nationale, servit en 
 Allemagne, en Suede et en Angleterre oil il commandait, en 1794, les hulans britanniques. Rentre 
 en France en 1803, il conquit en Espagne le grade de general de division; mais line ophtalmie, dont 
 il est reste atteint jusqu'a la cecite , l'obligea de quitter le service. C'est a Monsieur son ills que nous 
 devons VBisloirc des dues de Guise. 
 
 Tous ces faits sont altestes par les Biographies. On sait qu'un des membres de la seconde branche 
 est mort Eveque de Poitiers , apres avoir ete aumflnier de Marie-Antoinette et cure de la Martinique. 
 
 Est-ce un Breton — est-ce un Dinannais — qui lit ceci? eh bien! quelles que soient ses opinions poli- 
 tiques , il se souviendra , avec plaisir, des liens de parente qui se sont formes entre deux families des 
 plus respectables par le mariage de M. Francis Thibault de la Guichardiere avec M"» Alicia de Bouille, 
 lille de M. le baron Francois-Gabriel de Bouille, principal representant aujourd'hui (comme nous venous 
 de le dire ) de la deuxieme branche. Au reste , rien de plus naturel qu'une telle union. La loyaute 
 a vu son reflet de part et d'autre. 
 
— 10 — 
 
 EXTRAITS DES FEL'ILLETONS DU SIECLE, MAI, 1848. 
 ECRITS PAR FELIX DERIEGE. 
 
 « Si Ton excepte les paroles et le chant de la Marseillaise , les oeuvres de Rouget 
 de Lisle ne lui assignent aucune place importante parmi les ecrivains ou les com- 
 positeurs qui ont illustre la fin du siecle passe. Pourtant son nom est eminemment 
 populaire. 11 reveille dans tous les coeurs francais les souvenirs a jamais glorieux de 
 notre premiere Revolution. C'est qu'il y eut un jour dans l'existence de cet homme, 
 oil l'amour de la patrie supplea au genie qui lui manquait , oil le sentiment revolu- 
 tionnaire en fit un grand poete , ou son patriotisme lui inspira d'energiques paroles . 
 d'eloquentes melodies pour appeler ses freres a la defense de la liberie reconquise 
 et de la France envahie. Le monde entier connait la Marseillaise. Elle a retenti 
 dans toute la vieille Europe en meme temps que s'y deployait le drapeau de la France 
 regeneree. Parlout elle a glace nos ennemis d'epouvante, partout elle a ranime les 
 esperances des peuples opprimes. Et cependant la vie du poete qui composa notre 
 chant national est presque inconnue. A peine savons-nous le lieu et l'epoque de 
 sa naissance; a peine quelques journaux ont-ils enregistre la date de sa raort. 
 
 «11 se destina de bonne heure a l'etat militaire, et, grace a ses talens, peut-etre 
 meme a sa naissance, il obtint un avancement rapide a l'epoque oil toutes les carrieres 
 commencaient a s'encombrer. Ofiicier du genie a 29 ans, brave, genereux, imbu 
 de toutes les idees de progres et de liberte qui agitaient alors la France, il salua 
 avec enthousiasme la Revolution de 1789. Les sentimens de Rouget de Lisle a cette 
 epoque etaient d'autant plus estimables , que les reformes exigees par la Nation 
 devaient precisement atteindre la caste privilegiee a laquelle il appartenait. 
 
 (drois ans s'ecoulerent. Rouget de Lisle etait devenu capitaine du genie et tenaii 
 garnison a Strasbourg, lorsqu'y fut proclamee la declaration de guerre de la France an 
 roi de Roheme et de Hongrie. * C'etait a la fin d'avril 1792. Nous achevions alors de 
 parcourir cette pente glissante qui devait nous conduire de la monarchie consfitu- 
 tionnelle au gouvernement republicain. Louis XVI allait etre emporte par le tlot 
 populaire; a chaque instant l'insurrection se dressait en armes aux abords de son 
 palais. Menacee a l'exterieur par l'invasion, a l'interieur par la guerre civile, ne 
 tirant plus aucun service de son administration desorganisee, la France ne se preparait 
 pas moins a soutenir contre l'Europe une lutte de geans. Elle attendait l'avenir , 
 fremissant de crainte, mais aussi d'impatience et d'indignation. Des milliers de 
 
 * Francois I er n'etait pas encore elu empereur. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE FEUILLETONS OF « LE SIECLE,» MAY, 1848. 
 WRITTEN BY FELIX DERIEGE. 
 
 « If we except the words and the air of La Marseillaise , the works of Rouget de 
 Lisle assign him no important place among the authors or composers , who adorned 
 the close of the by-gone century. His name , nevertheless , is eminently popular. He 
 awakens, in the breast of every Frenchman , the undying reminiscencies of our first , 
 our glorious revolution. The reason of it is, that there was an hour in the life 
 of this man , when the love of country stood him in the stead of genius ; when the 
 revolutionary feeling rendered him a great poet; and when his patriotism inspired 
 him with energetic words and eloquent strains , wherewith to rouze his fellow- 
 countrymen to the defence of their reconquered liberty and to the rescue of their 
 invaded land. The world at large is cognizant of La Marseillaise. It has rung 
 throughout the whole of ancient Europe as often as regenerated France has unfurled 
 her triumphant flag. Every where has it congealed her enemies with fear ; every 
 where has it warmed with hope the spirit of a people , when , like her own , it 
 was drooping and oppressed. And yet , for all this , the life of the poet , to whom 
 we are indebted for our national song, is but very partially known. Scarcely can 
 we venture to speak of the place of his birth or of the date of it , and scarcely 
 has a single journal recorded the period of his death. 
 
 « He entered the army at an early age , and , thanks to his talents or perhaps his 
 rank, he obtained a rapid rise at the very time, when all the professions began to be 
 overstocked. An artillery-officer at 29, brave, generous, imbued with the ideas of 
 progress and of liberty, which, at that epoch , agitated France, he hailed with 
 enthusiasm the revolution of 1789. The sentiments of Rouget de Lisle, on that great 
 occasion, were all the more creditable, because the reforms, demanded by the nation, 
 were expressly aimed at the priviledged class , to which he happened to belong. 
 
 «Three years elapsed. Rouget de Lisle had been made captain of artillery, and 
 was in the garrison of Strasbourg , when France declared war against * the King of 
 Bohemia and Hungary. It was the end of April, 1792. We had just effected the 
 slippery descent , which was to lead us from a constitutional monarchy to a republican 
 goverment. Louis XVI was on the point of being swept away by the popular flood : 
 at every moment was insurrection up in arms at every access to his palace. Menaced 
 with invasion from without and with civil war at home, drawing no longer the 
 slighest benefit from her disorganized administration, France no less prepared herself 
 for the field , to wage against Europe a veritable war of giants. She awaited 
 the result , trembling with fear, but impatient and indignant too. Thousands of 
 
 * Francis I had not yet been elected Emperor. 
 
— 12 — 
 
 volontaires aecouraient de toutes parts aux frontieres du nord et de Test, sur lesquelies 
 le canon commencait a gronder. Ces evenemens inspirerent a Rouget de Lisle son 
 Chant de I'armee du Rhin , aujourd'hui connu sous le nom de Marseillaise. De 
 nombreux bataillons de federes s'etaient enroles a Strasbourg, soit pour aller renfoncer 
 l'armee d'observation cantonnee en Alsace sous les ordres du marechal Luckner, 
 soit pour prendre part a Fenvahissement des Pays-Bas autrichiens. Le depart de 
 ces volontaires etait fixe au lendemain , et M. Dietrich , maire de Strasbourg , avec une 
 partie de la population, devait les accompagner jusqu'a une lieue de la ville. Pour 
 feter leurs chefs, Dietrich les reunit dans un diner auquel furent aussi convies les 
 officiers de la garnison. Le magistrat n'avait pas oublie dans ses invitations la societe 
 elegante qui pouvait donner du charme et de la spleudeur a sa fete. On s'y entretint 
 longtemps des bienfaits de la Revolution, des menaces de l'Europe, et de l'hero'ique 
 resistance qu'on avait resolu d'y opposer. L'enthousiasme gagna rapidemenl cette 
 foule de jolies femmes et de braves militaires , tous unis par les memes sentimens ; 
 ils voulurent entendre , des que le repas fut acheve , les divers morceaux de l'ancien 
 repertoire qu'iis croyaient capables de repondre a l'ardent patriotisme qui les animait. 
 Mais les invites de Dietrich chercherent vainement parmi ces chefs-d'oeuvre une 
 marche, une hymne guerrier, qui fut a la hauteur de leur enthousiasme : pas une 
 de ces vieilles melodies ne satisfit leur imagination... Nous n'avions pas de chant 
 national. Voila ce que tout le monde se mit a regretter. Rouget de Lisle quitte 
 aussitot l'assemblee ; il court s'enfermer chez lui , et la , brulant de fievre , son violon 
 a la main , il passe le reste de la nuit a composer les paroles et la musique d'une 
 marche guerriere. II la transcrit sous ce titre : Chant de Varmie du Rhin, et retourne 
 chez Dietrich, dont les hotes, retenus par le jeu et par la danse, ne s'etaient pas 
 encore separes. Le feu de 1'inspiration brillait dans le regard du jeune poete quand il 
 se precipita dans le salon, son chef-d'ceuvre a la main. On le mit aussitot a l'etude. 
 Miie Dietrich l'accompagna sur son piano-, pendant qu'une voix le chantait. On se 
 recueille aux premieres notes; on ecoute, on admire. Bientot l'enthousiasme eclate, 
 cent voix d'hommes et de femmes repetent a 1'envi cet appel : Aux armes ! citoyens ! 
 qui vient de couplet en couplet servir de commentaire aux males accens du patriote 
 indigne. Le succes de Rouget de Lisle fut immense. II avait su donner une forme , 
 une voix a toutes les passions guerrieres qui s'agitaient autour de lui. L'hymne 
 nouveau fut execute ce jour-la meme en public a l'heure de la garde moutante. 
 Un journal constitutionnel, qu'on redigeait alors a Strasbourg, sous les auspices de 
 Dietrich , le fit bientdt connaitre a la France entiere. En peu de temps il devint 
 populaire, surtout a Marseille, dont les habitans s'etaient jetes dans la revolution 
 avec une incroyable ardeur. Les federes de cette ville le chanterent en entrant & 
 Paris vers les derniers jours de juillet 1792 ; et ce fut probablement a cette epoque 
 que l'ceuvre de Rouget de Lisle prit le nom de Chant des Marseillais. La royaute 
 tomba, et chaque jour vint aggraver la situation de la France et les perils de la 
 revolution. Republicans et royalistes, vainqueurs et vaincus, ne songeaient qu'i 
 recommencer une lutte desastreuse, pendant que cent trente-huit milie etrangers, 
 parfaitement organises , depuis longtemps formes a la discipline militaire , commen- 
 
— 13 — 
 
 volunteers flocked from all parts of the country to the frontiers on the north and 
 east, where even now the cannon began to roar. And this it was, that inspired 
 de Lisle with his « Song of the Army of the Rhine , » subsequently known as « La 
 Marseillaise. » Numerous batallions of (ifederisn had enrolled themselves at Stras- 
 bourg , either to reinforce the army of observation , which was cantonned in Alsace , 
 under the orders of Marshal Luckner, or, as auxiliaries, to invade the Netherlands 
 of Austria. The departure of these volunteers was fixed for the morrow, and Monsieur 
 Dietrich , mayor of Strasbourg, with a portion of the population , was to escort them a 
 league beyond the town. By way of fete-ing their chiefs, M r Dietrich assembled them 
 at a dinner, to which the garrison-officers had received an invitation as well. The 
 magistrate had borne in mind , too , the soft , the elegant society, which might bestow 
 a charm , and shed a lustre on the fete. The company talked much and long of the 
 blessings of the Revolution , the threats of Europe , and the heroical resistance , which 
 France was resolved to make. The crowd of lovely women and brave men , all 
 united by the same sentiments, were all possessed with the same zeal. The repast 
 finished, they were anxious to hear, out of the old repertory, the various pieces, 
 which , in their opinion , responded best to the patriotic fervour, which animated 
 their bosoms. But the guests of Dietrich sought in vain among those chefs-d'oeuvre 
 for a march, — a martial hymn,— which was on the high level of their enthusiasm : 
 not one of those ancient melodies contented them, a We have no national song » was 
 the universal cry, — the universal regret. Rouget de Lisle hurries from the assembly, 
 shuts himself up in his room, and there, burning with fever, violin in hand, he 
 spends the remainder of the night in composing the words and music of a march. 
 Transcribed, he entitles it « The Song of the Army of the Rhine, » and hastens back 
 to Dietrich's, where the company, retained by dancing and by cards, are still unbroken 
 up. The fire of inspiration is flashing in the eyes of the young poet, as he throws 
 himself into the salon with his masterpiece in his hand. It is tried immediately. 
 M"« Dietrich plays the accompaniment : another person sings it. The opening notes 
 are listened to in silence... then a thrill... then admiration — then enthusiasm. A 
 hundred vying voices of men and women repeat again and again : « Aux amies , 
 citoyens ! » which, coming stanza after stanza, forms a fitting commentary to the 
 accents — the masculine accents — -of the wrathful patriot. The success of Rouget de 
 Lisle was immense. He had known how to give a shape — a voice — to the warlike 
 passions , which were fermenting round about him. That very day, the new hymn 
 was publicly performed at the hour of mounting guard. A constitutional Paper, 
 which was then edited at Strasbourg by M r Dietrich, soon communicated it to the 
 whole of France. In a short time , it became popular, especially at Marseilles , where 
 the inhabitants had plunged into the Revolution with an inconceivable ardour. The 
 ufederesv of that town sang it on their entry into Paris towards the end of July, 
 1792, and it was probably at this epoch, that the work of Rouget de Lisle took 
 the name of « La Marseillaise. » Royalty fell , and every added day aggravated the 
 situation of France and the perils of the Revolution. Republicans and royalists, 
 victors and vauquished , only thought of recommencing a calamitous struggle , while 
 
— 14 — 
 
 caient a nous envahir. Mais rhero'isme du peuple grandissait en proportion du 
 danger. Partout, au chant de la Marseillaise, des nuees de volontaires abandonnaient, 
 pour alter combattre , les salons et les comptoirs , les hameaux et les villes , la 
 charrue et l'atelier. La marche guerriere de Rouget de Lisle etait devenue le chant 
 de tous les patriotes. On le rdpetait au milieu des rues, sur les routes et dans 
 les theatres. Nos jeunes soldats la chantaient a Valmy, lorsqu'ils s'elancerent de 
 leurs retranchemens pour charger a la ba'ionnette et culbuter les Prussiens. Ce 
 fut en entonnant l'hymne des Marseillais que Dumouriez porta ses bataillons sur 
 le village de Cuesmes , decida le succes de la bataille de Jemmappes et sauva la 
 Revolution. La Marseillaise entin recut sa consecration definitive a Paris le 14 octobre 
 1792. Elle avait contribue a la victoire ; elle eut sa place dans le programme de 
 la fete qui devait en perpetuer le souvenir. Sept couplets y furent ajoutes a cette 
 occasion ; mais ils sont indignes pour la plupart de flgurer a c6te du texte primitif. 
 Une seule de ces strophes nous a ete conservee, et celle-la exprime en beaux vers 
 une pensee vraiment genereuse. Elle commence par ces paroles : « Nous entrerons 
 «dans la carriers, etc.» 
 
 « Les anciens amis de Rouget de Lisle 1'avaient presque tous abandonne : il en trouva 
 d'autres dans cette generation nouvelle de litterateurs et d'artistes qui naquit vers les 
 derniers temps de la Restauration. C'etaient Reranger, MM. David (d'Angers) et Bra, 
 sculpteurs, et surtout M. Vo'iart, dans la maison duquel il passa les dernieres annees 
 de sa vie. Apres la Revolution de 1830, Beranger sollicita une modique pension 
 pour l'illustre auteur de la Marseillaise , alors vieux et infirme, et fut assez heureux 
 pour l'obtenir. Ce n'etait qu'une modique somme de 1,200 fr. , mais cela suffisait 
 pour satisfaire les gouts modestes du vieillard et pour qu'il se procurat de temps 
 a autre le plaisir d'obliger. Un grand nombre de personnes Font connu dans ses 
 dernieres annees , soit a Paris, soit a Choisy-le-Roi. On aimait a entendre ses longs 
 recits, car il avait vu beaucoup et beaucoup observe ; on remarquait l'originalite de 
 sa conversation, la politesse et 1'elegance exquises de ses manieres qui semblaient 
 appartenir a un autre age. 11 avait su inspirer a tous ceux qui l'approchaient un 
 profond respect et un sincere attachement. 
 
 « Un jour enfin , un char funebre sortit d'une maison de la rue des Vertus et se 
 dirigea vers le cimetiere de Choisy. Sur le cercueil reposait une couronne de laurier, 
 une croix d'honneur et une epee d'officier du genie. Le maire de la commune, 
 M. Boivin , le general Rlein , M. Bra et M. de Guer tenaient les coins du poele. 
 Suivaient quelques amis plonges dans une douleur profonde. C'etait Rouget de Lisle 
 qu'on enterrait. 
 
 «Mais il etait juste que le peuple concourut a la solennite de ces funerailles, car 
 de cette froide depouille qu'on transportait avait jailli , quarante-quatre ans aupa- 
 ravant , comme un trait de flamme , l'hymne guerrier qui guida nos bataillons a 
 la victoire , et le peuple n'oublie pas. Aussi la garde nationale de Choisy etait-elle 
 sous les armes 5 aussi tous les ouvriers des fabriques voisines avaient-ils quitte 
 
— 15 — 
 
 138,000 foreigners, perfectly well organised, and long ago in a perfect state of 
 discipline, were beginning to invade us. But the heroism of the people increased 
 in proportion to the danger. On all sides, at the sound of « La Marseillaise , » 
 clouds of volunteers abandoned for the battle-field the salon and the office , the 
 hamlet and the town , the workshop and the plough. The march of Rouget de Lisle 
 was become the song of every patriot. It was repeated in the middle of the streets, — 
 in the highroads, — in the theatres. Our young soldiers sang it at * Valmy, when, 
 bayonet in hand, they poured from their entrenchments, and overthrew the Prussians. 
 It was in thundering out « La Marseillaise , » that Dumouriez bore his batallions 
 upon the village of Cuesmes , decided the battle of Jemmappes , and saved the 
 Revolution. Finally, « La Marseillaise » was conclusively consecrated at Paris , 
 Oetober 14 th , 1792. It had contributed to victory : it had its due place in the 
 programme of the fete, which was to perpetuate its memory. Seven stanzas were 
 added on this occasion , but were , for the most part , unworthy of figuring beside 
 the primitive text. A single strophe has been preserved to us, and that, indeed, 
 expresses, in fine lines, a really noble thought. It begins with the words, « And 
 « we ivill run our fathers' race. » 
 
 « The former friends of Rouget de Lisle had nearly all deserted him , but he 
 had met with others among that new generation of artists and litterati , which 
 sprung up about the end of the Restoration, — Reranger, David (of Angers), and 
 Bra, the sculptors, and particularly M r Voiart, in whose hospitable house he passed 
 the latter years of his life. After the Revolution of 1830, Reranger solicited a 
 modest pension for the illustrious author of v. La Marseillaise,* and was fortunate 
 enough to obtain it It was only 1200 francs, but it sufficed for the simple 
 wants of the old man, and enabled him, at times, to be of service in his turn. 
 A vast number of persons were acquainted with him, both at Paris and at Choisy- 
 le-Roi. They loved to hear his long stories, for he had seen much and seen well. 
 They were struck with the originality of his conversation , with his perfect polish 
 and with the exquisite elegance of his manners , which appeared to belong to 
 another age. He had the happy art of inspiring whoever approached him with 
 sincere attachment and profound respect. 
 
 « At last, a bier was seen coming out from a house in la rue des Vertus, and 
 was borne towards the cemetery of Choisy. On the coffin were a laurel-crown , a 
 croix d'honneur, and the sword of an artillery-officer. The mayor of the commune, 
 Mr Boivin , the general Blein , Messieurs Rra and de Guer held the four corners 
 of the pall, while some other mourners (and they were such) walked slowly in the 
 rear. It was Rouget de Lisle, going to be buried. 
 
 « Rut it was proper, that the people should assist at the mournful ceremony as 
 well , inasmuch as from the cold and senseless clay, which was about to be committed 
 to the kindred earth, had flashed, some four-and-forty years before, the martial 
 hymn, which led our troops to victory, — a fact, which the people, at least, was 
 little likely to forget. The national guard of Choisy, then, was under arms; the 
 
 Felix Deriege , be it said , founds his assertions on the authentic papers, « les pieces originates, •■> 
 of Rouget de Lisle. See the note ( battle of valmy, page 3d. ) 
 
— 16 — 
 
 spontanement leurs ateliers pour accompagner au cimetiere le poete immortel de notre 
 immortelle Revolution. Oh! ce fut une ceremonie touchante; car ces braves travailleurs 
 distribuaient a tous les assistans des bouquets d'immortelles ; ils marchaient deux 
 a deux, la tete decouverle, dans un religieux recueillement. Puis, quand la derniere 
 pelletee de terre eut ete jetee sur le deTunt, quand la derniere goutte d'eau benite 
 cut arrose le sol qui le recouvrait, tous, ouvriers. maire, artistes, gardes nationaux , 
 entonnerent la Marseillaise. » 
 
 EXTRA1TS DE VHISTOIRE DES GIRONDINS, Par A. DE LAMART1NE. 
 
 «Tout se preparait dans les departemens pour envoyer a Paris les vingt mille 
 hommes , decretes par l'Assemblee. Les Marseillais , appeles par Barbaroux sur les 
 instances de Madame Roland , s'approchaient de la capitale. C'etait le feu des ames 
 du midi venant raviver a Paris le foyer revolutionnaire, trop languissant au gre 
 des Girondins. Ce corps de douze ou quinze cents hommes etait compose de Genois , 
 de Liguriens, de Corses, de Piemontais expatries et recrutes pour un coup-de-main 
 deeisif sur toutes les rives de la Mediterranee ; la plupart matelots ou soldats , 
 aguerris au feu, quelques-uns scelerats aguerris au crime. Ils etaient commandes 
 par des jeunes gens de Marseille, amis de Barbaroux et d'Isnard. Fanatises par le 
 soleil et par l'eloquence des clubs provencaux, ils s'avancaient aux applaudissemens 
 des populations du centre de la France, regus, fetes, enivres d'enthousiasme et de vin 
 dans des banquets patriotiques , qui se succedaient sur leur passage. Le pretexte 
 de leur marche etait de fraterniser, a la prochaine confederation du 14 Juillet , 
 avec les antres federes du royaume. Le motif secret etait d'intimider la garde 
 nationale de Paris , de retremper 1'energie des faubourgs , et d'etre l'avant-garde 
 de ce camp de vingt mille hommes que les Girondins avaient fait voter h, l'As- 
 semblee pour dominer a la fois les Feuillants, les Jacobins, le Roi et l'Assemblee 
 elle-meme avec une armee des departemens toute composee de leurs creatures. 
 
 « La mer du peuple bouillonnait a leur approche. Les gardes nationales , les 
 federes , les soeiet.es populaires , les enfans , les femmes , toute cette partie des 
 populations , qui vit des emotions de la rue , et qui court a tous les spectacles 
 publics, volaient a la rencontre des Marseillais. Leurs figures halees, leurs pby- 
 sionomies martiales, leurs yeux de feu, leurs uniformes couverts de la poussiere 
 des routes, leur coiffure phrygienne, leurs armes bizarres, les canons qu'ils trai- 
 naient a leur suite, les branches de verdure, dont ils ombragaient leurs bonnets 
 rouges, leurs langages etrangers meles de juremens et accentues de gestes feroces, 
 tout cela frappait vivement l'imagination de la multitude. L'idee revolutionnaire 
 semblait s'etre faite homme et marcher, sous la figure de cette horde , a l'assaut 
 
— 17 — 
 
 workmen, too, at the neighbouring manufactories had voluntarily quitted them, 
 ihat honour might be done the dead, and that the poet, whose memory, like the 
 Revolution's, could never die, might be fitly followed to his grave. Yes! it was 
 a touching sight, — the distribution of those bunches of immortelles by those soldier- 
 artisans , that presently, with heads uncovered and in solemn silence , were marching 
 two by two ! And then , when the last scantling of earth had been thrown upon 
 the dead, — when the last drop of holy water had been sprinkled on the clay, that 
 covers other clay,— workmen , mayor, artists, national guards,— one and all set up 
 ' La Marseillaise. ' » 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE HISTORY OF THE G [RON DINS, By A. DE LAMART1NE. 
 
 « The departments were all activity to send to Paris the 20,000 men , voted by the 
 Assembly. The Marseillais, that had been summoned by Barbaroux at the instance 
 of Madame Roland, were approaching the capital. It was the soul of the south coming 
 to rekindle the revolutionary hearth , too dull , too cold , too dead to please the Giron- 
 dins. This body of 1200 or 1500 men was composed of expatriated Genoese, Ligurians, 
 Corsicans, and natives of Piedmont, enrolled for a decisive coup-de-main along the 
 entire coast of the Mediterranean , the majority of them being sailors or soldiers , 
 thoroughly inured to service , while some of them were desperadoes , thoroughly 
 inured to crime. They were commanded by young men of Marseilles , friends of 
 Barbaroux and Isnard. The offspring of a burning sun and phrenzied by the eloquence 
 of provincial clubs, they marched on to the acclamations of central France, welcomed, 
 fete-ed , intoxicated with ardour and with wine at the patriotic banquets , which , in 
 such quick succession , carouzed them on their route. Their ostensible object was to 
 fraternize, at the impending confederation of July l4 ,b , with the other fe'deres of 
 the kingdom; their real, to intimidate the national guard of Paris, to reimbue the 
 faubourgs with energy , and to form the van of that camp of 20,000 men , which the 
 Girondins had induced the Assembly to decree, by way of keeping under, at one and 
 the same lime, the Feuillants, the Jacobins, the King, and the Assembly itself with an 
 army, drawn from the departments , and intirely composed of their own creatures. 
 
 « The people , at their approach , fermented like a sea. The national guards , the 
 federes , the clubs , the children , the women , all that portion of a population , in 
 short, whose being is the stir of the streets and whose magnet is the public show, 
 flew, like lightning, to meet the Marseillais. Their sun- burnt faces, their martial 
 looks , their eyes of fire , their uniforms covered with the dust of the roads , their 
 Phrygian head-gear, their curious arms, the cannons, which they dragged along, the 
 green branches to shade their scarlet caps, their strange dialects, mixed with oaths 
 and accentuated by ferocious gests, all this, I say, forcibly affected the imagination 
 of the multitude. It seemed as though the abstract idea of Revolution had become 
 Man, and was marching, under the guise of this outlandish horde , to attack the last 
 
— 18 — 
 
 des derniers debris de la royaute. lis entraient dans les villes et dans les villages 
 sous des arcs de triomphe. lis chantaient en marchant des strophes terribles. Ces 
 couplets alternes par le bruit regulier de leurs pas sur les routes et par le son des 
 tambours , ressemblaient aux chceurs de la patrie et de la guerre , repondant , a 
 intervalles egaux , au cliquetis des armes et aux instruments de niort dans une 
 marche aux combats. Voici ce chant, grave dans l'ame de la France. » 
 
 « Semblable a ces drapeaux sacres suspendus aux voiifes des temples et qu'on n'en 
 sort qu'a certains jours, on garde le chant national comme une arme extreme pour les 
 grandes necessites de la patrie. Le n6tre regut des circonstances , ou il jaillit un 
 caractere particulier, qui le rend a la fois plus solennel et plus sinistre : la gloire 
 et le crime, la victoire et la mort semblent entrelaces dans ses refrains. II fut le 
 chant du patriotisme, mais il fut aussi l'imprecation de la fureur. II conduisit nos 
 soldats a la frontiere, mais il accompagna nos victimes a I'echafaud. Le meme fer 
 defend le cceur du pays dans la main du soldat et egorge les victimes dans la main 
 du bourreau. 
 
 « La Marseillaise conserve un retentissement de chant de gloire et de cri de mort: 
 glorieuse comme Tun , funebre comme l'autre , elle rassure la patrie et fait palir 
 les citoyens. Voici son origine. 
 
 « H y avait alors un jeune officier du genie en garnison a Strasbourg. Son nom 
 etait Rouget de Lisle. II etait ne a Lons-le-Saunier, dans ce Jura, pays de reverie et 
 d'energie, comme le sont toujours les montagnes. Ce jeune homme aimait la guerre 
 comme soldat , la Revolution comme penseur : il charmait par les vers et par la 
 musique les lentes impatiences de la garnison. Recherche pour son double talent de 
 musicien et de poete , il frequentait familierement la maison du baron de Dietrich , 
 noble alsacien du parti constitutionnel , ami de La Fayette et maire de Strasbourg. 
 La femme du baron de Dietrich , ses jeunes amies', partageaient l'enthousiasme du 
 patriotisme et de la Revolution, qui palpitait surtout aux frontieres, comme les 
 crispations du corps menace" sont plus sensibles aux extremites. Elles aimaient le 
 jeune officier, elles inspiraient son cceur, sa poesie, sa musique. Elles executaient 
 les premieres ses pensees a peine ecloses , confidentes des balbutiemens de son 
 genie. 
 
 « C'&ait dans 1'hiver de 1792. La disette regnait a Strasbourg. La maison de 
 Dietrich, opulente au commencement de la Revolution, mais 6puisee de sacrifices 
 necessites par les catamites du temps , s'etait appauvrie. Sa table frugale etait 
 hospitaliere pour Rouget de Lisle. Le jeune officier s'y asseyait le soir et le matin 
 comme un fils ou un frere de la famille. Un jour qu'il n'y avait eu que du pain 
 de munition et quelques tranches de jambon fume sur la table , Dietrich regarda 
 de Lisle avec une serenite triste et lui dit : « L'abondance manque a nos festins , 
 <( mais qu'importe , si l'enthousiasme ne manque pas a nos fetes civiques et le courage 
 « aux cceurs de nos soldats? J'ai encore une derniere bouteille de vin du Rhin dans 
 « mon cellier. Qu'on l'apporte, dit-il, et buvons-la a la liberie et a la patrie! 
 « Strasbourg doit avoir bientdt une ceremonie patriotique. II faut que de Lisle 
 
— 19 — 
 remains of Royalty. Their entry into villages and towns was under triumphal arches. 
 They sang, as they went along, stanzas of (he sternest kind. The couplets, alternated 
 by the measured fall of their feet upon the road and by the rolling of the drums, 
 resembled the palriotic choruses of war, responding, at equal intervals, to the clashing 
 of arms and the instruments of death , when men go forth to battle. Behold the song 
 in question , engraven , as it is , on the heart of France. » 
 
 « Like those consecrated banners , suspended to the arches of a shrine , and 
 which are only taken out on particular occasions, the national song, as it were, 
 is reserved for a weapon of ultimate resort against the grand necessities of the 
 country. Our's received the impress of circumstances, which gave it a character apart, 
 that renders it at once more solemn and more sinister : glory and crime, victory 
 and death , seem to be the tissue of it. If it was the hymn of patriotism , it was the 
 malison of civil rage as well. It conducted our troops to the frontier, but it accom- 
 panied our victims to the scaffold. The same steel , in short , is the safeguard of 
 France in the hand of the soldier and her butcher in the hands of the executioner. 
 
 (i The chant of glory and the cry of death , « La Marseillaise » is resonant of both. 
 Triumphant as the one , funereal as the other, it flushes France with confidence, and 
 turns her Frenchmen pale. Its origin is as follows. 
 
 « There was, at that period, a young artillery-officer in the garrison of Strasbourg, 
 whose name was Rouget de Lisle, a native of Lons-le-Saunier, in the Jura, — a 
 country of reverie and energy, as mountainous ones invariably are. As a soldier, he 
 was fond of war: as a thinker, he hailed the Revolution. The tedium of a garrison- 
 life he beguiled with music and with verse. In high request for his two-fold talent of 
 poet and composer, he was intimate with the family of Baron Dietrich , an Alsacian of 
 birth , a constitutionnel in politics , a friend of La Fayette , and mayor of Strasbourg. 
 His lady and her young associates participated in the zeal, which sprang of patriotism 
 and the Revolution, — a zeal, more especially felt at the frontiers, just as, in a moment 
 of bodily excitement, the extremities are more sensibly affected. They were partial to 
 the young officer, and inspired his heart, his music, and his poetry. The confidantes 
 of the lispings of his genius, they were the earliest interpreters of his thought, though, 
 as yet , it had scarcely found an utterance. 
 
 « This was in the winter of 1792. A dearth was prevalent at Strasbourg. The house 
 of Dietrich, wealthy at the outbreak of the Revolution, but drained by the sacrifices, 
 necessitated by the calamity of the times, was become poor. Nevertheless, its frugal 
 table was open to de Lisle. Morn and eve, like a son or a brother of the family, there 
 was his accustomed seat. On one occasion , when their supper had consisted of 
 common household bread and a few slices of smoked ham , Dietrich regarded his guest 
 with a sad serenity and said : « Abundance, indeed, is wanting to our board, but what 
 ((Signifies, so that enthusiasm abound at our civic fetes, and courage in the heart 
 <( of our troops? There is still in my cellar a bottle of good old Rhenish wine, — the 
 «last I have. It shall be brought, and we will drink to Liberty and our Native 
 <( Country. A patriotic meeting will soon be held at Strasbourg. May those remaining 
 
— 20 — 
 « puise , dans ces dernieres gouttes , un de ces hymnes qui portent dans Tame du" 
 « peuple I'ivresse d'oii il a jailli.» Les jeunes femmes applaudirent , apporterent le 
 vin, remplirent les verres de Dietrich et du jeune officier jusqu'a ce que la liqueur 
 fut epuisee. 11 elait tard. La nuit etait froide. De Lisle etait reveur; son coeur etait 
 emu , sa tete echauffee. Le froid le saisit , il rentra chancelant dans sa chambre 
 solitaire, cherchant lentement l'inspiration tantot dans les palpitations de son ame 
 de ciloyen , tantot sur le clavier de son instrument d'artiste , composant tantot 1'air 
 avant les paroles, tantdt les paroles avant l'air, et les associant tellement dans la 
 pensee qu'il ne pouvait savoir lui-meme lequel de la note ou du vers etait ne le premier 
 et qu'il etait impossible de separer la poesie de la musique et le sentiment de l'ex-f 
 pression. 11 chantait tout et n'ecrivait rien. 
 
 « Accable de cette inspiration sublime , il s'endormit la tete sur son instrument 
 et ne se reveilla qu'au jour. Les chants de la nuit lui remonterent avec peine dans la 
 memoire comme les impressions d'un reve. II les ecrivit, les nota , et courut chi'z 
 Dietrich. 11 le trouva dans son jardin bechant de ses propres mains des laitues d'hiver. 
 La femme du maire patriote n'etait pas encore levee. Dietrich l'eveilla, il appela 
 quelques amis, tous passionnes comme lui pour la musique et capables d'executer 
 la composition de de Lisle. Une des jeunes Miles accompagnait. Rouget chanta. 
 A la premiere strophe les visages palirent , a la seconde les larmes coulerent , aux 
 dernieres le delire de l'enthousiasme eclata. Dietrich, sa femme, le jeune officier 
 se jeterent en pleurant dans les bras les uns des autres. L'hymne de la patrie etait 
 trouve ! Helas ! il devait etre aussi l'hymne de la terreur. L'infortune Dietrich 
 marcha peu de mois apres a l'echafaud , aux sons de ces notes nees a son foyer du 
 cceur de son ami et de la voix de sa femme. 
 
 « Le noirveau chant , execute quelques jours apres a Strasbourg , vola de ville 
 en ville sur tous les orchestres populaires : Marseille l'adopta pour etre chante au 
 commencement et a la fin des seances de ses clubs. Les Marseillais le re'pandirent 
 en France en le chantant sur leur route. De la lui vint le nom de Marseillaise. » 
 
 Livre 16. Sections 26, 28, 29 et 30. 
 
 LA CHAPELLE DES TUILER1ES. 
 
 « Madame Elisabeth recevait les confidences des deux epoux et les caresses des 
 enfans. Sa foi plus soumise que celle de la Reine , plus tendre que celle du Roi , 
 faisait de sa vie un continuel holocauste. Elle ne trouvait, ainsi que son frere, de 
 consolation qu'au pied des autels. Elle y prosternait tous les matins sa resignation. 
 La chapelle du chateau etait le refuge oil la famille royale s'abritait contre tant de 
 douleurs. Mais la encore la haine de ses ennemis la poursuivait. Un des pre- 
 miers dimanches de Juillet , des soldats de la garde nationale , qui remplissaient la 
 galerie par ou le Roi allait entendre la messe, crierent : «Plus de roi! a bas le 
 
— 21 — 
 
 « drops, de Lisle, inspirit you to one of those stirring hymns, that impart to the 
 « common soul of a people the warmth,— the fervour, — the ivresse , to which they 
 « are indebted for their rise!». — The ladies applauded the idea, the hock was 
 brought, and the glasses of Dietrich and his guest were filled , till the wine was gone. 
 It was late. The night was cold. De Lisle was a dreamer; his soul was agitated j 
 his brain excited. The cold seized him. He tottered as he reached his solitary room, 
 where he sought the inspiration, (which was loth to come at first,) now, as an ardent 
 citizen, in the beatings of his heart, now, as a double artist, on the chords of his 
 violin, composing anon the air before the words, anon the words before the air, and 
 blending them so nicely with the thought, that he himself was unable to tell the order 
 of his work , it being impossible to separate the music from the poetry and the 
 expression from the sentiment. He sang every thing, and wrote nothing. 
 
 « Overpowered by such an inspiration , he fell asleep, with his head upon the in- 
 strument , and so he slept till day. The strains of the night came back upon him 
 slowly, like the features of a dream. He wrote them out,— he noted them down,— 
 and ran with thum to Dietrich's. He found him in his garden, digging up, with his 
 proper hands, some winter-lettuces. The wife of the patriotic mayor was still in 
 bed. Her husband woke her, and sent for some of his friends , all, like himself, 
 passionately fond of music and capable of executing the composition of De Lisle. 
 One of the young ladies accompanied. The author sang. At the first strophe, they 
 turned pule with emotion ; at the second , they shed tears ; at the others , the phrenzy 
 of enthusiasm burst forth. Dietrich, his lady, and the young officer wept in concert, 
 as they mutually embraced. The national hymn was found ! Alas ! in the Reign 
 of Terror, how soon was it to be the hymn of death ! A few short months , and 
 the unhappy Dietrich marched to the scaffold , which welcomed him with the sounds 
 of those identical notes, that had emanated, at his own hearth, from the heart of his 
 friend and the voice of his wife ! 
 
 «The new composition, performed a few days afterwards at Strasbourg, flew from 
 town to town and from orchestra to orchestra. Marseilles adopted it to give weight 
 to her sessions at the opening and the closing of her clubs. The Marseillais pro- 
 mulgated it in France by singing it on their route to Paris; and thence its name 
 of « La Marseillaise. » 
 
 Book 16. Sections 26, 28, 29 et 30. 
 
 THE CHAPEL OF THE TUILLER1ES. 
 
 <( On Madame Elizabeth it was, that the wedded pair bestowed their confidence, the 
 children their caresses. With a faith more humble than the queen's, more tender 
 than the king's, her life was one continued holocaust. In common with her brother, 
 she found her only solace at the foot of the altar, and there, at morn, her daily resign- 
 ation knelt. The refuge of the royal family was the chapel of the Chateau , which 
 promised them a harbour from so many ills. But the hatred of their enemies pursued 
 them even there. On a Sunday, early in July, some soldiers of the national guard , 
 stationed in the corridor, which was traversed by the monarch on his way to mass , 
 
— 22 — 
 
 * veto ! » Le Roi , accoutume aux outrages , entendit ces cris , vit ces gestes sans 
 s'etonner. Mais a peine la famille royale etait-elle agenouillee dans sa tribune que 
 les musiciens de la chapelle firent eclater les airs revolutionnaires de la Marseillaise 
 et du Qa ira!!!» 
 
 Liv. 19. Sect. 10. 
 
 MASSACRE DES GARDES SUISSES. 
 
 «Les Suisses, qui avaient occasionne ce mouvement, etaient des officiers de l'escorte 
 du Roi , cherchant un refuge dans l'enceinte pour eviter le feu des bataillons de la 
 terrasse des Feuillants. On les fit entrer dans la cour du Manege, et on les desarma 
 par l'ordre du Roi. 
 
 «Pendant cette scene, M. d'Hervilly parvenait au chateau a travers les balles, au 
 moment oil la colonne de M. de Salis y rentrait avec les canons. « Messieurs , » leur 
 cria-t-il du haut de la terrasse du jardin d'aussi loin que sa voix put etre entendue, 
 « le Roi vous ordonne de vous rendre tons a V Assemblee nationale. » II ajouta de 
 lui-meme, et dans une derniere pensee de prevoyance pour le Roi : nAvec vos canons !» 
 
 « A cet ordre, M. de Durler rassemble environ deux cents de ses soldats, fait rouler 
 un canon du vestibule dans le jardin , essaie en vain de le decharger, et se met en 
 marche vers l'Assemblee , sans que les autres postes de l'interieur, prevenus de cette 
 retraite, eussent le temps de le suivre. Cette colonne, criblee en route par les balles 
 de la garde nationale, arrive en desordre et mutilee a la porte du Manege; elle 
 est introduite dans les murs de l'Assemblee et met bas les armes. Les Marseillais , 
 informes de la retraite d'une partie des Suisses, et temoins de la defection de la 
 gendarmerie, marchent une seconde fois en avant; les masses des faubourgs Saint- 
 Marceau et Saint-Antoine inondent les cours. Westermann et Santerre , le sabre a 
 la main , leur montrent le grand escalier et les poussent a l'assaut au chant de Qa 
 
 ira la vue de leurs camarades morts, couches sur le Carrousel, les enivre de 
 
 vengeance ; les Suisses ne sont plus a leurs yeux que des assassins soldes. lis se 
 jurent entre eux de laver ces paves , ce palais dans le sang de ces etrangers. » 
 
 Liv. 22. Sect. 15. 
 
 « L'Assemblee Legislative avait decrete la peine de mort contre les emigres qui rentreraient , la 
 « deportation des pretres qui auraient refuse de prefer serment a la constitution civile du clerge , et , 
 « enQn , la formation d'un camp de vingt mille hommes dans les environs de Paris. Le Roi crut 
 a devoir apposer son veto a ces decrets , et meme renvoyer ceux de ses ministres qui lui conseillaient 
 (i de donner sa sanction. Les novateurs , dont le nombre et l'audace croissaieut de jour en jour, r6- 
 v solurent de le forcer a cette mesure. Le 20 juin environ trente mille hommes , arm£s de piques , 
 <( de baches , de fusils , se rendent au chateau des Tuileries , et lui demandent avec menaces cette 
 « sanction que sa conscience et sa dignite repoussaient. lis allerent meme jusqu'a lui presenter un 
 i bonnet rouge , devenu le signe do la liberte ; et sans la courageuse contenance de ce monarque , e'ea 
 « etait fait ce jour-la de sa personne et de sa famille. 
 
 Abrege de l'Histoire de France. 
 
— 23 — 
 shouted as he passed : « Doiun with Royalty ! down with the * veto ! » The king , 
 inured to insult, heard all and saw all without a shadow of surprise; but scarcely were 
 the royal family a-kneeling in their pew. when the musicians of the chapel struck up 
 the revolutionary airs, — v. La Marseillaise » and «fa train 
 
 Book 19. Section 10. 
 
 MASSACRE OF THE SWISS GUARD. 
 
 «The Swiss, who had occasioned this movement, were some officers of the royal 
 (jscort, seeking an asylum in the close, to avoid the fusillade of the battalions, that 
 were firing on them from the terrace of the Feuillants. They were constrained to enter 
 tbe court of the Riding-School; and there they were disarmed by order of the king. 
 
 « In the meanwhile, M. d'Hervilly, exposed to the bullets as he went along, had 
 reached the Chateau just as the detachment of M. de Salis was coming up with the can- 
 non , to enter it anew, a Messieurs, » cried he from the top of the garden-terrace, and 
 as far off as his voice could be heard , « his Majesty commands you , one and all , to 
 « repair to the National Assembly. » He took upon himself to add, with a last thought 
 of consideration for the king : « With your cannon ! » 
 
 ((Whereupon M. de Durler musters about two hundred of his men , bids them run a 
 piece of ordnance from the portico to the garden, attempts in vain to discharge it, and 
 begins marching towards the Assembly, without allowing time to the other posts of the 
 interior to know of his retreat, and follow him accordingly. The detachment in ques- 
 tion , riddled on its way by the balls of the national guard , reaches the gate of the 
 Riding-School in confusion and distress : admitted within the walls of the Assembly, 
 it surrenders up its arms at once. The Marseillais , apprized of the retreat of a portion 
 of the Swiss and witness to the desertion of the gendarmerie , advance a second time , 
 while the masses of the faubourgs St. Marceau and St. Antoine are delug'ng the courts. 
 Westermann and Santerre , sword in hand , show them the grand staircase , and spirit 
 them to slaughter to the sounds of uCa ira!...v The sight of their companions, 
 lying dead on the Carrousel, intoxicates them, as it were, with a feeling of revenge : 
 the Swiss are nothing now but mercenary cut-throats. They swear among themselves, 
 that these steps— that these floors— that this palace — shall be streaming with the blood 
 of those sanguinary foreigners. » 
 
 Book 22. Section 15. 
 
 -* « The Legislative Assembly had decreed the pain of death against -whatever emigres should reenter 
 « France, the banishment of whatever priests might have stood out against the civil constitution of 
 « the clergy, and, lastly, the formation of a camp of 20,000 men in the neighbourhood of Paris. The 
 'i king conceived it right — his royal duty — to put his veto on these insolent decrees, and even to 
 « dismiss , from among his ministers , such as recommended him to sanction them. The innovators , 
 * whose number and audacity increased from day to day, determined to compel him. On the 20 lh of 
 « June , about 30,000 men , armed with pikes , batches , guns , proceed to the Chateau , and demand 
 « of him with menaces what his conscience and his dignity alike repulse. They went so far even as 
 « to offer him a « bonnet rouge , » the cap of liberty ; and , saving for the dauntless bearing of the 
 « monarch , that very day would have seen an end to his family and him. » 
 
 Abridged History of France. 
 
— 24 — 
 
 MASSACRE DE SEPTEMBRE. 
 
 «Deux cent vingt cadavres au Grand-Chatelet , deux cent quatre-vingt-neuf a la 
 Conciergerie furent depeces par les travailleurs. Les assassins , trop peu nombreux 
 pour tant d'ouvrage, delivrerent les detenus pour" vol, a la condition de se joindre 
 a eux. Ces homines, rachetant leur vie par le crime, immolaient leurs compagnons 
 de captivity. Plus de la moiiie des prisonniers peril sous les coups de l'autre. Un 
 jeune armuiier de la rue Saint-Avoie, detenu pour une cause legere, et remarquable 
 par sa stature et sa force, reciit ainsi la liberte a la charge de preter ses bras aux 
 assommeurs. L'amour instinclif de la vie la lui fit accepter a ce prix. II porta en 
 hesitant quelques coups mal assures. Mais, bientot revenant a lui, a la vue du 
 sang, et rejetant avec horreur l'instrument de meurtre qu'on avait mis dans sa 
 main : « Non , non , » s'ecrie-t-il , « plutOt victime que bourreau ! J'aime mieux 
 «recevoir la mort de la main de scelerats comme vous que de la donner a des 
 « innocents desarmes. Frappez-moi ! » II tombe et lave volontairement de son sang 
 le sang qu'il vient de repandre. 
 
 « D'Epremesnil , reconnu et favorise par un garde national de Bordeaux , fut le seul 
 detenu qui echappa au massacre du Chatelet. 11 s'evada, un sabre teint de sang a la 
 main, sous le costume d'un egorgeur. La nuit, le desordre, l'ivresse firent confondre 
 le fugitif avec ses assassins. II enfonca jusqu'aux chevilles dans la fange rouge de 
 cette boucherie. Arrive a la fontaine Maubue, il passa plus d'une heure a laver 
 sa chaussure et ses habits pour ne pas glacer d'eflroi les hdtes auxquels il allait 
 demander asile. 
 
 «Dans cette prison on anticipa le supplice de plusieurs accuses ou condamne's a 
 mort pour crimes civils. De ce nombre fut l'abbe Bordi, prevenu d'assassinat sur 
 son propre frere. Homme d'une taille surnaturelle et d'une sauvage energie , il lutta 
 pendant une demi-heure contre ses bourreaux et en etouffa deux sous ses genoux. 
 
 « Une jeune fille, d'une admirable beaute, connue sous le nom de la Belle Bou- 
 quelicre , accusee d'avoir blesse, dans un acces de jalousie, un sous-offlcier des 
 gardes-francaises , son amant, devait etre jugee sous peu de jours. Les assassins, 
 parmi lesquels se trouvaient des vengeurs de sa victime et des instigateurs animes 
 par sa rivale, devancerent l'office du bourreau. * Theroigne de Mericourt preta son 
 genie a ce supplice. Attachee nue a un poteau , les jambes ecartees, les pieds cloues 
 au sol , on brula avec des torches de paille enflammee le corps de la victime. On 
 lui coupa les seins a coup de sabre ; on fit rougir des fers de piques , qu'on lui 
 enfonca dans les chairs. Empalee enfln sur ces fers rouges, ses cris traversaient 
 la Seine et allaient frapper d'horreur les habitants de la rive opposee. Une cin- 
 quantaine de femmes delivrees de la Conciergerie par les tueurs preterent leurs mains 
 a ces supplices et surpasserent les hommes en ferocite. 
 
 " Pour une notice de cette malheureuse femme , voyez l'appendice.] 
 
— 25 — 
 
 MASSACRE OF SEPTEMBER. 
 
 « Two hundred and twenty corpses at the Grand Chatelet , two hundred and forty- 
 nine at the Conciergerie , were cut in pieces by the Travailleurs. The assassins , 
 unequal of themselves to such wholesale work , set the minor felons free , on condition 
 of their lending them their aid. The latter, ransoming their lives with crime, im- 
 molated their companions in captivity. More than one half of the prisoners were 
 sacrificed by the other. And thus it was, that a young gunsmith of la rue St. Avoie, 
 confined for some trivial misdemeanor, and remarkable for his size and strength , 
 was liberated at the cost (which the instinctive love of life had induced him to agree 
 to) of turning carnifex and abetting butchery. He dealt with hesitation a few inef- 
 ficient blows , but , speedily coming to himself at the dreadful nature of his compact , 
 and throwing away the murderous weapon, which had been committed to his hand: 
 uNo, no,f> he cried, abetter be a victim than an executioner! Better to be killed by 
 « criminals like you than kill the defenceless and the innocent. Strike ! » A moment 
 more, and his blood ( a willing forfeit) was flowing with the blood he just had shed ! 
 
 « D'Epre'mesnil , recognized and favoured by a national guard of Bordeaux , was the 
 only prisoner, who survived the massacre at the Chatelet. Waving in his hand a 
 dripping sword, he effected his escape as a member of the gang. The night, the 
 disorder, the intoxication , combined to confound the bravo and the fugitive. He 
 waded, ancle-deep, through the crimson mire of that appalling butchery. Arrived at 
 the fountain Maubue, it took him a long hour to wash his shoes, his stockings, and 
 his clothes , the sight of which , of course , would have terrified the friends , to whom 
 he purposed to address himself. 
 
 « In the aforesaid prison , many individuals , either accused or capitally convicted of 
 civil crimes , were capitally punished , but abruptly, and without the sanction of the 
 law. Of that number was the abbe Bordi, — he, who stood charged with the murder of 
 his own brother. Unnaturally tall and ferociously brave, he struggled half-an-hour 
 with his executioners , and stifled two of them beneath his knees ! 
 
 « A young girl of exquisite beauty, and known as « La Belle Bouquetiere , » accused 
 of having stabbed her lover (a non-commissioned officer of the French guard ) in a fit 
 of jealousy, was to be tried in a few days' time. The assassins, — some of whom, it 
 seems, were the avengers of her victim, and some, again, the creatures of her rival, 
 — took upon themselves to play the executioner. * Theroigne de Mericourt contributed 
 her talents to the refined torture — the atrocious details— of her death. Completely strip- 
 ped , and fastened to a stake, — her legs apart and her feet nailed to the ground , — they 
 burnt the body of their victim with lumps of lighted straw. They cut her breasts off 
 with a sword ; they made their iron pikes red-hot , and thrust them in her flesh. Im- 
 paled at last upon the glowing metal , her shrieks were borne across the Seine , and 
 horrified the dwellers on the other bank. Fifty females, set free from the Conciergerie 
 by the bravos , assisted at these hellish deeds , and surpassed the men in ferocity. 
 
 ! For an account of this unhappy woman see the appendix. 
 
— 26 — 
 
 « Le dernier guichet , qui ouvrait sur la cour, avait ete transform^ en tribunal. 
 Autour d'une vaste table, couverte de papiers, d'ecritoires, de livres d'ecrou de la 
 prison , de verres , de bouteilles , de pistolets , de sabres , de pipes , etaient assis- 
 sur des bancs douze juges aux figures ternes, aux epaules athletiques , caractere 
 des hommes de peine, de debauche ou de sang. Leur costume etait celui des 
 professions laborieuses du peuple : des bonnets de laine sur la tete , des vestes , des 
 souliers ferres , des tabliers de toiles comme ceux des bouchers. Quelques-uns 
 avaient ote leurs habits. Les manches de leur chemise, retroussee jusqu'aux coudes, 
 laissaient voir des bras musculeux et une peau tatouee des symboles de divers metiers. 
 Deux ou trois aux formes plus greles, aux. mains plus blanches, a l'expression de 
 figure plus intellectuelle , irahissaient des hommes de pensee , meles a dessein a 
 ces hommes d'action pour les diriger. Un homme en habit gris , le sabre au cote , 
 la plume a la main, d'une physionomie inflexible et comme petrifiee, etait assis 
 au centre de la table, et presidait ce tribunal. C'etait l'huissier Maillard , l'idole 
 des rassemblemens du faubourg Saint-Marceau , un de ces hommes , que produit 
 1'ecume du peuple et derriere lesquels elle se range parce qu'elle ne peut pas les 
 
 depasser Ce tribunal avait l'arbitraire du peuple pour loi. On lisait 1'ecrou; 
 
 les guichetiers allaient chercher le prisonnier. Maillard l'interrogeait •, il consultait 
 de l'ceil l'opinion de ses collegues. Si le prisonnier etait absous, Maillard disait : 
 (i Qu'on elargisse Monsieur. » S'il dtait condamne, une voix disait : v. A la Forcel* 
 La porte exterieure s'ouvrait a ces mots; le prisonnier, entraine hors du seuil, tombait 
 en sortant". 
 
 « Apres les Suisses, on jugea en masse tous les gardes du roi 1 emprisonnes k 
 FAbbaye. Leur crime etait leur fidelite au 10 aout. II n'y avait pas de proces. 
 C'etaient des vaincus. On se borna a leur demander leurs noms. Livres un a un , 
 leur massacre fut long; le peuple, dont le vin, l'eau-de-vie mele"e de poudre, la 
 vue et I'odeur du sang semblaient raffiner la rage , faisait durer le supplice comme 
 s'il eiit craint d'abreger le spectacle. La nuit entiere suffit a peine a les immoler 
 et a les depouiller. 
 
 « L'abbe Sicard et les deux pretres refugies comme lui dans une petite chambre 
 altenante au comite, virent, entendirent et noterent toutes les minutes de cette nuit. 
 Une vieille porte percee de fentes les separait de la scene du massacre. lis distin- 
 guaient le bruit des pas , les coups de sabre sur les tetes , la chute des corps , les 
 hurlemens des bourreaux, les applaudissemens de la populace, les voix meme des 
 amis , qu'ils venaient de quitter, et les danses atroces des femmes et des enfans , 
 aux lueurs des flambeaux et au chant de la * Carmagnole , autour des cadavres. 
 De moment en moment des deputations d'egorgeurs venaient demander du vin au 
 comite, qui leur en faisait distribuer. Des femmes apporterent a manger a leurs maris 
 au lever du jour, pour les soutenir, disaient-elles , dans leur rude travail ; manoeuvres 
 
 * Voyez l'appendice. 
 
— 27 — 
 
 «The last cell, which opened on the court, had been turned into a hall-of-justice, 
 where, about a spacious table, strown with papers, inkstands, prison-registers, glasses, 
 bottles, pistols, swords and pikes, a dozen judges were seated upon forms, with 
 gloomy looks and broad shoulders, such as designate your men of hard, debauched, 
 or sanguinary life. Their habiliments were those of the lower orders,— woollen caps, 
 jackets, hob-nailed shoes, and linen aprons, such as butchers wear. Some of them 
 had thrown their jackets off. Their shirt-sleeves, tucked up to the elbow, exposed 
 their brawny arms and dark discoloured skin, commonly tatooed with the symbols of 
 their trade. Two or three, of slighter build, with fairer hands and a keener cast of 
 face, were evidently men of thought, who associated with those men of action, to 
 prompt and manage them. An individual in a grey coat— a sabre at his side — pen in 
 hand — of a stern and stony aspect— was sitting in the centre of the table, and presided 
 over it. \ This was the bailiff, Maillard, the idol of the clubs in the faubourg of Saint- 
 Marceau, and one of those determined characters, which, emerging from the canaille, 
 
 continue to command it, because it cannot go beyond them The judges' law 
 
 was the people's will. The prison-list was run over, and the jailer fetched the prisoner. 
 Maillard examined him, and then, looking at his colleagues, read the verdict in their 
 eyes. If he was acquitted, Maillard said : «Set him free; » if condemned, a voice 
 exclaimed : <c Take him to la. force ! » The outer door was opened , and the prisoner, 
 dragged from the sill , was bleeding on the stones ! » 
 
 « After the remaining Swiss had perished, the remnant of the royal guard, impri- 
 soned in the Abbaye, were sentenced at a swoop. Their crime was their fidelity on 
 the 10n> of August. There was no trial : it was vm victis ! They were told to give 
 their names; and nothing more. Consigned to execution one by one, their massacre 
 was long : the mob, whose fury, as it were, was subtilized by wine and powder- 
 mingled brandy, by the sight and smell of blood , directed that the murders should 
 be lengthened out, unwilling and afraid that the spectacle would end. The night 
 ( so many were the victims ! ) could barely furnish time to slaughter and to strip 
 them. 
 
 «The Abbe Sicard and the two priests, who had taken refuge, like himself, in a 
 small chamber, adjoining the Commitee, beheld, and heard, and noted all. An old 
 door, full of chinks , was their blind and separation from the scene of massacre. They 
 distinguished the tread of feet, the sword-cuts on the scull, the fall of bodies, the 
 yelling of the bravos , the applauses of the populace , the very voices of their friends , 
 — the friends they just had left!— and the diabolic glee of the women and the children, 
 as they danced about the dead by the flaring of the torches , to the burden of the 
 * « Carmagnole. » At every moment was a message from the shambles , asking the 
 Committee for more wine , which was forwarded accordingly. At the peep of day, the 
 wives were there with the breakfasts of their husbands , to fortify them , as they said , 
 
 * See the appendix. 
 
— 28 — 
 de la mort abrutis par la misere , l'ignorance et la faim , pour qui tuer etait gagner 
 sa vie! 
 
 « Les tombereaux commandes par la commune viderent, pendant ce repas , les 
 cours des monceaux de cadavres, qui les obstruaient. L'eau ne suffisait pas a laver. 
 Les pieds glissaient dans le sang. Les assassins , avant de reprendre leur ouvrage , 
 etendirent un lit de paille sur line partie de la cour. lis couvrirent cette litiere 
 des veteniens des victimes. lis deciderent entre eux de ne plus tuer que sur ce 
 matelas de paille et de laine, pour que le sang, bu par les habits, ne se repandit 
 plus sur les paves. Us disposerent des bancs autour de ce theatre pour qu'au retour 
 de la lumiere les femmes et les homines, curieux de l'agonie, pussent assister assis 
 et en ordre a ce spectacle. lis placerent autour du preau des sentinelles chargees d'y 
 faire la police (!!!) Au point du jour ces bancs trouverent en effet des femmes et des 
 hommes du quartier de l'Abbaye pour spectateurs et ces meurtres des applaudissemens! 
 Pendant ce temps-la , Maillard et les juges prenaient leur repas dans le guichet. 
 Apres avoir fume tranquillement leurs pipes, ils dormirent sans remords sur leurs 
 bancs de juges, et reprirent des forces pour l'osuvre du lendemain. » 
 
 «Les cinq cent soixante-quinze cadavres du Chatelet et de la Conciergerie furent 
 empiles en montagnes sur le Pont-au-Change. La nuit, des troupes d'enfants, 
 apprivoises depuis trois jours au massacre, et dont les corps morts etaient le jouet, 
 allumerent des lampions au bord de ces monceaux de cadavres , et danserent la 
 carmagnole. La Marseillaise , chantee en choeur par des voix plus males , retentissaif. 
 aux memes heures aux abords et aux portes de toutes les prisons. Des reverberes, des 
 lampions, des torches de resine melaient leurs claries blafardes aux lueurs de la 
 lune qui eclairait ces piles de corps , ces troncs haches , ces tetes coupees , ces 
 flaques de sang. Pendant cette meme nuit, Hanriot, escroc et espion sous les rois, 
 assassin et bourreau sous le peuple, a la tete d'uue bande de vingt a trente hommes, 
 dirigeait et executait le massacre de quatre-vingt-douze pretres au seminaire de 
 Saint-Firmin. Les satellites d'llanriot , poursuivant les pretres dans les corridors 
 et dans les cellules , les lancaient tout vivants par les fenetres sur une herse de 
 piques , de broches et de ba'ionnettes qui les percaient dans leur chute. Des femmes , 
 a, qui les egorgeurs laissaient cette joie , les achevaient a coups de biiche , et les 
 trainaient dans les ruisseaux. II en fut de meme au cloitre des Bernardins. u 
 
 <( Des deputations de sections tenterent de penetrer dans la prison pour reclamer 
 des citoyens. Elles furent repoussees. Un poste de garde nationale occupait la 
 voiite qui conduit de la place de l'Abbaye dans la cour. Ce poste avait ordre de 
 laisser entrer, mais de ne pas laisser ressortir. On eut dit qu'il etait place la pour 
 
— 29 — 
 
 against such heavy work ,— those sweating artisans , brutified by misery, by ignorance 
 and hunger, whose livelihood was— death , and whose living was to — kill ! 
 
 n While the butchers were at breakfast, the large street-carts, as the district had 
 arranged, carried off the corpses, the multitude of which was embarrassing the courts. 
 The water, that was poured upon the latter, was inadequate to wash them clean. The 
 foot kept slipping in the gore. The assassins , therefore , before they recommenced , 
 spread upon a portion of the yard a quantity of straw, which, in turn, they covered 
 with the uniforms, (worn so recently!) agreeing among themselves, that no more 
 victims should be slain, excepting on the litter in question, so as for the blood, imbibed 
 by the woollen clothes , not to inundate the stones afresh. They fitted up this amphi- 
 theatre with seats, in order that the male and female amateurs of agony, accommo- 
 dated in the usual mode, might, at the early dawn, witness, at their ease, the horrors 
 of the play. And , to carry out the likeness , there were sentries for police , that were 
 stationed in the area !!! At day-break , as was expected , the forms were occupied by 
 men and women from the purlieus of the Abbaye, who came to see and came to cheer. 
 In the interim , Maillard and the judges had been supping in the prison , where, when 
 they had quietly finished their pipes, they slept without remorse, — each upon his 
 bench , — recruiting for the morrow-morn. » 
 
 « The five hundred and seventy-five corpses from the Chatelet and Conciergerie , in 
 many mountain-heaps, were piled upon the Pont-au-Change. At night, multitudes 
 of children , who were inured by three days' initiation to massacre, and looked upon a 
 carcase as a plaything , lit their little lamps about those tumuli of dead , and danced 
 the carmagnole ! « La Marseillaise , » sung in chorus by voices of a deeper tone , was 
 swelling in the avenues/ and pealing at the doors of all the prisons. The lanterns, and 
 the little lamps, and the flambeaux were flickering together, and blended their un- 
 certain flare with the glimmer of the moon , which shone upon those human mounds , 
 — those tree-like-treated forms,— those separated limbs, — those headless trunks, — 
 those trunkless heads, — those gory flakes, — those horrid clots of blood! In the self- 
 same night, Hanriot, — the rogue, the ruffian Hanriot, — anon the spy of royalty,— anon 
 the sbirro of the mob, — in the self-same night, I say, Hanriot, with some five-and- 
 twenty followers, planned and perpetrated the massacre of two-and-ninety priests in 
 the cloisters of St. Firmin ! His satellites , giving chase to them in the galleries and 
 cells, hurled them , as soon as caught, from the windows upon — what?— a hedge of ■ 
 halberds, bayonets, and spits, which spiked them as they fell ! The women, to whom 
 the murderers had allowed that perquisite of joy, put an end to them with logs of 
 wood , and dragged them in the kennels of the street ! And such , too , was the 
 
 case at the convent of the Bernardins. 
 
 ( 
 
 « Some delegates of the sections tried to gain access to the prison , that certain of 
 the citizens might be given up to them. They were repulsed. A piquet of national 
 guard had possession of the arch, which connected La Place de I' Abbaye with the 
 court. It had received orders to let anybody in , but nobody out. One would have 
 
— 30 — 
 
 proteger l'assassinat. Un seul de ces deputes osa franchir cette voute. « Es-tu las 
 «devivre?» lui dirent ces egorgeurs. On conduisit ce depute a Maillard. Maiilard 
 lui fit remettre les deux prisonniers qu'il demandait. Le depute traversa de nouveau 
 la cour avec ces detenus. Les egorgeurs assis sur ces restes, comme des moissonneurs 
 sur des gerbes , se reposaient , fumaient , mangeaient , buvaient tranquillemenL 
 ((Veux-tu voir un coeur d'aristocrate? » lui dirent ces bouchers d'hommes, «tiens! 
 « regarde ! » En disant ces mots , l'un d'eux fend le tronc d'un cadavre encore 
 chaud , arrache le coeur, en exprime le sang dans un verre et le boit aux yeux 
 de Bisson ; puis , lui presentant le verre , il le force d'y tremper ses levres et n'ouvre 
 passage aux prisonniers qu'a ce prix. Les assassins eux-memes laisserent plusieurs 
 fois leur sanglant ouvrage et se laverent les pieds et les mains pour aller remettre 
 a leurs families les personnes acquittees par le tribunal. Ces hommes refuserent 
 tout salaire. <cLa Nation nous paye pour tuer,» disaient-ils, «mais non pour sauver.» 
 Apres avoir remis un pere a sa fille, un fils a sa mere, ils essuyaient leurs larmes 
 d'attendrissement pour aller recommencer a egorger. Jamais massacre n'eut plus 
 l'apparence d'une tache commandee. L'assassinat, pendant ces jours, etait devenu 
 un metier de plus dans Paris. 
 
 aTandis que les tombereaux, commandes par les agents du Comite de surveillance, 
 charriaient les cadavres et le sang de 1'Abbaye , trente egorgeurs epiaient depuis 
 le matin les portes des Cannes de la rue de Vaugirard , attendant le signal. La 
 prison des Cannes etait l'ancien couvent , immense edifice , perce de cloitres , flanque 
 d'une eglise , entoure de cours , de jardins , de terrains vagues. On l'avait converti 
 en prison pour les pretres condamnes a la deportation. La gendarmerie et la garde 
 nationale y fournissaient des postes. On avail, a dessein, affaibli ces postes le 
 matin. Les assassins, qui forcerent les portes vers six heures du soir, les refermerent 
 sur eux. Ceux qui commencerent le massacre , n'avaient rien du peuple , ni dans 
 le costume , ni dans le langage , ni dans les armes. C'etaient des hommes jeunes , 
 bien vetus, armes de pistolets et de fusils de chasse. Cerat, jeune sei'de de Marat 
 et de Danton, marchait a leur tete. On reconuaissait dans sa troupe quelques-uns 
 des visages exaltes, qu'on voyait habituellement aux tribunes du club des Cordeliers. 
 Pretoriens de ces agitations, on les appelait par allusion au couvent ou se tenaient 
 les seances , « les freres rouges de Danton : » ils portaient le bonnet rouge , une 
 cravate, un gilet, une ceinture rouges, symbole significatif pour accoutumer les 
 yeux et la pensee a la couleur du sang. Les directeurs du massacre craignirent 
 que l'ascendant du clerge sur le bas peuple ne fit reculer les egorgeurs devant des 
 meurtres sacrileges. Ils recruterent dans les ecoles , dans les lieux de debauche 
 et dans les clubs, des executeurs volontaires au-dessus de ces scrupules, et que 
 la haine poussait d'eux-memes a l'assassinat des pretres. Des coups de fusil tires 
 dans les cloitres et dans les jardins sur quelques vieillards, qui s'y promenaient, 
 furent le signal du massacre. De cloitre en cloitre, de cellule en cellule, d'arbre 
 en arbre les fugitifs tombaient blesses ou morts sous les balles. On faisait rouler 
 
I 
 — 31 — 
 
 said, that it was stationed where it was to protect assassination.' There was hut a 
 single deputy, that had nerve enough to venture through the arch. « Art thou sic/c of 
 a life? n was the question of the cut-throats. He was conducted to Maillard , who 
 caused the two prisoners, demanded at his hands, to be delivered up at once. The 
 deputy recrossei the court, attended by his charge. The wretches, lounging on the 
 bodies, like reapers upon shocks of corn, reposed and smoked and ate and drank 
 completely at their ease. «Wilt thou behold the heart of an aristocrat! » they inquired : 
 v. well, then, slay and look! » And one of them, rising from his seat, cleaves in 
 twain the trunk of a recent corpse, wrenches out the heart, squeezes the blood into a 
 glass, and drinks it on the spot-, then, presenting it to Bisson, obliges him to taste it, 
 nor lets the others go, till they too, in their turn, have touched it with their lips. 
 And yet, with all this, they would frequently desist from slaughter, and wash their 
 hands and feet before restoring to their families ( an incongruous mission ! ) such 
 among the captives, as the tribunal had acquitted. But they would hear of no 
 recompence. « The nation, » they alledged, «j5ays us to kill, and not to save. » 
 After having consigned a father to his daughter, a son to his mother, they would wipe 
 away the tears, which the meeting had provoked, and back to butchery again! Never, 
 to be sure , had massacre so much the appearance of a task. In Paris , in those 
 appalling days, assassination was a trade the more. 
 
 « While the large street-carts , which had been ordered expressly by the agents of 
 the Comite de surveillance , were removing from the Abbey the bodies and the blood , 
 thirty bravos , waiting for the signal, had been watching, from the dawn of day, the 
 gates of Les Garmes in la rue de Vaugirard. The prison of Les Carmes was the former 
 convent, an immense edifice, pierced with cloisters, flanked by a church, surrounded 
 by courts and gardens and uncultivated land. It had been converted to a prison for 
 the priests, who were sentenced to transportation. The gendarmerie and national 
 guard had furnished it with posts , which , on that very morning , had been purposely 
 reduced. The assassins , who had forced the gates about six o' clock in the evening , 
 bolted them as soon as they were in. They, who began the massacre, appeared in no 
 way of the common class , whether by their dress , their language , or their weapons , 
 but, on the contrary, were young men, who were well attired, and armed with pistols 
 and with guns. Cerat, the youthful seid of Marat and of Danton, was marching at their 
 head. Some of those excited visages, which were usually to be seen in the rostra 
 at the club of Les Cordeliers,' were recognizable in the band. The praetorians of- 
 such movements, they were called, in allusion to the convent where they held their 
 sessions , « les freres rouges de Danton. » They wore the red cap , a red cravat , a red 
 waistcoat, and a red scarf, — all of them significant symbols, and intended to habituate 
 the eyes , and accustom the thoughts , to blood. The planners of the massacre were 
 afraid, that the ascendancy of the clergy over the lower orders might (from the 
 sacrilegious nature of the crime) induce the common bravo to shrink from the murder 
 of a priest. They therefore enlisted in the schools , in the brothels and the clubs, — to 
 make certain of their mark, — a troop of volunteers , above such scruples, and whom a 
 thorough detestation of the clergy impelled of itself to become their executioners... A 
 
— 32 — 
 
 sur les escaliers , on jetait par les fenetres , les cadavres de ceux qui avaient succombe 
 a la decharge. 
 
 «Des hordes hideuses d'hommes en haillons, de femmes, d'enfans, attirees de 
 ces quartiers de misere par le bruit de la fusillade, se pressaient aux portes. On 
 les ouvrait de temps en temps , pour laisser sortir des tombereaux atteles de chevaux 
 magnifiques , pris dans les ecuries du P.oi. Ces chariots fendaient lentement la 
 foule , laissant derriere eux une longue trace de sang. Sur ces piles de cadavres 
 ambulantes, des femmes, des enfans assis , trepignant de joie, riaient et montraient 
 aux passans des lambeaux de chair humaine. Le sang rejaillissait sur leurs habits, 
 sur leurs visages, sur leur pain. Ces bouches livides, hurlant la Marseillaise, 
 deshonoraient le chant de l'heroisme en l'associant a I'assassinat. Le peuple have, 
 qui suivait les roues, repetait en choeur les refrains et dansait autour de ces chars 
 comme autour des depouilles triomphales du clerge et de l'aristocratie vaincus. 
 Le petit nombre des assassins , le grand nombre des victimes , l'immensite du 
 batiment, l'etendue du jardin , les murs, les arbres, les charmilles, qui derobaient 
 aux balles les pretres courant ca et la pour fuir la mort, ralentirent l'execution. 
 La nuit tombante allait les proteger de son ombre. Les executeurs formerent une 
 enceinte, comme dans une chasse aux betes fauves, autour du jardin. En se rap- 
 prochant pas a pas des batiments, ils forcerent a coups de sabre tous les ecclesiastiques 
 a se rabattre dans l'eglise. II les y renfermerent. Pendant que cette battue s'operait 
 au dehors, une recherche generate dans la maison refoula de meme dans l'eglise 
 les pretres echappes aux premieres decharges. Les assassins rapporterent sur leurs 
 propres bras les pretres blesses , qui ne pouvaient marcher. Une fois parquees dans 
 cette enceinte, les victimes, appelees une a une, furent entrainees par une petite 
 porte, qui ouvrait sur le jardin, et immolees sur l'escalier.» 
 
 « Telles furent les journees de septembre. Les fosses de Clamart, les catacombes de 
 la barriere Saint-Jacques connurent seules le nombre des victimes. Les uns en comp- 
 lement dix mille , les autres le reduisirent a deux ou trois mille. Mais le crime n'est 
 pas dans le nombre , il est dans l'acte de ces assassinats. Une theorie barbare a voulu 
 les justiQer. Les theories, qui revoltent la conscience, ne sont que les paradoxes de 
 l'esprit mis au service des aberrations du coeur. On veut grandir en s'elevant, dans de 
 soi-disant calculs d'homme d'Etat, au-dessus des scrupules de la morale et des atten- 
 drissements de Tame. On se croit ainsi au-dessus de 1'homme. On se trompe : on est 
 moins qu'un homme. Tout ce qui retranche a 1'homme quelque chose de sa sensibilite 
 
— 33 — 
 
 few shots, aimed in the cloisters and the gardens at some aged priests, who were 
 walking there , was the signal for the massacre. Chased , as they were , from cloister 
 to cloister, from cell to cell, from tree to tree, the fugitives fell dead or wounded 
 by the balls. The corpses of those , who had thus been killed , were tumbled down 
 the steps, or flung from the windows to the ground. » 
 
 « A disgusting horde of men in rags , of women , and of children , attracted from 
 their miserable homes by the noise of the fusillade , was thronging at the gates i— the = 
 gates , which were opened , from time to time , to give egress to the spacious carts , 
 drawn by handsome high-bred horses , that were levied in the stables of the king. 
 These vehicles, forcing their way, went slowly through the crowd, leaving in their 
 wake a long , long track of blood. Seated on those going piles — those moving 
 mountains— of the dead, women and children, who were literally (the children, 
 that is , ) kicking their heels for joy , laughed as they held up , and showed the 
 passengers, scraps of human flesh. The blood kept spurting on their dress, their 
 faces, and their bread. Their livid mouths, bawling v. La Marseillaise,)) debased 
 the hymn of heroism by allying it with murder. The squalid mob , that followed 
 close upon the wheels , repeated , in full chorus , the burden of the strophes , and 
 danced about the carts, as though about the exuvice — the triumphal strippings, — of 
 the aristocracy and church. The small number of the assassins , the large one of the 
 victims, the size of the edifice, the size of the gardens, the walls, the trees, the 
 horn-beam hedges, which sheltered the affrighted priests, who, here and there, were 
 running for their lives, retarded the massacre of course. The fall of night, too, was 
 about to befriend them with its shade. The bravos , in consequence , formed a ring , 
 as in a wild-beast hunt, which composed the entire garden. Approaching the buildings 
 step by step, they compelled the ecclesiastics, at the edge of the sword, and one and 
 all, to take refuge in the church ; and there they shut them in. Whilst this wholesale 
 slaughter was going on out of doors, a narrow scrutiny in the house drove into the 
 same church, in the same way, as many of the priests, as had thitherto escaped ( with 
 their lives at least) from the sanguinary fusillade. The assassins carried in their arms 
 such of them, as were grievously wounded and were unable to walk. As soon as they 
 were all collected in their pen, the victims, being summoned one by one, were dragged 
 through a little door, which opened on the garden , and immolated on the steps. » 
 
 « And such, then, were the days of September. The graves of Clamart, the catacombs 
 of the barrier St. Jaques, alone could tell the number of the victims, which by some 
 were rated at ten thousand, by others reduced to two or three. But the crime of 
 these assassinations consists in the doing , not in the amount of them. A ruthless 
 theory has endeavoured to justify them, as if, forsooth, all such theories, as the 
 conscience rejects, were anything but aberrations of the head abetting the aberrations 
 of the heart. In the so-called , self-called calculations of a statesman , he thinks to 
 become great by looking down upon every moral scruple and every human sympathy. 
 This, he conceives, is being more than man, whereas (alas for his hallucination!) it is 
 
— 34 — 
 
 lui retranche une partie de sa veritable grandeur. Tout ce qui nie sa veritable 
 conscience lui enleve une partie de sa lumiere. La lumiere de I'homme est dans son 
 esprit, mais elle est surtout dans sa conscience. Les systemes trompent. Le sentiment 
 seul est infaillible comme la nature. Contester la criminalite des journees de septembre 
 c'est s'inscrire en faux contre le sentiment du genre humain. C'est nier la nature, qui 
 n'est que la morale dans l'instinct. II n'y a rien dans I'homme plus grand que l'huma- 
 nite. II n'est pas plus permis a un gouvernement qu'a un individu d'assassiner. La 
 masse des victimes ne change pas le caractere du meurtre. Si une goutte de sang 
 souille la main d'un assassin, des flots de sang n'innocentent pas les Danton! La 
 grandeur du forfait ne le transforme pas en vertu. Des pyramides de cadavres elevent 
 plus haut, mais c'est plus haut dans l'execration des hommes. » 
 
 Livre 25. Sections 8, 11, 13, 14, 20, 22. 
 
 * BATAILLE DE VALMY. 
 
 (( Le due de Brunswick ne veut pas donner aux Francais le temps de se raffermir. 
 11 forme trois colonnes d'attaque, soutenues par deux ailes de cavalerie. Ces colonnes 
 s'avancent malgre le feu des batteries franchises et vont engloutir sous leur masse 
 le moulin de Valmy, oil le due de Chartres les attend sans s'ebranler. Kellermann , 
 qui vient de retablir sa ligne , forme son armee en colonnes par bataillons , descend de 
 son cheval, en jette la bride a une ordonnance, fait conduire l'animal derriere les 
 rangs, indiquant aux soldats, par cet acte desespere, qu'il ne se reserve que la victoire 
 ou la mort. L'armee le comprend. « Camarades , » s'ecrie Kellermann d'une voix 
 palpitante d'enthousiasme et dont il prolonge les syllabes pour qu'elles frappent plus 
 loin l'oreille de ses soldats , « voici le moment de la victoire. Laissons avancer 
 
 * Quoique je ne sois autorise, je l'avoue, ni par le recit de Lamartine dans ses « Girondins, » ni 
 par celui d'A. Hugo dans sa a France militaire , » j'ai cependant, d'apres le feuilleton de Fetix 
 Deriege et suivant la plus forte probability, rattache la victoire de Valmy au chant de la Marseillaise. 
 Vu la grande vogue de ce chant depuis le moment de sa premiere apparition a Strasbourg au mois 
 d'avril 1792, et qui devint une veritable fureur a l'enti'£e des Marseillais dans Paris au mois de juillet, 
 il serait difficile de concevoir comment on eut pu le passer sous silence a Valmy le 20 septembre , 
 d'autant plus que, deux mois apres seulement, il joua un si grand role a la bataille de Jemmappes. 
 Ncanmoins, je dois ajouter, que dans la it Biographic Vniverselle , » a l'article « Kellermann, » nous 
 trouvons constate , que le victorieux general ecrivait au ministere le 5 octobre , demandant qu'un Te 
 Deum fut clianle en l'honneur de la journee de Valmy, et que le ministere , dans sa reponse , specifia 
 la Marseillaise comme 6 tant des deux l'hymne le plus digne de frapper les oreilles des Frangais libres. 
 (« 11 fallail faire chanter la Marseillaise, plus digne de frapper les oreilles des Francais libres. ») 
 Voila le pour et le contre : que le lecteur en juge par lui-meme. Quant a moi , dans l'absence de 
 toute notice bistorique , qui prouve que la Marseillaise n'ait pas ete cliantee le 20 septembre , qu'on 
 me permette de rester dans ma conviction et de conclure qu'elle le fut , quoique, sans doute, apres le 
 cri de « Vive la Nation !» qui produisit un tel elfet. II me semble impossible, qu'une journee si 
 remarquable put se terminer sans que les Francais la ctMebrassent par les stances patriotiques de de 
 Lisle, dont, au reste, ils etaient si entliousiasmes. (Pour une notice sans passion, quoiqu'ecrite par 
 un militaire , voyez l'appendice. ) 
 
 S. P. 
 
— 35 — 
 
 being less. "Whatever subtracts from his sensibility subtracts from his real grandeur. 
 Whatever abnegates his real conscience subtracts from his inward Light. Now, the 
 inward light of a man is in his mind , but still more in his conscience. Systems are 
 deceitful : there is but one thing as infallible as nature itself ,— the sentiment of right 
 and wrong. To dispute the criminality of the days of September is to maintain a 
 paradox, and sophisticate the common feeling of mankind , — a sheer denial of nature 
 in fact , which is , indeed , but instinctive morality. Humanity is the proudest attribute 
 of man ; and it is no more allowable for a government to assassinate than it is for an 
 individual. The number of the victims— the mass — cannot change the character of 
 guilt : the murder is the same. If a drop of blood defiles the hand of an assassin, 
 a sea of it cannot purify a Danton. The hugeness of the crime cannot transform it into 
 virtue. A pyramid of corpses , I admit , reaches the highest of the two , but then it 
 is the highest in the execration of mankind. » 
 
 Book 25. Sections 8, 11, 13, 14, 20, 22. 
 
 * BATTLE OF VALMY. 
 
 « The Duke of Brunswick allows the French no time to consolidate their force , but 
 forms his troops into three columns of attack , supported by two wings of cavalry. 
 These columns , in spite of the heavy fire from the French batteries , march resolutely 
 forward , and threaten , by dint of numbers , to overwhelm the mill of Valmy, where 
 the Duke de Chartres as steadily awaits them. Kellermann , who has just reorganized 
 his broken line, draws up his army by battalions into columns, alights from his horse, 
 gives it to an orderly, and bids him take it in the rear, thus signifying to his men his 
 desperate resolve, — to vanquish or to die. The act is understood. <c Comrades ! » he 
 exclaims with a voice , which quivers with emotion , as. he dwell? upon, every syllable ,. 
 to reach the ear of every soldier : « Comrades! behold the hour of victory! Let the 
 
 • Though authorized, I grant, neither by Lamartine's account in his «Girondins,» nor by A. Hugo's 
 in his « France Militaire, » I have still— partly on the strength of Felix Deriege's feuilleton, partly on 
 the grounds of strong probability, — connected the victory of Valmy with the song of «£a Marseillaise. » 
 Looking at the prime vogue of the latter from the moment of its first appearance at Strasbourg, in the 
 month (let us say) of April, 1792, and at the perfect furor it became from the entry of the Marseillais 
 into Paris in July, it is difficult to conceive — very difficult — how it could be overlooked at Valmy on the 
 20 lh of September, more especially as , only two months afterwards , it figured in so grand a role at 
 the battle of Jemmappes. I am bound, however, to add, that, in the « Biographic Vnivcrsellc, » art. 
 « Kellermann , » we find it stated, that the victorious general wrote to the Ministry on the 3 d of 
 October, begging a Te Dcum might be performed in honour of the feat at Valmy, and that the Ministry, 
 in reply, specified « La Marseillaise » as the fitter hymn of the two for the ears of a free-born Frenchman. 
 ( k II fallait fairc chanter la Marseillaise , plus digne de {rapper Us oreilles des Francais libres. » ) 
 The reader must judge for himself. I , in the absence of positive historic proof that it was not sung 
 on the 20 11 ' of September, must crave leave to abide by my impression and conclude that it was, 
 though subsequently, no doubt, to the wonder-working cry of «Vive la Nation ! » To me, at least, it 
 seems impossible, that so eventful a day should have gone over without the French (who were so 
 enamoured of them too ! ) glorifying the earliest success of the Republic with the patriotic and appro- 
 priate stanzas of De Lisle. (For a dispassionate, though military, mention of «La Marseillaise, >< see 
 the Appendix. ) 
 
 S. P. 
 
— 36 — 
 
 « l'ennemi sans tirer un seul coup et chargeons a la baionnette ! » En disant ces 
 mots , il eleve et agite son chapeau , orn6 du panache tricolore , sur la pointe de son 
 epee. « Vive la nation! » s'ecrie-t-il d'une voix plus tonnante encore , « allons vaincre 
 « pour elle ! » 
 
 « Ce cri du general, porte de bouche en bouche par les bataillons les plus rapproches, 
 court sur toute la ligne ; repete par ceux qui l'avaient profere les premiers , grossi par 
 ceux qui le repetent pour la premiere fois , il forme une clameur immense , semblable 
 a la voix de la patrie animant elle-meme ses premiers defenseurs. Ce cri de toute 
 une armee, prolonge pendant plus d'un quart-d'heure et roulant d'une colline a 
 l'autre , dans les intervalles du bruit du canon , rassure l'armee avec sa propre voix et 
 fait reflechir le due de Brunswick. De pareils coeurs promettent des bras terribles. 
 Les soldats francais imitant spontanement le geste sublime de leur general , elevent 
 leurs chapeaux et leurs casques au bout de leurs baionnettes et les agitent en 1'air, 
 comme pour saluer la victoire : « Elle est a nous! » dit Kellermann, et il s'elance au 
 pas de course au-devant des colonnes prussiennes en faisant redoubler les decharges 
 de son artillerie. A 1'aspect de cette armee qui s'ebranle comme d'elle-meme en 
 avant , sous la mitraille de quatre-vingts pieces de canon , les colonnes prussiennes 
 hesitent, s'arretent, fiottent un moment en desordre. Kellermann avarice toujours. 
 Le due de Chartres , un drapeau tricolore a la main , lance sa cavalerie a la suite de 
 l'artillerie a cheval. Le due de Brunswick, avec le coup-d'ceil d'un vieux soldat et 
 cette economie de sang qui caractdrise les generaux consommes, juge a l'instant que 
 son attaque s'amortira contre un pareil entliousiasme. II reforme avec sang-froid ses 
 tetes de colonnes , fait sonner la retraite et reprend lentement , et sans etre poursuivi , 
 ses positions. » 
 
 Liv. 27. Sect. 14. 
 
 LOUIS XVI APRES SON INTERROGATOIRE. 
 
 « Santerre , apres l'interrogatoire , reprit le Boi par le bras et le conduisit dans 
 la salle d'attente de la Convention, accompagne de Chambon et de Chaumette. 
 La longueur de la seance et l'agitation de son ame avaient epuise les forces de 
 l'accuse. II chancelait d'inanition. Chaumette lui demanda s'il voulait prendre 
 quelque aliment. Le Boi refuse. Un moment apres , vaincu par la nature et voyant 
 un grenadier de l'escorte offrir au Procureur de la commune la moitie d'un pain , 
 Louis XVI s'approcha de Chaumette et lui demanda , a voix basse , un morceau 
 de ce pain. « Demandez a haute voix ce que vous desirez , » lui repondit Chaumette 
 en se reculant comme s'il eut craint le soupe.on meme de la pitie. « Je vous demande 
 « un morceau de votre pain , » reprit le Roi en Levant la voix. « Tenez , rompez 
 (i a present,)) lui dit Chaumette, «c'est un dejeuner de Spartiate. Si j'avais une 
 « racine , je vous en donnerais la moitie. » 
 
 «On annonca la voiture. Le Roi y remonta, son morceau de pain encore a la 
 main-, il n'en mangea que la croute. Embarrasse du reste et craignant que, s'il 
 
— 37 — 
 
 « enemy advance. Fire not a single volley, but charge them ivith the bayonet ! » And , 
 so saying , he lifts his hat , with its tricoloured feather, upon the point of his sword , 
 and , waving it in the air, shouts with a louder energy still : « vive la nation ! go , in 
 « her sacred name , and conquer for your native land ! » 
 
 « This cry of their commander, passing from mouth to mouth in the immediate 
 battalions, runs along the whole line : repeated by those, who repeated it the first, and 
 magnified by those, who repeat it from them, it swells into a mighty sound, which seems 
 to be the voice of France herself, calling on her sons to rally round her. This cry of an 
 entire army, prolonged for twenty minutes, and rolling from height to height during 
 the pause of the artillery, reassures it , as it were , with its proper tongue , and makes 
 the Duke of Brunswick reflect , that , where such hearts are found , there are arms to 
 correspond. The French troops , of their own accord , imitate the sublime gest of their 
 general, by raising their helmets and their hats on the point of their bayonets, and 
 waving them in the air, as though , like him , to welcome Victory. « She is our's ! » 
 says Kellermann, as, double-quick-time, he rushes to confront the Prussians, and 
 opens on their ranks a fiercer cannonade than ever. At the sight of this army, which, 
 apparently, is moving of its own impulse , exposed to the discharge of eighty pieces of 
 ordnance, the Prussians hesitate... halt... and, for a moment, border on confusion. 
 Kellermann keeps marching forward. The Duke de Chartres , with a tricoloured flag in 
 his hand, and immediately behind the horse-artillery, heads the cavalry at full gallop. 
 The Duke of Brunswick , with the eye of an old soldier and that chariness of human 
 life, which shows the true tactician , decides at once, that , in the face of such powerful 
 enthusiasm, his attack will only be a failure, and forms, in consequence, his leading 
 columns as they were before , beats the retreat , and leisurely resumes his positions , 
 without being followed by the French. » 
 
 Book 27. Section 14. 
 
 LOUIS XVI AFTER HIS EXAMINATION. 
 
 « When the examination was over, Santerre , accompanied by Chambon and Chau- 
 mette, took his Majesty by the arm, and led him into the waiting-room of the Convention. 
 The length of the sitting and his great mental anxiety had exhausted the physical powers 
 of the accused. He tottered from inanition. Chaumette inquired if he would take 
 anything. The king declined, but, presently after, overcome by fainlness, and seeing 
 a grenadier of the body-guard offer half-a-loaf to the procureur of the commune , 
 Louis XVI approached Chaumette , and asked him in a whisper for a bit of it. « Speak 
 « out for what you want, » replied the latter, drawing back and apparently afraid of 
 being even suspected of pity. « / ask you for a bit of bread, » rejoined the king in a 
 louder tone. « There, then, » said Chaumette, ubreak apiece off. 'Tis a breakfast a la 
 « Spartiate : if I had but a root , I would give you the half oj it. » 
 
 «On the carriage being announced, his Majesty reentered it, holding the bit of bread 
 in his hand. He only ate the crust. At a loss about the rest and apprehensive , if he 
 
— 38 — 
 
 Ie jetait par la portiere, on ne crut que son geste etait un signal, ou qu'il avait 
 cache un billet dans la mie du pain , il le remit a Colombeau , substitut de la 
 commune, assis en face de lui dans la voiture. Colombeau le jeta dans la rue. 
 k Ah ! » dit le Roi , « c'est mal de jeter ainsi le pain dans un moment ou il est si 
 « rare. » «Et comment savez-vous qu'il est rare? » lui demanda Chambon. «Parce 
 « que celui que je mange sent la poussiere. » — « Ma grand-mere , » reprit Chaumette 
 avec une familiarite joviale, «me disait dans mon enfance : «ne jetez jamais une 
 « miette de pain , car vous ne sauriez en faire pousser autant. » — «M. Chaumette,» 
 dit en souriant le Roi , « votre grand-mere avait du bons sens •, le pain vient de Dieu.» 
 La conversation fut ainsi sereine et presque enjouee pendant le retour. 
 
 « Le Roi comptait et nommait toutes les rues. «Ah! voici la rue d'Orleans,» 
 s'ecria-t-il en la traversant. « Dites la rue de 1'Egalite , » reprit rudement Chaumette. 
 
 «Oui, oui,» dit le Roi, «a cause de » 11 n'acheva pas et resta un moment 
 
 morne et silencieux. 
 
 « Un peu plus loin, Chaumette, qui n'avait rien pris depuis le matin, se trouva 
 rnal dans la voiture. Le roi rendit quelques soins a son accusateur. « C'est sans 
 «doute,» lui dit-il, «le mouvement de la voiture qui vous incommode. Avez-vous 
 « jamais eprouve le roulis d'un vaisseau? »— «Oui,» repondit Chaumette, ccj'ai fait 
 « la guerre sous l'amiral Lamotte-Piquet. » — «Ah!» dit le Roi, «c'etait un brave 
 « homme que Lamotte-Piquet ! » Pendant que l'entretien se continuait dans l'interieur 
 de la voiture, les hommes de la Halle au Rle et les charbonniers, formes en bataillons, 
 chantaient autour des roues les couplets les plus meurtriers de la Marseillaise. 
 
 Liv. 34. Sect. 8. 
 EXECUTION DU ROI. 
 
 « Le cortege , un moment arrete , reprit sa marche , a travers le silence et {.'im- 
 mobility du peuple , jusqu'a l'embouchure de la rue Royale , sur la place de la 
 Revolution. La, un rayon de soleil d'hiver, qui percait la brume, laissait voir la 
 place couverte de cent mille tetes , les regiments de la garnison de Paris formant 
 le carre autour de l'echafaud, les executeurs attendant la victime, et l'instrument 
 du supplice dressant au-dessus de la foule ses madders et ses poteaux peints en 
 rouge couleur de sang. 
 
 k Ce supplice etait la guillotine. Cette machine , inventee en Italie et imported 
 en France par l'humanite d'un medecin celebre de l'Assemblee constituante, nomme 
 Guillotin , avait ete substitute aux supplices * atroces et infamants que la Revolution 
 avait voulu abolir. Elle avait de plus , dans la pensee des legislateurs de l'Assemblee 
 constituante, l'avantage de ne pas faire verser le sang de l'homme par la main 
 et sous le coup souvent mal assure d'un autre homme; mais de faire executer le 
 
 * Voyez l'appendice. 
 
— 39 — 
 
 threw it from the window, that the gest would be mistaken for a signal, or (hat he 
 would he thought to have concealed a note in the crumb, he gave it to Colombeau, the 
 substitut of the commune, who was sitting opposite to him. Colombeau flung it in the 
 street. «Fi! » [said the king, u.noiv that bread is so scarce , you are wrong to throw 
 « it aivay. » — « And how do you know , » inquired Cliambon , « that bread is scarce ? » 
 — ((.Because what I am eating smells of dust. » — ((My grand-mother, » interrupted 
 Chaumelte with a jovial familiarity, « used to tell me when a boy : » never throw away 
 «a crumb of bread, for you cannot make an ear of corn to grow. » «M. Chaumette, 
 « observed the monarch with a smile , « your grand-mother ivas a sensible woman : 
 ((bread comes from God. » So cheerful — almost gay in fact — was the tone of 
 conversation on the return ! 
 
 « The king , as they went along , remarked the different streets , and called them by 
 their names. « Ah ! ah! this is la rue d'Orleans!» he cried. ((Say la rue de l'Egalite, » 
 was the rough expression of Chaumette. « Yes, yes, » rejoined his Majesty, «on account 
 «o/»... and there he stopped short, and, for a moment or two, was silent and was 
 sad. 
 
 « A little further on, Chaumette, who had taken nothing since the morning, became 
 indisposed, and, though his accuser, was attended to by the king. ((No doubt, » said 
 he, (dt is the motion of the carriage, which incommodes you. Pray, did you ever 
 ((experience the rolling of a ship?» — aYes,i) replied Chaumette, «/ served under Admiral 
 a Lamotte Piquet. » — ((Ah\» rejoined his Majesty, « Lamotte Piquet ivas a brave man.n 
 While they were thus chatting in the carriage , the men of the Corn-market and the 
 charcoal-sellers kept singing about the wheels the most sanguinary couplets of « La 
 (( Marseillaise. » 
 
 Book 34. Section 8. 
 
 EXECUTION OF THE RING. 
 
 « The procession , which had halted for a moment , resumed its way as far as the 
 entrance of la rue Royale, on la place de la Revolution. The crowd, in the meanwhile, 
 was motionless and mute. There it was, that a ray of winter-sun, penetrating the 
 mist, exposed to view a hundred thousand heads, the regiments of the garrison of 
 Paris in a square about the scaffold , the executioners awaiting the victim , and the 
 instrument of death , conspicuous over all , with its transverse and its posts , that 
 were painted with the hue of blood. 
 
 «The instrument in question was the guillotine, which, — invented in Italy and 
 humanely introduced into France by a member of I'Assemblee Constituante , the 
 celebrated surgeon Guillotin , — had superseded * the savage and demoralizing modes 
 of punishment, which the Revolution was anxious to abolish. It possessed the ad- 
 vantage, too, (as judged the Assembly,) of not shedding the blood of man by the 
 ( often ineffective ) hand of his fellow-man , but of doing its work by an agent without 
 
 * See the appendix. 
 
-r- 10 — 
 
 meurtre par un instrument sans ame , insensible corame le bois et infaillible comme 
 le fer. Au signal de l'executeur la hache tombait d'elle-meme. Cette hache , dont 
 la pesanteur etait centuplee par des poids attaches sous l'echafaud , glissait entre 
 deux rainures d'un mouvement a la fois horizontal et perpendiculaire , comme celui 
 de la scie , et detachait la tete du tronc par le poids de sa chute et avec la rapidite 
 de l'eclair. C'etait la douleur et le temps supprimes dans la sensation de la mort. 
 
 La guillotine etait dressee , ce jour-la , au milieu de la place de la Revolution , 
 devant la grande allee du jardin des Tuileries, en face et comme en derision du 
 palais des rois , non loin de l'endroit od la fontaine jaillissante la plus rapprochee 
 de la Seine semble aujourd'hui laver eternellement le pave. 
 
 « Depuis l'aube du jour, les abords de l'echafaud , le pont Louis XVI , les terrasses 
 des Tuileries , les parapets du fleuve , les toils des maisons de la rue Royale , les 
 branches depouillees des arbres des Champs-EIysees etaient charges d'une innombrable 
 multitude , qui attendait l'evenement dans l'agitation , dans le tumulte et dans le 
 bruit d'une ruche d'hommes , comme si cette foule n'eut pu croire au supplice d'un 
 roi avant de l'avoir vu de ses yeux. Les abords immediats de l'echafaud avaient 
 ete envahis , grace aux faveurs de la commune et a la connivence des commandants 
 des troupes,, par les hommes de sang des Cordeliers, des Jacobins et des journees 
 de septembre , incapables d'hesitation ou de pitie\ Se posant eux-memes autour 
 de l'echafaud , comme les temoins de la Republique , ils voulaient que le supplice 
 fut comme consomme et applaudi. 
 
 « A l'approche de la voiture du Roi , une immobility solennelle surprit cependant 
 tout-a-coup cette foule et ces hommes eux-memes. La voiture s'arreta a quelques 
 pas de l'echafaud. Le trajet avait dure deux heuresj 
 
 « Le Roi , en s'apercevant que la voiture avait cesse de rouler, leva les yeux , 
 qu'il tenait attaches au livre , et , comme un homme qui interrompt sa lecture 
 pour un moment, il se pencha a l'oreille de son confesseur et lui dit a voix basse 
 et d'un ton d'interrogation : «Nous voila arrives, je crois?» Le pretre ne lui repondit 
 que par un signe silencieux. Un des trois freres Sanson , bourreaux de Paris , ouvrit 
 la portiere. Les gendarmes descendirent; mais le Roi refermant la portiere et plac.ant 
 sa main droite sur le genou de son confesseur d'un geste de protection : « Messieurs , » 
 dit-il avec autorite" aux bourreaux , aux gendarmes et aux offlciers qui se pressaient 
 autour des roues, «je vous recommande Monsieur que voila! Ayez soin qu'apres 
 « ma mort il ne lui soit fait aucune insulte. Je vous charge d'y veiller. » Personne 
 ne repondit. Le Roi voulut repeter avec plus de force cette recommandation aux 
 executeurs. L'un d'eux lui coupa la parole. « Oui , oui , » lui dit-il avec un 
 accent sinistre , « sois tranquille ; nous en aurons soin : laisse-nous faire. » Louis 
 descendit. Trois valets du bourreau l'entourerent et voulurent le deshabiller au pied 
 
— 41 — 
 
 soul, as senseless as the wood and as certain as tlie steel. At a signal of the heads- 
 man, the ax descended of itself. This ax, the heaviness whereof was a hundred-fold 
 increased by weights beneath the scaffold , slid between two grooves with a motion , 
 which was at once horizontal and perpendicular, like that of a saw, and separated 
 the head from the body with the impetus of its fall , and as rapidly as lightning. 
 The sensation of death (so small was the amount of suffering , and so short the time ! ) 
 was almost nullified by the manner of it. 
 
 « On the present occasion , the guillotine had been erected in the middle of la 
 place de la Revolution, facing the great walk in the garden of the Tuillcries, in 
 front and seemingly in derision of that residence of kings, and at only a trifling 
 distance from the fountain , which , nearest to the Seine , plashes on the stones , 
 and, as conscious of the spot, laves them everlastingly! 
 
 « From the dawn of day, the approaches to the scaffold , the bridge Louis XVI , 
 the terraces of the Tuilleries , the parapets on the river, the roofs of the houses in 
 la rue Roy ale , the leafless branches of the trees in les Champs Elysees , were covered 
 with a countless mass , that was waiting for the event with all the agitation , with 
 all the stir, and with all the hubbub of a human hive, as though the thousands, 
 congregated there , could not believe in the execution of a king , unless they witnessed 
 it with their proper eyes. The immediate vicinity of the guillotine (thanks to the 
 favour of the commune and the connivance of the commanding officers) had been 
 invaded by the sanguinary band of the Cordeliers, of the Jacobins, and of the days 
 of September, — men, that would stop at nothing, — men, that could nothing feel. 
 Taking their determined stand about the scaffold, like official witnesses of the Republic, 
 they were eager that the death — the royal death — should be consummated and 
 approved. 
 
 ((Nevertheless, as the carriage, which contained his Majesty, came up, a sudden 
 and a solemn stillness fell upon the crowd , aye , even on those men of blood. At 
 a few paces from the guillotine, the carriage stopped. The passage had occupied 
 two hours. 
 
 «The king, perceiving they were stationary, raised his eyes from the book, where 
 he steadily had kept them, and, just like anybody else, whose reading is interrupted 
 for a moment , quietly bent forward , and whispered in the ear of his confessor with 
 an interrogatory tone ; « I believe ive are arrived ? » The answer was a silent gest. 
 One of the three brothers Sanson , the executioners of Paris , opened the coach-door. 
 The gendarmes alighted , but his Majesty, pulling-to the door again , and placing his 
 right hand on the knee of his confessor with an air of protection , said authoritatively 
 to the heads-men , the gendarmes , and the officers , who pressed about the wheels : 
 (( Messieurs , / commend this gentleman to your care. Take heed , when I am gone , 
 (( that no affront is offered him. I enjoin you to see to it. » There was no reply. 
 His Majesty was anxious to reinforce the charge, but one of the executioners cut 
 him short with a sinister « Yes I yes ! make yourself easy : we'll take care of him. 
 « Leave all that to us. » The king got out. Three creatures of the scaffold crowded 
 round , and proceeded to divest him at the foot of it. He repulsed them with dignity, 
 
— 42 — 
 
 de l'echafaud. II les repoussa avec majeste, ota lui-meme son habit, sa cravate, et 
 depouilla sa chemise jusqu'a la ceinture. Les executeurs se jeterent alors de nouveau 
 sur lui. «Que voulez-vous faire?» murmura-t-il avec indignation. « Vous lier, » 
 repondirent-ils , et ils lui tenaient deja les mains pour les lier avec leurs cordes. « Me 
 (dier! » repliqua le Roi avec un accent ou toute la gloire de son sang se revoltait contre 
 1'ignominie. «Non! non! je n'y consenlirai jamais. Faites votre metier, mais vous 
 « ne me lierez pas : renoncez-y. » Les executeurs insistaient , elevaient la voix , 
 appelaient a leur aide , levaient la main , preparaient la violence. Une lutte corps a 
 corps allait souiller la victime au pied de l'echafaud. f Le Roi , par respect pour la 
 diguite de sa mort et pour le calme de sa derniere pensee, regarda le pretre comme 
 pour lui demander conseil. « Sire, » dit le conseiller divin , « subissez sans resistance 
 « ce nouvel outrage comme un dernier trait de ressemblance entre vous et le Dieu , 
 «qui va etre votre recompense. » Le Roi leva les yeux au ciel avec une expression 
 du regard , qui semblait reprocher et accepter a la fois. k Assurement , » dit-il , 
 «il ne faut rien moins que 1'exemple d'un Dieu pour queje me soumette a un pareil 
 v. affront ! » Puis se tournant en tendant lui-meme les mains vers les executeurs : 
 <i Faites ce que vous voudrez,» leur dit-il, «je boirai le calice jusqu'a la lie. » 
 
 «I1 monta, soutenu par le bras du pretre, les marches hautes et glissantes de 
 l'echafaud) Le poids de son corps semblait indiquer un affaissement de son ame; 
 mais, parvenu a la derniei'e marchc, il s'elanca des mains de son confesseur, traversa 
 d'un pas ferme toute la largeur de l'echafaud , regarda en passant l'instrument et 
 la hache, et se tournant tout-a-coup a gauche, en face de son palais, et du cote 
 ou la plus grande masse de peuple pouvait le voir et l'entendre , il fit aux tambours 
 le geste du silence.' Les tambours obeirent machinalement. « Peuple! » dit Louis XVI 
 d'une voix qui retentit dans le silence et qui fut entendue distinctement de l'autrc 
 extremite de la place, « Peuple, je meurs innocent de tous les crimes qu'on m'impute! 
 « Je pardonne aux auteurs de ma mort, et je prie Dieu que le sang que vous allez 
 
 «repandre, ne retombe jamais sur la France! » II allait continuer; un fre- 
 
 missement parcourait la foule. Le chef d'etat-major des troupes du camp de Paris, 
 le comte de Beaufranchet d'Ayat, ordonna aux tambours de battre. Un roulement 
 immense et prolonge couvrit la voix du Roi et le murmure de la multitude. Le 
 condamne revint de lui-meme a pas lenfs vers la guillotine et se livre aux executeurs. 
 Au moment ou on l'attachait a la planche, il jeta encore un regard sur le pretre 
 qui priait a genoux au bord de l'echafaud. II vecut, il posseda son ame entiere 
 jusqu'au moment ou il la remit a son createur par les mains du bourreau. La 
 planche chavira", la hache glissa, la tete tomba. — Un des executeurs, prenant la 
 tete du supplicie" par les cheveux , la montra au peuple et aspergea de sang les 
 bords de l'echafaud. Des federes et des republicans fanatiques monterent sur les 
 planches, tremperent les pointes de leurs sabres et les lances de leurs piques dans 
 le sang , et les bondirent vers le ciel en poussant le cri de « vive la Republique ! » 
 L'horreur de cet acte etouffa le miime cri sur les levrcs du peuple. L'acclamation 
 
— 43 — 
 
 took off his coat himself, his cravat, and his shirt , and was thus denuded to the 
 waist. The underlings came round again. « What is your pleasure now?» He 
 indignantly inquired. « To bind you, » they replied, and, suiting the action to the 
 word, seized his wrists, to tie them with the rope. — uBind me!» cried the Capet 
 in a haughty tone, which spurned at the degradation, and was full of all the blood 
 of all his race, «bind me! no, no, never loill 1 stoop to that. Do your office, but 
 « bind me you shall not. Cease to think of it. » The others insisted , raised their 
 voices, called for help, lifted their hands, prepared to strike. A little more, and 
 a scuffle with the scum would have sullied royalty, and debased the victim at the 
 foot of the guillotine. But Louis was himself again. Partly from respect for the 
 dignity of his death, partly for the quiet of his dying thoughts, the king demanded 
 counsel of the priest. «Sire!» replied the man of God, « submit. Endure without 
 « resistance this added outrage , and hail it as the last trait of resemblance between 
 « yourself and Him, Who soon will be your recompense . » The Monarch raised his 
 eyes and looked above , but with a mixed expression in them , which spake at once 
 of resignation and reproach. « Of a sooth , » said he , « the example of a God alone — 
 « and nothing less — could reconcile me to an infamy like this I » Then , turning 
 round and stretching out his hands to the executioners, he murmured to them : a Do 
 « your will : I will drink the cup, aye , even to the dregs ! » 
 
 « Supported by the arm of the priest, he ascended the high and slippy scaffold-steps. 
 The languor of his body seemed to indicate a sinking of the spirit , but no sooner had 
 he reached the top, than, loosing himself from the hold of his confessor, he walked 
 across the floor with a firm and rapid foot , bestowed a passing glance upon the fatal 
 ax , and , suddenly turning to the left , in front of his palace , and where he could best 
 be seen and best be heard , he made a sign for the drums to cease. The drummers 
 mechanically obeyed. « People ! » said Louis XVI with a loud voice , rendered louder 
 by the silence , and distinctly audible at the other extremity of the square : « People ! 
 « / die innocent of the crimes, with which I am accused. I forgive the authors of my 
 a death, and I pray God, that the blood, which you are now about to shed, may finish 
 
 « here , and never fall on France ! » He was going to say more a thrill of pity was 
 
 running through the crowd. The drum-major of the troops, which formed the camp 
 of Paris, the count de Beaufranchet d'-Ayat, commanded the drums to beat. A loud 
 long roll succeeded , that drowned alike the accents of the king and the murmur of the 
 multitude. The unhappy Monarch, with a heavy step, returned towards the guillotine, 
 and consigned himself to the executioners. As he was being fastened to the board , he 
 directed a last look at the confessor, who was down upon his knees , praying on the 
 edge of the scaffold. He lived ,— the perfect master of his mind , — till , summoned by 
 the hand of man , he gave his soul to God. The plank swerved — the ax slid— the head 
 fell. One of the executioners took and held the latter by the hair, showed it the assem- 
 blage, and , skirting the scaffold as he did so , besprinkled it with blood. Some of the 
 fe'de'res and fanatic republicans clambered on the stage, dipped the points of their 
 weapons in the gore, — their swords, their lances, and their pikes, — and brandished 
 them aloft to the cry of « Vive la Bepublique I » The same cry upon the lips of the 
 
— 44 — 
 
 ressembla plutdt a un immense sanglot. La foule s'ecoula en silence. On emporta 
 les restes de Louis XVI dans un tombereau couvert au cimetiere de la Madeleine, 
 et on jeta de la chaux dans la fosse pour que les osscments consumes de la victime 
 de la Revolution ne devinssent pas un jour les reliques du royalisme. Les rues 
 se viderent. Des bandes de federes armes parcoururent les quartiers de Paris en 
 annoncant la mort du tyran et en chantant le sanguinaire refrain de la Marseillaise. 
 Aucun enthousiasme ne leur repondit : la ville resta muette. Le peuple ne confondit 
 pas un supplice avec une victoire. La consternation etait rentree avec la liberte dans 
 la demeure des citoyens. Le corps du Roi n'etait pas encore refroidi sur l'echafaud 
 que le peuple ne doutait de 1'acte qu'il venait d'accomplir et se demandait, avec une 
 anxiete voisine du remords , si le sang , qu'il venait de repandre , etait une tache 
 sur la gloire de la France ou le sceau de la liberte? La conscience des republicans 
 eux-memes se troubla devant cet echafaud. La mort du Roi laissait un probleme 
 a. debattre a la nation. » 
 
 Livre 35. Sections 21 et 22. 
 
 ENR&LEMENT ET MAUCHE DES VOLOKTAIRES. 
 
 « Dans les villes , dans les bourgades , dans les villages , les jours oil les fetes de la 
 religion et les foires reunissent les homines par plus grandes masses , un amphitheatre 
 en bois s'elevait sur la place publique, sur la place d'armes, devant la porte de la 
 municipalite. Une tente militaire , soutenue par des faisceaux de piques et surmontee 
 de drapeaux tricolores, etait tendue sur ces treteaux pour rappeler le camp. Cette 
 tente , dont les toiles etaient relevees , sur le devant , par la main d'un grenadier et 
 d'un cavalier en uniforme , s'ouvrait du cote du peuple. Une table portant des 
 registres d'enrolement en occupait le centre. Le representant du peuple en mission , 
 l'echarpe tricolore en ceinture, le chapeau retrousse par les bords, surmonte d'un 
 panache a plumes, tenait le registrc et ecrivait les engagements. Le maire, les officiers 
 municipaux, les presidents de districts, les presidents de clubs se pressaient debout 
 autour de lui. La foule emue s'ouvrait a chaque instant , pour laisser passer les files 
 de defenseurs de la patrie , qui montaient les degres de l'estrade pour donner leurs 
 noms aux commissaires. Les applaudissements du peuple , les accolades patriotiques 
 des representants, les larmes d'attendrissement des meres de famille, les fanfares de la 
 musique militaire , les roulements de tambours , les couplets de la Marseillaise 
 chantes en chceur recompensaient , excitaient , enivraient ces actes de devouement au 
 salut de la Republique. 
 
 « Cet enthousiasme contagieux qui saisit les foules s'emparait souvent des spectateurs 
 et portait les hommcs, jusque-la indifferents ou timides, a imiter les actes dont ils 
 
— 45 — 
 
 people was stifled by the horror of the deed. The shout, in fact, was a burst of 
 grief, — a universal sob ! The throng dispersed in silence. The remains of Louis XVI 
 were carried in a covered cart to the cemetery of la Madeleine, where a quantity of 
 lime was thrown into the grave, to the end that, being thus consumed, the bones of 
 the victim of the Revolution might not, on a future day, be sanctified as reliques of 
 royalty. The thousands, that had witnessed the spectacle, were disappearing from the 
 streets. Bands , however, of fMcres in arms perambulated the quartiers of Paris , 
 announcing, as they termed it, the death of the tyrant, and singing, as they went 
 .along, the sanguinary burden of la Marseillaise. But they met with no response : 
 enthusiasm and the city both were dumb. The people could not confound an execution 
 with a victory. If freedom had entered the dwelling of the subject, why, so had 
 consternation too. Before the body of the king was chill upon the scaffold, the 
 people mistrusted their own act, and asked themselves with a feeling of disquietude, 
 which bordered on remorse, whether the blood, which they just had spilt, was the 
 seal of liberty or the stain of France. Yes , in the face of that eventful scaffold , I say, 
 the republicans themselves were ill at ease, for their consciences were smit. The 
 death of the king bequeathed a problem to the nation, — a problem for the nation 
 to dispute about, — a problem for the nation to resolve. 
 
 Book 35. Sections 21 and 22. 
 
 ENROLMENT AND MARCH OF THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 (< In the larger and the smaller towns, — in the villages as well, — when & fete- 
 day or a fair attracted a mass of population , a wooden amphitheatre was raised 
 upon La Place, — on the exercising ground, — in front of the Corporation-hall. A 
 military tent, supported here and there by halberds and by pikes, with tri-coloured 
 flags upon the top , canopied the stage , and served , as it drew the notice of the 
 crowd, to remind them of the camp. The tent, the linen curtains of which were 
 held up by a grenadier and a trooper in uniform , was open on the side , that was 
 opposite the people. A table, with recruiting lists, occupied the centre of it. The 
 delegate of the Republic, wearing a tri-coloured scarf about the waist, and his hat, 
 with a plume of feathers in it , turned up at the brim , was the keeper of the lists , and 
 registered the volunteers. The Mayor and the Corporation , the presidents of the 
 districts and the clubs, were pressing round him as he sat. The multitude, affected by 
 the scene , momently made way for the defenders of their country, as the latter passed 
 in files and mounted on the platform , to give in their names to the commissioners. 
 The acclamations of the populace, the patriotic embraces of the deputies, the outbursts 
 of maternal tenderness , the flourish of the martial music , the rolling of the drums , 
 the stanzas of La Marseillaise, as sung by the recruits in chorus, rewarded and excited 
 these acts of devotion to la patrie, intoxicating, as it were, the rest with the example, 
 to enroll themselves and fight for the weal of the Republic. 
 
 « The same contagious zeal , which took possession of the crowd , would often seize 
 upon the standers-by and occasion many, who had thitherto been timid or supine, to 
 
— 46 — 
 
 etaient temoins. Des hommes maries s'arrachaient des bras de leiirs femmes pour 
 s'elancer vers l'autel de la patrie. Des hommes deja avances dans la vie , des vieillards 
 meme encore verts et valides venaient offrir leur reste de vie au salut du pays. On 
 les voyait oter leurs vestes ou leurs habits devant les representants , et montrer a nu 
 leurs poitrines, leurs epaules, leurs bras, leurs poignets encore robustes, pour attester 
 que leurs membres avaient la force de porter le sac , le fusil , et de braver les fatigues 
 du camp. Des peres, se devouant avec leurs enfants, offraient eux-memes leurs fils a 
 la patrie et demandaient a marcher avec eux. Des femmes, pour suivre leurs maris 
 ou leurs amants , ou saisies elles-memes de ce delire de la liberte et de la patrie , 
 le plus genereux et le plus devoue de tous les amours , depouillaient les vetements 
 de leur sexe , revetaient l'uniforme de volontaires et s'enrolaient dans les bataillons 
 de leurs departements. 
 
 « Ces volontaires recevaient une feuille de route pour se rendre au de"pot designe 
 par le ministre de la guerre et y recevoir l'equipement , l'instruction et l'organisation. 
 lis se mettaient en marche, par groupes plus ou moins nombreux, au son du tambour, 
 aux refrains de l'hymne patriotique, accompagnes, jusqu'a une grande distance de 
 leurs villes ou de leurs villages, par des meres, des freres, des soeurs, des fiancees, 
 qui portaient les sacs et les amies , et qui ne se separaient d'eux que quand la fatigue 
 avait epuise leurs forces. Partout , aux embranchements des routes , aux sommets 
 des montees, aux entrees ou aux sorties des villes, aux portes des auberges isolees 
 ou ces detachements faisaient halte , les voyageurs etaient temoins de ses separations 
 et de ces adieux. Les volontaires, attardes par ces derniers embrassements , s'es- 
 suyaient les yeux en regagnant a pas presses le noyau du bataillon , et , sans regarder 
 en arriere de peur d'hesiter et de s'attendrir, reprenaient d'une voix sourde mais 
 resolue le couplet de la ^Marseillaise chante par leurs camarades : 
 
 « Allons , enfans de la patrie ! » 
 
 « La population des villes et des bourgades qu'ils traversaient sortait pour les voir 
 passer et pour leur offrir le pain et le vin , sur le seuil de leurs maisons. On se 
 disputait, dans les lieux d'etape, a qui les logerait comme des enfants de famille. 
 Les societes patriotiques allaient a leur rencontre ou les conviaient le soir a assister a 
 leur seance. Le president les haranguait; les orateurs du club fraternisaient avec 
 eux et enflammaient leur courage par des recits d'exploits militaires empruntes aux 
 histoires de l'antiquite. On leur enseignait les hymnes des deux Tyrtees de la Re- 
 yolution , les poetes Lebrun et Chenier. On les enivrait de la sainte rage de la patrie, 
 du fanatisme de la liberte ! » 
 
 Livre 36. Section 23. 
 
— 47 — 
 
 emulate the act and copy what they witnessed. Husbands, for instance, would tear 
 themselves away from the embraces of their wives, and hasten to the altar of their 
 country. Seniors— nay, the old, such of them, that is, as were hale and hardy still, 
 — la patrie thus endangered , — went and offered up their residue of life. Their coats 
 and jackets off, they showed the deputies their naked chests, their brawny arms, their 
 shoulders, and their wrists, and bade them see how vigorous they were, how equal to 
 the knapsack and the musket , and how fitted for the labours of the camp. Fathers , 
 devoting their children and themselves, would dedicate their sons to the service of 
 the commonwealth , and pray to follow with them to the field. Women even , to 
 accompany their husbands or their lovers , or volunteers , it may be , from that holiest 
 of passions, — the patriotic love of liberty, — would cast aside the garments of their 
 sex, adopt the uniform of the recruits, and enlist in the battalions of their several 
 localities. 
 
 « The volunteers were furnished with a way-bill , to guide them to the destination , 
 specified by the Minister of War : it was there they would be clothed and organized 
 and drilled. In bands, more or less numerous, they started to the beating of the drum 
 and the burthen of the patriotic hymn, accompanied afar from their villages and towns 
 by their mothers , by their brothers , their sisters and affianced brides , who relieved 
 them of their knapsacks and their arms, and who only parted with them at last from 
 downright exhaustion and fatigue. In every direction , — at the junction of the roads, 
 — at the tops of the ascents, — at the entries and the exits of the many-graded burghs, 
 — at the sill of solitary cabarets , wherever the detachments might chance to make a 
 halt , — the traveller bore witness to these tender separations , to these natural adieux. 
 Such of the recruits, as had lingered behind for these affectionate farewells, would 
 brush away their tears , as they ran to overtake the heart of the battalion , and then , 
 without a turning of the head for fear of hesitation or unmanliness , would strike up 
 afresh, in an altered but determined tone of voice, the stanza of la Marseillaise, as 
 sung by the companions of their march : 
 
 « Allons ! enfans do la patrie ! » 
 
 « In the city or the hamlet, (it was all the same , ) the inhabitants would sally from 
 their houses , to see them as they passed along , or, standing on the threshold of their 
 doors, would offer to them bread and wine. When they halted for the night, it was a 
 question as to who should entertain them best. The patriotic societies would go and 
 meet them on the way, and beg of them to come to their evening assemblies. The 
 president would praise them in a speech ; the orators of the club would fraternize with 
 them, and stimulate their courage with heroic deeds of arms, borrowed and recited 
 from the pages of antiquity. They were taught the war-songs of the two Tyrtcei of the 
 Revolution , the poets Lebrun and Joseph Chenier ; and thus , from conspiring causes , 
 they became intoxicated — those votaries of freedom— with a sort of frantic fervour for 
 their native land ! » 
 
 Book 3G. Section 23. 
 
— 48 — 
 
 BATAILLE DE JEMMAPPES. 
 
 « Telle etait la situation de nos colonnes d'attaque sur les plateaux de Cuesmes quand 
 Dumouriez y arriva. Mais, impatient d'une halte qui , en suspendant l'elan des troupes, 
 leur donnait le temps de compter les morts et la tentation de reculer, le general 
 Dampierre , commandant sous Beurnonville , n'attend pas que Dumouriez lui ravisse 
 la gloire ou la mort. Dans une charge desesperee , Dampierre enleve du gesle et de la 
 voix le regiment de Flandre et le bataillon de volontaires des voltigeurs de Paris, 
 enfants perdus qui apportent sur le champ de bataille le fanatisme theatral mais 
 hero'ique des Jacobins. II agite de la main gauche le panache tricolore de son chapeau 
 de general , appelle du mouvement de son epee le bataillon qu'il precede de cent pas , 
 seul expose a la mitraille des redoutes et au feu des Hongrois. La mort , qui l'attendait 
 si pres de la sur un autre champ de bataille , semble Feviter. II marcha sans etre 
 atteint. Le regiment de Flandre et le bataillon de Paris, rassures en le voyant debout, 
 s'elancent au pas de course, et le rejoiguent aux cris de vive la Republique ! rompant a 
 la baionnette les bataillons Hongrois et entrent sur leurs pas dans les deux redoutes, 
 dont ils retournent les pieces contre 1'ennemi. Dumouriez et Beurnonville , guidant 
 en face et a droite les deux autres colonnes, au pas de charge, les lancent sur le 
 plateau dejii balaye par Dampierre. Les cris de victoire et le drapeau tricolore plante 
 sur la seconde redoute semblent annoncer a Dumouriez que Cuesmes est a lui et qu'il 
 est temps d'attaquer un centre dont les deux ailes sont en retraite et dont les flancs 
 peuvent etre decouverts. 
 
 « II court au galop pour donner l'ordre a la masse de ses trente-cinq mille combat- 
 tants d'aborder enfln les hauteurs fortiGees qui lient le village de Cuesmes a celui de 
 Jemmappes. Ces nombreux bataillons ecoutaient, immobiles et 1'arme au bras depuis 
 l'aurore, les decharges d'artillerie qui se repondaient d'une aile a l'autre. Le vent qui 
 soufflait de Jemmappes leur jetait avec le son du bronze les flocons de la fumee et 
 l'odeur enivrante de la poudre. Ils etaient impatients de charger et murmuraient 
 contre la lenteur de leur general. 
 
 « Au signal de Dumouriez , la ligne entiere s'ebranle , se forme par bataillons en 
 trois epaisses et longues colonnes, entonne simultanement le chant de la Marseillaise , 
 et traverse au pas de course la plaine etroite qui la separe des hauteurs. Les cent 
 vingt canons des batteries autrichiennes vomissent coup sur coup leurs boulets et 
 leurs obus sur ces colonnes, qui ne repondent que par l'hymne des combats. Les 
 coups, vises trop haut, passent par-dessus la tete des soldats et n'atteignent que 
 les derniers rangs. Deux des colonnes commencent a gravir les coteaux. La lenteur 
 du general d'Haryille , le calme de Clairfayt , 1'intrepidite des Hongrois , des Tyroliens 
 et de la cavaleiie autrichienne , tromperent ces esperances de Dumouriez. Le due 
 
— 49 — 
 
 BATTLE OF JEMMAPPES. 
 
 « Such was the situation of our attacking columns on the table-lands of Cuesmes, 
 when Dumouriez arrived there. But, impatient of a halt, which, in checking the 
 ardour of the troops , was giving them the time to look around them and to reckon 
 up their dead,— nay, might engender, perhaps, a disposition to retreat, — General 
 Dampierre, who commanded under Beurnonville, — jealous of the choice of glory or 
 of death , — anticipates Dumouriez and commences operations himself. In a desperate 
 charge , his action and his voice carry with him, as it were , the regiment of Flanders 
 and the battalion of volunteers , the sharpshooters of Paris,— those friendless children 
 of the streets, that transfer upon the battle-field the scenic spirit of the Jacobins. 
 Waving, in his left hand , the tricoloured feather of his general's hat , and holding in 
 his right a sabre, which motions the battalion to follow him, he advances, a hundred 
 yards ahead and perfectly alone , obnoxious to the play of the redoubts and the fire of 
 the Hungarians. Death , which is waiting for him on another and so nigh a plain , 
 seems to shun him upon this. He proceeds without a scratch. The regiment of 
 Flanders and the battalion of Paris, on the strength of seeing him unhurt, come 
 pouring forward , double-quick time , and overtake him to the cry of vive la 
 republique! The Hungarian squadrons are broken in a moment, and our soldiers, 
 bayonet in hand and close upon their heels, enter the redoubts and turn the guns 
 upon the enemy. Dumouriez and Beurnonville, directing the two other columns in 
 front and to the right, march them at full speed and mount them on the table- 
 land , which has just been swept by Dampierre. The sounds of victory and the 
 tricoloured flag, planted on the second redoubt, appear to tell Dumouriez, that he 
 is master of Cuesmes , and that it is time for him to attack a centre , the wings 
 of which are already in retreat, and the flanks of which may be easily exposed. 
 
 « He gallops to the mass of his five-and-thirty thousand warriors and orders them 
 at length to scale the fortified heights , which connect the villages of Cuesmes and 
 Jemmappes. These numerous battalions, from the dawn of day, immoveable, and 
 with their muskets in the hollow of the arm, had been listening to the discharges 
 of artillery, which were bandied from wing to wing. The breezes from Jemmappes 
 kept wafting to them , together with the roaring of the cannon , patches of the smoke 
 and the inebriating smell of powder. They were burning to be at it, and were angry 
 at the slowness of their general. 
 
 «At the signal of Dumouriez, the entire line, immediately in motion, forms itself by 
 battalions into three dense and elongated columns , simultaneously strikes up la 
 Marseillaise , and , at full speed , traverses the narrow plain , which divides it from 
 the heights. A hundred and twenty pieces of ordnance , from the Austrian batteries , 
 are vomiting, volley after volley, their bullets and their balls; but the only answer 
 of the columns is the war-song of de Lisle. The shot, aimed too high, pass over 
 the heads of our soldiers and spend themselves in the farthest ranks. Two of the 
 columns are beginning the ascent. The leisurely movements of General d'Herville , 
 the coolness of Clairfayt , the gallantry of the Hungarians , the Tyrolese , and the 
 
— 50 — 
 
 de Saxe-Teschen et Clairfayt se retirerent lentement et encore menacants, entrerent 
 dans Mons sans etre poursuivis et refermerent sur eux les portes. La renommee d'une 
 victoire et un champ de bataille furent les seules conquetes de Dumouriez. La 
 fatigue, l'epuisement de munitions, de sang et de force d'une armee qui combattait 
 ou bivouaquait depuis quatre jours, le besoin de nourriture enfln, obligerent le general 
 en chef a donner deux heures de repos aux troupes. On leur fit une distribution 
 de pain et d'eau-de-vie sur le champ de bataille. Cette halte sur des redoutes em- 
 portees , sur des plateaux escalades , sur des villages incendies , au milieu de mourants 
 et de morts, pendant laquelle les chant de Qa ira et de la Marseillaise repondaient 
 aux gemissements des blesses , offrait a l'ceil de Dumouriez , qui la parcourait au pas 
 de son cheval, le tableau de ses pertes et de sa victoire. Ge general etait assez 
 philosophe pour deplorer, assez militaire pour braver ce spectacle, assez ambitieux 
 pour en jouir. 11 n'avait perdu aucun de ses confidents et de ses amis Thouvenot, le 
 due de Chartres, le due de Montpensier, Beurnonville, Ferranot, le fidele et brave 
 Baptiste , les deux jeunes et belles heroines Felicite et Theophile Fernig l'accompa- 
 gnaient a cheval, pleurant les morts, relevant et consolant les blesses. Une triple 
 acclamation s'elevait a l'approclie de Dumouriez du sein des brigades , des regiments, 
 des bataillons. Nul blesse ne lui reprochait son sang , tous les survivants lui faisaient 
 hommage de la victoire et de la vie. Les images qui salissaient le ciel le matin , 
 rompus et rejetes aux deux extremites de l'horizon par les decharges de I'artillerie, 
 laissaient briller un clair soleil d'automne sur l'espace que couvrait l'armee. D'epais 
 tlocons de fumee de poudre rampaient , ca et la , aux flancs des plateaux entre 
 Cuesmes et Jemmappes. Quelques maisons allumees par l'obus, et quelques bruyeres 
 incendiees par les cartouches dans le bois de Flenu , brulaient encore. Trente ou 
 quarante pieces de canon abandonnees avec leurs caissons jonchaient les redoutes. 
 Quatre mille cadavres d'Autrichiens et de Hongrois etaient couches dans leur sang, 
 sur les pentes ou sur l'extremite avancee du plateau de Jemmappes. Douze cents 
 chevaux de I'artillerie ou de la cavalerie autrichienne achevaient d'expirer, la tete 
 languissamment relevee et la bride encore passee au bras de leurs cavaliers morts. 
 
 
 «La riviere de l'Haine et le marais que cette riviere traverse montraient ca et la 
 des groupes d'hommes et de chevaux qui se debattaient dans les eaux ou dans la 
 fange. Deux mille cadavres francais et plus de deux mille chevaux , le poitrail ou 
 le flanc perces de boulets de canon , attestaient le ravage des redoutes autrichiennes 
 dans les rangs de I'artillerie et de la cavalerie francaises qui les avaient abordees 
 par la gorge. Des escaliers de cadavres marquaient de distance en distance les pas 
 des bataillons et les intervalles laisses par la mort entre une decharge et l'autre. 
 
 « Presque tous les coups qui avaient frappe les assaillants etaient mortels. Seulement 
 
— 51 — 
 
 Austrian cavalry, are so many disappointments to Dumouriez. The Duke of Saxe- 
 Teschen and Clairfayt , with a lion-like retreat , enter Mons unmolested and close 
 the gates behind them. The reputation of a triumph and a field of battle are the 
 only trophies of Dumouriez. The fatigue of an army, which has been fighting or 
 bivouacing for four successive days, — the draining of their means, of their blood, 
 their strength , — their need of nourishment , in short, — obliges the general-in-chief to 
 accord his men two hours' rest. A distribution of brandy and of bread takes place 
 upon the battle-field. A halt , like this , upon the redoubts , which they had carried , 
 — on the heights, which they had scaled, — on the villages, which they had fired,— in 
 the centre of the dying and the dead , and where the anguish of the wounded was 
 responded to by « Qa ira» and «.la Marsei 'liaise, » — the halt in question, I say, 
 presented to the eye of Dumouriez, (who, riding up and down, observed it all,) the 
 picture of his losses and his gains. Philosophical enough to deplore , martial 
 enough to brave, ambitious enough to enjoy, the sight,— such were the blended 
 feelings of the general. Happily, he had lost none of his friends or his confidantes. 
 Thouvenot, the due de Chartres, the due de Montpensier. Beurnonville, Ferranot, the 
 true and brave Baptiste, the two young and handsome heroines, Felicite and Theophile 
 Fernig, accompanied him on horseback , at one time weeping for the dead , at another 
 alighting to the ground , to pity and to help the hurt. A threefold acclamation , at 
 the approach of Dumouriez , burst from the battalions and the regiments and brigades. 
 There were none, that reproached him with their wounds-, but all, upon the contrary, 
 that escaped with life, assigned the victory to him, and honoured him accordingly. 
 The clouds , that had gathered in the sky and discoloured it at morn , — dispersed 
 and driven to the bounds of the horizon by the discharges of artillery,— allowed the 
 sun of autumn to appear and to shine upon the space , which was covered by the 
 troops. Patches of smoke, every here and there, were clinging to the heights, or 
 melting , in sulphureous wreaths , from the platforms of Cuesmes and Jemmappcs. 
 Some habitations, set on fire by the howitzers, and some heather by the balls in 
 the forest of Flenu, were unextinguished still. Thirty or forty pieces of ordnance, 
 abandoned with their carriages , were strewing the redoubts. Four thousand bodies 
 of Austrians or Hungarians were lying in their blood , some upon the slopes , some 
 upon the jutting end of the platform of Jemmappes. Twelve hundred horses of 
 the Austrian artillery or cavalry had just expired , with their languid heads a little 
 in the air, and their bridles , as before , hanging from the hands of their perished 
 cavaliers. 
 
 «The Haine and the morass, which the river traverses, discovered in places a 
 conglomerated group , that struggled in the water or the mud. Two thousand French 
 corpses and more than as many horses , struck in the chest or in the side by cannon- 
 balls, bore witness to the havoc , made by the Austrian redoubts in the ranks of our 
 artillery and cavalry, that had entered them by the gorge. At certain distances, 
 again , a stair of carcases showed plainly where the battalions had advanced , and the 
 intervals , which death had left , between the discharge of one volley and another. 
 
 « Nearly every shot , which had struck the assaillants , was mortal. Some twelve or 
 
— 52 — 
 
 douze ou quinze cents blesses par la balle ou par le sabre etaient transported , par 
 leurs camarades, aux ambulances. Les autres etaient morts foudroyes par la mitraille, 
 ou rendaient le dernier soupir en reconnaissant leur general. L'enthousiasme qui 
 avait anime leurs visages dans l'elan de 1'assaut respirait encore sur leurs figures. 
 Leur agonie meme etait triomphale. Us mouraient joyeux, non comme des soldats 
 immoles a 1'ambition d'un chef, mais comme des victimes offertes d'elles-mGmes 
 et fieres de leur sacrifice a la patrie. 
 
 « Les chirurgiens attache's a l'armee remarquerent que le delire de ceux qui mou- 
 rurent de leurs blessures , le lendemain ou le surlendemain dc la bataille , dans 
 les hopitaux de Mons , etait un delire patriotique ; que le mouvement de fame qui 
 les avait emportes au combat se prolongeait et survivait j usque dans leur agonie, 
 et que les dernieres paroles qu'ils prononcaient presque tous etaient quelques refrains 
 de l'hymne de Rouget de Lisle et les noms de patrie et de liberie. La pensee de 
 la Revolution s' etait incorporee dans l'armee , elle s'y appelait patrie ; et si elle faisait 
 des martyrs a Paris, elle faisait des heros a Jemmappes. » 
 
 «A la vue de leur general, ces soldats intimides se levent, font sonner les crosses 
 de leurs fusils a terre , lancent leurs chapeaux en fair et crient : vive Dumouriez ! 
 vive notre pere! Leur enthousiasme se communique aux bataillons des enfants de 
 Paris. Le general , emu et attendri , passe , en appelant les soldats par leurs noms, 
 devant le front des deux brigades et jure qu'il leur amene la victoire. lis promettent 
 de le suivre. Dix escadrons de cavalerie francaise, dragons, chasseurs, hussards, 
 sillonnes de temps en temps par les boulets des redoutes, etaient en bataille, a quelques 
 pas de la, dans un repli du terrain. Dumouriez vole a la tete de ces escadrons 
 ebranles. II envoie son aide-de-camp de confiance, Philippe de Vaux, presser la 
 charge de Beurnonville, en lui annoncant que le general en chef est engage. Les 
 Autrichiens reconnaissent Dumouriez au mouvement qui se fait autour de lui , a 
 l'elan et aux cris des Francais; ils lancent d'en haut toute une division de dragons 
 irriperiaux pour dissoudre et fouler aux pieds ce noyau. Les soldats du camp de 
 Maulde , immobiles comme des troupes un jour de revue , placent au milieu d'eux 
 les bataillons de Paris , attendent a dix pas la charge de cette masse de dragons , 
 visent au poitrail et a la tete des chevaux , et en abattent plus de deux cents qui 
 viennent rouler et expirer avec leurs cavaliers au pied des bataillons. Protegees par 
 ce rempart de cadavres, les deux brigades fusillent les escadrons a mesure qu'ils 
 pivotent sous leur feu. Dumouriez, a la tete de dix escadrons frangais, lance les 
 hussards de Bercheny, qui sabrent les dragons imperiaux deja decimes. Cette masse 
 de cavalerie autrichienne s'enfuit enfin en desordre sur la route de Mons , et ebranle, 
 par le spectacle de sa deroute , la colonne d'infanterie Hongroise. Beurnonville arrive 
 avec ses reserves au pas de course. II remplace les Autrichiens sur le plateau qu'ils 
 viennent d'abandonner. Dumouriez rassure de ce cote , descend de cheval au milieu 
 de ses soldats, qui le recoivent avec acclamation dans leurs bras. 11 forme une 
 colonne de ces deux brigades. II y joint le regiment de chasseurs a cheval commande 
 
— 53 — 
 
 fifteen hundred men alone, wounded by the bullet or the sword, had been carried by 
 their comrades to the hospitals. The rest of them were dead , battered by the leaden 
 storm, or were heaving of their last sigh , as they recognized their general. The same 
 enthusiasm, as had flashed upon their features in *« the rapture of the fight, » was 
 still awake, and breathing in their lineaments. Their very agony was triumph. 
 They died happy, not like soldiers, hecatombed to the selfish ambition of a chief, 
 but like victims , offered-up of their own free-will , and proud of the noble immolation 
 to their country. 
 
 «The army-surgeons observed, that the delirium of such, as died of their wounds 
 a day or two after the battle in the hospitals of Mons, was a patriotic one-, that 
 the powerful emotion , which had borne them to the field , was superior to pain 
 and living even in the pangs of death; and that the last words, which nearly all 
 of them pronounced, were cited from the war-song of de Lisle, or « liberty » or 
 « native-land. » The thought of the Revolution was embodied in the army, and 
 « country » was the name of it : if alas \ it led to martyrdom at Paris , it led , no 
 less , to glory at Jemmappes. » 
 
 «At the sight of the general-in-chief, the disheartened soldiers, up in a moment, 
 rattle the butt-end of their muskets on the ground , toss their caps into the air, and 
 joyfully shout out : « Vive Dumouriez ! vive notre pere ! » The contagious zeal is 
 caught by the battalions, composed, as we remarked above, of the volunteers of Paris. 
 The general , affected at the cry, and calling, as he goes along , his men familiarly by 
 name , passes in front of the two brigades , and swears to conquer at their head. The 
 soldiers, in their turn, engage to follow him. Ten squadrons of French cavalry, — 
 dragoons, lancers, hussars, — battered down, from time to time, by the shot of the 
 redoubts, are combatting, a few paces off, in a species of ravine. Dumouriez, in the 
 twinkling of an eye , is there to reassure and steady them , and dispatches his con- 
 fidential aide-camp, Philippe de Vaux, to hasten the charge of Beurnonville and tell 
 him, that the general-in-chief is actually engaged. Dumouriez, owing to the stir 
 immediately about his person, to the ardour and the shouts of the French, is recognized 
 by the Austrians , who hurry from the heights a whole division of dragoons to scatter 
 this important group, and tread them under foot. In the meanwhile , the soldiers 
 of the camp of Maulde, as quiet as others on parade , placing the battalions of Paris in 
 the centre, allow the dragoons to come charging down upon them to within about ten 
 paces, and then take deliberate aim at the chest and at the head of their horses, 
 which, to the amount of two hundred or more, are, in an instant, rolling over, 
 and dying with their riders at the foot of the battalions. Defended by a wall of 
 bodies, the two brigades are playing on the squadrons, as soon as ever they come 
 beneath their fire. Dumouriez, at the head of the cavalry aforesaid, sets upon the 
 enemy the hussars of Bercheny, who sabre the imperial dragoons , decimated already! 
 The mass of Austrian horse are flying in disorder, and unsettle, with the example 
 of their rout, the column of Hungarian infantry. Beurnonville, full speed, arrives 
 with his reserve , and takes possession of the platform , which the Austrians have' 
 
 " Tlic « certaminis gaudia » of Ausonius. 
 
— 54 — 
 
 par 1'un des freres Frescheville , celui des hussards Chamborand , commande par 
 1'autre frere, tons deux iutrepides lanceurs d'escadrons dans les melees; il y rallie 
 le regiment des hussards de Bercheny, forme , dans nos vieilles guerres , d'aventuriers 
 hongrois dont le nom seul inspirait la terreur et la fuite dans toutes les guerres de 
 la Revolution, et que commandait le colonel Hordmann. II entonne l'hymne des 
 Marseillais repete par tout son etat-major, et renforce par les quinze cents voix des 
 enfants de Paris. 
 
 «A ce chant, qui s'eleve au-dessus du bruit du canon et qui donne le delire aux 
 soldats et aux chevaux eux-memes , la colonne s'ebranle , se precipite , la baionnette 
 en avant , sur les redoutes. Les canonniers hongrois n'ont que le temps de tirer leurs 
 pieces chargees a mitraille sur les tetes de colonnes. Les volontaires et les soldats 
 franchissent, pour cscalader les redoutes, les membres de leurs camarades mutiles; ils 
 clouent avec leurs ba'ionnettes les corps des Hongrois sur leur affuts. Au milieu de 
 1'epaisse fumee de poudre qui enveloppe cet etroit champ de carnage, a peine peut-on 
 distiuguer les Francais de l'ennemi , on ne se reconnait souvent qu'apres s'etre frappe. 
 Cette fumee couvrit des prodiges d'heroisme des deux cote's. On se battait corps a corps, 
 dans un sinistre silence interrompu seulement par le froissement du fer contre le fer, 
 par les coups sourds des cadavres qui tombaient et qui roulaient du haut des parapets, 
 et par l'immense cri de victoire qui s'elevait de chaque etage des redoutes conquises , 
 quand les Francais les avaient couronnees du drapeau du bataillon. II n'y eut la 
 ni fuite ni prisonniers ; tous les Hongrois moururent sur leurs pieces eteintes et tenant 
 encore a la main les troncons de leurs baionnettes et de leurs fusils. 
 
 Livre 36. Sections 23, 38, 39 et 42. 
 
 SOUPER FUNEBRE ET SUPPLICE DES GIRONDINS. 
 
 (i II etait onze heures du soir. Apres un moment donne au contre-coup du juge- 
 ment , a l'emotion des condamnes , aux cris de « vive la Republique , » pousses par la 
 foule, la seance fiit levee. 
 
 « Les Girondins , en descendant un a un de leurs bancs , se groupent autour du 
 cadavre de Valaze etendu sur une estrade , le touchent respectueusement du doigt 
 pour s'assurer s'il respire encore; puis, comme saisis d'une inspiration electrique 
 au contact du republicain sacrifle par sa propre main , ils s'ecrient d'une seule 
 voix : «Nous mourons innocents, vive la Republique !» Quelques-uns jettent au 
 meme instant des poignees d'assignats, non, comme on l'a cru, pour faire appel 
 a la corruption et a l'emeute , mais pour leguer au peuple , comme les Romains , 
 une monnaie desormais inutile a leur propre vie. La foule se precipite sur ce 
 
— 55 — 
 just abandoned. Dumouriez , perfectly at ease about this quarter of the field , alights 
 from his horse in the middle of his soldiers, who salute him with ringing shouts, 
 and welcome him with open arms. He forms a column of the two brigades , adding 
 thereunto the regiment of lancers , commanded by one of the brothers Frescheville •, 
 the regiment of the Chamborand hussars, commanded by the other brother, (both 
 of them intrepid leaders in a grand charge; ) and the regiment of Bercheny, composed, 
 in the olden time, of Hungarian adventurers , whose name alone was the signal for 
 fear and flight in all the wars of the Revolution , and whose commander was Colonel 
 Hordman. Dumouriez, the general-in-chief, strikes up the hymn of the Marseillais, 
 which is repeated by his staff in chorus , and magnified by the fifteen hundred voices 
 of Ihe volunteers of Paris. 
 
 « At the sound of this song , which is heard above the roaring of the cannon , 
 and which maddens the soldiers, — nay, the very horses themselves, — the column 
 is in motion, and rushes forward, bayonet in hand, to seize on the redoubts. The 
 Hungarian gunners hardly have the time to discharge their pieces, loaded with grape, 
 at the foremost of the ranks. The soldiers and the volunteers , to scale the redoubts , 
 clamber on the corpses of their mutilated comrades , and pin with their bayonets the 
 Hungarians to their carriages. In the middle of the thick sulphureous smoke, enveloping 
 this narrow field of carnage, the Frenchmen and the foe are nearly undistinguish- 
 able, and the conflict, in consequence, is frequently at random and pell-mell. 
 Prodigies of valour, on either side , are achieved behind this impenetrable mist. Hand 
 to hand , body to body, they battle in a sullen silence , which is only interrupted 
 by the clashing of the steel , by the heavy falling of the corpses , which come rolling 
 from the parapets , and by the mighty cries of victory, as the French battalion , 
 stage by stage , masters the redoubts , and plants the flag of triumph on the top. 
 There is no flight,— no taking-prisoner, — no quarter: the Hungarians, to a man, 
 die upon the cannon they have served , still holding in their grasp— their convulsive 
 grasp — the barrels and the stocks of their bayoneted guns. » 
 
 Dook 36. Sections 23, 38, 39 and 42. 
 
 FUNERAL SUPPER AND EXECUTION OF THE GIRONDINS. 
 
 « It was eleven o' clock at night. After a moment of reaction , given to the verdict , 
 — to the effect on the condemned, — to the cries of « Vive la Republique ! » by the 
 crowd , — the court rose. 
 
 « The Girondins, descending from their benches one by one, form a group about 
 the body of Valaze, which is lying on a stretcher, touch it softly and respectfully, to see 
 if it is breathing still, and then, as if inspired by the contact of a republican, sacrificed 
 by his proper hand, simultaneously shout out : «We die innocent : vive la Republique In 
 Some of them , at the same time , scatter to the right and left a quantity of assignats , 
 not, as was erroneously deemed, with any kind of view to bribery and riot, but by way 
 of bequeathing to the people (as the Romans did of old) a money that is useless to them 
 now. The mob, with eagerness, seize upon the legacy, and appear to be alfected by it. 
 
— 56 — 
 
 iegs des mouranfs et parait s'attendrir. Hermann ordonne aux gendarmes de faire" 
 leur devoir et d'entrainer les condamnes. lis rentrent sous la voiite de l'escalier 
 qui descend aux cachots. Leur presence d'esprit , un moment deconcertee , revient 
 
 tout entiere avec la certitude de leur sort! 
 
 (cCependant, fideles a la parole qu'ils avaient donuee aux autres detenus de la 
 Conciergerie de les informer de leur sort par les echos de leurs voix, ils entonnent 
 en sortant du tribunal , l'hymne des Marseillais : 
 
 « Allons , enfans de la patrie ! 
 
 H Le jour de gloire est arrive ? » 
 et le chante en chceur avec une energie desesperee qui fait trembler les march es- 
 de l'escalier et les voutes des guichets et des corridors. A ces accents, les detenus 
 s'eveillent et comprennent que les accuses chantent l'hymne de leur propre mort. 
 L'horreur et la pitie leur repondent par des acclamations, des gemissemens et des 
 adieux du fond de tous les cachots. 
 
 «On les confina tous pour cette derniere nuit dans le grand cachot, celte salle 
 d'attente de la mort. Le tribunal venait d'ordonner que le corps a peine refroidi 
 de Valaze « serait reintegre dans la prison , conduit sur la meme charrette que ses 
 « complices au lieu du supplice, et inhume avec eux. » Seul arret peut-etre qui aif 
 supplicie la mort. 
 
 « Quatre gendarmes , executeurs du jugement d'Hermann , suivant pas a pas la 
 colonne des condamnes sous les voutes du corridor, portaient sur un brancard le 
 cadavre sanglant, et le deposerent dans un angle du cachot. Les Girondins vinrent 
 un a un baiser la main hero'ique de leur ami. Ils lui recouvrirent le visage de 
 son manteau. Si pres de se rejoindre , l'adieu fut plus respectueux que triste. 
 « A demain! » dirent-ils au cadavre; et ils recueillirent leurs forces pour ce lendemain. 
 Ils y touchaient : il etait minuit. Le depute Bailleul, leur collegue de l'Assemblee, 
 leur complice d'opinion , proscrit comme eux , mais echappe a la proscription et 
 cache daus Paris , leur avait promis de leur faire apporter du dehors , le jour de 
 leur jugement, un dernier repas triomphal ou funebre, selon l'arret, en rejouissance 
 de leur liberie ou en commemoration de leur mort. Bailleul , quoique invisible , 
 avait tenu sa promesse par l'intermediaire d'un ami. Le souper funeraire etait 
 dresse dans le grand cachot. Les mets recherches , les vins rares , les flours cheres , 
 les flambeaux nombreux couvraient la table de chene des prisons. Luxe de l'adieu 
 supreme , prodigalite des mourants qui n'ont rien a epargner pour le jour suivant. 
 Les condamnes s'assirent a ce dernier banquet, d'abord pour restaurer en silence 
 leurs forces epuisees, puis ils y resterent pour attendre, avec patience et avec dis- 
 traction , le jour. Ce n'etait pas la peine de dormir. Un pretre, jeune alors, destine 
 a leur survivre plus d'un demi-siecle, 1'abbe Lambert, ami de Brissot et d'autres 
 Girondins, introduit a la Conciergerie pour consoler les mourants ou pour les benir, 
 attendait dans le corridor la fln du souper. Les portes etaient ouvertes. II assistait 
 de la a cette scene , et notait dans son ame les gestes , les soupirs et les paroles 
 des convives. C'est de lui que la posterite tient la plus grande partie de ces details , 
 
— 57 — 
 
 Hermann , the gaoler, orders the gendarmes to do their duty and take away Hie 
 prisoners, who accordingly repass the archway of the staircase, which leads to under- 
 ground. Their presence of mind, unsettled for a moment, is thoroughly restored by 
 the certainty of death. 
 
 Faithful, however, to the promise they have made their brothers in captivity, to 
 apprize them of their doom themselves , they strike up, just as they are quitting the 
 Court-hall , the stanza of la Marseillaise : 
 
 « Allons , enfans de la patrie ! 
 « Le jour de gloire est arriv6 ! » 
 And sing it , in full chorus, with a desperate determined energy, that shakes alike the 
 staircase they are on, and the arches of the corridors and cells. Awaking at the sound, 
 the others understand , that the accused are chanting forth their own requiem. With 
 cries and groans and loud adieus , ( the language of horror and commiseration , ) they 
 answer from the bottom of the vaults. 
 
 « They were all of them, this closing night, confined in the great dungeon, — the 
 waiting-room of death ! The court had just decreed , that the body of Valaze , warm 
 as it still was, should be taken back to the Conciergerie , conveyed to the place of 
 execution in the same cart as his accomplices , and then be buried with the rest , — 
 the only time , perhaps , that justice ever sat upon the dead , and passed a formal 
 sentence on a corpse! 
 
 « Four gendarmes , in obedience to the orders of Hermann and following the condem- 
 ned file , step by step , under the arches of the gallery, carried the bleeding body on a 
 truck, and bestowed it in a corner of the cell. The Girondins approached it, one after 
 the other, and kissed the heroic hand of Valaz6. His face they covered with his cloak. 
 So nigh to a reunion, as they were, the parting was respectful more than sad. uTill lo- 
 « morrow !» was their apostrophe to the corpse; and they gathered up their strength to 
 meet it fittingly. They were close upon it : it was midnight. The deputy Bailleul, their 
 colleague in the Chamber, the partner of their political opinions , proscribed like them , 
 but escaped from the proscription and hid in Paris', had promised to procure them , on 
 the day of trial , a last repast, triumphal or funereal , according as the verdict might 
 decide, — a banquet to celebrate their freedom, or commemorate their death. Bailleul, 
 though invisible himself, had performed his promise through the medium of a friend. 
 The funeral supper was laid out in the great cell. The prison-table , made of common 
 oak, was loaded with the choicest dishes, the rarest wines, the dearest flowers, 
 illumined by a blaze of light, — the splendour of a farewell/ete.' — the prodigality of dying 
 men, who have no to-morrow to be thrifty for! The twenty sat them down to it, 
 firstly, to recruit in silence their exhausted strength , secondly, to tarry there with 
 patience and distraction, and abide the coming of the day. With death so very 
 near at hand , sleep ( its image ! ) was unnecessary quite. A priest , — a young man 
 then, — who was destined to survive them half-a-century, — the abbe" Lambert, the 
 personal friend of Brissot and some others of the Girondins , admitted to the Con- 
 ciergerie for their spiritual comfort or to give them his benediction , was waiting 
 in the corridor, till supper should be done. The doors were open. It was there, 
 
— 58 — 
 veridiques comme ia conscience et fideles comme la memoire d'un dernier ami. 
 
 «Le repas fut prolonge jusqu'au premier crepuscule du jour. Vergniaud, place" 
 au milieu de la table , fa preside avec la meme dignite calme qu'il avait gardee 
 la nuit du 10 aout, en presidant la Convention. Vergniaud etait de tous , celui 
 qui avait le moins a regretter en quittant la vie, car il avait accompli sa gloire 
 et il ne laissait ni pere, ni mere, ni epouse , ni enfans derriere lui. Les autres 
 se placerent par groupes, rapproches par le hasard ou par l'affection. Brissot seul 
 etait a un bout de la table , mangeant peu et ne parlant pas. 
 
 « Rien n'indiqua pendant longtemps , dans les physionomies et dans les propos ', 
 que ce repas fut le prelude d'un supplice. On eut dit une rencontre fortuite de 
 voyageurs dans une hotellerie , sur la route , se hatant de saisir a table les delices 
 fugitives d'un repas que le depart va interrompre. lis mangerent et burent avec 
 app&it , mais sobrement. On entendait de la porte le bruit du service et le tintement 
 des verres entrecoupe de peu de conversations : silence de convives qui satisfont 
 Ia premiere faim. Quand on eut emporte les mets et laisse seulement sur la 
 table les fruits , les flacons et les fleurs , l'entretien devint tour a tour anime , 
 bruyant et grave , comme l'entretien d'hommes insouciants dont la chaleur du 
 vin delie la langue et les pensees. Mainvielle, Autiboul, Du Chastel, Fonfrede, 
 Ducos , toute cette jeunesse, qui ne pouvait se croire assez vieillie en une heure 
 pour mourir demain , s'evapora en paroles legeres et en saillies joyeuses. Ces paroles 
 contrastaient avec la mort si voisine, profanaient la saintete de la derniere heure 
 et glacaient de froid le faux sourire que les jeunes gens s'efforcaient de repandre 
 autour d'eux. Cette affectation de gaiete devant Dieu et devant la derniere heure 
 etait egalement irrespectueuse pour la vie et pour l'immortalite. lis ne pouvaient 
 ni quitter l'une ni aborder l'autre si legerement. Ces plaisanteries posthumes tom- 
 baient de leurs levres comme tombent sur un cercueil ces fleurs que personne ne 
 respire , qui contractent l'odeur du sepulcre , et qui , lorsqu'elles ne sont pas des 
 reliques, ressemblent a des derisions. 
 
 « Brissot, Fauchet, Sillery, Lasource, Lehardy, Carra essayaient quelques fois 
 de repondre a ces provocations bruyantes d'une gaiete feinte et d'une fausse indif- 
 ference. Mais cette gaiete deplacee de leurs jeunes collegues effleuraient a peine 
 les levres de ces hommes murs. Vergniaud , plus grave et plus reellement intrepide 
 dans sa dignite, regardait Ducos et Fonfrede avec un sourire ou l'indulgence se 
 melait a la compassion. 
 
 «Ces eclats de bruit et de joie funebres apaises, l'entretien prit vers le matin un 
 ton plus serieux et un accent plus solennel. Brissot parla en prophete des malheurs 
 de la Republique, decapitee de ses plus vertueux et de ses plus eloquents citoyens. 
 «Que de sang ne faudrait-il pas pour laver le notre?» s'ecriait-il en finissant. lis 
 se turent tous un moment et parurent consternes devant le fantdme de l'avenir 
 
— 59 — 
 
 that he assisted at the scene, and there that he noted in his mind the looks, the sighs, 
 the expressions of the guests. To him it is, that posterity is indebted for the major 
 portion of the following particulars, veracious as the conscience, and faithful as the 
 memory, of a last and loving friend. 
 
 «The supper was protracted till the dawn. Vergniaud, seated in the centre of the table, 
 presided with the same calm dignity, as , on the night of the appalling tenth of August , 
 he had done at the Convention. He , of all of them , had the least to regret at the 
 laying down of life , since his glory was achieved , and he had none to leave behind 
 him , — nobody to weep for him,— father, mother, wife nor child. The others were in 
 groups, as chance or partiality had placed them. Brissot alone was sitting by himself, 
 at the bottom of the table , eating little and talking not at all. 
 
 K There was nothing , for a long while , whether in the manner or the conversation 
 of the guests, to show that the repast was a prelude to the guillotine. On the contrary, 
 it seemed a fortuitous meeting of travellers on the road-side, who, stopping for the cheer 
 provided for them , enjoy it while they may. They ate and drank in moderation , but 
 with zest. The usual sounds were audible at the door, — the rattle of the plates , the 
 jingle of the glasses, with here and there a solitary word , — the silence, that prevails 
 at the beginning of a meal. But, as soon as ever the dishes were removed, and the 
 attendants had left them to themselves, with the fruits and the flagons and the flowers, 
 the tone of conversation became, now animated, now noisy, now serious, just, in brief, 
 like the conversation of men , whose tongues ( to so express myself) are untied , and 
 whose thoughts are set at liberty by wine. Mainvielle, Antiboul, Du Chastel , Fonfrede 
 and Ducos , (the redolent of youth ! ) unable to conceive how a single night should age 
 them for death upon the morrow, were full of laughing levity, of airy sallies, and joyous 
 repartees , the which , contrasting , as they did , with the nearness of their doom , 
 profaned alike the nature of the hour, and congealed the hollow smile , which they 
 giddily essayed to spread around them. Such an affectation of mirth , in the very face 
 of God and the very face of death, was an equal insult to life and immortality. They 
 could neither quit the one, nor approach the other, so gaily as all that ! Those posthu- 
 mous hilarities kept falling from their lips, like flowers upon a bier,— flowers, that 
 nobody can smell to , — flowers , that contract the odour of the sepulcre , — and which , 
 if offered not as reliques , are nothing more than mockeries ! 
 
 « Brissot , Fauchet , Sillery, Lasource , Lehardy, Carra , attempted now and then to 
 meet the challenge , and bandy the frivolity with lightness and indifference, but in 
 vain : the lightness was fictitious and the indifference was false. The jesting of their 
 younger colleagues, to tell the truth, was too mistaken— too unseasonable — to tally 
 with their riper years. Vergniaud, aloof in dignity, the gravest and the bravest of 
 them all , regarded Ducos and Fonfrede with a smile , where pity and indulgence met. 
 
 «Those noisy shouts and tomb-affronting railleries appeased, the conversation took, 
 towards the morning , a deeper and more solemn tone. Brissot spoke prophetically, 
 and painted the disasters of the Bepublic , decapitated ( in them ) of its best and most 
 efficient citizens. « What streams of blood, » exclaimed he in conclusion, «.must 
 tijlow to ivash our own!» His hearers seemed astounded at the phantom of the 
 
— 60 — 
 evoque par Brissot. «Mes amis, » reprit VergniauiT, «en greffant l'arbre nous l'avons 
 «tue; il etait trop vieux. Robespierre le coupe. Sera-t-il plus heureux que nous? 
 « Non. Ce sol est trop leger pour nourrir les racines de la liberte civique, ce peuple 
 k est trop enfant pour manier ses lois sans se blesser ; il reviendra h ses rois , comme 
 « l'enfant revient a ses hochets ! Nous nous sommes trompes de temps en naissant 
 « et en mourant pour la liberte du monde : nous nous sommes crus a Rome , et 
 « nous etions a Paris. » 
 
 «Le jour, descendant de la lucarne dans le grand cachot, commen^ait a faire 
 palir les bougies. «Allons nous coucher, » dit Ducos, «la vie est chose si legere 
 « qu'elle ne vaut pas l'beure de sommeil que nous perdons a la regretter. — (cVeillons,» 
 dit Lasource a Sillery et a Fauchet , « l'eternite est si certaine et si redoutable , 
 « que mille vies ne suffiraient pas pour s'y preparer. » lis se leverent de table a 
 ces mots , se separerent pour rentrer dans leurs chambres , et se jeterent presque 
 tous sur leurs matelas. 
 
 « Treize resterent dans le grand cachot. Les uns se parlaient a voix basse , les 
 autres etouffaient des sanglots , quelques-uns dormaient. A huit heures on les laissa 
 se repandre par groupes dans le corridor. 
 
 <i A dix heures , les executeurs entrerent pour preparer les tetes des condamnes au 
 couteau , et pour lier leurs mains. Tous vinrent d'eux-memes incliner leurs fronts 
 sous les ciseaux et tendre leurs bras aux cordes. Gensonne , ramassant une boucle 
 de ses cheveux noirs, les tendit a 1'abbe" Lambert , en suppliant le pretre de remettre 
 ces cheveux a sa femme , dont il lui indiqua la retraite : « Dis-lui que c'est tout ce 
 « que je peux lui envoyer de mes restes , mais que je meurs en lui adressant toutes 
 «mes pensees. » Vergniaud tira sa montre, ecrivit, avec la pointe d'une epingle, 
 quelques initiales et la date du 30 octobre dans l'interieur de la boite d'or ; il glissa 
 la montre dans la main d'un des assistants pour qu'on la remit a une jeune fille , 
 qu'il aimait d'un amour de frere, et qu'il se proposait, dit-on, d'epouser plus tard. 
 Tous eurent un nom, une amitie, un amour, un regret, qu'ils laisserent echapper 
 pendant ces apprets ; presque tous , quelques reliques d'eux-memes a envoyer a ceux 
 qu'ils laissaient sur la terre. L'esperance d'une memoire ici-bas est le dernier lien 
 que le mourant retient en quittant la vie. Ces legs mysterieux furent acquittes. 
 
 « Quand tous les cheveux furent tombes sur les dalles du cachot , les executeurs et 
 les gendarmes rassemblercnt les condamnes et les firent marcher en colonne vers la 
 cour du Palais. Cinq charrettes attendaient leur charge. Une foule immense les 
 environnait. Au premier pas hors de la Conciergerie , les Girondins entonnerent , 
 d'une seule voix et comme une marche funebre, la premiere strophe de la Marseillaise, 
 eu appuyant avec une energie significative sur ces vers a double sens : 
 
 n Contre nous de la tyrannic 
 
 ii L'etendard saDglant est leve. » 
 
— 61 — 
 
 future, as conjured up by Brissot, and all of them were mute. « My friends, » said 
 Vergniaud , « in grafting of the tree, we have killed it. It was too old. Robespierre is 
 « cutting it down. But will his measure, 1 ask, be happier than our's? No. The soil of 
 « France is too light— too poor — to feed the roots of civil liberty, her people too volatile 
 « for freedom and its laws. Like children with a knife, they play with what will injure 
 a. them. France, be well assured, will turn her to her kings again, as a baby to its 
 « toys. We have bitterly mistaken both, the time, the place : as labourers, at once, for 
 « our country and mankind, nor now nor here was it fitting to be born, nor now nor 
 (i here is it suitable to die. Yes ! the delusion ivas complete : iv e believed ourselves 
 « at Rome , and we only ivere at Paris I » 
 
 v. The daylight , which entered from a grating , was beginning to bedull the lustr« of 
 the lamps. « To-bed ! » said Ducos : « life is so trivial a thing , that the hour of rest , 
 « which we lose in lamentations, is far beyond its worth .'» — « Wake and watch! 11 said 
 Lasource to Sillery and Fauchet : « eternity is so certain and so awful, that a thousand 
 a lives were a scanty preparation for it ! » They arose from table as he spoke , left the 
 room, and parted at the door, each for his respective chamber, and, with two or three 
 exceptions, sank upon their mattresses. 
 
 « As many as thirteen , however, remained in the great cell : some of them , in an 
 under-voice, were talking to one another, some of them a-stifling of their sobs, and 
 some of them uneasily asleep. At eight 0' clock, they were permitted to assemble 
 in the gallery, where they gathered into groups. 
 
 « At ten , the executioners came in to prepare their heads for the ax and to bind 
 their hands , when , stepping forward of their own accord , they submitted , in their 
 turns, their hair to the scissars and their wrists to the ropes. Gensonne, selecting 
 one of his raven locks, reached it to the abbe Lambert, imploring him, as he did so, to 
 give it to his wife , whose residence he mentioned : « Say, » said he , k that this is the 
 « only relic 1 can send her, but that my dying thoughts are all Iter's. » Vergniaud , 
 having written with a pin their ciphers in the case, and annexed the date, (the 
 30 lh of October, ) slipped his gold-watch into the hand of an attendant , directing him 
 to deliver it to a young girl , whom he loved with a brotherly affection , and whom , 
 it was reported , he meant to marry on a future day. Not one of them but had , during 
 those mournful preparations, a name, a friendship, a passion , a regret,— a something 
 that escaped the lips, the heart, — and nearly all of them a something to bequeath. 
 A hope to be remembered after death,— to live in recollection upon earth, — to survive 
 our ashes, as it were , in the love of our survivors, — such, I say, is the last fond link , 
 
 which ties us to humanity, — the last fond wish , which warms us to the grave ! 
 
 Those secret dispositions were strictly borne in mind and rigidly fulfilled. 
 
 « When the hair had all fallen on the floor, the executioners and gendarmes collected 
 the condemned together, and led them, in a body, from the dungeon to the palace-yard. 
 Five carts, surrounded by an innumerable throng, were waiting for the prisoners. 
 As soon as they had left the Conciergerie , the Girondins , with one voice , struck up 
 their funeral-march , — the opening stanza of la Marseillaise, dwelling, with a sterner 
 emphasis , on its verses of a double sense : 
 
 « Contre nous de la tyrannie 
 
 « L'ilendard sanglant est leve ! » 
 
— 62 — 
 «De ce moment ils cesserent de s'occuper d'eux-memes pour ne penser qu'a I'exemple 
 de mort republicaine qu'ils voulaient laisser au peuple. Leurs voix ne retombaient un 
 moment a la fin de chaque strophe que pour se relever plus energiques et plus re- 
 tentissantes au premier vers de la strophe suivante. Leur marche et leur agonie ne 
 furent qu'un chant. Ils etaient quatre sur chaque charrette. Une seule en portait 
 cinq. Le cadavre de Valaze etait couche sur la derniere banquette. Sa tete decouverte, 
 cahotee par les secousses du pave , ballottait sous les regards et sur les genoux de ses 
 amis, obliges de fermer les yeux pour ne pas voir ce livide visage. Ceux-la chantaient 
 cependant comme les autres. Arrives au pied de l'echafaud , ils s'embrasserent tous 
 en signe de communion dans la liberte , dans la vie , et dans la mort. Puis ils re- 
 prirent le chant funebre pour s'animer mutuellement au supplice , et pour envoyer , 
 jusqu'au moment supreme , a celui qu'on executait , la voix de ses compagnons de 
 mort. Tous moururent sans faiblesse , Sillery avec ironie ; arrive sur la plate-forme , 
 il en fit le tour en saluant a droite et a gauche le peuple , comme pour le remercier 
 de la gloire et de l'echafaud. Le chant baissait d'une voix a chaque coup de hache. 
 Les rangs s'eclaircissaient au pied de la guillotine. Une seule voix continua la Mar- 
 seillaise : c' etait celle de Vergniaud , supplicie le dernier. Ces notes supremes furent 
 ses dernieres paroles. Comme ses compagnons , il ne mourait pas : il s'evanouissait 
 dans l'enthousiasme , et sa vie , commencee par des discours immortels , finissait par 
 un hymne & 1'eternite de la Revolution. » 
 
 Livre 47. Sections 19, 20, 22, 23 et 24. 
 
— 63 — 
 
 « From that moment, (oblivious of themselves,) their only thought was the example, 
 which, as dying republicans, they were anxious to set their countrymen at large. 
 If, at the end of one stanza, their voices for an instant failed , it was but to resound , 
 with added energy, at the beginning of the next. Their march — their mortal close— was 
 nothing but a song. They were four in each cart, excepting In the fifth, which contained 
 five. The. corpse of Valaze was put into the last. His uncovered head , owing to the 
 roughness of the stones , was jolted up-and-down , and bandied to-and-fro , on the 
 knees of his living friends , who , to avoid the horrid spectacle , were obliged to shut 
 their eyes. Yet even they kept singing like the rest ! Arrived at the scaffold-foot , in 
 token of their fellowship, — their community in liberty and life and death, — they 
 mutually embraced. They then , to inspirit one another to their doom , and to solace 
 whichsoever of them was being executed , combined their voices and resumed their 
 requiem. They perished bravely, the entire band; Sillery, indeed, with irony, since , 
 mounting on the floor, he made the tour of it , bowing to the right and left , as if 
 to thank the people for their grace, — for glory and the guillotine!.... They sensibly 
 diminished. At every falling of the ax, the song was weakened by a voice. A single 
 one, at last, continued la Marseillaise, — the voice of Vergniaud, the last to die. 
 The closing of his chant was the closing of his life as well. To die , did I say ? no ! no ! 
 Vergniaud , like his brother-Girondins , was never meant to die I He evaporated , — he 
 melted away, — he evanished in enthusiasm, and his life, — his real life , — commencing 
 with his deathless eloquence , finished with a hymn to our deathless Revolution. » 
 
 Book 47. Sections 19, 20, 22, 23 and 24. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
— 66 — 
 
 LES ASSASSINS DE SEPTEMBRE. 
 
 « Pendant que ces proscriptions consternaient Paris , 1'Assemblee envoyait en vain des commissaires 
 pour haranguer le peuple aux portes des prisons. Les egorgeurs ne suspendaient meme pas leur tra- 
 vail pour preter l'oreille a ces discours officiels. Les mots de justice et dTiumanite ne resonnent pas 
 dans le coeur de brutes ivres d'eau-de-vie et de sang. En vain le ministre de I'interieur, Roland , 
 gemissant de son impuissance, s'ecriait-il a Santerre de deployer la force pour proteger la surete des 
 prisons ; Santerre ne parut que le troisieme jour pour demander au conseil general de la commune 
 l'autorisation de reprimer les scelerats devenus dangereux a ceux-la memes qui les avaient laches sur 
 leurs ennemis. Les tueurs venaient insolemment sommer la rounicipalite de leur payer Ieurs meurlres. 
 Tallien et ses collegues n'oserent leur refuser le prix de ces journees de travail , et porterent sur les 
 registres de la commune de Paris ces salaires a peine deguises sous des litres et sous des pretextes 
 transparents. Santerre et ses detachemens , arrives apres coup, eurent peine a refouler, dans leurs 
 repaires, ces hordes allechees de carnage. Ces honimes, nourris de crimes pendant sept jours, gorges 
 de vin dans lequel on melait de la poudre a canon , enivres par la vapeur du sang , s'etaient exaltes 
 jusqu'a un etat de demence physique, qui les rendait incapables de repos. La fievre de l'extermination 
 les avait saisis. lis n'etaient plus bons qu'a tuer. Des que l'emploi leur manqua, beaucoup d'entre eux 
 tournerent leur fureur contre eux-memes. Quelques-uns , rentres chez eux , se repandirent en impre- 
 cations contre l'ingratitude de la commune , qui ne leur avait fait allouer que quarante sous par jour. 
 Ce n'etait pas un sou par victime pour ces assassinats au rabais. * D'auties, tourmentes de remords, ne 
 
 * L'histoire se repete quelquefois. En voici un exemple : « Charles IX , depuis le massacre de la 
 Saint-Barthelemy, n'eut pas un seul instant de repos. De ce moment on vit sa sante s'alterer sensi- 
 blement cliaque jour, ainsi que son caraetere et son humeur ; il devint sombre , farouche ; son imagi- 
 nation troublee lui representait sans cesse des fantomes, des spectres menacans; ses jours s'ecoulaient 
 dans l'amertume, et ses nuits dans la terreur. « Le surlendemain du massacre , (d'apres les Jlemoires 
 « de Sully,) le roipril a part Ambroise Pare, et s'ouvrit a lui sur le trouble affrcux , donl il se 
 « scntait agile. Ambroise , lui dit-il, je ne sais ce qui m'esl survenu depuis deux ou trois jours; 
 « mais je me trouve I'espril el le corps tout aussi emus que si j'avais la fievre; il me semble a lout 
 il moment, aussi bien veillant que dormant, que ces corps massacres se presentenl a moi avec des 
 i faces hideuses et couvertes de sang. Je voudrais bien qu'on n'y eul pas compris les innocens !».... 
 « II eut une maladie cruelle et bizarre , a laquelle les medacins ne purent donner de nom. 11 souffrait 
 les douleurs les plus aigues, (dit le due de Sully,) et son sang sortait par lous les pores de sa peau. 
 Peu d'heures avant sa mort , il demanda le roi de Navarre ; il lui temoigna , par ses transports et par 
 ses larmes , son rcpentir de tout ce qui s'etait fait contre les Huguenots , et il 1'embrassa affectueuse- 
 
 ment /( expira baigne dans son sang, au chateau de Vincennes , le 30 mai ioli, jour de la 
 
 Pentecote , a l'age de vingt-quatre ans , apres en avoir regne treize et demi. Ou ouvrit son corps ; 
 on n'y trouva ni abces ni gangrene; mais il elait rempli de meurlrissures , donl les chirurgient ne 
 purent penelrcr la cause. » 
 
 Lisons , en plus , le passage suivant , tire de la meme Histoire de Henri le Grand. Les choses qui 
 s'y trouvent peuvent tres-bien servir de pendant aux journees de septembre 1792. (Madame de Genlis 
 parle encore du massacre de la Saint-Barthelemy, qui eut lieu les 24 , 2b et 26 aodt 1572. ) 
 
 «. Cependant rien n'arretait le cours des assassinats : le carnage dura trois jours. Pendant trois jours 
 entiers , dans cette enceinte desolee , le sommeil fut suspendu par la fureur homicide ou par la terreur ! 
 On ne prononca que des paroles de rage ou de desespoir : le del , outrage dans tous les instans de ces 
 horribles jours , ne fut invoque que par des victimes expirantes ; le crime infatigable et forcene veilla 
 sans relache et regna seul dans cette ville immense. Durant ces deux derniers jours , Paris ofTVit le 
 spectacle affreux d'une ville prise d'assaut et livree au pillage. Una populace et une soldatesque eifrenees , 
 armees de pistolets , de pieux , de piques et de poignards , couraient les rues , ou sortaient pe'e-mele 
 
— 67 — 
 
 THE ASSASSINS OF SEPTEMBER. 
 
 n While Paris was terrified at these proscriptions, the Assembly, to no purpose, was dispatching 
 messengers to the mob , to harangue them at the prison-doors. Deaf to the official mandates , the 
 savages kept killing on. The words of justice and humanity alas ! are lost upon a heart, which is bru- 
 tified by brandy and by blood ! In vain did Roland , the Minister of the interior, keep writing off to 
 Santurre , to use coercive measures in favour of the prisons. It was not till the third day, that the 
 latter showed himself at the council general of the commune , and formally demanded their authority 
 (for the very instigators were in danger of their lives) to stop the immolation and put the wretches 
 down ! And then the butchers , with insolent assurance , summoned the corporation for the wages of 
 their butchery! Tallien and his colleagues, afraid of saying no, paid them for their journey-work , but 
 entered on the parish-books , under false and lying heads , those items of abominable charge , — a 
 
 clumsy cheat! Santerre and his detachments, who arrived afterwards, had all the trouble in the 
 
 world with this sanguinary horde , to drive them to their dens again. Fed with murder for a week , 
 gorged with powder-heated wine , and drunk with seething blood , they had reached to such a pitch 
 of physical insanity, that rest was quite impossible. The fever of extermination had got hold of 
 them. Kill — kill — kill — they were fit for nothing else ! As soon as they were « out of work , » many 
 of them turned upon one another. Some of them , come home , cursed and swore at the ingratitude 
 of the commune, which had only paid them forty sous a-day. *A pretty price for assassinations like 
 « theirs, — not a half-penny a-head! » * Some, again, tormented with remorse, could see before 
 
 " History, at times , is a repetition of itself. Behold an instance of it : « Charles IX, from the massacre 
 of Saint-Bartholomew, never enjoyed a moment of repose. From that terrific hour, his health , from day 
 to day, was visibly impaired, — his health, his temper, and his character. He was gloomy and ferocious; 
 his troubled fancy incessantly called up the spectres of the dead; his days were full of bitterness, his 
 nights of fear. « The second day after the massacre, » (according to the Memoirs of Sully,) « his Ma- 
 
 •t jesty took Ambroise Pare apart, and revealed to him the dreadful agitation he was in u Ambroise, 
 
 (said he) « / know not tohal is come to me of late , but my mind and body arc as thoroughly affected, 
 « as if I had the fever. With closed or open eyes , — asleep or up, — it is all the same : murdered 
 « corpses, with death-distorted lineaments and running blood,— I look on nothing else! Ah! would 
 
 « the innocent, at least, could only have escaped! » He was attacked with a cruel and a singular 
 
 disease, which the faculty could class under no specific head. « He suffered » (said the Duke of Sully,) 
 « the most excruciating pain , and the blood kept oozing from his skin. A feiv hours before his 
 « death , he asked for the king of Navarre , and testified by his transports and his tears, as he embraced 
 
 « him with affection, his repentance for the persecution of the Euguenots He expired at the 
 
 « Chateau of Vincennes, deluged in his blood , on the 50 th of May, 4S74 , (the day of Pentecost) at 
 « the age of twenty-four years , after a reign of thirteen and a half. Eis body was opened ; it 
 « contained neither abscess nor ulcer, but an infinity of bruises , the cause of which the surgeons 
 « were quite unable to expound. » 
 
 Let us read another passage, taken from the same Eistory of Henry the Great. The events, therein 
 related, may surely form a counterpart of the days of September, 1792. (Madame de Genlis is still 
 speaking of the massacre of St Bartholomew, which occurred on the 24 th , 25 lh and 26 th of August, 1372.) 
 
 « Nothing , however, could arrest the course of the assassinations : the slaughter lasted three days» 
 Yes , for three successive days , was slumber banished by murder and affright. The only language , 
 that was heard , was the language of fury and despair. Heaven , outraged , as it was , at every mo- 
 ment of those appalling days , was invoked but by the victims of the massacre. Mad and indefatigable 
 crime waked and watched and reigned alone in the capital of France. During the two last indeed , 
 Paris offered to the view the semblance of a seige , — assault and pillage. A lawless soldiery and 
 a lawless mob , armed with pistols and with stakes , with poignards and with pikes , were a-scouring 
 
— 68 — 
 
 rirent plus devant leurs yeux que les visages livides , les membres saignants , les entrailles fumantes 
 de ceux qu'ils avaient egorges. lis tomberent dans des acces de folie ou dans une langueur sinistre 
 qui les conduisit en peu de jours au tombeau. D'autres enfin , signales a l'effroi de leurs voisins et 
 odieux a leurs proclies, s'eloignereni de leur quartier, s'engagerent dans des bataillons de volontaires, 
 ou , insatiables de crimes , s'enrolerent dans les bandes d'assassins , qui allerent continuer a Orleans , 
 k Lyon , a Meaux , a Reims , a Versailles , les proscriptions de Paris. De ce nombre furent Chariot , 
 Grizon , le tisserand Rodi , Hanriot , le gar<;on boucher Allaigre , et un negre , nomme Delorme , amene 
 a Pai'is par Fournier l'am^ricain. Ce noir, infatigable au meurtre, egorgea a lui seul plus de deux cents 
 prisonniers , pendant les trois nuits du massacre , sans prendre d'autre relaehe que les courtes orgies 
 ou il allait retremper ses forces dans le vin. Sa chemise rabattue sur sa ceinture laissait voir son 
 tronc nu; ses traits hideux, sa peau noire rougie de taches de sang, les eclats de rire sauvage qui 
 ouvraient sa bouche et montraient ses dents a chaque coup qu'il assenait , faisaient de cet homme le 
 symbole du meurtre et le vengeur de sa race. C'etait un sang qui en epuisait un autre , le crime 
 exterminates punissant l'Europeen de ses attentats sur l'Afrique. Ce noir, qu'on retrouve une tete 
 couple a la main dans toutes les convulsions populaires de la Revolution , fut deux ans plus tard ar- 
 rete aux journees de prairial, portant, au bout d'une pique, la tele du depute Feraud , et perit enlin 
 du suppbce qu'il avait tant de fois prodigue. Aussilot que les complices de septembre , refugies aux 
 armees dans les bataillons de volontaires , y furent signales a leurs camarades, les bataillons les 
 vomirent avec degout. Les soldats ne pouvaient pas vivre a cote des assassins. Le drapeau du 
 patriotisme devait etre pur du sang des citoyens. L'heroisme et le crime ne voulaient pas etre 
 confondus. 
 
 (Hisloire des Girondins. Livre 25. Section 21. ) 
 THEROIGNE DE MERICOURT. 
 
 « Apres Saint-Huruge , marchait Theroigne de M^ricourt. Theroigne ou Lambertine de Mericourt , 
 qui commandait le troisieme corps de l'ami6e des faubourgs , etait connue du peuple sous le nom de 
 la. Belle Liegeoise. La Revolution framjaise l'avait attiree a Paris , comtne le tourbillon attire les 
 choses mobiles. L'amour outrage l'avait jetee dans le desordre ; le vice , dont elle rougissait , lui 
 donnait la soif de la vengeance. En frappant les aristocrates , elle croyait rehabiliter son honneur : 
 elle lavait sa honte dans du sang. 
 
 « N<5e au village de Mericourt, dans les environs de Liege, d'une famille de riches cultivaleurs, elle 
 avait recu l'education des classes elevees. A dix-sept ans, sou eclatante beaute avait attire l'attention 
 d'un jeune seigneur des bords du Rhin, dont le chateau etait voisin de la demeure de la jeune Ulle. 
 
 des maisons devaslees , n'y laissant que des cadavres , e* emportant sans obstacle des vivres , des 
 menbles , des bijoux. On n'entendait que le bruit des coups de pislolets , d'arquebuses , celui des 
 pierres et des cailloux lances contre les vitres et les maisons , et les cris , les gemissemens des victimes , 
 ou les blasphemes , les imprecations et les hurlemens des meurtriers. Les rues etaient jonchees de 
 membres epars et sanglans ; les porles des maisons , des palais et des lieux publics , teintes de sang ; 
 l'image de la mort et de la destruction se trouvait partout , et sous les formes les plus liideuses ; on 
 voyait des corps mutiles precipites du liaut des toits ou par les fenetres, traines ensuite dans laboue 
 et dans les ruisseaux ensanglantes ; on rencontrait a chaque pas des charrettes chargees de butin ou 
 du monceaux de cadavres qu'on allait jeter dans la Seine , dont les eaux furent , pendant pluseurs jours , 
 
 souillees de sang lmmain , du sang des Fran^ais! On epuisa tous les genres de cniaute ; la fai- 
 
 blesse mfime de l'enl'ance ne preserva pas de la ferocite : on vit des cnfans de dix ans , dans le premier 
 essai de l'homicidc , commettre Facte de la plus monstrncuse barbarie , en iigorgeant des or/fans au 
 maillot! » 
 
— 69 — 
 
 their eyes but livid faces, bleeding limbs, smoking entrails, — the victims they had killed! And these 
 were either driven mad, or fell into a state of languor, which , in a few days, bore them to the tomb. 
 Others, again, scouted by their neighbours and hateful to their relatives, changed their quarters, en- 
 listed in the volunteers , or, insatiable of crime , enrolled themselves in the band of bravos , who , in 
 various divisions, started off for Orleans , Lyons, Meaux, Reims, Versailles, etc., to continue the 
 proscriptions of Paris , and murder where they went ! Of -'.his number were Chariot , Grizon , Rodi the 
 weaver, Hanriot , the butcher-boy Allaigre , and a negro , named Delorme , brought to Paris by Feurnier, 
 the American. This horrid, indefatigable black, with his own hand, slew more than two hundred 
 prisoners during the three nights of massacre, with no relaxation but a brief debauch — that brain- 
 bemadding wine — to renovate his strength ! His shirt , which was lowered to the waist , exposed his 
 powerful and shiny trunk ; his hideous features, — his black skin, bespotted with the blood , — the peals 
 of hellish laughter, which opened his unsightly mouth and showed his teeth at every blow that told , 
 — made of this fearful man the type of murder, and the fell avenger of his race. It was one blood 
 draining another, — exterminating crime , which was punishing the European for his wrongs to groaning 
 Africa ! This same Delorme , who , charged with dripping heads , figured away in all the popular con- 
 vulsions of the Revolution , was arrested , two years afterwards , as he was carrying the head of the 
 deputy Feraud on a pike, in the days of prairial, and died the very death, which scores had suffered 
 at his hand ! The accomplices of September, that had taken refuge in the different armies of volunteers , 
 were no sooner pointed out to their comrades , than the latter rejected them with loathing , and spewed 
 them from the ranks. The soldiers could not — would not — bear assassins at their side. The Hag of 
 patriotism, they felt, ought to be unstained with civic blood. Heroism shrank from the pollution, and 
 refused to associate with crime. » 
 
 (History of the Girorulins. Cook 25. Section 21.) 
 
 THEROIGNE DE MERICOURT. 
 
 * Next to Saint-Huruge , marched Theroigne de Mericourt. Theroigne or Lambertine de Mericourt, 
 who commanded the third corps of the army of the faubourgs , was known among the people as « La 
 « Belle Liegeoise. » The French Revolution had attracted her to Paris , as the whirlwind gathers chaff. 
 Outraged love had plunged her into vice , and vice , a-blushing at itself, inspired her with revenge. In 
 smiting the aristocrats , she thought to reintegrate her honour ; so , dyeing her disgrace , she soaked it 
 in their blood. 
 
 n Born at Mericourt, a village near Liege, of a family of wealthy farmers, she had received the 
 education of the upper classes. She was only seventeen when her striking beauty allured the attention 
 of a young nobleman , whose chateau , on the borders ol the Rhine , adjoined her humbler residence. 
 
 of the streets or issuing pell-mell from the houses they had sacked , leaving nothing in them but 
 the dying and the dead, and making off with furniture, with provisions, and with jewels. The 
 musket and the pistol shots, the rattle of the stones, the crashing of the windows, the shrieking and 
 the groaning of the victims, the oaths and imprecations and yelling of tbe butchers, — such were the 
 sounds that answered to the sights ! The streets were strewed with random and ensanguined limbs ; 
 the thresh-holds of the houses , o ithe palaces , and public buildings were incarnadine with gore ; the 
 images of death and devastation, — and that, too, in the most revolting shape, — were multiplied around ; 
 mangled bodies, hurled headlong from the windows and the roofs, or crimsoning the mire and kennels 
 they were dragged in , were visible at every step , and , at every step , were waggon-loads of plunder 
 or of corpses , intended for the Seine , the waves of which , for a total week , were reddened with the 
 blood ,— the human blood of France ! Every kind of cruelty was exhausted ; even infancy itself was no 
 preservative from the knife : children of ten years old, as the coup d'essai in assassination, committed 
 
 the most savage of barbarities in killing the baby at the breast! » 
 
 S. P. 
 
— 70 — 
 
 Aimee , seduite , abandonnee , elle s'etait echappee de la raaison paternelle et s'etait refugiee eu 
 Angleterre. Apres quelques mois de sejour a Londres , elle passa en France. Recommandee a Mirabeau, 
 elle connut par lui Sieyes, Joseph Chenier, Danton, Ronsin, Brissot, Camille Desmoulins. La jeunesse, 
 l'amour, la vengeance, le contact avec ce foyer d'une revolution avait echauQe sa tete. Elle vecut dans 
 l'ivresse des passions , des idees et des plaisirs. D'abord attachee aux grands novateurs de 89 , elle 
 devint la prostituee volontaire du peuple. Comme la grande courtisane de l'Egypte , elle prodigua a la 
 liberte Tor qu'elle enlevait au vice. 
 
 « Des les premiers soulevemens , elle descendit dans la rue. Elle consacra sa beaute a servir 
 d'enseigne a la multitude. Vetue en amazone d'une etoffe couleur de sang, un panache flottant sur son 
 chapeau, le sabre au cdte, deux pistolets a la ceinture, elle vola aux insurrections. Au premier rang, 
 elle avait force les grilles des Invalides pour en enlever les canons. La premiere a l'assaut , elle etait 
 mont6e sur les tours de la Bastille. Les vainqueurs lui avaient decerne un sabre d'honneur sur la 
 breche. Aux journees d'octobre , elle avait guide a Versailles les femmes de Paris. A cheval a c&te 
 du feroce Joui'dan, qu'on appelait V Homme a longue barbe, elle avait ramene le Roi a Paris; elle 
 avait suivi , sans palir, les tfttes coupees des gardes-du-corps servant de trophees au bout des piques. 
 Sa parole , quoique empreinte d'un accent etranger, avait l'eloquence du tumulte. Elle elevait la voix 
 dans les orages des clubs et gourmandait la salle du haut des galeries. Quelquefois elle haranguait 
 aux Cordeliers. Camille Desmoulins parle de l'enthousiasme qu'une de ses improvisations excita. 
 n Ses images , » dit-il , « etaient empruntees de Pindare et de la Bible : e'etait le patriolisme d'une 
 <( Judith. j> Elle proposait de batir le palais de la representation nationale sur l'emplacement de la 
 Bastille. « Pour fonder et pour embellir cet edifice, dfpouillous-nous, » dit-elle un jour, « de nos 
 « bracelets, de notre or, de nos pierreries. J'en donne l'exemple la premiere, » et elle se depouilla 
 sur la tribune. Son ascendant etait tel sur les emeutes , qu'un geste d'elle condamnait ou absolvait les 
 victimes. Les royalistes tremblaient de la rencoutrer. 
 
 « En ce temps, par un de ces hasards, qui ressemblent aux vengeances premeditees de la destinee, 
 elle reconnut, dans Paris, le jeuue gcntilhomme beige qui l'avait seduite et abandonnee. Son regard 
 apprit a son seducteur les dangers qu'il courait. II voulut les conjurer; il vint implorer son pardon. 
 « Mon pardon ! » lui dit-elle , « et de quel prix pourriez-vous le payer ? Mon innocence ravie , mon 
 « honneur perdu , celui de ma famille terni , mon frere et mes soeurs poursuivis dans leur pays par le 
 « sarcasme de leurs proches , la malediction de mon pere , mon exil de ma patrie , mon enrolement 
 ii dans l'infame caste des courtisanes , le sang dont je souille et dont je souillerai mes mains , ma 
 ■I memoire execree parmi les hommes, cette immortalite de malediction s'attachant a mon noma la 
 <i place de cette immortalite de la vertu, dont vous m'avez appris de douter! Voila ce que vous voulez 
 i< racbeter. Voyons , connaissez-vous sur terre un prix capable de me payer tout cela ? » Le coupable 
 se tut. Tberoigne n'eut pas la generosite de lui pardonner. 11 perit aux massacres de septembre. A 
 mesure que la Revolution devint plus sanguinaire , elle s'y plongea davantage. 
 
 « Elle ne pouvait plus vivre que de la fievre des emotions publiques. Cependant son premier culte 
 pour Brissot se rdveilla a la chute des Girondins. Elle aussi , elle voulait arreter la Revolution. Mais 
 il y avait des femmes encore au-dessous d'elle. Ces femmes, qu'on appelait les furies de la guillotine, 
 depouillferent de ses vetemens la belle Liegeoise et la fouetterent en public sur la terrasse des Tuileries 
 le 31 mai. Ce supplice, plus infame que la mort, egara sa raison. Ramassee dans la boue, jetee dans 
 une loge d'alienes au fond d'un hospice , elle y vecut vingt ans. Ces vingt ans ne furent qu'un long 
 acces de fureur. Impudique et sanguinaire dans ses songes, elle ne voulut jamais revetir de vetemens, 
 fin souvenir de l'outrage qu'elle avait subi. Elle se trainait nue , ses cheveux Wanes et epars , sur les 
 
— 71 — 
 
 Loved , seduced , and left , she fled from the paternal roof and hid herself in England. After a few 
 months' stay in London, she repaired to Paris. With an introduction to Mirabeau, she incidentally 
 became known to Sieves, Joseph Chenier, Danton, Ronsin, Brissot, Camille Desmoulins, etc. Youth, 
 love , vengeance , and the contact with that revolutionary focus had heated her imagination , inebriate 
 with passion, with pleasure, and with phantasy. Attached, in the tirst instance, to the great innovators 
 of 89, she sank into a voluntary prostitute of the people. Like the royal courtesan of Egypt, she 
 squandered upon freedom what she levied upon vice. 
 
 « From the outset of disturbance , her arena was the street , where her beauty, abased afresh , was 
 the ensign of the mob. In an amazon of crimson cloth, a plume of feathers in her hat, a sabre at her 
 side, and a pair of pistols in her belt, she flew from insurrection to insurrection. Foremost, she had forced 
 the railing of the Invalides, to carry off the cannon, and foremost, she had mounted the towers of the 
 Bastille. A sword of honour was decreed her on the breach. In the days of October, she had led the 
 women of Paris to Versailles. On horseback, at the side of the ferocious Jourdan, (denominated Long- 
 beard,) she had reconveyed the monarch to the capital, and followed, without quailing, the bleeding 
 heads of the murdered body-guard , which were carried as trophies upon pikes. Her language , though 
 stamped with a foreign accent, was the very eloquence of tumult. In the stormy meeting of the clubs, 
 her voice was paramount, as, crying from the gallery, she inveighed against the orators. At times, she 
 spoke at the Cordeliers. Camille Desmoulins talks of the effect produced by one of her powerful im- 
 promptus. « Her images, » says he, a were borrowed from Pindar and the Bible : it was the pa- 
 « triolism of a Judith ! » She moved , that the Palace of the National Assembly should be built upon 
 the site of the Bastille. « To found and ornament this edip.ee , » she said , « let us strip us of our 
 « fineries, — of our diamonds and our pearls, — of our bracelets and our gold. And I it is, that set 
 « you the example. » She tore away her jewels . and laid them on the tribune , as she spoke. Her 
 ascendance in the riots was so great, that her simple gest acquitted or condemned. The royalists were 
 terrified to meet her. 
 
 « At this period , by one of those chances , which look like retributions , planned by fate , she re- 
 cognized in Paris the identical young Belgian , who had loved , seduced , and then deserted her. Her 
 mien apprized him of his danger. Eager to avert it and deprecate her wrath , he came to sue her pardon. 
 • My pardon! » she replied , « and how, then, do you hope to purchase it? My innocence despoiled, 
 « — my honour lost, — my family debased, — my brothers hooted at,— my sisters pointed at, — their 
 <t name a shame, — the outcasts of their relatives, the scandal of their birth-place, the scoff of the 
 o vicinity, — my mother's broken heart, — my father's bitter malison ,— my flight , — my exile, — my 
 « country forfeited and seen no more, — my utter degradation, — my infamy,— my enrolment in the 
 « prostitutes, — the blood upon my hands, — the blood upon my thoughts, — my memory an execration 
 « and a hate,— this everlasting curse upon my name instead of that imperishable virtue, which you 
 « it was that tutored me to doubt: — behold Ihe mass of evil you have worked, — the mischief you 
 « have done me , — the cruel crushing wrong you sue my pardon for, and what my pardon never 
 « could repair! My character is gone! Has Earth itself, I ask, wherewith to buy it back? a ransom 
 
 « to redeem me? a means to reinstate me, and place me where I was?. Speak, ruiner! 
 
 « answer me, I say ! » But the ruiner was dumb... She could not pardon him : he perished in 
 
 September. In measure as the Revolution became more and more sanguinary, her vengeance 
 revelled in it more and more. 
 
 « Her life (a fever!) was fed by the tumult of the streets. Nevertheless, her early veneration for 
 Brissot was reawakened at his death. Like the fallen Girondins, she, too, was anxious to arrest the 
 Revolution , but there were women worse than even Theroigne de Mericourt ! These wretches, who 
 were rightly called « the furies of the guillotine, » stripped La Belle Liegeoise completely naked, and 
 flogged her on the terrace of the Tuilleries. A punishment like this , more ignominious than death , 
 overturned her reason. Lifted from the mud , and thrown into a lunatic asylum , she survived for 
 twenty years — for twenty years of virulent insanity ! Obscene in her discourse and savage in her dreams, 
 she would never clothe herself again , in remembrance of the outrage she had borne. Nude , with 
 
— 72 — 
 
 dalles de sa Ioge ; elle entrelaeait ses mains decharnees aux barreaux de sa fenetre. Elle faisait de la 
 des motioQS a uo peuple imaginaire et liemandait le sang de * Suleau. » 
 
 (Hisloire des Girondins. Livre 16. Section H.) 
 
 LA CARMAGNOLE. 
 
 « Vers la fin de 1792, une chanson, dont le refrain 6tait : Dansons la Carmagnole, vive le son du 
 canon! eut une vogue populaire. On ignore si la musique et la danse de la Carmagnole sont origi- 
 nates de ce pays , ou si l'air a ete compose par un francais a l'epoque oil ces troupes entrerent dans 
 le Piemont, ce qui est plus vraisemblable. » 
 
 « Ce fut en septembre 1792 que toutes les villes de la Savoie et du Piemont vinrent se mettre sous 
 la protection de la nation franchise et que leurs habitans arborerent la cocarde nationale. 
 
 « Au mois de novembre de la meme annee , Dorvigny fit jouer au theatre Montansier une piece en 
 trois actes , intitulee La Carmagnole a Chambery. Cet air militaire et entralaant fut joue par la 
 musique des regimens comme pas redoubles ; mais sa popularity date du moment ou une mauvaise 
 chanson , dont l'auteur est inconnu , retentit dans les rues et les carrefours de Paris , et fut meme en- 
 voyee dans les departemens. Elle commencait par un couplet dirige contre la reine Marie-Antoinette , 
 alors prisonnifere au Temple avec Louis XVI. II est bon de conserver des echantillons de la poesie 
 brutale avec laquelle on excitait alors le peuple qui dansait la Carmagnole dans ses orgies , et qui la 
 chantait autour de la guillotine. 
 
 Madame Veto avait promis 
 De faire 6gorger tout Paris; 
 Mais son coup a manque , 
 Grace a nos canonniers! 
 Dansons la Carmagnole , 
 Vive le son du canon! 
 
 • « Ce M. Suleau est celui qui perit au 10 aoflt. 
 
 «c Faisant partie de la compagnie des grenadiers du bataillon des Filles-Saint-Thomas, il etait un des 
 defenseurs du chateau des Tuileries , a cette journee nefaste. 
 
 n Apres Taction , pour s'en retourner a son domicile , il traversait la place du Carrousel , en uniforme. 
 La fameuse Theroigne de Mericourt , bien connue par la part qu'elle prit aux mouvemens populaires , 
 se trouvait alors sur la place , et s'eeria : « c'est Suleau, ce forcene aristocrate , tue, tue. » 
 
 « Ces paroles , qu'elle portait dans tous les coins de la place , voltigeant sur son cheval , vetue d« 
 son costume adoptif d'amazone , furent promptement saisies. 
 
 « Des forcenfe se precipitent vers l'infortun6 Suleau , 1'atteignent au moment ou il ebranlait la 
 sonnette de sa porte et le poignardent sur son seuil. 
 
 « Son domestique , un negre , ouvre , se jette sur le corps de son maitre , veut le relever, mais lui- 
 meme est aussi poignardfi : effroyabie catastrophe, horrible consequence de ces temps aflreux de ddlire 
 et de demagogic efiren^e ! 
 
 « J'etais alors a Paris. II y avait a peine deux a trois jours que M. Suleau et moi avions dine' a la 
 meme table. 
 
 « Cette fin imprevue , si horrible , si tragique , m'arracha un cri d'indignation. 
 
 « Suleau , homme distingue , avait Fame candide , aimante. En somme les bonnes qualites , les 
 sentimens genereux , attenuaient les ecarts d'une imagination parfois trop facile a enflammer. 
 
 « II etait une des lumieres de soa ordre. » 
 
 Souvenirs de Mel de Iavigne, Charles-Rolland , 
 AiKicn Sous-Prefet et Ofiicter de la IdQion-d'Honneur, 
 
— 73 — 
 
 while disheTelled liair, she crawled upon Ihe flooring of her cell, or wound her skinny arms aboul Ihc 
 grating of it , and waived to an imaginary mob , and shouted for the blood of * Suleau. » 
 
 (History of the Girondins. Rook 16. Section It.) 
 
 LA CARMAGNOLE. 
 
 « Towards the close of 1792, a sor>g , having for its burthen, « Damons la Carmagnole , rive le 
 « son du canon! » was in high favour wi'h the populace. It is not ascertained whether the music and 
 the dance are indebted to that locality for their origin , or whether the air was composed by a Frenchman 
 at the time of our entry into Piedmont , which , indeed , is the likelier supposition of the two. » 
 
 <i It was in the month of September, 1792, that all the towns of Piedmont and Savoy put themselves 
 under the protection of France , and that their inhabitants mounted the national cockade. 
 
 « In the November of that year, Dorvigny caused a piece , in three acts , to be performed at the theatre 
 Monlansier, intitled « La Carmagnole a, Chambcry. » This inspiriting air was played by the military 
 bands as a quick march, but its real popularity dates from the hour, when a paltry song, whereof the 
 author is unknown, was bawled about the streets and the cross-ways of Paris, and was even circulated 
 in the provinces. It commenced with a stanza , aimed at Marie-Antoinette , then a prisoner in the 
 Temple with Louis XVI. It is well to preserve a specimen or two of those brutalities in rhyme, which, 
 at that appalling period , goaded on the mob , who danced la Carmagnole in their atrocious orgies , 
 and sang it by the guillotine ! 
 
 Madame Veto made a vow 
 
 Paris with our blood should flow, 
 
 But the hit a miss appears, 
 
 Thanks to our good cannoneers! 
 
 Dance we , then , the Carmagnole , 
 
 While the cannon-echoes roll ! 
 
 While the cannon-echoes roll , 
 
 Let us dance the Carmagnole ! 
 
 * « This M r Suleau is the same , that perished on the 10 th of August. 
 
 "Belonging to the grenadiers of the battalion des Filles-Saint-Thomas , he had helped, on that 
 disastrous day, to defend the chateau of the Tuilleries. 
 
 « The conflict at an end, he was crossing, on his way home, la place du Carrousel in his uniform, 
 when he was recognized by the famous Theroigne de Mericourt , so notorious for the part she took in 
 all the popular insurrections , who cried out : * There goes Suleau ! down with the aristocrat ! down 
 • with him ! down ! down ! » 
 
 « The above words , borne from one side of the square to the other, as , clad in her usual amazon , 
 she galloped here and there , were quickly taken up and as quickly acted on. 
 
 " Some fanatics rush upon the unfortunate Suleau , reach him just as he is ringing at his door, and 
 stab him on the sill ! 
 
 " His servant (a negro) opens it, throws himself on the hody of his master, tries to lift him up, and 
 is poignarded in turn , — fearful catastrophe ! horrible effect of that terrific reign of liberty gone mad ! 
 
 « I was in PJris at the time. It was only three days previous , that M r Suleau and I had dined at the 
 same table ! 
 « This unexpected death , so harrowing and tragic , wrung a cry of indignation from me. 
 « Suleau , a distinguished character, was a man of open nature and affectionate disposition. His good 
 qualities and generous sentiments, in short, redeemed the errors of a fancy, which, at times, was 
 subject to extravagance. 
 « He was one of the gifted minds — one of the lights — of the aristocracy. 
 
 Souvenirs de Mel de Lavigne , Charles-Rolland , 
 Ancien Sous-Prefct el Ofpcier de la Legion-d'Bonneur. 
 
— 74 — 
 
 Monsieur Veto avait promis 
 
 D'etre fidele a sa patrie 
 
 Va , Louis , gros paour, 
 Du Temple dans la tour ; 
 Dansons la Carmagnole , 
 Vive le son du canon ! 
 
 « On sait que le nom de veto etait celui par lequel les Jacobins designaient le Roi depuis que ce 
 monarque avait recu le droit de veto suspensif dans les actes constitutionnels, rediges par l'Assemblee 
 nationale le l er octobre 1789. L'air de la Carmagnole , qui avait conduit cet infortune Prince au 
 supplice, servit plus tard a chansonner un de ses bourreaux. » 
 
 •i On sera sans doute curieux de connaitre une chanson imprimee et chantee en avril 1 795, et inti- 
 tulee La Carmagnole de Fouquier-Tainville. 
 
 Fouquier-Tainville avait promis 
 De guillotiner tout Paris ; 
 Mais il en a menti, 
 Car il est raccourci! 
 Vive la guillotine 
 Pour ces bourreaux! 
 Vive la guillotine 
 Pour ces bourreaux ! 
 Vils fleaux! 
 
 Sans acte d'acousation , 
 Avec precipitation , 
 n fit couler le sang 
 De plus d'un innocent. 
 Vive la guillotine 
 Pour ces bourreaux! 
 Vive la guillotine 
 Pour ces bourreaux! 
 Vils fleaux! 
 k Le meme peuple , qui avait chante la premiere chanson , chantait encore celle-ci , et peut-etre le 
 meme auteur les avait faites toutes les deux ! » 
 
 « Le nom de carmagnole etait aussi celui d'un vetement que portaient les gens du peuple et qu'a- 
 vaient adopte les Jacobins. C'etait une veste a petites basques et a grands revers qui laissait le cou 
 decouvert et qui accompagnait le large pan talon. Le bonnet rouge ou celui de poil de renard avec une 
 longue queue completait le costume , qui fut porte par la majorite des citoyens , les uns par enthousiasme, 
 les autres par crainte , et dont se vetirent meme des deputes au sein de la Convention. On le quitta 
 bientfit apres la reaction du 9 thermidor. 
 
 « L'air de la Carmagnole fut employe dans les vaudevilles et joue dans les theatres avec le fameux 
 Ca ira. 
 « Buonaparte , etant devenu Consul , les (it defendre ; on se borna a jouer, avant l'ouverture , l'air : 
 
 « Teillons au salut de I'empire, » 
 qui disparut lui-meme a 1'epoque du gouvernement imperial. » 
 
 ( Encyclopedic du 19 m8 siecle et alia. ) 
 
— 75 — 
 
 Monsieur Veto made a tow, 
 
 That he Iov'd his Country so! 
 
 But the Temple tower hath got 
 
 Safe the doughty patriot! 
 
 Dance we, then, the Carmagnole, 
 
 While the cannon-echoes roll ! 
 
 While the cannon-echoes roll , 
 
 Let us dance the Carmagnole! 
 ■< Veto is known to be the name , by which the Jacobins designated the king , ever since he was vested 
 with the power of suspending, by his veto, the acts of the National Assembly, as drawn up on the 1 st 
 of October, 1789. The air of la Carmagnole, which had conducted that unhappy Prince to the scaffold , 
 was destined to lampoon , on a future day, one of his executioners. » 
 
 « Curiosity, no doubt , would like to become acquainted with a song , which was printed and was sung 
 in April , 179b , and intitled « La Carmagnole de Fouquier-Tainville. » 
 
 Fouquier-Tainville made a vow 
 
 We should to the scaffold go, 
 
 But we live the lie to scoff, 
 
 Since the villain's head is off. 
 « Vive la guillotine ! » we cry : 
 
 There let all the butchers die ! 
 
 There let all the butchers die : 
 « Vive la guillotine! » we cry. 
 
 Many and many and many a time , 
 
 E'en without a charge of crime , 
 
 E'en without a shade of guilt, 
 
 Oh ! the blood the savage spilt ! 
 « Tive la guillotine ! » we cry : 
 
 There let all the butchers die ! 
 
 There let all the butchers die : 
 •i Vive la guillotine! » we cry! 
 
 (i The same canaille, that had sung the former song, sang the latter too, and the same author, perhaps, 
 had composed them both ! u 
 
 « Carmagnole was also the name of a dress, worn by the lower orders, and adopted by the Jacobins. 
 It consisted of a jacket with little skirts and a wide lie-down collar, which left the neck exposed , and 
 of a pair of loose pantaloons. The red cap or one of fox's skin with a long tail completed the costume , 
 which was worn by the majority of the citizens, some from enthusiasm, some from fashion, and some 
 from fear, and , in the heart of the Convention , was sported even by some of the deputies. After the 
 reaction of the 9 lh of thermidor, the dress was cast aside. 
 
 « The air of la Carmagnole was employed in the vaudevilles and theatres in conjunction with the 
 famous « Ca ira ! » Buonaparte , on becoming consul , put them down : all , that was played before the 
 overture , was the air of <i Vcillons au salut de I 'empire , » which disappeared in turn , as soon as he 
 was elected Emperor. » 
 
 (Encyclopedic du 19me siecle and alia. ) 
 
— 76 — 
 
 NOTICE M1LITAIRE DE « LA MARSEILLAISE. )) 
 
 « Pour mieux faire sentir quelle influence ont eue sur nos premiers triomphes les hymnes guerriers, 
 et surtout celui appele la Marseillaise, nous aurions pu citer ici les chants de Tyrtee et ceux d'Ossian, 
 les * bardits des anciens Scaldes, les chansons de Roland el les romances du Cid, toute cette litterature 
 guerriere et poetique qui, par son elevation et les recompenses qu'elle promet, rappelle du moins aux 
 braves , qui font pour leur pays le sacrifice de leur vie , qu'il y a pour eux l'immortalite dans la m6- 
 moire des hommes et la gloire decernPe par l'avenir reconnaissant; mais il nous a semble qu'il conve- 
 nait mieux de traiter la question froidement et militairement. Nous avons pensii que, pour faire 
 comprendre quels services 1'auteur de la Marseillaise , Rouget de Lisle , brave et digne officier, a 
 rendus a la patrie, il suffirait de citer le jugement qu'en porte un auteur, estime con^me ecrivain mili- 
 taire, et qu'on n'accusera sans doute jamais d'enthousiasme et de poesie, 
 
 « 11 ne sera pas hors de propos de rappeler, » dit Jomini, « que, vers cette epoque (la fin de 1792), 
 n parurent Vhymne celebre des Marscillais et le Clianl du Depart. Les generations a venir s'eton- 
 « ueront de voir des chansons iigurer au nombre des causes de succes militaires; mais il n'en demeure 
 ■i pas moins avere que cos couplets, pleins d'cnergie et de palriotisme, accompagnes de la musique la 
 n plus martiale, animerent une jeunesse ardente, contribuerent a faciliter les levees, enflammerent le 
 ii courage des soldats et leur firent soutenir les privations avec aulant de gaite qu'ils affronlaient les 
 « dangeis. Nous sommes loin d'applaudir aux expressions outrees de ces hymnes contre des despotes 
 •i qui n'elaient la plupart que de bons princes ; nous les considerons uniquement ici comme moyens 
 ii d'enthousiasme, et, sous ce rapport, elles meritent d'autant plus de rester comme un monument 
 « d'hisloire nationale, que la premiere etait l'ouvrage d'un officier d'artillerie nomme Rouget de Lisle. 
 i' Napoleon les comptait encore, en 1806, comme de puissants mobiles propres a exciter l'energie des 
 « troupes, car des ordres furent donnes de les jouer aux parades de Berlin. » 
 
 (France Mililaire. ) 
 
 Nota. La date est mal donnee par Jomini, vu que la Marseillaise etait composee au plus tard dans 
 le mois d'avril 1792, tandis que le Chant du Depart n'apparut qu'en 1793. 
 
 S. P. 
 
 NOTICE DES « I'EINES 1NFAMANTES. » 
 
 En plus de la torture et de la roue , qui , a cause de leur souffi ance terrible , n'avaient lieu que ra- 
 rement , quelques-uns des modes de punitiqn , maintenant rejetes en France , etaient la pendaison 
 par les bras et par le cou , la mutilation avant la mort pour les cas de parricide , le fouet et la marque 
 avec des fers rouges, etc. , etc. Ce grand pays (disons-le a son eternel honneur) a donne l'exemple de 
 1'liumanite dans son Code penal. Partout oil il est possible de le faire , on evite scrupuleusement de 
 
 * ii Chants de guerre des anciens Allemands. » ( Diclionnaire de VAcademie.) 
 Tacite confirme en son livre , « De Moribus Germanorum. » 
 
 ii Ilvri in praslia canunl. Sunt el illis hwc quoque carmina, quorum relatu, quern baritum vocant, 
 « accendunt animos, futarmque pugnce fortunam ipso canlu augurantur. » 
 
 ii Festus : Bardus gallice Cantor appellatur , qui virorum forlium laudes canit. Ammien Marcellin, 
 liv. XV, parlant des Gaules : Per huec luca, hominibus paulalim excullis,vigucre studia laudabilium 
 doctrinarum inchoala per Ilardos el Eulruges cl Druidas. Et Bardi quidem fortia virorum illuslrium 
 facia heroicis composita versibus cum dulcibus lurm modulis caniitarunt. Lucain : 
 Vos quoque qui fortes animas belloque peremplas 
 Laudibus in longum vales demiltilis wvum, 
 Plurima seeuri fudislis carmina Bardi. » 
 
 (Diclionnaire Etymologique de la langue francaise. ) 
 
— 77 — 
 
 MILITARY NOTICE OF (C L.V MARSEILLAISE. » 
 
 « For the better illustration of the influence , which our war-songs , and more especially La Mar- 
 seillaise, had upon our earlier triumphs, we could have cited, in this place, the hymns of Tyrtaeus and 
 of Ossian , the " bardis of the ancient Scaldes , the rhymes of Roland and the ballads of the Cid ,— all 
 that martial and poetic literature, in short, which , by its lofty tone and the guerdon which it promises , 
 reminds, at least, those heroic spirits, who perish for their country, that the memory of man shall be 
 their immortality, and the gratitude of posterity their fame , — this , we repeat , we could have done , 
 but we have deemed it more advisable to treat the question in a cold and military way. In showing 
 the essential services , rendered to his native land by Rouget de Lisle , a good and gallant officer, and 
 author of La Marseillaise , we have reckoned it sufficient to quote the judgment of a writer, of ac- 
 knowledged weight in military matters , and who will never be accused of poetical enthusiasm. 
 
 •i Now we are on the subject , « says Jomini , » let us recollect , that , about this time , appeared the 
 
 celebrated hymns of La Marseillaise and Le Clianl du Depart. Future generations will read with 
 
 wonder, that songs, like these, should have had to do with the triumphs of the field; nevertheless, it 
 
 is an historic fact , that the stanzas in question — full of energy and patriotism as they are , accompanied , 
 
 too, by music of the most martial character, — assisted to recruit the armies of France, inflamed the courage 
 
 of her soldiers, and led them to affront, with equal gaiety, the privations of the camp and the perils of 
 
 the light. Far from approving of the diatribes, contained in these hymns, against « despots, » who, 
 
 for the most part , were worthy sovereigns , we will simply look upon them as media of enthusiasm , 
 
 and, in that light, they are all the more worthy of standing as monuments of national history, since the 
 
 former was composed by an officer of French artillery, whose name was Rouget do Lisle. Napoleon , 
 
 even in 1806, accounted them as powerful stimuli to the troops, seeing that he bade them to be played 
 
 in the barracks of Berlin. » 
 
 f France Militaire. ) 
 
 Nota. Jomini is incorrect in his dates , La Marseillaise having been composed , at the very latest , 
 in the month of April, 1792, while Le Chant du Depart only appeared in 1793. 
 
 S. I>. 
 
 NOTICE OF THE xi PEINES INFAMANTES. » 
 
 In addition to the torture and the wheel , which , from their excruciating character, were naturally 
 of rare occurrence, some of the exploded forms of punishment in France were, hanging by the arms and 
 neck, mutilation before death in cases of parricide, flogging and branding with red-hot irons, etc. etc. 
 That great country ( to its eternal honour be it said ! ) has , in its penal code , set us the example of 
 humanity. Wherever possible , blood-shed , even by the guillotine , is scrupulously avoided , and 
 
 * «The war-songs of the ancient Germans. » ( Diclionnaire de I' Academic, j 
 Confirmed by Tacitus in his « De Moribus Germanorum. » 
 
 « Hurt in praelia canunt. Sunt el illis licec quoque carmina, quorum retain, quern baritum vacant, 
 « accendunt animos , fulurwquc pugmB forlunam ipso cantu auguranlur. » 
 
 « Feslus : Bardus gallicc Cantor appellator, qui rirorum forlium laudes canit. Ammien Marcellin, 
 liv. XV, parlant des Gaules : Per hac loca, hominibus paulatim excultis, viguere sludia laudabilium 
 floctrinarum inchoala per Bardos el Iiutrages el Druidas. El Bardi quidem fortia virorum iliuslrium 
 lacla heroicis composila versibus cum dulcibus hjra; modulis canlitarunl. Lncain : 
 Vos quoque qui fortes animas beltoque pcremplas 
 Laudibtu in longum vales dcmillilis aivum, 
 Plurima securi fudislis carmina Bardi. 
 
 ( Diclionnaire Etymologique de la languc francaise. ) 
 
— 78 — 
 
 repandre le sang , meme par la guillotine , et Ton cherche et Ton trouve « des circonstances attenuantes » 
 avec une ingenuite vraiment anti-homicide. Qui croirait jamais que ce meme peuple eut fait * la Ioi 
 de 1852 et eftt vu l'insurrection de 1848 Til Telles sout, helas! les inconsequences deplorables de la 
 nature buuiaine ! 
 
 S. P. 
 
 * « La loi de 1832 a justement aboli la peine de mort dans le cas [ou la vie des personnes ne peut 
 pas etre compromise. 
 
 « La meme loi a supprime la mutilation , qui precedait , dans le Code penal de 1810 , la mort du 
 parricide, a La justice, qui elablil des punilions , et la justice sociale , qui veut des exemples, sont 
 « igalement salisfailes (aditBerlier) quand le coupable meurl. Tout ce qui est au-dela est cruaule, 
 
 e Uend a inspirer, au lieu de Vhorreur, de la pitie. » 
 
 ( Dictionnaire general et raisonne de Legislation. ) 
 
 Pour la notice ci-dessus de la carmagnole , puisee , a ce qu'il parait , a plus d'une source , je suis 
 redevable a la bienveillance personnelle et aux recherches sayantes de M. le Conservateur du Musee 
 
 de Dinan et proprietaire d'une tres-belle bibliothfeque Que j'exprime , en meme temps, mes 
 
 remercimens a plusieurs Messieurs Frangais pour les services litteraires qu'ils m'ont rendus d'une 
 
 manifere si aimable, en me pretant, a differentes reprises, des livres de renvoi, etc 
 
 S. P. 
 
 
 
 
— 79 — 
 
 • eitenuating circumstances » are sought and found witli a most anti-homicidal ingenuity! Who would 
 ever think , that one and the same people should have framed * the law of 1832 and seen the insurrection 
 of 1848 ??? Such alas ! are the mournful inconsistencies of human nature! 
 
 S. P. 
 
 • « The law of 1832 has justly abolished the punishment of death wherever the life of individuals is 
 not concerned. » 
 
 « The same law has suppressed the mutilation, which, in the penal code of 1810, preceded the 
 death of a parricide. « The justice, which enacts punishments, and the social justice, which requires 
 -■ examples, are equally satisfied » (says Berlier) « when the criminal is put to death. All beyond is 
 x cruelly, and tends to inspire commiseration for the criminal instead of horror at the crime, u 
 
 ( Dictionnaire general et raisonne de Legislation. ) 
 
 DINAN. — PRINTED BY J.-B. HUART. — 1851. 
 

 
 
 
BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, A. M. 
 
 Al'THOK OF 
 
 333 2j<a^ ©5" ^?S23 a^QLli, 
 
 *N§f<*— 
 
 Here again , here again , on my wonderful wing 
 Am I back at the earliest call of the spring 
 From the land of the now insupportable sun , 
 Where the minishing rivers all torridly run , 
 And the crocodile quits his untenable bed 
 And repairs to the rushes for shelter and shade , 
 And the lord of the planets is blindingly bright , 
 As he shoots from the zenith his arrows of light , 
 
 And the verdure is found 
 
 Of the hue of the ground , 
 
 And is pallid and dry 
 
 With the scorch of the sky, 
 
— 2 — 
 
 And the locust alone has the power to greet 
 With his chirrup the noon of the withering heat, 
 — It is there, that again 
 In that sweltering time , 
 To relraverse the main 
 And revisit the clime 
 Of the temperate breeze 
 And the burgeoning trees , 
 By the thousand we meet , an untellable fleet , 
 And lo ! at the dawn 
 Of the morrow are gone , 
 And are sailing together 
 The ocean of ether, 
 While, far and far and far below, 
 The racing chasing billows go, 
 Even as we 
 In wild delight 
 Pursue our flight 
 By day and night 
 Over the sea , 
 Over the sea , 
 Over and over and over the sea , 
 With never a slay 
 By night or by day 
 Till the voyage is done 
 And the haven is won, 
 But on , on , on , on , 
 Even as I , 
 Or low or high , 
 For food or play 
 Am borne away 
 
— 3 — 
 
 Flash , dash , 
 
 Dash , flash , 
 
 Away, away, away, away, 
 
 Away, away, away and away, 
 
 And away and away and away and away! — 
 
 Here again , here again , on my wonderful wing 
 Am I back at the earliest blush of the spring , 
 -Of the glorious spring at the earliest blush , 
 And the earliest pipe of the ousel and thrush , 
 And the earliest fall of the delicate shower, 
 And the earliest leaf of the emerald bower, 
 And the earliest scent of the earliest flower 
 In the earliest hedge , where the violets peep , 
 And the earliest roses are waking from sleep , 
 
 Or with rapture are seen 
 
 To beyellow the green 
 By the earliest girls, that are hunting the steep, 
 
 The while in the air 
 
 I dazzle 'em there , 
 As about and about and about 'em I sweep 
 
 For food or play, 
 Round , round , 
 Round , round , 
 
 Or chevying go 
 
 In the valley below 
 
 Hither and thither, 
 
 Hither and thither, 
 
 Then dart away 
 
 In joyous mood 
 
 For play or food , 
 
Flash , clash , 
 
 Dash , flash , 
 
 Away, away, away, away, 
 
 Away, away, away and away, 
 
 And away and away and away and away ! — 
 
 Here again, here again, — but no more can I say, 
 For lo ! in pursuit of my wind-driven prey , 
 I am borne on my emulous pinions away! — 
 
 Here again , here again , on my wonderful wing 
 Am I back at the earliest blush of the spring, 
 -Of the glorious spring al the earliest blush, 
 From its earliest tint to the summery flush , — 
 From the blossomy snow of the wild cherry-tree 
 To the bloom of the beech and the hum of the bee, — 
 From the down of the willow , the bud of the thorn , 
 And the blade, of the barley, a-drip at the morn, 
 To the poppy, that glows in the flourishing corn, 
 Where the numerous hatch of the partridge is born , 
 — At the prime of the year 
 
 In this fortunate sphere , 
 
 Where the daffodils spring 
 
 And the mavises sing , 
 
 At the birth of the leaves 
 
 To my home in the eaves 
 
 Attracted again 
 
 From over the main , 
 
 In the love to rejoice 
 
 Of the bird of my choice , 
 
 And , the brooding begun , 
 
Till the setting is done , 
 With my solace to cheer 
 My affectionate dear, 
 I am here , I am here , — 
 With the gentle and fond 
 By the annual pond , 
 The emotion to share 
 Of the faithful and fair, 
 I am here , I am here , 
 As our darlings we rear 
 And induce 'em to fly 
 In the fields of the sky 
 And to follow us soon 
 In the azure of June 
 
 Up in the air, 
 
 Up in the air, 
 Up , up, up in the air, 
 
 Or chevying go 
 
 In the valley below 
 
 Hither and thither, 
 
 Hither and thither, 
 
 Then dart away 
 
 In joyous mood 
 
 For play or food 
 
 Flash, dash, 
 
 Dash, flash, 
 
 Away, away, away, away, 
 
 Away, away, away and away, 
 
 And away and away and away and away !- 
 
 See! see! 
 A dozen we be , 
 
— 6 — 
 
 Flying a race with unspeakable speed , 
 
 A moment are here, 
 
 And then disappear, 
 Flashes of vanishing lightning indeed ! — 
 
 Here again , here again , on my wonderful wing 
 Am I back at the earliest call of the spring , 
 -Of the glorious spring at the earliest call 
 Through the summer to sojourn right on to the fall , 
 When the leaves of the forest come silently down 
 With their touching gradations of yellow and brown 
 And bescatter the pool , or as sadly bestrew 
 The unvisited turf, that is dabbled with dew, 
 
 As they passively drop , 
 
 A deciduous crop , 
 
 Or are loos'd by the breeze 
 
 From the desolate trees, 
 
 That the cold earth may bury 'em , 
 
 Cover and bury 'em 
 Ever from sight, 
 Gone , gone , 
 Gone, gone, 
 
 Like the mention of man , 
 
 When he's finish'd his span 
 
 And his body descends 
 
 Where his memory ends 
 
 With the hopes of his heart , 
 
 And the dreams , that depart 
 
 On their fugitive wing, 
 
 Like the swallows o' spring, 
 
 When the autumn is come 
 
And the linnet is dumb , 
 And the herbage is pale 
 With the rime in the vale, 
 And a million we be, 
 That bedarken together 
 The ocean of ether, 
 ( Like the spoil of the trees 
 At the ravaging breeze , ) 
 As together we meet, 
 An aerial fleet, 
 For our southerly flight 
 By day and by night, 
 Over the sea , 
 Over the sea, 
 Over and over and over the sea, 
 With never a stay 
 By night or by day 
 Till the voyage is done 
 And the haven is won, 
 But on , on , on , on , 
 Even as I, 
 Or low or high , 
 For food or play 
 Am borne away 
 Flash , dash , 
 Dash, flash, 
 Away, away, away, away, 
 Away, away, away and away, 
 And away and away and away and away!— 
 
 Here again, here again, on my wonderful wing 
 Am I back at the earliest smile of the spring, 
 
-Of the glorious spring at the earliest smile , 
 When my coming can sickness and sorrow beguile 
 Of the weight , that the winter but heavier made 
 With its spiritless hours of dispiriting shade , 
 For the usher am I 
 
 Of a sunnier mood , 
 Of the song in the sky 
 
 And the song in the wood, 
 Of the lark and the lay 
 At the close of the day, 
 And the pigeon , that coos 
 
 Where the zephyr's a-sleeping , 
 And the robin , that woos 
 
 Where the willow's a-weeping 
 With his warble of love 
 In the depth of the grove , 
 — Yes , yes , 
 A vision to bless 
 The eye of disease 
 And the soul ill at ease , 
 When the winter is fled 
 And my pinions are spread 
 And so gaily deploy 
 In the regions of joy 
 Up in the air, 
 Up in the air, 
 Up, up, up in the air, 
 The usher am I 
 
 Of a sunnier mood , 
 Of the song in the sky 
 And the song in the wood , 
 
Of the lark and the lay 
 At the close of the day, 
 And the pigeon , that cooes 
 
 Where the zephyr's a-sleeping, 
 And the robin , that wooes 
 
 Where the willow's a-weeping 
 With his warble of love 
 In the depth of the grove, 
 For neither, I ween , on the morrow is dumb , 
 When the spring is awake and the swallow is come , 
 —Yes, yes, 
 A vision to bless , 
 ( The winter at last 
 Evanish'd and past , ) 
 I am here , I am here , 
 The desponding to cheer, 
 And to show, as I fly 
 In the radiant sky, 
 How the soul shall ascend 
 Of the righteous and blend 
 (When he turns to the dust) 
 With the souls of the just 
 And higher and higher, 
 Higher and higher, 
 In happy spheres, 
 Devoid of tears 
 And sorrow- free 
 As angels be, 
 Looking down on Death's dominion t 
 With its own eternal pinion 
 Soar away 
 To endless dav 
 
— 10 — 
 
 Where what mortals seraphs call , 
 With their shining raiment on , 
 Round about his awful throne, 
 Glorify the God of all , 
 Higher, higher, higher far 
 Than the highest swallows are 
 On the most exulting wing 
 In the most enchanting spring 
 
 Or in the prime 
 
 Of summer time , 
 
 When I and they, 
 
 We melt away 
 ( As now I do ) 
 
 From human view , 
 Away, away, away, away! 
 
 DINAN. — PRIMED BY J.-B. HUART. — 1S51. 
 
The author of the following little poem, when a resident of Sandling, near Maidstone. 
 in Kent, had his attention directed to « The Storm-Thrush » by an enthusiastic neighbour, 
 who avowedly preferred it to any other songster of the wood. The former, soon afterwards, 
 had an excellent opportunity of judging for himself. A thunder-storm was brewing up, 
 and one bird in particular — the missel-thrush, as it turned out, — took an evident 
 delight in communicating the; fact. He was perched , in the middle of a shrubbery, on 
 the top of a solitary elm , where his note , wild to an excess , kept measure with the 
 tempest , which , though of short duration , was extremely violent. At the height of 
 it, the bird, whose song, by the way,— rapid , loud , and clear, — was almost a continuous 
 pipe of « tipsy mirth and jollity, » was spreading out his wings and shaking them with 
 great energy. Perhaps it was a natural motion, occasioned by the rocking of the tree, 
 and adopted for the purpose of a poise. During « the dreadful pother o'er our heads, » 
 Jie was really and truly the sole performer, the blackbird and the common thrush , 
 (barometers both,) that had helped him to announce it, being non inventi for the time. 
 In proportion as the weather slackened , so did his note become ( to use the expression ) 
 more and more rational : when the hubbub was completely finished . he flew to the 
 ground, and commenced a vigorous attack upon the worms. Altogether, it was, in 
 its way, an exciting spectacle. The happy little fellow was plainly in his element, and 
 
 he sang as if he knew it : hence the title of the lines The description of the 
 
 landskip and the storm , as given below , is , be it said , a general and not a local 
 one : the spot, where the author stood, commanded but a very narrow view. As to 
 a certain passage in his poem , 
 
 « I can tell by the west, 
 
 « Which , as wild as can be , 
 « Is a-working like yest 
 
 « Or the spume of the sea, » 
 
 it was his good fortune to behold , some years back , that uncommon , though not 
 unique, action of the sky from a shed of La Coninais farm, near Dinan, where he 
 had taken timely shelter from about the very fiercest storm , which he has ever been 
 a witness to , aye, even on the Jura or the Alps. The clouds, of a bright copper colour, 
 were in such a state of agitation and ferment , as not only to authorize the homely 
 simile employed, but to dazzle and to pain the eye. The scene, which followed, was 
 precisely what the introduction promised , — « an unco and an awfu sight I » 
 
Gilbert White says, tliat, in Hampshire and in Sussex, the missel-thrush is called the storm-cock, because 
 its song is supposed to forebode windy, wet weather. In Kent, as has been just stated, it is known as the 
 storm-thrush. It is the largest of our singing birds, far exceeding the common thrush , which , however, it 
 much resembles in the general style of the plumage, but it is of a more decided brown on the upper parts. 
 The mavis, again, — as the author learned, some time back, from a peasant in the beautiful vicinity of Gueroe, 
 on the Ranee, — is another variation of the genus... For the benefit of the local reader be it added, that the 
 missel-thrush of England is la Iroie or la traie of Upper Brittany, and thereby hangs a pleasant anecdote. At 
 an early period of La Grande Revolution , a worthy patriot , owner of a fine sonorous voice , was , -it 
 appears, in the G-o'-cloek-a.-m. habit of singing La Marseillaise on one of the public walks of his native 
 town. An elderly female hard by, who cared more about her morning snooze than about all the republican 
 principles then afloat, which, as it would seem by the context, she considered to bode no good, is reported, 
 on one occasion , to have popped her head , « all accoutred as it was, » out of her chamber- window, and to 
 have cried in a shrill key : « Yoila la Iroie qui cliante! » anil then she popped it in again. 
 
 ' The etymology (if such indeed there be) of the word Iroie or traie ( for the spelling of it is guess-work 
 too) is purely hypothetical. Perhaps the noun is a corrupted abbreviation of the Breton, draskl, (throstle?); 
 perhaps it owes its patois origin to the cry of crrrrre, grrrre, trrre , Ire , tre , Ire , uttered by the missel- 
 thrush, when angry or alarmed, to the which sound the illustrious Buffon and the compilers of « L'Hisloire 
 •' Naturelle » seem disposed to trace the appellation of draine, as bestowed upon the bird in the province of 
 La Bourgogne. But , be that as it may, of the identity there cannot be a question, since both the Breton and 
 the French dictionaries interpret the respective names of draskl and of draine by grosse grive , id est, large 
 thrush, while, for la Iroie or la traie, the anecdote above, — looking at the political horizon in 1792 and the 
 tempest of events at hand ,— clearly proves it to be the storm-cock ( synonomous with the large or missel or 
 storm thrush) of Hampshire , Sussex , and elsewhere. 
 
 (For the Armorican part of Hie above note 1 am indebted to the very obliging researches of M'Leeourt do 
 la Villclhassetz. ) 
 
C ?a;o MfiB gBffl g j : 
 
 ..»:■ 
 
 a^iSKesS?e!S^3s8sKi»syBS»iSSai 
 
 
 .£0@3L 
 
 .«£•■- 
 ©£ 
 
 -WtiSlo- 
 
 The rain , the rain , 
 The summer rain , 
 I want the rain 
 To fall again 
 So fast and warm , 
 And I want the slorm 
 And the thunder-show'r 
 And my jovial hour, 
 So I'll whistle 'em up, 
 Whistle 'em up, 
 Whistle and whistle and whistle 'em up. 
 
 Tirri-whit , tirri-whit , 
 
 Tirri-whit, tirri-whit, 
 
 Ti-whit , li-whit , 
 
 Ti-whit, ti-whit, 
 
 Tirriwhit. tirriwhit , tirriwhit, lirriwhit. 
 
 Of all the blowing winds that be , 
 The humid south 's the wind for me , 
 The humid soulh , that ends the drouth 
 
 And bids the rain 
 
 To fall again 
 
So fast and warm , 
 And that brings the storm 
 And the thunder- show'r 
 And my jovial hour, 
 So I'll whistle it up , 
 Whistle it up , 
 Whistle and whistle and whistle it up. 
 
 Tirri-whit , tirri-whit , 
 
 Tirri-whit, tirri-whit, 
 
 Ti-whit , ti-whit , 
 
 Ti-whit, ti-whit, 
 
 Tirriwhit , tirriwhit , tirriwhit , tirriwhit. 
 
 The rain is a-coming! the rain is a-coniing ! 
 By the feel of the air, 
 
 That is heavy around , — 
 By the look of the glare 
 
 That 's so gay on the ground , — 
 By the shadows, that drift 
 
 On the mirroring mere , — 
 By the swallow and swift , 
 
 That are flying so near 
 To its beautiful glass 
 Or are skimming the grass 
 Where the cattle are laid 
 In the willowy shade , — 
 By the gleam of the church , 
 
 That is showing as white 
 As the bark of the birch 
 
 On the opposite height , — 
 By the patches o' cloud , — 
 
— 5 — 
 
 By the bend o' the rush , — 
 By the mavis as loud 
 
 As my cousin the thrush , — 
 By the ripples , that break 
 The repose of the lake , — 
 By its bosom that heaves , — 
 By the silvery leaves 
 Of the aspens , that quiver 
 More unquiet than ever, — 
 By the wandering sigh 
 In the sycamore nigh , — 
 By the visible stir 
 On the top of the fir, — 
 The rain is a-ooming! the rain is a-coming! 
 
 The clouds , the clouds , 
 The sailing clouds, 
 I want the clouds, 
 The meeting clouds, 
 To fall again 
 In summer rain 
 So fast and warm , 
 And I want the storm 
 And the thunder-show'r 
 And my jovial hour, 
 So I'll whistle 'em up, 
 Whislle 'em up, 
 Whistle and whislle and whislle 'em up. 
 
 Tirri-wb.it , tirri-whit , 
 Tirri-whit , tirri-whit , 
 
Ti-whit, ti-whit, 
 
 Ti-whit, ti-whit, 
 
 Tirriwhit, tirriwhit, tirriwhit , tirriwhit. 
 
 The rain is a-coming ! the rain is a-coming 
 I can tell by the air, 
 
 That 's a furnace around , — 
 I can tell by the glare , 
 
 That becoppers the ground , — 
 I can tell by the west, 
 
 That , as wild as can be , 
 Is a-work'mg like yest 
 
 Or the spume of the sea , — 
 I can tell by the herd , 
 
 That is seeking the shed , — 
 I can tell by the bird , 
 
 That is hiding her head, — 
 I can tell by the shaw, 
 
 That is songless below, — 
 I can tell by the caw 
 
 Of the fugitive crow, — 
 I can tell by the breeze, 
 
 That is sweeping the plain , — 
 I can tell by the trees, 
 
 That are swinging amain, 
 Swinging and shining, 
 Swinging and shining, 
 With a noise and a motion, 
 
 In the weltering wood , 
 Like the turbulent ocean 
 
 At the full of the flood ,— 
 
I can tell, I can tell 
 By the boughs , that are torn 
 
 From the oak in the vale 
 And are whirlingly borne 
 
 By the force of the gale , — 
 
 I can tell , I can tell , 
 Now I 'm piping alone , 
 (For the mavis is gone, 
 And the ousel 's as hush 
 As my cousin the thrush , ) 
 The rain is a-coming! the rain is a-coming! 
 
 The clouds! the clouds! 
 
 The sable clouds ! 
 
 The clouds are all 
 
 Like a funeral-pall ! 
 But hark ! hark ! 
 
 The clash! the flash! 
 
 The thunder-crash ! 
 
 The rattle and roll 
 
 From pole to pole ! 
 Again ! again ! again ! again ! 
 
 Clash upon clash , 
 
 Flash upon flash, 
 
 Crash upon crash , 
 The storm has begun and obscur'd the sun 
 With the voluble rack, that is border'd with dun, 
 
 "While the arch of the heaven 
 
 Is momently riven 
 
 By the cleaving light, 
 
 So ghastly bright, 
 So vividly, lividly, jaggedly bright! 
 
8 — 
 
 The rain is a-coming! a-coming ! a-coming 
 
 One ! two ! three ! four ! 
 The first o' the storm 
 And as big and as warm 
 As so many drops of human gore! 
 
 Pl-ash ! in a second the sluices on high , 
 
 'Mid the echoing peal and the luminous play, 
 Are discharging the liquid contents of the sky 
 
 On the growth o' the fields, that was waning away, 
 And are pouring and hissing and pattering down 
 On the cot and the crib and the neighbouring town , 
 Which the glittering vapour is glimmering through 
 To enhance the effect of the pluvious view !— 
 
 Not a king in his cups, when the cares of his realm 
 
 He aside with the trappings o' majesty throws , 
 Is as happy as I on the top of the elm , 
 When the torrent descends and the hurricane blows, 
 And the shock and the shine 
 
 Of the bellowing cloud , 
 And the bandying pine , 
 
 That 's so lofty and loud , 
 And the cedar as tall 
 
 As the huge sycamore , 
 And the tree of them all , 
 
 Tbat 's so aged and hoar, 
 And the willow that grieves, 
 And the beech and the fir, 
 And the poplar, whose leaves 
 Are for ever astir, 
 
And the linden , that towers 
 
 Willi its odorous flowers, 
 
 And the numerous rest , 
 
 That I pass unexprest, 
 Whether heard or beheld in the welkin or wood , 
 May be surely compar'd to the full o' the flood , 
 
 When the leap and the flash 
 And the burst and the roar 
 
 Are condens'd in the dash 
 Of the wave on the shore; 
 
 And this is the rain , 
 The summer rain, 
 So fast and warm , 
 And this is the storm 
 And the thunder-show'r 
 And the jovial hour 
 Of the missel-thrush , 
 
 The jolly thrush , 
 
 That pipes alone , 
 
 All all alone, 
 At the pelt of the summer storm ! 
 And its now that I sing 
 Like a revelling king , 
 Who 's divested awhile of the cares of his realm , 
 As I rapidly swing 
 With my balancing wing 
 On the toss-about top of my favorite elm : 
 
 Let the orient sun be the theme of the lark , 
 Let the linnet rejoice in the coppice at noon , — 
 
 Let the nightingale wake at the fall of the dark 
 To renew her lament to the silvery moon , — 
 
— 10 — 
 
 Let llic finch woo his love on the resonant spray 
 
 Where the buzz of the fly and the hum of the bee 
 Are aitesting the lure of the roseate May 
 
 Or the broom , that so yellowly borders the lea , — 
 In their home of the while , in their summer sojourn , 
 
 Let the robin discourse to his beautiful bride, 
 And the soft-bosom'd turtle as tenderly turn 
 
 And respond to the murmuring thing at his side , — 
 Let the hues of the morn, the meridian glow, 
 
 Let the purple of eve and the shades of the night , 
 When Diana illumines the river below, 
 
 Be a matter to them of respective delight , 
 But to vie, — but to v^e, — why, no pleasure I find 
 
 In the zephyry azure, that colours the air, 
 To compete with the charm of the cloud and the wind, 
 
 Which engender the torrent and hurricane there. 
 Let the season of calm be the season of bliss 
 
 Unto such, as the war of the elements fear, 
 But the season for me, it this, — it is this, — 
 
 And my time, it is now, and my joy, it is here! 
 As the sailor exults, at the head of the mast, 
 
 In the loud and tempestuous toss of the sea , 
 So a rapture I reap from the breath of the blast , 
 
 As I swing on the top of my favorite tree. 
 
 To each creature its duty, and mine, it would seem, 
 
 When the ousel himself for the moment is mute , 
 Is to tell of the might and the mercy of him , 
 
 Who hath furnish 'd the earth with its various fruit. 
 Then , ye thunders ! roll on , — ye ! the voice of the Lord 
 
 Who commandeth the clouds to give drink to the dry, 
 To replenish the springs and refreshen the sward 
 
 And the grain , that would otherwise wither and die. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 And, ye lightnings! whose fire is the glance of his eye, 
 
 Flash, flash on the world, that halh need of the sight, 
 To remind it of one, who for ever is nigh, 
 
 In (he sun and the storm, in the day and the night; 
 Who can care for the eagle and care for the wren, 
 
 For the nest in the rock and the young in the bush , 
 And can think , in the food-failing drouth-smitten glen , 
 
 Of the innocent hatch of the wild missel-thrush ! 
 
 But the iris is out, and the landskip again 
 
 Is begilt with the glorious planet of day, 
 And the cattle are quitting the shed for the plain , 
 
 Where the vapour is rolling in volumes away, 
 And the verdure around is as gemmy and bright 
 
 As the diadem 'd brow of a glittering queen , 
 And the vista, exhaling before me, is dight 
 
 With the richest of purple and richest o' green. 
 Yes, the tempest is o'er, and the tongues of the wood, 
 
 That the transient while of its fury were mule , 
 Are combining to tell of The Great and The Good , 
 
 Who hath furnish 'd the earth with its various fruit, 
 He, whose voice is the peal, and the glance of whose eye 
 
 Is the lire , that is fraught with ineffable light 
 To remind us of one , that for ever is nigh , 
 
 In the sun and the storm , in the day and the night ; 
 Who can care for the eagle and care for the wren , 
 
 For the nest in the rock and the young in the bush , 
 And can think, in the food-failing drouth-smitten glen, 
 
 Of the innocent hatch of the wild missel-thrush ! 
 
 DINAH. — P1UNTED BY J.-E. UUAf.T. — 1S51. 
 
:m n ^©m© 
 
 — <o- 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PREMTSS, A. M. 
 
 A IT II OR OF 
 
 TiNTERN; STONEHENGE; THE ROCKS OF PENMARCTI ; LE GRAND-BEY, OR THE TOMB Of 
 CHATEAUBRIAND; SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH; etc., ete. 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 JD22J&SJ. 
 
 Itfi'.'JU 
 
m mimmmm. 
 

 « Farewell Life ! my senses swim , 
 « And the world is growing dim : 
 « Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
 « Like the advent of the night — 
 « Colder, colder, colder still , 
 « Upward steals a vapour chill ; 
 k Strong the earthy odour grows — 
 « I smell the mould above the rose! 
 
 « Welcome Life ! the Spirit strives ! 
 « Strength returns and hope revives; 
 « Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
 « Fly like shadows at the mora, — 
 « O'er the earth there comes a bloom. 
 <i Sunny light for sullen gloom , 
 « Warm perfume for vapour cold — 
 « I smell the rose above the mould! » 
 
 Hoo». 
 
 
After having cited the two stanzas above, — expressive (as they surely may be 
 deemed) of earthly despondence and spiritual hope, — the author of the following 
 meditations trusts to be excused, if, instead of dwelling on the soul and the 
 awful considerations connected therewith, he has passed them over in comparative 
 silence, leaving their mysterious and sacred nature to the reader's own suggestive 
 thought. Besides, was he at liberty to write a sermon? in the first place, he 
 is a layman ; in the second , his little work was to be offered to many Roman 
 Catholic friends and acquaintances ; in the third , his fellow-Protestants of the 
 place , in the person of the Reverend M r Oxenham , have a minister of The 
 Church of England, on whose province neither policy nor courtesy would allow 
 him to encroach. The employment of our time below, as the sequel will prove, 
 constitutes the substance of his serious remarks, the occasional severity of which , 
 where not of general application, is directed against himself. Few individuals, 
 indeed , have enjoyed better opportunities of improving their advantages , and 
 fewer still , he blushes to confess , can have thrown them so wantonly away. 
 
Another death! another burial! another sad provocative of thought! To-day, 
 in all probability, will be carried to his mortal home a dear and venerable friend , 
 who, as I have learnt with unfeigned grief, finished his career on Sunday last. 
 The circle shrinks apace. The recent dissolutions, so many in so short a time, 
 have clouded, as it were, my spirits and my heart. A gloom oppresses me, 
 which, though not insensible to distraction, is (like suffering, beguiled by sleep,) 
 a dormant trouble at the best. Partly with the hope of writing it away, partly 
 with the aim of saying something useful, partly with the wish of showing H. W. 
 that the keeping of my promise to his young, unmothered children (my small 
 petitioners) has only been retarded, not forgotten, — with these concurring motives, 
 I say, have I chosen this melancholy spot, scattered, as it is, with the aiding 
 tokens of mortality, to muse upon our common end. But the reader of these 
 reflections must count on nothing new. The Sabbath theme of every land, dilated 
 on in every literature, by the Herveys and the Blairs of every tongue, multiplied 
 in poetry and prose , the subject is elaborately trite. Death , moreover, as a 
 stern and practical reality, — a matter to perpend, a bereavement to lament, a 
 penalty to undergo, — death, the universal and the sure, is forced on every mind, 
 — the thought, the grief, the destiny of all. Well, to vie at least, the constant 
 repetition and redundant treatment of the topic argue the importance of it , and 
 the very fact of its being handled, from the earnest feelings in his breast, by a 
 layman and an idler, as is now the case, may add, perhaps, to its impressive 
 character, and render it more solemn still. 
 
 Though Death, the son of Sin, is ubiquitous on earth, the cemetary is his stated 
 home. Behold the proof! «Si monumentum quarts, circumspice ! » The many 
 heaving turfs, — the many wooden crosses, — the many lettered slabs, — the many 
 graven tombs,— the many holy texts, and summons to repentance, and calls for 
 interceding prayers,— the Crucifix ,— the, symbols of the charnel-house. — the signs 
 
— 2 — 
 
 of the below, the grass so flourishingly long, the weeds so vigourously green, — the 
 mimic garden-plots and tiny garden-beds , yet big enough to mark .( the race of 
 his ambition run) what once was big enough to bury Caesar, — the chaplets, frail 
 memorials of a love, that is mourning for a fate, so soon to be its own!— the 
 sable sorrow , bending at the mound , which it waters with its tears , — the fitting 
 and funereal trees, the juniper and fir, the cypress and the willow, — the ivillow, 
 with its triste dishevelled boughs, — that emblematic thing, which even as ourselves, 
 ( the weeping increments of clay ! ) is gendered by the earth but to shadow and to 
 sadden it, — so quick to reach its prime, so quick to bear the leaf, so quick to 
 shed it to the sod! — scattered, as it is, I say again, with the aiding tokens of 
 mortality, have I fixed upon a church-yard (a fraction of the common soil) to 
 muse upon the common doom. Arrived at a period of existence , when . with 
 more than half a century over the head, a man must look, not for his elders 
 only but for his coevals even (so small the chances of longevity!) to drop around 
 him like the foliage at the fall, what marvel is it, if amid these flowery sepulcres, 
 and going deeper than the surface, I should, both metaphorically and literally, 
 « smell the mould above the rose ? » 
 
 Like the poet on the battle-field , ( the * Zama of the year before ! ) where and 
 when (to use his own words) he saw 
 
 « the spring 
 « Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 « With all her restless birds upon the wing , 
 « And turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring , » 
 
 I, too, at the recurring jubilee of Nature, am standing on « a place of sculls. » 
 The animated air, the silent ground,— the burgeoning above, the mouldering 
 beneath, — the finch upon the fir, the worm upon the clod, — the mason in the 
 vault, the butterflies about, — the widow on her knees, the giddy little pair, who, 
 with the wonted carelessness of childhood , have stolen from her side, and, forgetful 
 of their father's, are playing by a row of early graves, — how striking to the mind, 
 bow touching is all this ! Yet , palpable and painful , of course , as the contrast 
 would be at all times , at present it is doubly so. It was but yesterday I heard 
 he was no more, — my old acquaintance, my old correspondent, my old guest, 
 my old friend. As I opened and perused the letter, which conveyed the afflicting 
 information of his death , the sun of March was shining vividly, and a thrush 
 was singing , loud and clear, with all the joyous vitality of a bird in early spring. 
 The distressing news could not possibly have reached me at a time or in a place, 
 more adapted to enhance the befitting sentiments , or more effectively in keeping 
 
 * The star of Hannibal set at Zama. The lines are from Byron's « Childc Harold, » canto III. 
 
— 3 — 
 with them. Some seven seasons back, with the same sky and at the same hour, 
 had we strolled together on the same spot , and gazed upon the same sight , and 
 listened to the same sound. The never-ending, still-beginning Nature, for which 
 I myself, in my poor degree, «live and move and have my being, » had lost a 
 warm and adequate admirer, who, blind at last to her varied and recurring 
 charms , was « gone hence to be no more seen , » — « turned again to the earth , 
 
 « where all his thoughts have perished ivilh him! » The sun of March, more 
 
 touching than a tomb, — the bird of spring, more melting than a requiem, — I 
 saw the one, — I heard the other, — and my heart was full of grief, and my eyes 
 
 were full of tears But it was not a question of mere private sorrow, — a loss 
 
 confined to family and friends. A virtue had gone out of the intellect of the age : 
 another man of genius was no more. A bright intelligence was quenched. After 
 a presence of ninety years upon the earth, a rare mind — a great talent — a choice 
 and energetic spirit — had vanished from the scene, and was gathered to the past. 
 
 John Landseer was dead 
 
 And here, as not irrelevant to my subject, let grateful friendship be permitted 
 to add a few encomiastic words. Never, to my knowledge , would I use the 
 language of untruth , and , least of all , on consecrated ground. 
 
 The genuine lover and keen appreciator of Nature and of Art , The Father of 
 the Landseers , to an eminent extent , was gifted with a soul to feel , and a tongue 
 to utter what he felt. Surveying or describing the finer works of God or i!an , 
 his heart was all enthusiasm and his speech was all emphasis. « Le feu sacrd » 
 — a the sacred fir en — burnt in him to the last. With a singular activity of body, 
 assisted, no doubt, by his stronger activity of mind, he was « himself » to the 
 closing year of his protracted life , and , like his brother-artist and brother- 
 nonagenarian , Claude Loraine , « ingenti perculsus amore , » would up and out 
 into the fields , to worship with devoted eye , and copy with devoted hand , the 
 glories and the beauties of the heaven and the earth , — the splendour of the morning- 
 burst, the mid-day glitter on a ruined tower, the sunset and the purple-breathing 
 eve. So late as 1851, he visited Stonehenge, to view it by the light of the moon... 
 With a range of intellect, peculiar to himself, his faculties were constantly employed. 
 They never had a holiday, nor knew a relaxation (as we read of the studies of 
 Rousseau) but what was offered by variety. The scope and the diversity were 
 equally astonishing. From a Pyramid of Egypt to a simple cenotaph , — from a 
 history to a fairy-tale, — from an epic to an epigram, — from the velvet of the 
 waving wood to the moss upon the quiet thatch, — from the large and level branches 
 of the cedar to the gadding tendrils and graceful foliage of the vine, the mother 
 of the classic grape, — from the Ocean to a weir, — from the action of the flying 
 surge to the plashing of a water-crushing wheel,— nothing was amiss, nothing was 
 alien to a mind, which, turning to a thousand objects, collected something from 
 
— 4 — 
 
 them all. In common with the bard of Rydal Mount, his philosophy, natural 
 and moral too , 
 
 « Found tongues in trees, hooks in the running brooks, 
 
 « Sermons in stones, and good in everything. » 
 
 With what fervour would he cite from Shakespeare ! with what gusto would he 
 talk of Suckling! with what relish would he laugh at Hood! How fondly would he 
 linger a sprig of jessamine, and pore upon the garden-heath! With regard to 
 his colloquial powers, they were such as might be looked for in such a man. His 
 fancy a mint , his memory a mine , his conversation was a treat indeed ! His 
 very gossip was instructive,— an improving olio of what he « imagined » and what 
 he « remembered » and what he had « remarked. » To crown the charm , his 
 manner and his tone , purely unaffected and native to him both , evinced a con- 
 sciousness of mental power. Certain to excite attention , he was certain to retain , 
 and as certain to reward it. Of him, in short, might equally be said what Johnson 
 said of Burke : « Take up whatever topic yon please, he is always ready to meet 
 ii you. If a man were to go by chance at the same time with him under a shed, 
 k he would say : 'This is an extraordinary man'.»... 
 
 And, as with his abilities, so with his acquaintances : they were first-rate. 
 The elite of the literary, scientific, and artistic world, he knew them all, — every 
 body worth knowing in fact,— and none of them knew anything better worth the 
 knowing than the knowing him. 
 
 And now, the man of many thoughts and many means, of ready tongue and 
 ready pen, the subtle disquisitionist , the close inquirer, the nice observer, the 
 copyist of Nature, the judge of Art, the eloquent companion, the father and the 
 friend,— what is he now?— materially, a thing of unideaed clay,— a soulless shell, 
 — a tenement untenanted ,— a corpse! — immaterially, a portion of the preterit, — a 
 shadow in the land of shades,— a name, — a mention, — a recollection, — a regret,— 
 
 extolled by unresuscitating praise, and wept with unavailing tears! The place 
 
 of his interment alas! can signify nothing to my subject : enough and more, that 
 he is dead and buried, and become a member of that blank community, (myriads 
 on myriads! myriads on myriads!) whose « pitcher is broken at the well , »— the 
 water of whose being is a drought, — for whom the fountain of existence has ceased 
 to flow, and the wheel of life has stopped! Obnoxious to the common law, he 
 has paid the common penalty, and descended to the common tomb. Be it here 
 or be it there, in whatever country of the globe it will, the sure finale is the 
 same : we must die and we must rot. What matters to the ground to what people 
 we belong? it summons us as dust, and as dust we must obey, and to dust 
 we must return. There is no nationality in the grave. Death, the old cosmopolite, 
 might choose for his mortal motto : tequvs et ubique. Man to him is of no race 
 but the human : to him the earth has no geographic lines. Before Babel was, he 
 
is. What careth he for tongues? his silence is a proverb, and his ministers are 
 mute. Corruption has no voice, — the worm has no language, — decay has no 
 utterance. We waste without a sound, and we moulder in a noiseless cell. The 
 elm is taciturn. Our sarcophagi are dumb. 
 
 How hush it is ! how lonely and how hush ! The mourner has departed , the mason 
 has retired, the finch has flitted from the fir. The place is what it should he, — the 
 haunt of silence, solitude, and thought. 
 
 Did the subject allow of a conceit, and were it fitted for an allegory, I might 
 garnish it with figures, and clothe it in a fanciful disguise; but he, that has perused 
 (and who has not?) the Visions of Mirza and of Theodore on Life, will willingly 
 dispense with a Dream upon Death, especially as furnished by a meaner hand. 
 Let us take the latter, then , for what it is , — a stern and palpable reality. « The 
 « moral truth tells better so. » 
 
 In this impassive spot, where, parted by a budding hedge, repose alike the natives 
 of two countries and the followers of two creeds, — in this impassive, melancholy 
 spot, with a grave here and a grave there, with here a tomb and there a tomb, 
 what mournful verities are present to the mind! On the one hand I behold, in 
 spite of demarcations, the neutral ground of all colours and of all faiths; on the 
 other I survey', as I plod upon my human course , the dusty goal where my pilgrimage 
 must end. The transitory travellers of every age, of every soil, of every fond 
 belief, — the past, the present, and the future of my kind,— the forfeiters of Eden, 
 the patriarchs, the first idolators, the mythologists of yore, the many-sected Christians, 
 the"Mahomedans, the pagans of to-day, the sinners and the sufferers and the votaries 
 to come, — their mortal terminus — their bourn — or was or is or will be in the 
 sod : the flesh must finish there. There, at every diurnal round, from the infant 
 of an hour to the full of years, an incalculable sum is added to the list. If we 
 germinate like leaves, like leaves we wither too. Materially speaking, the heir of 
 immortality has no hold on life : the image of his Maker is outlasted by a tree. 
 Created to endure, the oak and elm, for instance, season after season may count 
 upon their annual green , but who is there of vs ( the doubtful verdure of a single 
 spring) can reckon on a single sun? As earthward as the willow, our wanness is 
 'f quicker date. Our strength is for ever on the snap. The slight acacia, fragile 
 as it is, has less caducity than we. A thousand princes perish in the bud. A young 
 and royal mother, in our own recollection, was buried with her babe, — her first- 
 born, — a loving nation's double-blighted hope. Unrecking of their rank, Death 
 
 classed them with his other spoils,— his other withered leaves No sooner is 
 
 the vital spark extinct, than state and station are extinct as well. A king, indeed, 
 still clinging to regality and garmented with pomp , may slumber in a fretted vault , 
 but how shall he escape the fretting worm? Will his velvet wrap him from decay? 
 no! no! the corruptible must undergo corruption, a monarch as the meanest man. 
 
— 6 — 
 
 There is no rule, no sway, no sceptre in the grave but Death's, the grim tyrant, 
 who « reigneth absolute. » 
 
 «When I survey the tombs of the great, » (says Addison) « every emotion of envy 
 « dies in me. » The vanity of mind setting forth the vanity of body, they serve 
 at best — those marble mockeries — to emblazon the effete and magnify the null, 
 while they aggravate the painful, as it were, by dragging a humiliating secret into 
 light, from which the very pauper, who may chance to visit them, in pity turns 
 away. Is there, I ask, a mendicant on earth, that would change his wallet for 
 an effigy? no. To the quick at least, however poor and beset with evils he may 
 be, the living dust is better than the dead. And so with Wealth. Croesus, at 
 the last , for all his silver and his gold , was nothing but a pinch of powdered 
 clay! And so with Avarice, that « layelh up riches and knoweth not ivho shall 
 « gather them. » The greedy is himself a greed : the reptiles covet him. And 
 so with Luxury. There is no Pantheon of the palate— no « supping with Apollo» — 
 in the grave. He , that , in his godded hall , had feasted the future rivals of 
 Pharsalia, became (as they did) a speedy banquet for the worm. A century gone 
 by, and the revelling Lucullus was a modicum of ashes, — the refuse of its maw! 
 And so with Ambition and with Pride, whose edifying lesson was read in Wolsey, 
 when, sick and sad, and stooping to the brothers of a convent, he uttered those 
 pathetic words : 
 
 « An old man, broken with the storms of state, 
 « Is come to lay his weary bones among ye : 
 « Give him a little earth for charity ! » 
 
 And so with Glory, so with Beauty But here, perhaps, insertion may be 
 
 granted to a few lines, extracted from a small poem, called ((Salisbury Cathedral. » 
 They comprise what I would say in prose. 
 
 (Loquitur fwmina.) 
 
 « With eyes unwonted , and unwonted feet , 
 And unaccustom'd heart, that loudly beat, 
 I trod the awful aisles, — the solemn nave, — 
 Whose very silence whisper'd of the grave. 
 
 « In hueless shade, or many-colour'd light, 
 Or dimly visible, or sadly bright, 
 The large recumbent statues of the dead 
 Unnerv'd me so, it border'd upon dread. 
 
« There , coldly effigi'd in rotted stone , 
 His marble coat-o'-mail to atoms gone, 
 Some fritter'd knight ( the moral and the mock 
 Of Glory) lay, a mutilated block, 
 And all his graven titles and his trust 
 To so secure them from oblivion's rust 
 ! Were vain and undecipherable dust. 
 
 « And female beauty, self-adoring thing! 
 In death itself itself still worshipping, 
 Had brib'd , it may be , with a jealous care , 
 The sculptor's hand to raise it even there 
 A lasting image of its fleeting prime, 
 But quite forgot the certain tooth of time, 
 Which, surer than the bone-defeated worm's, 
 To gritty crumbs would fret its chisell'd charms » 
 
 And so with holier and with higher things, — the embodied uses of the spirit 
 and the mind,— with Religion, Virtue, Charity, that, entient no more in the persons 
 of the dead, may, in a certain sense, be looked upon as mingled with the dust, 
 and as good examples irrevocably gone 5 — with Learning and Instruction, which 
 now alas! can nothing learn and nothing teach again;— with Wisdom and with 
 Wit, with Science and with Art, which can neither illumine the below nor yet 
 adorn it ; — and with Genius in fine , that ever choice but often fatal gift , which , 
 like the heir of world-informing Sol,— the brilliant victim of irregulated fire, — * at 
 times is baneful to the world itself ! 
 
 Be the runner of it who it will , the race achieved in more or less of time , 
 with more or less of sorrow as it may, the meta of the course, the sure finale , is 
 the same, — the sod. The flesh must finish there. There — emphatically there — is 
 told the simple story of us all. 
 
 * The most mischievous turn, that superior powers (say a Diderot's) can take, is avowed Infidelity, 
 witness the successful scoffers, who, « in accomplishing their purpose, have unsettled the faith of 
 « thousands; rooted from the minds of the unhappy virtuous all their comfortable assurance of a future 
 « recompence ; have annihilated in the minds of the flagitious all their fears of future punishment ; 
 « have given the reins to the domination of every passion , and thereby contributed to the introduction 
 h of the public insecurity and of the private unhappiness, usually and almost necessarily accompanying 
 « a state of corrupted morals. i/ 
 
 Bishop Watson's « Apology for the Bible. » 
 
In this impassive spot, I say again, where solitude and silence dwell, what 
 accents strike upon the mental ear! Nor Greece nor Rome, in Areopagus or Forum , 
 was ever sensible of such a power; for where is the Demosthenes, that has spoken 
 like the dust, or where the Cicero, that has spoken like the clay? The triumphs 
 of the senate and the bar, aye, even of the chaire itself, are tame in the comparison. 
 An epitaph outpreaches Flechier, and Massillon is oulsermoned by a stone. The 
 coffin is more eloquent than Bossuet, and the coffin-plate, from its very paucity 
 of words, has a plenitude of meaning, unfound in Bourdaloue. 
 
 ©BsaSft 
 
 Abbbsw ;E4atas — 
 
 The name— the day of death— the age. Behold the register of high and low, — 
 the record of the rich and poor, — the sum and substance of humanity,— the short 
 sententious history of man! He is born, — he bears a name, — he dies,— and tells 
 the dark how old he was! Oblivion sets the seal. The spade has covered him!... 
 
 « Ah! but to die and go we know not where! 
 
 « To lie in cold obstruction and to rot! 
 
 « This sensible warm motion to become 
 
 « A kneaded clod ! » 
 
 Who is there of us all, that has not acknowledged, in wishing to prepare his 
 feelings for the inevitable hour, the depressing force of the sentiment above? And 
 yet, at the interment of a brother-mortal, how quickly we -consign him to his 
 cell, and hurry back to life, as though there were nothing more rational, forsooth, 
 than that the dead should be forgotten as fast as the living can forget! That the 
 ant, impatient of impediment, should instinctively remove the ant, which interrupts 
 her thrift, — that the argus, with its pretty spotted wings, like a frivolous ephemera 
 as it is, should droop not at its fellow-fly, — is in keeping with the character 
 of each, — with the nature of the insect, — but that we, of infinitely higher grade, 
 whose province is to think, and whose thought should be the future, (an immortality 
 of good or ill!) should follow to a funeral, be witness to the solemn office, and 
 lightly turn away, — that we, I say, obnoxious to a thousand accidents and conscious 
 of a thousand sins, should look and listen with so little profit to ourselves, is a 
 feature in our volatile career, which forms, indeed, a matter for reflection. 
 
 An attribute of reason is to shun extremes. Eviting, then, on one hand, the 
 morbid sadness, which is the fatuity of grief, and, on the other, the shallow 
 sympathy, which is the desecration of it, let us look on the departure of a fellow- 
 creature and on his committal to the ground , not only as awful events but as 
 awful war7iings too, — impressive, and instructive, and wholesome all at once. 
 
— 9 — 
 
 That, in the general way, we cannot steadily regard Death I admit to be a wise and 
 merciful provision of the Deity, but there is a medium, a salutary medium, between 
 indifference and gloom. The son of Sin is a great teacher. If the uses of adversity 
 are sweet, the uses of mortality are sweeter still. They show us how to die, and , 
 properly perpended , are fraught with spiritual health. The portion of the Vale of 
 Tears, which is wept in by the good, is rivered with the waters of eternal life. 
 It is one of the holy objects of Religion, that the quick should be bettered by the 
 dead. But Common Sense as well (so obvious is the common doom!) will gather 
 from the grave a something to improve us,— a something to console and strengthen 
 us, — a something to reconcile us to age, — a something to reconcile us to infirmity, — 
 to the dwindling of the mind, — to the wasting of the body,— to the sickness unto 
 death,— to the final hour, — to the parting with the loved, — to the message for our 
 friends, the old familiar friends! — to the faint articulation, — to the (liming eye, — 
 to the incoherent speech,— to the difficult deep breath, — to the giving up the ghost, — 
 to the shuttered chamber, — to the sorrow by our bed, — to the form we cannot see, — 
 to the prayer we cannot hear, — to the kiss we cannot feel, — to the dismal prepa- 
 rations,— to the black procession, — to the tolling bell, — to the yawning and expecting 
 grave,— to the solemn service,— to the lowered corpse,— to the scattered clay (the 
 typic tribute!) falling on the coffin-lid, — to the ultimate «. amen hi — to the closing 
 of the book! — to the going of the mourners,— to the careless filling-in, — to the 
 silence and the solitude, to the soils and the disgraces, of the tomb, — to dampness 
 and corruption, — to coldness and decay, — to darkness and the worm!... 
 
 A life , as virtuously spent as our sinful nature will allow , is , of course , the 
 finest preparation for death, and the reminiscence of it the surest consolation in 
 dying, either of which is clearly traceable to our fitting reflections on the grave. 
 Another and another visit there — another and another meditation — cannot be 
 superfluous, even to the purest of mankind; of what moment, then, must they 
 be unto the mass of us, whose retrospect is a melancholy scene, thickly spotted 
 over with our manifold offences, or the which (as painful in its way!) presents 
 us with a barren track, — a sterile sand, — a blank of mental and of moral idleness, 
 so happily described by the poet , as 
 
 (i the dreary void , 
 « The leafless desert of the mind , 
 « The waste of feelings unemploy'd. » 
 
 Byron's « Giaour. » 
 
 How many of us, too, of doubtful elevation in the scale, are unprofitable growths, 
 showing no better blossom in the spring, than what was bitten by the blight!— bearing 
 in the summer no better fruit, than what was cankered at the core! And then, the 
 
— 10 — 
 
 autumn come, (advantage on advantage, opportunity on opportunity, having been 
 murdered by us, as it were, like his victims by Macbeth,) 
 
 « We have liv'd long enough ; our time of life 
 « Has fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, 
 « And that , which should accompany old age , 
 « We must not look to have , but , in its stead , » 
 
 self-condemnation, self-dissatisfaction, self-disrespect, — our one talent buried in the 
 earth, — the sacred gift of Life irrationally fooled away, — our heart the seat of idle 
 passions,— our head of idle dreams, — our mind, like the vineyard of the slothful, 
 covered with thistles and with thorns, or like a common, at the best, partially and 
 lazily redeemed , half cultivation , half untillage , — here a stunted crop, there a patch 
 of weeds , — no order, no consistency,— nothing to denote — nothing to deserve — a 
 real intellectual return, which can only be ensured (on this we may depend) by 
 intellectual industry and care. 
 
 To such, as, like myself, (and I write it with repentant tears) may have squandered 
 upon phantasies or worse the period of their golden prime , the churchyard is a 
 homily indeed! It is there that we may learn, as we look upon its lettered slabs 
 and mark the varied ages of the dead, the uncertainly of life and the value of 
 the swift, irrevocable thing, which, devoid at once of gratitude and sense, we 
 have rashly thrown away! It is there that we may read, that our transitory span — 
 exposed, too, as we are, to danger and to death at every turn, — is too short for 
 indolence, and that * Man has no time to be idle. As creatures and as fellow- 
 creatures, our duties are incessant, and pressing, and imperious. That we shrink 
 from the performance of them is true, most lamentably true. Is Conscience, then, 
 asleep? on the contrary, it reasons with us ever and anon, but, like the judge, 
 that shook before his prisoner, we answer as we tremble : « Go thy way for 
 « this time ; when I have a convenient season , I will call for thee. » A con- 
 venient season! a convenient season! alas! alas! the most we can account our 
 
 * « Ars longa , vita brevis est, » admits of a large acceptation , and largely should the trueism be 
 laid to heart. Supposing the terras , in such a case , to be contra-distinguishable , the art of being 
 spiritually happy is to be virtuous; that of being morally so, lo do our duty; of being mentally so, 
 to be intellectually well-employed. The first leads lo Heaven, the second and the third to self-approval 
 and to competence , to profit and to fame. But the shades of human art , like the shades of human 
 duty, are infinite. A something can be done by each of us, and, consequently, a something is there, 
 that each of us should do. We are tasked according to our gifts , and shall be judged according to 
 our use of them. A parent (be it added) may redeem, in the person of his child, very many things* 
 committed and omitted by himself. His offspring, as it were, gives him an opportunity (an inestimable 
 chance ! ) of living over again , and lo nobler and lo belter purpose than before. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 own (and barely even that) is noiv. Procrastination is the thief of souls as 'well 
 as time. 
 
 « To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow 
 
 « Creeps on the petty space from day to day, 
 
 « While every yesterday has lighted fools 
 
 « The way to dusty death! » 
 
 « home mihi, cras tibi ! » — Behold, in its divine and human application, the best 
 inscription for a burial-place. 
 
 It is there that we may ask , with the seaman in his solitary isle , to what possible 
 desert of our's (the others having perished) our continuance on the earth is due; 
 for how often , like the rebels at Sinai , have we murmured against God , and , 
 even with the manna of His mercy at our lips , been as thankless and idolatrous 
 as they ! Forgetful of the past, repining at the present, and mistrustful of the future, 
 how often have we carped at the beneficence and denied the benefactor, embittering 
 the bread of Heaven with our discontent, making idols of our own vanities, and 
 sacrificing at the altar of our own sins ! And this in the very face of daily added 
 life and daily added opportunities of doing better, as if the every hour of them 
 (not one of which is certain) were not of inestimable worth!... No! not a grave 
 but was dug to our reproach!... No! not a stone but is standing to our shame!... 
 
 The lessons of Mortality, however, are by no means confined to the spirit and 
 the intellect ,— to a summons to devotion and to study, — so that we may mount 
 to the everlasting mansions , may arrive at the golden goal of temporal success , 
 or achieve a footing on the pedestal of Fame. The cemetary has a larger scope 
 than this,— a teaching more extensive still, — for, universal in its bearing, it embraces 
 (let our abilities, our rank, or our years be what they may) our general instruction, 
 our general amendment, and our consequent internal peace. There is, vernacularly 
 speaking , a workyday happiness in this workyday world , attainable alike , and 
 desirable alike, by the peasant and the prince, by the cotter and the king. The 
 sequel will explain. Indirectly and directly, by our sponsors and ourselves, at 
 the baptismal rite, at our earliest lisping of the Catechism, and at the binding 
 ceremony of Confirmation, we engage v. to do our duty in that state of life, unto 
 « which it shall please God to call us. » Now, a churchyard ( to so express myself) 
 is full of ethic exhortations, and contains a code of morality, to edify us all. From 
 the resting-place of Genius to that of the merest artisan ; from an Allen's or a Kyrle's 
 to a spendthrift's or a libertine's, according to the use of the « talents, » allotted 
 upon earth, there is something] to imitate or something to avoid. The marble, 
 that attracts a pilgrimage , may fritter over one , from whom his Maker turn& 
 away His eyes , while an adjacent and nettle-covered sod , undistinguished by a 
 stone, may be dear to His approving ken and hallowed by His holy smile. The 
 
— 12 — 
 
 unmeriting accidents of life— the faineants of flourishing fortuity — may stand rebuked 
 in the presence of poverty and lowliness, just as I myself, in my so-called higher 
 sphere , am standing by the hillock of a humble friend , my good and faithful 
 servant , poor old Jeannette Gautier ! 
 
 h And still she fills affection's eye, 
 
 « Obscurely wise and coarsely kind, 
 <c Nor, letter'd Arrogance! deny 
 
 « Thy praise to merit unrefin'd. 
 
 « Her virtues walk'd their narrow round , 
 
 « Nor knew a pause, nor left a void, 
 « And sure th' Eternal master found 
 
 (i The single talent well employ'd, 
 
 
 Till , with no throbbing fiery pain , 
 (c No cold gradations of decay, 
 « Death snapp'd at once the vital chain, 
 « And freed her soul the nearest way. » * 
 
 But to shun iterations, and to bring these meagre musings to a close. 
 
 Though sensibly aware of the sacred privacy, to which the departed have a claim , 
 it will, I hope, be permitted a stranger and a Protestant (whose by-gone relations 
 with them both are an extra call on his respect) to add his tribute to the memory 
 of two public characters of the place, that were followed to the grave, a few months 
 since , by the common sorrow of their fellow-citizens , — the one of them , Monsieur 
 Anselm Michel, a father to its poor, — the other, Monsieur Charles Neel Delavigne, 
 its former head-functionary for more than fifty years of his life , and its munificent 
 benefactor at his death. Such men as these are e useful in their generation , »— 
 examples to copy and examples to revere. Again. The « Reflections in a Cemetary 
 « abroad » are in memorum, — a blended offering of esteem, affection, and regret. 
 With another deprecation of censure , then , for whatever I may say of indiscreet , 
 let me be allowed , as I stand by their respective tombs , to make an unnaming 
 mention , firstly, of a good and kind and venerable man ,— of long experience and 
 thorough knowledge of the world,— a delightful companion, — of a graceful facility 
 at pleasing and being pleased , — in manner and appearance , as in word and deed , 
 the perfect model of a perfect gentleman ,— quiet in his look, quiet in his speech, 
 
 * fttulalo sexu, from Johnson's stanzas on the death of D r Levett, a poor physician, whom he 
 harboured in his house, for years together, in what is now known as « Johnson's Court, » Fleet 
 Street. — (The order of the strophs has not been exactly followed. ) 
 
— 13 — 
 
 quiet in his polish , — the fine and full impersonation , in short , of all that was 
 courteous and sensible and calm ; secondly, of a deservedly popular and deservedly 
 respected senior, who , with a difference , was an equal type of what we regard 
 with partiality and applause , — a strictly honest man , of striking form and sterling 
 face, of manly carriage and of manly mien, abetted by a frank address and a smile 
 of such winning candour and benevolence, as went at once to the heart of the 
 beholder, and made him think the better of his species and himself; thirdly, of 
 
 a lady, who fell a victim to a lingering and hopeless malady. Poor M 1S S ! 
 
 as she lay upon her sofa, the last time she was down stairs alive, and talked 
 in the same breath of her coming fate and her coming flowers, she presented a 
 beautiful and touching proof of how the gentlest nature , armed with a religious 
 trust, can brave the King of Terrors, and «m what peace a Christian can die;» 
 finally, of the exemplary scion of an exemplary stock , whose transmitted piety 
 enabled her, (the mother of my young petitioners) though abruptly summoned 
 from her husband and her children , to bow to the Almighty will , to look to 
 Heaven through her human tears, and meet her Maker with a smile. 
 
 In each of the above (and I might add to the number without stirring from 
 the path) we have an edifying instance of how well it is to be prepared, — how 
 well it is to do our spiritual work in time, — to toil while it is yet day and nbejore 
 ■a. the night cometh, when no man can ivork.v One and all of them, they passed 
 away in peace. Yet it was not but they felt — in tender earnest felt — the 
 sadness of the parting hour. From the cradle to the grave, at no time are we 
 human with impunity; how, then, at the summons of the sod? No ! no! the ties of 
 earth are not dissevered thus : they cannot be dissolved without a pang. The 
 death-bed has its griefs , as sorrow has its springs. And therefore , ( like the 
 parents of mankind , when , fondly looking round , they sighed adieu to the Eden of 
 their heart,) v. some natural tears they dropt, — but wip'd them soon.n Though 
 the door of Life must be shortly shut against them, a consolation lay beyond the 
 gate. The heel of Man they knew was hurt , but the woman's seed , they knew 
 as well, had bruised the serpent's head. A Redeemer lived, that they, regenerate 
 in him, might never, never die! The work of Christianity was done : athwart the 
 vapour of this nether world, they saw a better, purer, brighter realm, where, every 
 eye relieved of every tear, the loving and the loved would meet again. In sinking 
 to their resting-place, they « smelt the rose above the mould! »...,... 
 

 
 
— 15 — 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 -0Q0- 
 
 (1)— Page 1. — The Sabbath theme oj every land, dilated on in every literature, 
 
 by the Herveys and the Blairs of every tongue, multiplied in 
 poetry and prose, the subject is elaborately trite. 
 
 Heney's a Meditations, » Sturm's « Reflections , » the i Prison-Thoughts » of Dodd, the «Nighl- 
 i Thoughts » of Young, « The Grave » of Robert Blair, have, of themselves , pretty well exhausted it. 
 
 (2)— Page 1. — Though Death, the son oj Sin, etc. 
 
 a To whom thus the portress of Hell-gate repli'd : 
 ' Hast thou forgot me , then , and do I seem 
 ' Now in thine eye so foul ? once deem'd so fair 
 ' In Heaven , when at the assembly and in sight 
 • Of all the seraphim with thee combin'd 
 ' In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King , 
 ' All on a sudden miserable pain 
 ' Surpris'd thee , dim thine eyes , and dizzy swum 
 ' In darkness , while thy head flames thick and fast 
 1 Threw forth : till , on the left side opening wide , 
 t Likest to thee in shape and countenance bright 
 ' Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess arm'd , 
 ' Out of thy head I sprung : amazement seiz'd 
 ' All the host of Heaven ; back they recoil'd afraid 
 ' At first , and call'd me Sin , and for a sign 
 'Portentous held me; but, familiar grown, 
 ' I pleas'd , and with attractive graces won 
 ' The most averse , thee chiefly, who full oft 
 ' Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing 
 ( Becam'st enamour'd. 
 
 1 At last this odious offspring whom thou seest , 
 ' Thine own begotten , breaking violent way, 
 
 ' Forth issu'd , brandishing his fatal dart 
 ' Made to destroy ! I fled and cri'd out Death ! 
 ' Hell trembled at the hideous name , and sigh'd 
 ' From all her caves , and back resounded Death ! ' » 
 
 Milton's « Paradise Lost. » Book II. 
 
— 16 — 
 
 (3) — Page 2. — what once was big enough to bury Cwsar, etc. 
 
 « , mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low ! 
 Are all thy conquests , glories , triumphs , spoils , 
 Shrunk to this little measure? » 
 
 SHAliESrEARE. 
 
 (i Brave Percy, fare thee well ! 
 111-weav'd ambition , how much art thou shrunk ! 
 When that this body did contain a spirit , 
 A kingdom for it was too small a bound , 
 But now, two paces of the vilest earth 
 Is room enough ! » 
 
 Ibid. « Henry IV. » Part. I. 
 
 (4) — Page 2. — so small the chances of longevity I etc. 
 
 « The bridge thou seest,» said he, «is human life; consider it attentively. » Upon a more leisurely 
 survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, 
 which , added to those that were entire , made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting 
 the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great 
 flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it : «but tell me 
 further, » said he , « what thou disco verest on it. » « I see multitudes of people passing over it, » said 
 I, «and a black cloud banging on each end of it. » As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the 
 passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; and , upon 
 further examination , perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge , 
 which the passengers no sooner trod upon , but they fell through them into the tide , and immediately 
 disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs 
 of people no sooner broke through the cloud , but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner 
 towards the middle , but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. 
 
 « There were indeed some persons , but their number was very small , that continued a kind of 
 hobbling march on the broken arches , but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent 
 with so long a walk. » 
 
 Addison's « Vision of Mirza. » 
 
 (5) — Page 2. — these flowery sepulcres, etc. 
 
 To the famous one at Paris we are indebted for the cemetaries at Kensal Green, at Birmingham, etc. etc. 
 * England , it appears , is reverting to her good old custom of decorating graves. That she does so on a 
 larger scale than formerly is better still ; but I would that every burial-place on earth ( how repulsive 
 to the thought are some of them ! ) were garnished like a pleasure-ground. Well for all of us would 
 it be, as all of us may be well assured, to look with more complacency on death, relieving, with our 
 
 " See a charming paper on Rural Fuuerals in « The Sketch-Book » of Washington Irving. So close 
 akin to one or two of my reflections is it, that to cite from it were to copy it all off, which , unfortunately, 
 would carry me too far. I strongly recommend the reading of it : it is full of pleasing information , 
 just remark , and edifying pathos. 
 
— 17 — 
 
 inward light, its gloom-begetting dark. The object is to die in peace. No appliance to resignation, 
 tben, provided it be sane, should coldly be rejected or scornfully condemned. Besides, the survivor 
 may be profited thereby. The dead, I grant, can nothing see, can nothing hear, can nothing under- 
 stand, but the mourner at his sepulcre, — to him, at least, the foliage and the flowers, the blossoms 
 and the birds , are a feeling and a benefit. There is more than fancy — more than wisdom even — in 
 making a garden of the grave. The soft memento mori it presents , the suitable and soft emotions it 
 excites, are provocatives to piely. The duteous visit of the loving heart, the duteous office of the loving 
 hand , the duteous watching of the loving eye , the sedulous affection , the dear solicitude , the holy 
 interest, in short, that haunts what it adorns and strives to keep a memory entire, attests the motive 
 and the use , the value and the virtue , of these posthumous parterres. 
 
 « On some fond breast the parting soul relies; 
 
 « Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 
 a E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries , 
 
 « E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. » 
 
 Should the grief, then, that bedews our dying pillow, stop short at our interment? we yearn for more 
 than that , and want it to outset the worm. In considering the matter thus, and gazing on a cemetary 
 like this , with all that it possesses of solacing and suave , we think of Milton's sympathising angel , 
 who qualified with comfort the doom of Adam and of Eve , as , quitting Paradise , 
 
 « so late their happy seat , 
 « They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
 k Through Eden took their solitary way. » 
 
 But best ( as now ) to view it in the early spring. The renovated verdure , the renascent melody, the 
 unfolding buds, the air-affecting butterfly, (the skyward emblem of the soul,) — these types of our 
 futurity — of ever-young beatitude — must modify at once our sorrow and our fate. Death, as well as 
 life , has its poetry, and this is of it. 
 
 A noted author and a good man, the Reverend George Crabbe, has, in his story of the sisters , 
 introduced some touching stanzas , which , as they bear affinity to the tenour of my note , I have a 
 double pleasure in transcribing. They run as follows : 
 
 a Let me not have this gloomy view 
 
 About my room , around my bed , 
 Cut morning roses , wet with dew, 
 
 To cool my burning brows instead. 
 As flow'rs that once in Eden grew, 
 
 Let them their fragrant spirits shed , 
 And every day the sweets renew, 
 
 Till I , a fading flower, am dead. 
 
 « Oh ! let the herbs I lov'd to rear 
 
 Give to my sense their perfum'd breath ; 
 Let them be plac'd about my bier, 
 
 And grace the gloomy house of death. 
 I'll have my grave beneath an hill, 
 
 Where , only Lucy's self shall know ; 
 Where runs the pure pellucid rill 
 
 Vpon its gravelly bed below ; 
 
— 18 — 
 
 There violets on tbe borders blow, 
 And insects their soft light display. 
 
 Till , as the morning sun-beams glow. 
 The cold phosphoric fires decay. 
 
 « That is the grave to Lucy shown , 
 
 The soil a pure and silver sand , 
 The green cold moss above it grown , 
 
 Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand : 
 In virgin earth , till then unturn'd , 
 
 There let my maiden form be laid , 
 Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd , 
 
 Nor for new guest that bed be made. 
 
 « There will the lark , — the lamb , in sport , 
 
 In air,— on earth , — securely play, 
 And Lucy to my grave resort , 
 
 As innocent , but not so gay. 
 I will not have the churchyard ground , 
 
 With bones all black and ugly grown , 
 To press my shiv'ring body round , 
 
 Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 
 
 i With ribs and skulls I will not sleep , 
 
 In clammy beds of cold blue clay, 
 Through which the ringed earth-worms creep ; . 
 
 And on the shrouded bosom prey ; 
 I will not have the bell proclaim 
 
 When those sad marriage rites begin , 
 And boys , without regard or shame , 
 
 Press the vile mouldering masses in. 
 
 * Say not , it is beneath my care ; 
 
 I cannot those cold truths allow ; 
 These thoughts may not afflict me thert, 
 
 But , oh I they vex and lease me now. 
 Raise not a turf, nor set a stone , 
 
 That man a maiden's grave may trace , 
 But thou , my Lucy, come alone , 
 
 And let affection find the place. 
 
 * ! take me from a world 1 hate , 
 
 Men cruel , selDsh , sensual , cold ; 
 And , in some pure and blessed state , 
 
 Let me my sister minds behold : 
 From gross and sordid views refin'd , 
 
 Our heaven of spotless love to share ,. 
 For only generous souls design'd, 
 
 And not a man to meet us there. » 
 
— 19 — 
 
 It was the wish of Keats (who sank a victim to consumption) to die and he interred at Home. That 
 the author of « Endymion, » « Hyperion,* and those classic odes k To Psyche, » « To a Grecian l'rn,» 
 « 7"» (j Nightingale, » etc., should entertain and cherish it, was natural; that it was fulfilled, is fortunate. 
 The thought was comforting , and served to sooth the closing of a life , made up alas ! of sickness and 
 chagrin. The air— the sun — the moon — the stars — of Italy, — her genial warmth,— her roses in De- 
 cember, — the clime of Virgil and of Horace, — of Ovid and Catullus,— of Tibullus and Propertius, — the 
 
 mythologie soil! — were all consolations — were all attractions— to the * gentle poefs grave Of the 
 
 latter ode I quote a stroph. 
 
 « Darkling I listen ; and , for many a time , 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death , 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme , 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die , 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain , 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. » 
 
 (6) — Page 4. — In common with the bard of Rydal-Mount , his philosophy, 
 
 natural and moral too , 
 
 ■( Found tongues in trees , books in the running brooks , 
 « Sermons in stones and good in every thing. » 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 « Wordsworth ! of all men who have grac'd our age , — 
 
 Whether the muse they serv'd , or in the state , 
 
 Stood at the helm , or in cathedral sate , 
 Or judge's chair, or yet adorn'd the page 
 
 Heroic decni'd , surpassing those of yore 
 
 Who shone at I'oictiers, Cressy, Agincour! 
 None have like thee from unknown sources brought 
 The light of truth , the feeling, and the thought 
 
 Dwelling in humblest things : the human heart 
 Thou hast ennobled ; and enlarg'd the spheres 
 
 Of our perceptions , giving them a part 
 In all that breathes ; nor stone , nor flower appears , 
 
 Whether in lields or hills retir'd and holy, 
 
 For thy all-comprehensive mind too lowly. » 
 
 E. Moxon. 
 
 * A bard of other stamp and other powers, Chiteaubriand— Rene! — enamoured of the infinite, — in 
 love with the illimitable still, — selected for his resting-place an island-rock, and there his body lies. 
 The welkin for its chapel-roof, his sepulcre commands the open sea. His soul was suited to the vast 
 and vague... How well in keeping was the close ol his career with the most poetic part of it! Arrived 
 
— 20 — 
 
 (7) — Page . r >. — The elm is taciturn, etc. 
 
 « With silent pace , as shadows come , 
 And dark as shadows be , 
 
 The grisly Phantom takes his stand 
 Beside the fallen Tree , 
 
 And scans it with his gloomy eyes , 
 And laughs with horrid glee — 
 
 « A dreary laugh and desolate , 
 
 Where mirth is void and null , 
 
 As hollow as its echo sounds 
 
 Within the hollow skull — 
 
 ' Whoever laid this tree along 
 
 His hatchet was not dull ! 
 
 ' The human arm and human tool 
 Have done their duty well ! 
 Hut after sound of ringing axe 
 Must sound the ringing knell ; 
 When Elm and Oak 
 Have felt the stroke , 
 My turn it is to fell ! 
 
 ' No passive unregarded tree , 
 A senseless thing of wood , 
 
 Wherein the sluggish sap ascends 
 To swell the vernal hud — 
 
 But conscious, moving, breathing trunks 
 That throb with living blood ! 
 
 ' No forest Monarch yearly clad 
 In mantle green or brown , 
 
 That unrecorded lives , and falls 
 By hand of rustic clown — 
 
 But Kings who don the purple robe , 
 And wear the jewcll'd crown. 
 
 at the age of eighty, Chateaubriand observed a taciturnity, which was solemnity as well. For the last 
 few months , he very seldom spoke , but remained as sombre and as hush as a forest of the Iroquois. 
 « A mesure » (said M 1 ' Amperes, in his funeral oration at Le Grand-Bey! ) « qu'il approehait du lerme 
 ii fatal , il a paru se reveiller et se retirer en lui- meme dans la triste majeste d'un silence , qui sem- 
 « blait une anticipation du silence de la toiube. Mais il etail loin de demeurer Stranger a ce qui so 
 '< passait autour de lui. » 
 
— 21 — 
 
 ' All ! little recks the Royal mind , 
 
 Within his Banquet Hall , 
 While tapers shine and Music breathes 
 
 And Beauty leads the Ball, — 
 He little recks the oaken plank 
 Shall be his palace wall ! 
 
 ' Ah , little dreams the haughty Peer, 
 The while his Falcon flies — 
 
 Or on the blood-bedabbled turf 
 The antler'd quarry dies — 
 
 That in his own ancestral Park 
 His narrow dwelling lies! 
 
 ' But haughty Peer and mighty King 
 One doom shall overwhelm ! 
 The oaken cell 
 Shall lodge him well 
 Whose sceptre rul'd a realm — 
 While he , who never knew a home , 
 Shall find it in the Elm ! 
 
 ' The tatter'd , lean , dejected wretch , 
 Who begs from door to door, 
 
 And dies within the cressy ditch , 
 Or on the barren moor, 
 
 The friendly Elm shall lodge and clothe 
 That houseless man and poor ! 
 
 ' Yea , this recumbent rugged trunk , 
 That lies so long and prone , 
 
 With many a fallen acorn-cup, 
 And mast , and firry cone — 
 
 This rugged trunk shall hold its share 
 Of mortal flesh and bone ! 
 
 ' A Miser hoarding heaps of gold, 
 But pale with ague-fears — 
 
 A Wife lamenting love's decay 
 With secret cruel tears , 
 
 Distilling bitter, bitter drops 
 From sweets of former years— 
 
 ' A Man , within whose gloomy mind 
 
 Offence had darkly sunk , 
 Who out of fierce Revenge's cup 
 Hath madly, darkly drunk — 
 -Grief, Avarice, and Hate shall sleep 
 Within this very trunk ! 
 
' This massy trunk that lies along , 
 And many more must fall — 
 For the very knave 
 Who digs the grave , 
 The man who spreads the pall , 
 And he who lolls the funeral bell , 
 The Elm shall have them all ! 
 
 ' The tall abounding Elm that grows 
 
 In hedgerows up and down ; 
 In field and forest , copse and park , 
 
 And in the peopled town , 
 With colonies of noisy rooks 
 
 That nestle on its crown. 
 
 ' And well th' abounding Elm may grow 
 
 In field and hedge so rife , 
 In forest . copse , and wooded park , 
 
 And mid the city's strife , 
 For every hour, that passes by, 
 
 Shall end a human life ! ' » 
 
 « The Elm-Tree » of Hood. 
 
 (8) — Page 5. — Created to endure, the oak and elm, etc. 
 
 o Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off 
 Long since , and rovers of the forest wild 
 With bow and shaft have burn'd them. Some have left 
 A splinter'd stump , bleacli'd to a snow7 white. , 
 And some , memorial none where once they grew. 
 Yet life still lingers in thee , and puts forth 
 Proof not contemptible of what she can , 
 Even where death predominates. The spring 
 Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force , 
 Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood , 
 So much thy juniors , who their birth receiv'd 
 Half a millenium since the date of thine. » 
 
 Cowper's « Tardley Oak. » 
 
 << A goodly Elm , of noble girth , 
 That , thrice the human span , 
 
 While on their variegated course 
 The constant seasons ran , 
 
 Through gale and hail and fiery bolt 
 Had stood erect as man. » 
 
 <( The Elm-Tree » of Hood. 
 
(9) — Page 5. — A young and royal mother, in our own recollection, teas 
 
 buried with her babe, — her first-born, — a loving nation's 
 double-blighted hope ! 
 
 « (A. D. 1817.) The princess Cbarlolte of Wales, the pride and darling of England , was delivered 
 of a still-born child , whose birth she survived only a few hours. Never was grief more universal — 
 never was a nation's sorrow so deeply felt, and so generally manifested. The day of the funeral was 
 voluntarily observed as a day of fasting and humiliation throughout the three kingdoms ; and a 
 stranger, witnessing the affliction on every countenance , might have supposed that every family in 
 the realms had been deprived of one of its most beloved members. » 
 
 PlNNOCK. 
 « Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds ,] 
 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound , 
 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 
 With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
 
 Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground , 
 
 The gulpli is thick with phantoms , but the chief 
 
 Seems royal still , though with her head discrown'd , 
 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe , to whom her breast yields no relief. 
 
 a Scion of chiefs and monarchs , where art thou '! 
 
 Fond hope of many nations , art thou dead ? 
 
 Could not the grave forget thee , and lay low- 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled , 
 
 The mother of a moment , o'er thy boy, 
 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
 
 The present happiness and promis'd joy, 
 Which lill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 « Peasants bring forth in safety, — can in be , 
 
 Oh! thou that wert so happy, so ador'd! 
 
 Those that weep not for kings shall weep for thee , 
 
 And Freedom's heart , grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 
 Her orisons for thee , and o'er thy head 
 
 Beheld her Iris. — Thou , too , lonely lord , 
 
 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 
 
 « Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 The love of millions ! How we did entrust 
 Futurity to her ! and , though it must 
 
— 24 — 
 
 Darken above our bones , yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child , and bless'd 
 Her and her hop'd-for seed , whose promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : twas but a meteor beam'd. 
 
 u Woe unto us , not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 
 The fickle reek of popular breath , the tongue 
 
 Of hollow counsel , the false oracle , 
 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 
 Its knell in princely ears , till the o'erstrung 
 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns , and hath flung 
 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late. — 
 
 « These might have been her destiny ; but no , 
 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young , so fair, 
 
 Good without effort , great without a foe ; 
 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 
 It link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's and opprest 
 The land which lov'd thee so, that none could love thee best. 
 
 Byron's « Childe Harold. » Canto HI. 
 
 (10)— Page 5.— J\o sooner is the vital spark extinct than state and station 
 
 are extinct as well. 
 
 Let us revert to History for two or three striking cases in point, — to Darius, dead upon the battle- 
 field, — to Pompey, dead upon the sea-shore, — to the Norman Conqueror, buried, out of sheer compas- 
 sion , by a needy knight, — to William Rufus, with the arrow in his heart, left utterly alone, — to the 
 third Edward, (the Edward of the lyric Gray,) abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last 
 moments by his courtiers and his mistress , — to William Pitt , (who died of Austerlitz ! ) deserted by 
 his menials , — etc. 
 
 '11;— Page 5. — A king, indeed, still clinging to regality and garmented 
 
 with pomp, may slumber in a fretted vault, but how shall he 
 escape the fretting ivorm? Will his velvet wrap him from decay? 
 
 But the Pharaohs and their subjects, at any rate, were proof against the worm ? they were, to keep 
 a modern Arab in fuel for his fire, and to charm the virtuosi of London and of Paris, after a lapse of 
 3000 years , with the cerements and the lineaments of — withered apes! If, like the sacred wheat, 
 they could vegetate anew, and reflourish on the ground sis feet high , it would be something. As it 
 is , their mummying alas ! was only a mummery the more. 
 
— 25 — 
 
 (12) — Page 6. — To the quick at least, however poor and beset with evils 
 
 he may be, the living dust is better than the dead. 
 
 « But yesterday the word of Ca?sar might 
 
 « Have stood against the world : now lies he there , 
 
 « And none so poor to do him reverence. » 
 
 Julius Cesar. 
 
 (13)— Page 8. — but that we, whose province is to think, and whose thought 
 
 should be futurity, etc. 
 
 a Cogilo, ergo sum. » — Man , then , is a being par excellence ? Yes , the emanation of everlasting 
 mind. It were well for us to recollect, — that, from the best exercise of the best faculties, some eminent 
 heathen argued the immortality of the soul. (See the last book of Plato"s « Republic," the preambles 
 to * Sallust's two histories, and the beautiful and con amore oration of Cicero for the poet Archias. ) 
 
 (14) — Page 10. — It is there that ive may read, that our transitory span — 
 
 exposed too, as we are, to danger and to death at every turn—- 
 is too short for indolence, and that man has no time to be idle. 
 
 And none to waste on idle occupations , — « a distinction without a difference. » One of our saddest 
 self-delusions ( to put it gently ) is the neglecting what is solid, on the visionary grounds of « having 
 « no lime » to attend to it, as if our occupations, forsooth, could form a fitting note (they would 
 inversely by the bye,) to « The Nature and Economy of Bees! » «Had we but the lime >• for the 
 bagatelle of history, our boyish erudition would recall to us a circumstance, which happened at the 
 court of Alexander the Great, where, when a juggler had been exhibiting his skill, in shooting 
 millet-seed through a tiny little hole, the king, to show the store he set by such a subject, decreed 
 him on the spot a — bushel of it!!! The anecdote is trifling, I confess, but a solemn application 
 might be found for it!... There is an observation by Madame de Stael , that no people are so partial 
 to society, as they who do nothing to assist it. As a pendant , there are none so remarkable for « having 
 « no lime , » as they who do nothing else but tell you so. A Guizot and a Brougham , -j- a Thierry 
 and a Prescott , « have lime enough » for every thiug , and why ? because they know the value of it , 
 and manage it accordingly. Order, in fact , is half the battle : the want of it , which conspires to keep 
 
 ' However we may mourn for and condemn the moral turpitude of Sallust, we are bound to pay 
 homage to the moral tone of his writings, as well as to the mental activity (we have but a portion of 
 his works) and the consummate care of the writer. In another walk of Art, his description of Catiline 
 {« animus impurus, dis hominibusque infcslus, nequc vigiliis ncquc quielibus sedari poleral : ita 
 « conscicnliamcnlemexcilamvaslabat. Igilur colos exsanguis, fcedi oculi; citus modb, modb tardus 
 « incessus ; prorsus in facie volluque vecordia ineral » ) might have been done by Dante , and his 
 death of the great traitor ( <t Calilina verb longe a suis inter hostium cadavera repertus est, paullulum 
 « eliam spirans, ferociamque animi, quam habueral vivus, in voltu relincns») by Michael Angelo. 
 His « Helium Jugurlhinum , » again , is a perfect gallery of pictures. 
 
 7 if La Conquele de I'Angleterre <> and « The Conquest of Mexico » were written, respectively, by 
 blind men ! 
 
— 26 — 
 
 us poor, conspires to keep us ignorant as well. Instead , then , of degrading the expression , insulting 
 our own understanding , and provoking the ridicule of one another by « having no time » to improve 
 ourselves , let us begin and pass it as it should be , recollecting that we are , albeit of inferior stamp, 
 the fellow-creatures of the brightest and the best , who have profited , adorned , or edified the world , 
 and that , by the favour of Above , we are living in an age , when human intellect and human energy 
 ( abetted by a giant but obedient power, uusentient of fatigue and nullifying space ) have enabled us , 
 for the holy ends of * Christianity, of Civilization, and of Commerce, to compass the remote and unite 
 the separate, to skim the land like the swallow of the air, and to cross the wave like the dolphin of 
 the deep. 
 
 (lo) — Page 12. — like the seaman in his solitary isle, etc. 
 
 The reader of « Robinson Crusoe, « among the other features of that •{■ admirable book, will not have 
 forgotten the sickness of the cast-away, his mortal fears , his fright-extorted callings on the Lord , his 
 vague remorse, his meeting with the bible, his contrition as a prodigal son, his repentance as a wild 
 and devil-daring sailor, his self-accusals for ingratitude to God in having confounded « Providence » 
 with « luck, » his slow interpretation of the word « deliverance, » his peace of mind and after happiness, 
 which, one and all, have a moral and a gist, an eloquence and a pathos of their own. The conclusion 
 of this part of « The Adventures » ( which I quote ) will bring the antecedent vividly to mind : 
 
 « This touched my heart very much , and immediately I kneeled down , and gave God thanks aloud 
 for my recovery from my sickness. 
 
 « In the morning I took the bible; and, beginning at the New Testament, I began seriously to 
 read it , and imposed upon myself lo read awhile every morning and every night , not tying myself to 
 the number of chapters , but as long as my thoughts should engage me : it was not long after I set 
 seriously to this work, but I found my heart more deeply and sincerely affected with the wickedness 
 of my past life ; the impression of my dream revived , and the words , ' All these things have not 
 brought thee to repentance,' ran seriously in my thoughts.. I was earnestly begging of God to give 
 me repentance , when it happened providentially the very day, that , reading the scripture , I came 
 to these words, ' He is exalted a Prince and a Saviour, to give repentance, and to give remission.' 
 I threw down the book, and with my heart as well as my hand lifted up to heaven, in a kind of 
 ecstasy of joy, I cried out aloud, Jesus, thou son of David , Jesus, thou exalted Prince and Saviour, 
 give me repentance ! 
 
 « This was the hist time that I could say, in the true sense of the word , that I prayed in all my 
 life ; for now I prayed with a sense of my condition , and with a true scripture view of hope , founded 
 on the encouragement of the word of God ; and from this time , I may say, I began to have hope that 
 Gon would hear me. 
 
 * Of how many European settlements and the consequent exlension of Gospel-light on now outlandish 
 shores will not Steam, in a few years hence, have been the cause! See the new Towns and the new 
 Churches and the new Chapels , which are due to it at home ! In the course of time , the young 
 Canterbury may boast of a Cathedral like the old! Facility of communication involves everything 
 beneficial to humanity. 
 
 -|-The author of it (singularly enough for my subject) was consulted by his publisher as to the best 
 means of helping off the sale of Drelincourt's uninviting work upon « Death. » Defoe at once prepared, 
 for his insertion therein or his appendage thereto , the popular story of M" Bray and The Canterbury 
 Ghost. 
 
— 27 — 
 
 <t Now I began to construe the words mentioned above , ' Call on me , and I will deliver tbee , ' in 
 a different sense from what 1 had ever done before ; for then I had no notion of any Hung being called 
 deliverance, but my being delivered from the captivity I was in ; for though I was indeed at large in 
 the place, yet the island was certainly a prison to me, and that, in the worst sense in the world; but 
 now I learned to take it in another sense. Now I looked back upon my past life with such horror, and 
 my sins appeared so dreadful , that my soul sought nothing of God , but deliverance from the load of 
 guilt that bore down all my comfort. As for my solitary life , it was nothing ; 1 did not so much as 
 pray to be deliveied from it, or think of it; it was all of no consideration, in comparison of this : and 
 add this part here , to hint to whoever shall read it , that whenever they come to a true sense of 
 things, they will find deliverance from sin a much greater blessing than deliverance from affliction. » 
 Is « the burden , falling from the back of Christian , » more beautiful or powerful than this '.' 
 
 (16) — Page 11. — making idols of our own vanities, etc. 
 
 « And when the people saw that Moses delayed to come down out of the mount, the people gathered 
 themselves together unto Aaron , and said unto him , Up , make us gods , which shall go before us ; 
 for as for this Jloses , the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt , we wot not what is become 
 of him. 
 
 <i And Aaron said unto them, Break off the golden ear-rings, which are in the ears of your wives, of 
 your sons , and of your daughters , and bring them unto me. 
 
 « And all the people brake oil' the golden ear-rings which were in their ears, and brought them unto 
 Aaron. 
 
 « And he received them at their hand, and fashioned it with a graving tool, after he had made i( a 
 molten calf : and they said, These be thy gods, Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of 
 Egypt. » 
 
 Exodus. Chap. 52. Ver. 1 , 2 , 3 , i. 
 
 (17) — Page 11. — There is, vernacularly speaking, a workyday happiness in 
 
 this workyday ivorld , attainable alike, and desirable alike, 
 by the peasant and the prince , by the colter and the king. 
 
 Pope's couplet , 
 
 « Like eastern kings , a lazy state they keep , 
 « And close conlin'd to their own palace sleep , 
 
 would never apply to the Alfreds of history, to its Charlemagnes, to its Frederics the Great, etc. 
 Such sovereigns as these arc as little of lie-abeds as the poor peasant, that a helps Hyperion to his 
 « horse » and « sweats in the eye of Phoebus. » 
 
 (18) — Page 11. — from an Allen's, or a Kyrle's. 
 
 (t Let humble Allen , with an awkward shame , 
 « Do good by stealth , and blush to lind it fame. » 
 Allen, of Bath , was the one-lime intimate of Pope. The good understanding ceased latterly. 
 
 ( Vide Johnson's « Lives of the Poets. » ) 
 
 N. B. A small critic would rub his hands before telling us , that the couplet occurs— not « in the 
 t< first Dialogue of the last Satires, on general subjects ,» as stated by the Doctor, but— in the 
 
— 28 — 
 
 Epilogue to them. Owing to two associates of Pope's (the one a lord, the other a commoner,) having 
 borne the same name of Allen , I have had quite a hunt for the literary whereabout : even my very 
 well-read and very obliging friend , the Rev a H. T. Oxenham , was , for a wonder, at a loss for the locality. 
 
 John Kyrle , with an income of only five hundred pounds a year, was « The Man of Ross. » 
 
 (See Pope's « Epistle to Lord Bathurst, ON THE USE OF RICHES. » ) 
 
 (19) —Page 13. — finally, of the exemplary scion of an exemplary stock, whose 
 
 transmitted and cultivated piety enabled her, ( the mother of 
 my young petitioners, ) though abruptly summoned from her 
 husband and her children, to bow to the Almighty will, to look 
 to Heaven through her human tears , and meet her Maker with 
 a smile. 
 
 The lady, alluded to above, was a grand-daughter of the venerable Archdeacon Law's, whose name 
 and virtues are a cherished recollection — and rightly so — in the Cathedral-town of Rochester. Soon 
 after the melancholy death of his descendant here, 1 received, in the shape of a touching note , innocently 
 couched, and signed by four trembling little hands, a request from the unmolhered children to compose 
 some verses to her memory. In my answer (not wishing to disturb a previous elegy) I engaged myself 
 to write for them a something serious and pertinent in prose. After many interruptions , my word is 
 
 kept Poor things! « silver and gold have I none, but such as 1 have I give unto you, » — my 
 
 Reflections in a Cemetary abroad. 
 
— 29 — 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 — °Qo— 
 
 As human life , which travels to the church-yard , is full of baffled hopes , ( edifying 
 lessons all!) the antecedent pages cannot have a better appendage, perhaps, than 
 the following stanzas, written by * a young genius, who, virtuously and wisely. 
 from the bitter could extract the sweet, witness his affecting 
 
 @®E T® 1MSA!?[P<§M™(1IN]T D 
 
 « Come , Disappointment , come .' 
 
 « Not in thy terrors clad; 
 « Come in thy meekest, saddest guise, 
 « Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 « The restless and the bad. 
 <c But I recline 
 » Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine 
 
 « Though Fancy flies away 
 
 « Before thy hollow tread , 
 a Yet Meditation , in her cell , 
 « Hears, with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, 
 « That tells her hopes are dead ; 
 « And though the tear 
 « By chance appear, 
 Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 
 
 * Henry Kirke White, of SU John's College, Cambridge, who died anno Domini 1806, aged 21. 
 In 1803, trusting the result would serve to enter and assist him at the University, he published a 
 small volume of poems, which, malgre the excessive beauty of some of them, was sneeringly reviewed 
 by a leading periodical of the day. Hence the composition of his melancholy strophs. He was very 
 poor, very ailing , and very sensitive , — but the history of « Unhappy While •• is known. 
 
— SO- 
 ic Come, Disappointment, come! 
 
 « Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
 « Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
 « For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
 <i To wean me from the world : 
 « To turn my eye 
 « From vanity, 
 « And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 
 
 « What is this passing scene? 
 
 « A peevish April day ! 
 a A little sun , — a little rain , 
 « And then night sweeps along the plain , 
 « And all things fade away. 
 « Man (soon discuss'd) 
 (c Yields up his trust, 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 
 
 « Oh I what is beauty's power ? 
 
 « It flourishes and dies; 
 « Will the cold earth its silence break 
 « To tell how soft , how smooth a cheek 
 « Beneath its surface lies? 
 « Mute, mute is all 
 « O'er beauty's fall; 
 « Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 
 
 « The most belov'd on earth 
 
 « Not long survives to-day : 
 « So music past is obsolete , 
 « And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet. 
 « But now 'tis gone away. 
 a Thus does the shade 
 « In memory fade, 
 « When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 
 

 — 31 — 
 
 « Then since this world is vain , 
 
 « And volatile and fleet, 
 « Why should I lay up earthly joys , 
 « Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
 « And cares and sorrows eat? 
 « Why fly from ill 
 « With anxious skill , 
 When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 
 
 « Come , Disappointment , come ! 
 « Thou art not stern to me; 
 « Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, 
 « A votary sad in early day, 
 « 1 bend my knee to thee. 
 « From sun to sun 
 « My race will run, 
 .« 1 only bow, and say, My God , thy ivill be done ! » 
 
 DISAN. — PI'.lSTEIt «Y J.-li. HUART. 
 
 1852. 
 
/ 
 
Written on visiting 'THE VICTORY.'- 
 
 Her Majesty's Flag-Ship, lying in Porlsmoulh Harbour. 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, A. M. 
 
 '.( Dulce ei decorum est pro pati-in niori. » 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 &)2Sr&ST. 
 
 1852. 
 
NELSON, 
 
 OR 
 
 offBB VI€fOB¥.» 
 
 — «Ts#§>> — 
 
 The recent death of the great compatriot and military pendant of « England's darling hero,)) by the 
 side of whom the illustrious Duke is about to be interred , will excuse , perhaps , the reappearance of 
 the following stanzas , and even invest them with an interest , which may compensate the reader for 
 the imperfection of the verse. Among the very earliest of the author's compositions, they were written 
 eighteen years ago. 
 
 Thou , of no lying name , — ' The Victory T ' 
 The -winner of four battles on the brine , 
 
 And sovereign of all , that round thee lie , 
 
 — The sons and daughters of the mighty line, — 
 How grand to muse upon a race like thine, 
 
 And on thy decks of glory to have stood , 
 And there have hail'd thy ' royal right divine ,' 
 
 Anointed , as thou wast , with Nelson's blood , 
 Acknowledg'd by the winds , and homag'd by the flood f 
 
In queenly guise — while others come and go, 
 Or near thy presence for a summons wait 
 
 To plough the vasty waters to and fro, — 
 Thou keepest still thy stationary state, 
 And dost, with dignity, forestall the date 
 
 Of laying up thy timbers from the breeze, 
 For thee thy years not superannuate, 
 
 But Albion pensions with the flag of ease 
 'The champion of her ships — the saviour of her seas. 
 
 And shame it were, that thou, from such a height, 
 Shouldst ever stoop to qualify and mar 
 
 Thy triumphs with a brawl, or deign to fight 
 Against the ignoramuses of war, 
 With whom to cope Avere to succumb as far 
 
 As striking to the Frenchman would have been — 
 Yea ! shame it were to sink from Trafalgar 
 
 Down to a squabble with the Algerine, 
 Or soil thv laurels with the smoke of Kavarin . 
 
 No, not for thee in scuffles to engage 
 
 With Dey or Sultan, Arab or the Turk. 
 To lash the felon — strife at times to wage 
 
 With slaves — is well — but not a monarch's work. 
 
 As Philip's son disdain'd within the cirque 
 With aught but kings for kingdoms to compete, 
 
 So thou, as regally, shouldst scorn to jerk 
 The glove before such rivals, as would meet 
 Less foil in thv success, than thou in their defeat — 
 
r5o, not for thee, whose Bronte*-bearing oak 
 The Lord of Thunder to the pealing fray 
 
 Transported like a steed, that spurn'd the yoke 
 Of Gaul, and whose great rider, in dismay, 
 Scar'd her bold eagle from the wave away, 
 
 To trail its bleeding pinion on the shore, 
 And limit to the land its lust of prey, 
 
 When he, awakening the cannon's roar, 
 Went bounding o'er the deep , to conquer as before- 
 
 Ko, not for thee to quit this pale of rest, 
 This briny mead, this paddock of the main, 
 
 Old charger of the elements! and breast 
 The shock of then- united strength again, 
 Or climb 1 , with daring keel, the stormy reign 
 
 Of sky-insulting billows, heard afar. — 
 
 No, not for thee to leave this quiet plain, 
 
 To whose repose thy just pretensions are, 
 Tnulon — the Hieres — St. Vincent — Trafalgar.. 
 
 Art thou , with many memories so rife , 
 
 Art thou, indeed, a thing without a thought?* 
 A mere machine ? a mass , devoid of life ? 
 
 Insensible ? with not a feeling fraught ? 
 
 It cannot be : -J- thou surely must have caught 
 Some gleam of soul , some flash of sympathy, 
 
 Of and for him, who such conceptions brought 
 To being here, and died when done, or why 
 These consecrated planks — ah ! wherefore should they cry 
 
 *'« He was fond of his Sicilian title '. the signiiication, perhaps, pleased him; — Duke of Thunder was - 
 ■what in Dahomy would he called a strong name; it was to a sailor's taste; and, certainly, to no man 
 •could it ever be more applicable. ;> 
 
 Soulhey's Life of Nelson, vol. ii. page 68. 
 
 f. Though the universality, so to speak, of « Southey's Life of Nelson » would seem to render them 
 
— 6 — 
 
 « Stop ! for thou treadest where a hero trod ' 
 <> Then pause aud ponder on this hallow'd deck, 
 
 « Where man was made the instrument of God 
 « To curb ambition, and its schemes to check, 
 « As Buonaparte's star became a speck, 
 
 « Jeer'd by the sea, and laugh' d at by the show'r 
 « Of shotted fire, that left his fleet a wreck, 
 
 « Tor Treedom, shy of military poAv'r, 
 To England had assign'd the Ocean for a dow'r. 
 
 « Happy, at least, to walk these boards once more, 
 
 « More happy still, once more to face the foe, 
 « And sick of self, and angry with the shore, 
 « The sum of his emotions who can know, 
 « As, pacing up and down, and to and fro, 
 « He stole from war some bitter moments brief 
 « To match the present with the long ago ? 
 — ■<• The joy of pure affection with the grief 
 <> Of love without respect, that ach'd without relief 
 
 « Save from the tomb, where Death was on the watch, 
 
 « Not with his eye of customary stoue, 
 « Nor hand of usual apathy, to snatch 
 
 « Britannia's blind, but single-hearted son 
 
 « From the worse grasp of witching Hamilton ! 
 « And therefore had he cast the fatal ball, 
 
 ■< Against the coming battle should be won, 
 « And bade him wear his proud insignia all, 
 « That what had urg'd his rise might stimulate his fall ! 
 
 superfluous, I cannot — standing, as it were, on the threshold of my poor poetic version of its 
 sublimely simple close, — let slip the opportunity of gladly and gratefully owning my obligations to that 
 master-piece of biography, whose spirit-stirring narrative, from first to last, thrills one like the sound 
 of a trumpet. 
 
« Stop ! for thou standest where a hero fell"! 
 
 « Then pause and ponder on this motto'd brass, 
 ■■• Which, here inlaid, imparts too clearly ay ell 
 
 « A sadder meaning to these words alas ! 
 
 « Than when, like wildfire, spreading in the grass, 
 « 'England expects each man to do his duty ' 
 
 « To all her men a winged warning was, 
 « That never would she see her home of beauty, 
 Her altars, and her hearths, a pillage and a booty. 
 
 « And thus the combat join'd, the fight began, 
 
 ii With confident huzzas and sthring cheers, 
 « As soon as that pervading signal ran 
 
 « From ship to ship , and , filling France with fears . 
 
 « Its fiat sounded in her conscious ears, 
 « Contending, as she was, in such a cause, 
 
 « "Where Glory no indemnifying tears 
 o Vouchsafes the dead, nor where the patriot draws 
 A sword in the defence of country, king, and laws. 
 
 « Of numbers, dropping round him, as the corn 
 
 o Beneath the sickle in the harvest-time, 
 <■ These to the deep, and those below are borne, 
 
 « Some in their autumn, some their summer's prime, 
 « And some cut off by their sharp April's rime. 
 « Too fierce to last, the storm will overblow 
 " Ere yonder bells shall strike another chime, 
 -« But hark ! what means that sudden cry of woe ? 
 Tis Nelson of the Nile ! — he said it would be so. 
 
— 8 — - 
 
 .. See ! the red life is ebbing from his breast-, 
 - Yet weep not — kneel not — on his face to look , , 
 But bear him to the cock-pit with the rest, 
 < In character with one, who never took 
 « Advantage of his station, nor could brook 
 o The prior' claimant of a shatter'd limb 
 
 « Should suffer unattended in his nook , 
 « And care be lavish'd only upon him, 
 Whose sight — and sound — and sense — are dizzv — dull — and dins.* 
 
 « Again ! again ! again ' another tier 
 
 « Of many-bolted vengeance from the guns 
 <• Of England , and another 'nother cheer ! 
 
 « Another trophy, wrested from the Dons ! 
 
 o Another flag , from Gallia's striking sons ! 
 "'Call Hardy hither.' — Hardy's on his knees. — 
 
 "'The day?' — 'Our own.' — 'Then anchor, and at once.'^- 
 "'But Collingivood' — 'So long as God may please, 
 <'Shall none but Nelson act for Nelson on the seas. 
 
 "'Do you then anchor.' — And, so saying, he 
 
 « Strove hard to quit his pallet , but in vain — 
 " His hours were number'd, and it might not be. — 
 
 "'I'm dying, Hardy! and this vital pain 
 — "'Ah! would it were at peace ! and yet I fain 
 "'Would see the close! — Oh! ever true and tri'd! 
 
 "'Ne'er bury your old messmate in the main, 
 "'To be forgotten of its careless tide, 
 "'But ivhere my mother sleeps, and by my father's side—— 
 
— 9 — 
 
 ^Unless my king this service-beaten frame— 
 — «'This worn-out cover of the inward man — 
 "'Should ivish to moulder in some niche of fame.'' 
 «(And here a gleam of fine assurance ran 
 « Across his lineaments, as though his span 
 « Had •well been fill'd. Then said he with a sigh .) 
 
 "'May Heav'n forgive my errors as it can! 
 '■Tve sinn'd, I hope, not much. — But, Hardy, I 
 ''Am wrong to keep you here. — God bless you! and Good-Bye 
 
 "'Kiss me.' — And Hardy over him did bend, 
 
 « With heart too full for anything but breaking, 
 
 « And kiss'd the hueless forehead of his friend, 
 o Just as a woman would, her last leave taking 
 « With loving lips, that lack the pow'r of making 
 
 ■< Other adieu — but Sorrow has no sex. — 
 "'So cureless is my hurt, so deadly aching, 
 
 "''Tioere better to have linger'd o?i the deck's 
 ''Congenial bed than ivhere its viewless triumphs vex 
 
 «'My unconducive end with vague suspense.' 
 
 «(And now his voice grew gradually low, 
 « For death was nigh at hand.) — "Twos too intense 
 
 «'To last A few short minutes — and I go. 
 
 "'My watch is out: this flutter tells me so. — 
 "'May England recollect the dear bequest 
 
 "'Of Nelson to his country, that will know 
 "'Me by-and-bije ! — Whatever else may rest 
 Sin judgment against me — to her — to her at least — 
 
— 10 — 
 
 «. l Tve done my duty/' — Thus bis spirit pass'd,. 
 
 « On other tops the British hunting flying, 
 » Still anxious for his country to the last. — 
 
 « And now that he is on his pallet lying , 
 
 « Dead to the dead, the wounded, and the dying,. 
 « Let Charity pay up her long arrears , 
 
 « And humanly reflect , with Pity vying , 
 « That, if upon his name one blot appears, 
 ■■<■ He only was a man, and wash it out with tears." — - 
 
— 15 — 
 
 fusion of blood occasioned an apprehension that the wound was mortal : Nelson himself thought so : a 
 large flap of the skin of the forehead , cut from the bone, had fallen over one eye , and the other being 
 blind, he was in total darkness. When he was carried down, the surgeon, — in the midst of a scene 
 scarcely to be conceived by those who have never seen a cockpit in time of action, and the heroism 
 which is displayed amid its horrors,— with a natural and pardonable eagerness, quitted the poor fellow 
 then under his hands, that he might instantly attend the admiral. 'No!' said Nelson, 'I will lake-my 
 'turn with my brave fellows.' Nor would he suffer his own wound to be examined till every man 
 
 who had been previously wounded, was properly attended to. » How grand, too, is the following! 
 
 « When the surgeon came in due time to examine his wound , ( for it was in vain to entreat him to 
 let it be examined sooner,) the most anxious silence prevailed ; and the joy of the wounded men , and 
 of the whole crew , when they heard that the hurt was merely superlicial , gave Nelson deeper plea- 
 sure, than the unexpected assurance that his life was in no danger » « He was now left alone ; 
 
 when suddenly a cry was heard on the deck, that the Orient was on fire. In the confusion, he found 
 his way up, unassisted and unnoticed, and, to the astonishment of every one, appeared on the quarter- 
 deck , where he immediately gave orders that boats should be seut to the relief of the enemy. » 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 (11) — - « Ne'er bury your old messmate in the main, 
 « To be forgotten of its careless tide, 
 « But where my mother sleeps and by my father s side, 
 
 « Unless my king this service-beaten frame 
 — « This worn-out cover of the inward man — 
 « Should wish to moulder in some niche of fame. » 
 
 George 111, on receiving Lord Collingwood's dispatch, said-, with much feeling, that the victory was 
 "very dearly purchased : a public funeral was instantly decided on , and the remains of Nelson were 
 subsequently interred in St. Paul's , followed by thousands and by thousands in silence and in tears. 
 «The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and posthumous 
 rewards, were all which they could now bestow upon him, whom the king, the legislature, and the 
 nation, would have alike delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose presence 
 in every village, through which he might have passed, would have wakened the church bells, have 
 given school-boys a holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him , and ' old men from 
 ■the chimney corner,' to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, 
 indeed , with the usual forms of rejoicing , but they were without joy. » 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 (12) — « And humanly reflect, with Pity vying, 
 
 « TJiat, if upon his name one blot appears, 
 « He only was a man, and wash it out with tears. » 
 
 « The Accusing Spirit , that flew to Heaven's chancery with the oath , blushed as he gave it in , and 
 the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever. » 
 
 « The Death of Lefevre. » Sterne. 
 
 (T. O.j 
 
mw& m shs m&* 
 
 She's on the sea — our glorious ship ! 
 
 She hails the flood — she greets the foam — 
 She's left the dock — she's off the slip — 
 
 And launch'd upon her buoyant home ! 
 Her race begun , from deep to deep 
 Through storm and tempest shall she sweep, 
 And , arm'd with heart of oak , shall go 
 To brave the fight , and beat the foe ! 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 And , arm'd with heart of oak , shall go 
 To brave the fight , and beat the foe ! — 
 

 — 17 — 
 She's come from sea — our batter'd ship ! 
 
 Each mast's a wreck — each sail's a rag- 
 Her spars the shot was seen to strip, — 
 
 For all was struck — except her flag ! 
 That flag above the smoke on high 
 Awhile beheld its rival fly ; 
 But , when the cannon's roar was done , 
 That flag was flying all alone ! 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 But , when the cannon's roar was done , 
 That flag Avas flying all alone ! 
 
 She's fit for sea — our gallant ship ! 
 
 Ay, ev'ry plank, from stem to stern, 
 She's fit to take another trip , 
 
 And bid the tide of battle turn ! 
 She longs once more to plough the main- 
 She longs to try her strength again — 
 Tor, tir'd of rest, and sick of shore, 
 She's fit to conquer as before ! 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 For , tir'd of rest , and sick of shore , 
 She's fit to conquer as before ! 
 
THE COMMON HOME. 
 
 OR 
 
 fii ii4?i aga.3: 
 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PKENTIS, M. A, 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 18S2. 
 
Iii referring, the other day, to a little volume of poems, that he published 
 iu 1836, the author was sufficiently pleased with some lines, suggested to 
 him by a visit to the Hanwell Pauper-Lunatic Asylum, to decide on reprint- 
 ing them in a neighbourhood , which contains that melancholy thing , — a 
 mad-house ! He has a mournful satisfaction in adding , that , in no similar 
 establishment wherever, can the patients be treated with more skill, Avith 
 more care , with more tenderness , than in the one at Saint Esprit , near Dinan , 
 by Messieurs le Docteur Bodinier and those real labourers in Christ , « les Freres 
 « de Saint Jean de Dieu. ».... At the opening of that excellent Institution in 
 1835 , an eloquent paper was written on the subject by Monsieur Charles Bailly, 
 President of the local Court of Justice. 
 
Is the opener of these pages full of sensibility? let the poem be unread : it would shake the nerves. 
 Does he stickle for propriety? let the sketch be unperused : it ivoald shock the taste. Though both, 
 in their respective styles and according to the author's power, are faithful compositions, the mourning 
 of the one ( to so express himself ) is as palpably unfitted to the first , as the motley of the oilier to 
 the last. The « Sir Eustace Grey u of Crabbe , « The Rake » of Hogarth ,— each of them the inmate 
 of a Bedlam, but in all else so differently drawn and coloured — could not be more unsuited, the 
 
 former, to the tender-hearted , the latter, to the scrupulous Albeit, in his visil of an hour, the 
 
 writer of the verses and the prose witnessed but a fraction — and that the least distressing— of the 
 lunatics at Han well , he saw enough to thoroughly upset him for a week and to pain him for a life. 
 He has copied and described it. The traits of madness, as of other things, are marked with contrast 
 and variety : the dreadful and the droll, the sad and the grotesque, are often side by side. Without 
 this preamble, he would have hesitated in printing off his sheet or two of paper; with it, he 
 has boldly gone to press , and — his brochure being published — protests against being rated for a 
 ■work , of the real character of which the sensitive and nice are equally and honestly and timelily 
 informed. They are free agents. As to him, he will, as usual, confine himself to distributing his 
 book , perplexing nobody with queries by and bye. After the warning he has given , he may expect 
 to be unread , but cannot consent to be abused. 
 
ON WITNESSING THE INTERMENT OF A FEMALE PAUPER, IN THE BURIAL-GROUND 
 OF THE MIDDLESEX LUNATIC ASYLUM , HANWELL. 
 
 ^;a-.--- 
 
 Tis better thus , thou poor unfortunate ! 
 
 Better, the body's functions too should cease 
 
 Tor ever like the mind's , gone long ago , 
 
 Than linger on to breathe the wretched breath. 
 
 Of yonder beings , late thy fellows in 
 
 Tins crowded home of void fatuity. 
 
 Yea ! better is it , sunken , as thou Avert , 
 
 Down to the worm already, that the worm 
 
 On what is left thee of humanity 
 
 Its ^discriminating maw should glut, 
 
 Thau that, as by some stupifwng drug 
 
 Bev\ ilder'd and oppress'd , thou still sbouldst creep , 
 
— 6 — 
 
 A sad somnambulist , those -walls along , 
 
 Where none another knows — for what he is. 
 
 In other ills companionship is found , 
 
 But self-absorbing Madness in the midst 
 
 Of madness is alone — all , all alone. 
 
 The sailor , cast upon a desart shore , 
 
 Dew for his drink , and berries for his food , 
 
 The earth his hammock , curtain'd by the copse , 
 
 Whose ragged hushes but let in the wind , 
 
 Some solace gathers for his misery 
 
 In hardship at his side. — The widow, whom 
 
 The whelming wave hath made such , in her woe 
 
 Hies to some sister in calamity 
 
 To wail together o'er the cruel surge 
 
 And savage flood. — The childless mother seeks 
 
 Some childless mother's hosom , where to lay 
 
 Her desolate head , her heavy loss compare , 
 
 Ask sigh for sigh , and answer sob for sob. 
 
 These have some point of union in distress — 
 
 Some mournful rendezvous — some trysting-place — 
 
 Some nest of sorry comfort in the rock — 
 
 But Madness is alone — all , all alone ! — 
 
 And thou , poor witless captive , as thou wast , 
 
 The prisoner of imbecility, 
 
 And one of many solitary things , 
 
 Estrang'd and unconnected as the rest , 
 
Didst pace ( the paroxysm gone again ) 
 Thy listless gallery from end to end , 
 From hour to hour, dreaming — thou knew'st not what- 
 Moving — thou knew'st not whither nor for why — 
 Till vacancy grew weary of itself , 
 And su'd for occupation , when old hahit 
 Stood in the stead of reason , as the hand 
 Mechanically pli'd its former task , 
 Doing its work like any other wheel. 
 But ah ! what burning plough-shares had the mind , 
 In the ordeal of its agony, 
 
 Shriek'd over until then ! What searing thoughts 
 Had eat their parching way into the heart , 
 And dri'd it up to black and bitter dust ! — 
 But where the spark to this devouring flame , 
 That kindled to combustion? "Who can tell? 
 Perchance 'twas Love , whose friction with the soul , 
 Like touchwood rubb'd together, did emit 
 The scintillating heat , that , catching quick 
 The straws of an uneducated mind , 
 Soon fasten'd on its weeds , by Passion fed , 
 -By Passion unrequited or ill-starr'd — 
 Till all was either suffocating smoke 
 Or gusty fire. — Perchance 'twas Jealousy, 
 Whose piercing fang infus'd into thy veins 
 The venom of its bite , till , stung to wrath , 
 
— 8 — 
 
 Thou ragedst like a storm , whose lightnings were 
 Worthy Medea , when the flash of hell 
 Shot from her eyes , far brighter than the steel , 
 That sore aveiig'd upon their butcher'd babes 
 The husband's insult to a slighted wife. — 
 Perchance it was Remorse , tbat thou , the child 
 Of humble honesty, shouldst e'er have led 
 Disgrace unto its hearth , and thus have cloth'd 
 A father's limbs with sackcloth , and have strew'd 
 A mother's head with ashes , and brought down 
 Their last grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. — 
 Perchance 'twas Pride aud vying Vanity — 
 The vulgar resolution to outdress — 
 ' That common curse of Woman , high or low , ) 
 Which lur'd thee ou , by mischievous degrees , 
 Till show and sin , display and vice were one ! 
 And then , blaspheming Boldness in the van , 
 Thyself the tawdry centre of thy guilt , 
 Disease and Infamy on either wing , 
 Red Drunkenness brought up the reeling rear, 
 Where Madness lay in ambush , and leap'd out, — 
 Perchance — but why the mournful guess pursue ? 
 Suffice , that thou , amid those sadd'ning cells 
 And crazy air, didst dream — and dream — and dream , 
 Till nothing real was but Death alone !— 
 Suffice , that thou , without a home , a friend , 
 
— 9 — 
 
 Or one poor partner of thy nameless blood , 
 By alien hands to alien hands consign'd , 
 Wast thither borne , awhile to ramp and rave , 
 And, after, of Life's melancholy glass 
 To mope the few remaining sands away. — 
 Suffice , that thou , whate'er thou mayst have felt. , 
 Canst feel no more. In this impassive spot , 
 Shall ache nor anguish trouble thee again ! — 
 Then let not thy indignant spirit grieve , 
 That friends nor weeping relatives be here 
 To sepulchre thy clay, but , in then' stead , 
 Two craz'd assistants , and the Man of Pray'r, 
 And I below , and yonder lark above , 
 ( One with a tear , the. other with a song , ) 
 Have seen thee to the sod. No , never let 
 Thy spirit , soaring higher than the lark , 
 Unthankfully repine , but bless with me 
 The charitable care , that daily spread 
 A table in thy wilderness of mind, 
 And smooth'd the nightly pillow for thy brow. 
 Yea ! let thy spirit , for a time unspherd , 
 Descend and hallow with its benisons 
 The tender-hearted wisdom , which , in lieu 
 Of scourge and chain and dayless dungeon , bade 
 The shrub to flourish and the flow'r to bloom , 
 That so the brain , by Man unsettled , might 
 
— 10 — 
 
 By soothing Nature haply be refix'd. 
 Yet not alone , no , not alone the air , 
 The earth , the sky without , and cleanliness 
 Within , to thee were open , but the voice , 
 The look , the action of humanity , 
 Remonstrance without ire , and rule without 
 Abuse, were added to the chance of health. — 
 And , more than all , oh ! let thy spirit bless 
 f That royal aid , that queenly sympathy , 
 Still mindful of the meanest , which , had Heav'n 
 Repair'd thy shatter'd sense , in pity would 
 On the world's waste have furnish'd thee a port , 
 A temporary whereabout to look 
 Around thee , ere it swallow'd thee anew, 
 When thou , from sheer necessity , not choice , 
 With help , nor hope , nor means , nor character , 
 Must in the same abyss again have sunk , 
 But not again to drift on such a shore ! 
 
 
 
 ilusion to 'The Adelaide Fiwd,'— a charity well worthy of its name. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 A (•kcJeBi in jtrwse of JDae ntitliov's visit to Site masi-Ioonse. 
 
 In the early autumn of 1835, as I was one day walking near the Lunatic Asylum 
 at Hanwell , I encountered my friend and neighbour, the provisional Chaplain , 
 who had appointed with D r Ellis to bury a patient at noon. He offered, if agreeable, 
 to take me in with him, giving me to understand, however, that the visit must be 
 short, as he had a vestry to attend at 2 o' clock. (We both resided at Little 
 Ealing.) I caught at the proposal and joined company. The moment that the 
 folding-doors ( which open from the Uxbridge Road ) had fairly closed upon us , 
 I was seized, as the expression is, with a sort of ' all-over-ishness ,' such, as with 
 a certain difference , I had felt a year or two ago , on entering the magic circle 
 of Stonehenge. A simple second had wrought a change : the very air seemed 
 altered even now! As we walked towards the building, which, at the time, was 
 nakedly and painfully new, we passed a bevy of demented beings, nominally occupied 
 in laying out a garden ; but , what with one poor creature grinning at his spade , 
 a second ranting at his wheelbarrow, a third discoursing to his rake, and a fourth, 
 with abstracted and unconscious eye , poring on the dibble in his hand , the com- 
 pletion of the alleys and the beds ( are they finished yet ? ) struck me as remote , to 
 say the least of it. The Loudon for the nonce , assisted by a string and a lot of little 
 sticks , had been trying to achieve a square , but his quadrilateral feat upon the 
 ground— his diagram— was so decidedly anti-rectilinear, that to look at it without 
 a smile was utterly impossible. 1 thought of Euclid and his definitions : « all other 
 « four-sided figures besides these are called trapeziums !».... A few more paces 
 brought us to the door of the resident physician. The bell was answered by a 
 giggling, half-witted girl , in a bonnet which was turned the wrong side before. After 
 the usual salutations and a word or two with my reverend friend about the funeral, 
 D r E. commissioned a keeper to see us through the corridor and court, which 
 conducted to the cemetery. As soon as we had left the parlour, the latter told 
 me, all I had to do was not to seem afraid of anything or anybody; «besides,» 
 he added, (what sounded somewhat at variance with his advice) a they are as quiet 
 «as lambs, the whole kit o' them. The obstropolus ones are inivisible : in the 
 « general ivay, ice never shoics them to nobody. v.... The first object in our hurried 
 round was the kitchen, — a spacious room, with tables, dressers, ranges, coppers, 
 plate-racks, etc., to correspond. These, without a doubt, were sensible enough, 
 —the fires, too, though anything but bright, had a rational appearance,— but 
 as for the scullion and the cook, with their mob-caps all awry, they looked like 
 
— lf> — 
 
 opium-eaters, and might each of them have sat to Ben Jonson for his picture of 
 ' The Silent Woman.' Dear! dear! how very slow, how very still they were! how 
 very dawdling and how very dumb! The keeper, with much civility, invited me 
 to taste the soup, which accordingly I did, and a remarkably pale and thin potation 
 it was : the cook (who had ladled me a little out at last) had forgotten every thing 
 but the water! The keeper, noticing the deficit, shrugged his shoulders, took her 
 gently by the arm , and led her to where the lacking ingredients were lying in a 
 heap. As she recognized her error, she smiled faintly, put her fingers to her forehead, 
 smiled again , and gave her head a melancholy shake. The scullion , instead of 
 being— as any compos mentis scullion would have been— in a state of culinary 
 consternation at the oversight of her principal, was, with one shoe off and one 
 shoe on, staring at the coal-box! Three or four other females — plate in hand — 
 kept mooning in and out of the kitchen , and might , at the hour of their un- 
 somnolence, have waited on 'The Seven. Sleepers.' These were the only women 
 I beheld. Hitherto, though sufficiently painful of course, there had been nothing 
 to absolutely shock me : a dozen yards made all the difference. The keeper, who 
 preceded us , opened a small door, 
 
 « And wow / Tarn saw an unco sight ! » 
 
 1 felt as if 1 were going to have a tooth out , and heartily wished myself away 
 again. In a long gallery, suspiciously clean and (owing to the mass of glaring 
 white-wash ) almost hurtful to the eye , some thirty or forty of the male patients 
 —the majority of kindred pallor and meagre to the last degree, a few in flannel, 
 and five or six of them with enormous wicker-guards upon the head — were scat- 
 tered up on and down upon the stones. From the previous impression on my 
 mind, that lunatics were usually gifted with good health and commonly attained to 
 longevity, I was wholly unprepared for the sickly and appalling sight which argued 
 the reverse. The Asylum I was in was expressly for the poor,— the very. poor,— and 
 "still I had failed to recollect , that spirituous liquors ( at once their solace and their 
 curse) could never be permitted there. The sudden — not to say the violent — reaction 
 on the system from the miss of them, obvious though it was, was a thought which 
 had perfectly escaped me. And thus it chanced, that, shaken from the outset, 
 my nerves were unequal to a visit, ivhich nobody, unused to it, must count on 
 paying with impunity. To resume. Our entrance was speedily remarked by a 
 portion of the patients , and occasioned , as was natural , a good deal of additional 
 excitement. Has the reader seen a parrot-room? well , then , let him figure to himself 
 the intrusion of a pair of cockatoos! What a staring-^what a prating— what a 
 whistling— quel tinlamarre enfin— there was! The adjoining corridors^the cells of 
 is the obstropolus onesn — caught up the cry immediately, and the yelling and the 
 howling so thoroughly unhinged me, that the keeper thought it right to reiterate 
 his caution.... « Benjamin! Benjamin! have mercy on me! have mercy on me.')? was 
 
— 13 — 
 
 the harrowing appeal of a rampant methodist, that came shuffling towards us on 
 his naked kuees. His osiered head, as closely shaven as could be, was disfigured 
 by a monstrous patch of taffetas. His equipments were a wallet and a staff. His 
 large black eyes, insanely fixed upon the Chaplain, were as terrible to look at, as 
 his loud wild words to listen to. My friend (whose face and voice were familiar 
 to many of the patients , ) addressed him in a soothing tone , raised him kindly 
 with his hands , one of which the maniac passionately kissed , and then fell sideways 
 in the middle of the corridor. (The purport of the wicker-guards was evident: 
 the reason of the epilepsy was a sphinx..) He was lifted from the pavement by 
 the keeper and a lathy fellow-lunatic, silently removed, and set against the wall. 
 In the interim (and the Chaplain shared the same fate ) I had become the centre 
 of a circle, and I found myself extremely ill at ease. «/ want to speak to you, 
 <( my man I » said one of the periphery, seeing that the keeper's back was turned , 
 and, pulling me apart, he began some incoherent details of how he had been 
 treated by his family and sent to that « infernal place. » Having pressed me hard 
 to <( call upon 'em and tell' em a bit of his mind for him , » he informed me 
 in a confidential whisper, that his « brother Bob ivas a regular rip, and as for 
 « 3h'ss Jenny, why, she ivas no better than she should be. And now ye'll be sure 
 « and look' em up, won't ye?)).... I inclined a most serious ear to everything he 
 said, and gravely asked for the address : it was Number 3, Ebenezer Row, Camden 
 Town. I repeated it aloud , as if to impress it on my memory, nodded him adieu , 
 and walked towards the Chaplain and the keeper. Whether as a movement of 
 gratitude, whether as a piece of mockery, the injured individual hurried after me, 
 — to snap his fingers in my face, and then, with a hop-skip-aud-a-jump, away 
 he went! Having shirked, as I best could, (my friend was more au fait at it than 
 I ) the stealthy importunities of four or five more of them , my attention was arrested 
 by a crazy couple on a bench. The one, about thirty years of age, in a straight 
 jacket , was outsetting the constraint of his arms by the furious contortion of his 
 features and the flashes of an unforgiving eye ; the other— a hopeless old madman 
 but as placid as could be,— was playing scratch-cradle! Exactly opposite, sat a 
 mealy-faced patient, with a kind of brigand-hat on, and the left leg of his trowsers 
 (I wondered wherefore) rolled carefully above the knee. His gaze was fastened on a 
 feather at his foot : he rubbed his hands from time to time, cracked his finger- 
 joints, chuckled at his own thoughts, (what could they have been? the feather?) 
 and made more funny faces in a minute than Munden in the course of a whole 
 farce. His nearest neighbour, like a peach-tree newly trained, was sticking to the 
 wall. Did he fancy himself a target , — a something to be shot at, — the son of William 
 Tell? perhaps he did. a What, in the name of fortune, » I inquired, pointing to 
 a gestic figure in front of us, iris yonder man about?)).... uOh! Sir!)) replied 
 the keeper, a he's an out-and-out rum'un, he is : he fancies his-self a telegraph!)) 
 The visionary — the monomaniac— or whatever else ye please to call him— was, with 
 
— 14 — 
 
 a face of immense importance , standing ( like Mercury ) on one leg ; the other, si- 
 multaneously with his arms, was in full play. His hands, as unintelligible as a tomb 
 of Nineveh,— aye, even to the little fingers, — were busily at work as well! It was 
 really very droll. «/ must go and speak to him,» said 1 : « I'd give the world 
 « to know the news. — Oh ! Sir ! » replied the keeper again , « it t'ant no use asking 
 uhim no questions : ye may as well speak to a post. Leave him alone a bit, and 
 « ye'll see him make a bolt of it presently. » 1 watched the pantomime a minute 
 more, and, sure enough, he bolted like a rabbit from a bush. At the distance 
 of forty feet or so, he stopped abruptly short, and, resuming his telegraphic attitudes, 
 forwarded his own dispatch! Like Rousseau and Richardson , he corresponded with 
 himself ! And so he would persist till utterly exhausted , and then , for days together, 
 would be as motionless as stone! Sur ces entrefaites , (as the French express it) 
 how many of the patients in the corridor were perfectly unconscious of what was 
 going on! Proof against excitement in themselves, and deaf and blind to it in 
 others, they remained as passive as at first, — as passive and impassible. As they stood 
 or sat, ye would have likened them to statues; as they moved about, to somnambulists ! 
 Their negative existence— their death-in-life — was a sleep — a dream— a stupor — a deep 
 deep trance. Their phrenzy was peculiar; their hallucination was a property. To them 
 « the moping ideot and the madman gay » were nothing — absolutely naught— inanities 
 — nonentities! Absorbedly distinct from both, they had no communication with either, 
 — none with one another. Every visionist was his own sphere— his own secluded 
 world — his own Limbo — his own Hades — his own 'Valley of the Shadow of Death!' 
 Like Vathek in «.The Hall of Eblis,)> when the fatal hour was come and the final 
 judgement was pronounced against him, each particular soul was strictly separate 
 — rigidly apart— all acquaintance dead — all ties broken— in the midst of company 
 uncompanionable — smileless — wordless — taciturnly sad and gloomily alone. A pair 
 of these abstracted beings, the sight of whom affected me to tears, and whose vivid 
 recollection is still a pain to me, were relieved by a ludicrous set-off, which nothing 
 but a mad-house could supply. A slim , weak-faced young fellow— just the sort 
 of stripling to be stage-struck— -was , with a passable good voice and histrionic 
 gesture, but with consummate incongruity of course, enacting that gallant and 
 gallant hero , Captain Macheath , and smirking and singing , now to his imaginary 
 Polly Peachum, now to his imaginary Lucy Lockit, a sample of uThe Beggar's Opera: » 
 
 « How happy could I be with either, 
 
 « Were other dear charmer away, 
 « Rut, when ye thus teaze me together, 
 
 « To neither a word will I say 
 
 « Rut tol-de-rol-lol ! tol-de-rol-lol ! 
 <c Tol-de-rol! tol-de-rol! tol-de-rol-lol! » 
 
 And then, unwitting fool! he danced a repetition of the chorus! The winding- 
 
— 15 — 
 
 sheeted drunkard, in ^Frightened to death, » is favored with as much notice by 
 the people he addresses, as Hie «poor player» was by the somnambulists in question. 
 They never even knew the Captain ivas there ! The object I encountered next was 
 a lacrymose extravagance — a crazy Heraclitus— who , with a pocket-handkerchief 
 as full of holes as Billy Lackaday's, was blubbering away like a petticoated boy, 
 that has lost the penny-whistle or the whip , which his « granny was so good as 
 « to buy him at the fair. » As I gazed upon his fatuous affliction , I bethought me of 
 a cretin in the canton of Geneva. Instigated , I suppose , by curiosity, I peeped 
 into a cell on the right hand , and near the exit of the corridor. Detecting nobody, 
 I walked (stupidly enough) to the end of the little room, and then, as a not unnatural 
 sequitur, turned round to walk back again. In a shady corner of it , on a sted 
 behind the door (a position which accounts for my non-observance of him in the 
 first instance , ) propped upon a pillow, lay a scowling invalid , most unmistakeably 
 awake. His insanity was obvious, and, as he stared or, rather, glared at me, my 
 feet were rooted to the spot. A bird at a basilisk, or Robinson Crusoe at the 
 « two broad shining eyes of some creature, whether devil or man, which twinkled 
 « like two stars, the dim light from the cave's mouth shining directly in and making 
 « the reflection , » will convey the best idea of how I must have looked , and of 
 how I must have felt. The dumb-show, no doubt , would have lasted longer than 
 it did, had not the recumbent figure , with a grincing grin , made an effort to 
 get up , and then , with one jump, I bounded to the door and rushed into the 
 gallery. But my nerves alas! were doomed to undergo another and severer test. 
 As I joined the Chaplain, (the keeper, for the moment, was trying to pacify a 
 poor wretch, that, literally, « quarrelled with a straiv,») he was listening, with 
 his wonted coolness , to one of two « new arrivals , » ( from the court hard by, ) 
 who , in common with so many more , was , attempting , in a whisper, to turn 
 him to account. The second lunatic,— with the sanguinest complexion and the 
 very wildest eyes I ever witnessed,— the instant he discovered mc, decided on 
 forming my acquaintance,— a compliment to my merits, which I, for my part, 
 was equally anxious to decline. Diminutive and spare, I endeavoured to screen 
 myself from observation— to take refuge in fact— behind the portly figure of my 
 friend. The ruse , of course , was too shallow to succeed , and , a moment after, 
 the bright grey eyes of madness were upon me ! I dodged again— meme chose ! 
 — again— again— again— meme chose! — meme chose! — tnSme chose! — At every shift 
 I made (and I made twenty at the least) the twin lamps were certain to be flaring 
 in my face ! 1 had never had such a game of hide-and-seek before. At last , 
 excited to the * n' h , (how absurdly I had acted to be sure!) he caught me by the 
 wrist, and held me like Abraham Cann! The sequel (thank God!) was harmless 
 
 See any work on Algebra for 'The Binomial Theorem,' where the n' h is the ne plus ultra of 
 Hie « powers. » 
 
— 16 — 
 
 enough , and glad I was , as the saying is , Ho get out of it so cheap. ' With a 
 ■volubility of tongue, impossible to follow or describe, he gave me to understand 
 (what I scarcely should have guessed,) that he was his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, 
 most infamously put in there, and that, unless I moved heaven and earth to procure 
 his liberation, I should hear from him again in a way I should 'nt like, a And 
 a?ww» (he ended) a you may go!» And go 1 did, with such a bang against 
 the wall, as not only knocked my hat off, but materially impaired my new frock- 
 coat by its violent collision with the whitewash ! Unluckily for the grandeur of 
 his Grace, the keeper, who had seen him in his tantrums, hurried up, and, after 
 having eyed him a la Carter and Van Amburgh , ( the lion-tamers ! ) took him by 
 the arm, walked him off, and lodged him in his cell. « So much for Buckingham! '».. . 
 We were now in the court-yard, which, at the time, contained but two individuals. 
 The first — a stout-built man of middle-age, with, I should have deemed, a constant 
 brisk circulation of blood, — was, on as mild a day as autumn ever knew, blowing 
 his finger-nails and stamping his feet upon the ground, or swinging his arms and 
 slapping his hands— slap, slap, slap,— like a sailor in the arctic seas. His mind 
 (and by implication his body) was clearly in «the regions of thick-ribbed ice.» 
 The second— of exiguous dimensions and proportionately thin, the colour of a turnip 
 bitten by the frost , with a starveling of a coat and a pair of little trowsers a la 
 Smike, a hat to correspond with his gear and a brim to correspond with his hat, 
 — absurd to a degree — adopting the ridiculous « allure » of a piebald charger at 
 Franconi's, in some imposing scene of « Tamerlane » or «Ghe?igis-Khan,» ever 
 moving but never getting on, smirking and smiling and bobbing and bowing, 
 
 — fancied himself (could madness go beyond?) no other than ! and told 
 
 us , with an air of ineffable complacence , that he was walking in the garden of 
 Gethsemane— ato stretch his legsln The fanatic appeared (I suspect he was) a jobbing 
 tailor gone distraught. As the keeper's escort was no longer requisite, he bade 
 us a good morning and re-entered the gallery. A minute afterwards, the dinner- 
 bell rang, and the figures began to move away. He managed them like sheep, and 
 the corridor was gradually cleared. I was heartily glad of it, for my nerves were 
 shaken all to pieces, and I had no wish to encounter its occupants again. My 
 friend (as well as I can recollect) drew a key from his pocket, unlocked a com- 
 municating door, and we found ourselves in a fallow-field. We proceeded to the 
 further end of it, where a couple of men, with a coffin on a truck, were waiting 
 for the Chaplain, under a high wall of the edifice. It was the cemetery — that 
 melancholy spot. The grave, with water in it, was one of many more. There 
 were no tomb-stones ,— no names, — nothing to designate the dead, — only turfiess 
 hillocks , — unosiered mounds , — heaps of pallid clay. The departed , in the present 
 instance ; was a female pauper : the couple, who had brought her thither, were 
 patients like herself. They were harmless things,— inoffensive quite,— and not entirely 
 ignorant of what was going on, since, nearly unassisted, they committed, with 
 
decency and care, the body of their fellow-creature to the earth. But their wits 
 were evidently wrong, seeing that the one of them, during the impressive reading 
 of my friend, kept swaying to-and-fro like the balance of a clock, whilst the other, 
 leaning on his shovel, was standing on the brink of the grave, and staring, with 
 all his might, at the coffin he had helped, a moment back, to lower with his own 
 hands! Strangely enough, as soon as the burial-service had commenced, a lark 
 (a happy omen let us hope!) shot upwards in the azure air, and presently was 
 singing over-head. The service and the carol both went on. The feathered warbler 
 (did she typify the soul?) kept flying up and up .... « Ashes to ashes! dust to ditst!» 
 As well as my emotion would allow, I repeated the affecting words, and, suiting 
 the action thereunto, stooped down, and threw a little mould upon the coffiu. 
 As the modicum of earth— the emblematic tribute of mortality — pattered on the 
 lid , the lark sang louder than before. The carol had become a hymn. It was 
 infinitely striking ! The touching intonation of the human voice , the melting music 
 of the mounting bird, the bright sun, the blue sky, the lunatic and sane, the 
 sick and whole, together at the grave, — the indices of life and death, I say, with 
 all the heavy hazards of the one , and all the solemn sureness of the other, appealing 
 to my heart, it answered to the mournful challenge, and I turned away my face 
 and wept. A firmer mind, exposed to such a test, might have yielded to the trial, 
 and been softened into tears. For had I not beheld , in a many-acred hospital , 
 the saddest aberration of the brain? the worst humiliation of the intellect? madness, 
 imbecility! Had I not beheld, albeit in a modified degree, whether from accident, 
 misfortune, passion, weakness, or intemperance, the terrible abasement of my 
 brother-man ? the image of the Maker moving in a trance ? ranting , crawling , 
 lying on the naked stones ? mouthing , grinning , grincing at the empty air ? 
 practising, in hoary-headed age, the pastime of the child? chuckling at a feather? 
 imitating wood ? insulting misery with song and dance , its mirth , if possible , 
 more miserable still ? shedding ideotic tears ? desecrating holiness ? assisting , 
 with a half-unconscious help , to lower and inter a sister in calamity — a victim 
 of the pit — the debitum of death— a poor forerunner to the grave? I had! I had! 
 
 When the funeral was finished, and the crazy couple, at a gesture of the 
 
 Chaplain, began to shovel in the clay and to cover up the dead, we silently and 
 slowly returned upon our steps. The court was tenantless. In the gallery was 
 no one but the patient in a straight-jacket. His chin was resting on his chest : 
 he was uneasily asleep. The servant met us in the hall and let us out, — the 
 giggling, half-witted girl, of whom I spoke above, with her bonnet turned the 
 wrong side before. The gardening-group, in common with the rest that we had 
 seen, were gone to dinner. But the alleys, though deserted, were anything but still, 
 since, as we proceeded to where we had entered the building, there issued from 
 the nearest cells a horrid oath of fury or of pain, a harrowing hya>na laugh, a 
 tremulous loud cry, like the hooting of an owl, and the burden of a seaman's song, 
 
— 18 — 
 
 — « In the bay of Biscay, oh! ».... We parted on the Uxbridge Road,— my friend and 
 1 , — one to attend his Vestry, and the other to regain his home by the way of 
 Osterley Park, in a solitary lane of which I gave a freer vent to my feelings, and 
 prayed from my inmost soul to the Source of all intelligence — the Fountain of all 
 light — to continue me, unshrunk, the measure He had meted me, te guide me 
 and to guard me, so that, from vice or fault, from folly or mischance, I might 
 neither be a maniac nor a fool, neither be possessed with a demon in the brain, 
 nor, like the tree , prophetically pointed at by Swift , « wither a-top ! » 
 
 " ■ 
 
 
 
 b 
 
 — " " fj 
 
 ■ 
 
 7 
 
Ba@TT18 T© THI ^©0 
 
 oj**> 
 
 (1) — « The sailor, cast upon a desart shore, 
 
 « Dew for his drink , and berries for his food , 
 « The earth his hammock, curtain' d by the copse, 
 (i Whose ragged bushes but let in the wind, 
 « Some solace gathers for his misery 
 « In hardship at his side. » 
 « A little after noon I found the sea very calm , and the tide ebbed so far out, that I 
 could come within a quarter of a mile of the ship ; and here I found a fresh renewing 
 of my grief, for I saw evidently, that, if we had kept on board, we had been all 
 safe , that is to say, we had all got safe on shore , and I had not been so miserable 
 as to be left entirely destitute of all comfort and company, as 1 now was : this forced 
 
 tears from my eyes again. » « Such were these earnest wishings , 
 
 that but one man had been saved ! that it had been but one ! I believe I repeated 
 the words , that it had been but one ! a thousand times ; and my desires were so 
 moved by it, that, when I spoke the words, my hands would clinch together, and my 
 fingers press the palms of my hands , that, if I had had. any soft thing in my hand . it 
 would have crushed it involuntarily ; and my teeth in my head would strike together, 
 and set against one another so strong, that for some time I could not part them again. » 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 (2) — .;•....- « The teidoiv, whom 
 
 « The whelming wave hath made such , in her woe 
 
 « Hies to some sister in calamity 
 
 « To wail together o'er the cruel surge 
 
 « And savage flood. » 
 
 A few months after the well-known fatal accident off the coast of Italy, I met at 
 the house of Godwin, the novelist, his daughter, M rs Shelley. Whilst 1 was paying 
 my respects to M" G. , M rs Williams, whose husband had been drowned with the 
 poet, came in, attired in deep mourning. The meeting of the two widows, though 
 not the first between them , was extremely triste. To spare it the interruption of 
 a stranger, I arose and took my leave. 
 
 (3)- « The childless mother seeks 
 
 « Some childless mother's bosom , ivhere to lay 
 « Her desolate head, her heavy loss compare, 
 « Ask sigh for sigh, and answer sob for sob. » 
 Of a scene of this kind , too , was I once a witness. A M r and M r ' Neal , in whose 
 
— 20 — 
 
 pretty cottage , at the back of Emmanuel College , Cambridge , I was a lodger in 1823 , 
 had recently lost their only child, a fine little girl of 4 years old, who, as I shall 
 ever recollect , in the height of summer and of fever higher still , was three days 
 and three nights dying hard, very very hard! One Sunday afternoon, on my returning 
 from a stroll , the door was opened to me by M rs Neal , bathed in tears , with another 
 weeping mother in the passage, who", it seemed, had just sustained a similar 
 bereavement. 
 
 (4)— « Till vacancy grew weary of itself ', 
 
 « And su'd for occupation , ivhen old habit 
 
 « Stood in the stead of reason , as the hand 
 
 « Mechanically pli'd its former task, 
 
 (c Doing its work like any other wheel. » 
 Some three or four weeks after my hurried visit to the Asylum, having accompanied 
 my reverend friend to see the performance of evening service in the Chapel , I took , 
 when it was over, the opportunity of a little chat with D r Ellis. Among other 
 interesting facts, he told me that employment was often asked for by the patients 
 themselves and invariably accorded , as one of the most salutary remedies. « If 
 «tbe work is badly done,» he said, «what signifies? we either let it go or have 
 <i it done again by a regular hand. The prime object is to amuse the poor things. » 
 
 (5) — (( Perchance 'twas Jealousy, 
 
 « Whose piercing fang infus'd into thy veins 
 « The venom of its bite , till , stung to wrath , 
 « Thou ragedst like a storm, whose lightnings ivere 
 « Worthy Medea , when tlte flash of hell 
 k Shot from her eyes , far brighter than the steel , 
 <c That sore aveng'd upon their butcher'd babes 
 v. The husband's insult to a slighted, wife- » 
 Medea , a violent character and stained with many crimes , ( the Lucretia Borgia 
 of antiquity!) was divorced by Jason for Glauce. (See * Euripides's Play, Ovid's 
 Metamorphoses, and Apollonius's Epic.) By her pair of dragons, perhaps, (for classic 
 fable is half allegory) we must understand her temper and her f tongue- 
 
 In mercy, however, to the memory of Medea , let us bear in mind , that the Greek dramatist is 
 said to have been bribed by the Corinthians with a sum of 5 talents ( 968 L. 15 5. ) to write a Play, 
 which , throwing the stigma of it on the mother, 'should exonerate them from the death of Jason's 
 children, Pheres and Mermerus.... The exquisite translations — marvellous indeed in a youth of nineteen 
 — ( for they were a college exercise ) of some of the choruses in Euripides's Tragedy were the origin 
 and ground-work of Campbell's lyric fame. 
 
 i To quit the academic stilts. In a far county of England , an aged matron , whose « capital family- 
 « receipts » had procured her the reputation of a witch , was applied to by a young woman , newly 
 
— 21 — 
 
 (6)— « Perchance it was Remorse, that thou, the child 
 (c Of humble honesty, shouldst e'er have led 
 <c Disgrace unto its hearth, and thus have cloth' d 
 (( A father's limbs with sackcloth, and have strew 'd 
 « A mother's head with ashes , and brought down 
 « Their last gr-ey gairs ivith sorrow to the grave. — » 
 
 « David Deans had been alarmed at the state of health in which his daughter had 
 returned to her paternal residence; but Jeanie had contrived to divert him from 
 particular and specific enquiry. It was, therefore, like a clap of thunder to the 
 poor old man, when, just as the hour of noon had brought the visit of the Laird 
 of Dumbiedikes as usual, other and sterner, as well as most unexpected guests 
 arrived at the cottage of St Leonard's. These were the officers of justice, with a 
 warrant of justiciary to search for and apprehend Euphemia, or Effie, Deans, accused 
 of the crime of child-murder. The stunning weight of a blow so totally unexpected 
 bore down the old man, who had in his early youth resisted the brow of military 
 and civil tyranny, though backed with swords and guns, tortures and gibbets. lie 
 
 fell extended and senseless upon his own hearth. » « The old man 
 
 had now raised himself from the ground , and , looking about him as if he missed 
 something, seemed gradually to recover the sense of his wretchedness. 'Where,' 
 he said , with a voice that made the roof ring , ' where is the vile harlot , that has 
 disgraced the blood of an honest man? — Where is she, that has no place among 
 us, but has come foul with her sins, like the Evil One, among the children of God.' 
 — Where is she, Jeanie? — Bring her before me, that I may kill her with a word 
 and a look ! ' » « Jeanie, iiqw in some degree restored to the power 
 
 married, for a cbarrn to win her back the affections of her husband : «John>* (as she said with tears) 
 « was quite another man from what he was at first. » After a few questions, the former bade her, for 
 the space of a month , always have at hand a cup of water, fetched from a certain spring in the 
 adjoining wood, «and be sure,» (she added) «as soon as ever John begins to naggle, as you call it, 
 « to take a little of it in your mouth , and keep it there for ten minutes , as near as you can guess. » 
 And then , 
 
 « With antique phrases for pretence 
 
 « And rambling rhymes without a word of sense , » 
 
 (Ovid.) 
 she gave her some withered elder-leaves to throw into the source. Before the expiration of the month, 
 the applicant renewed her visit to the hut. «Well, my dear» said the old lady, «and how are matters 
 « going on at home? n 0OI1! <> replied the smiling and the thankful wife, "John and I are so comfor- 
 « table again ! And only think of that wonderful fountain in the wood ! » « The fountain in the wood . 
 « my dear! » rejoined the dame, « was nothing but a make-believe. One word leads lo another, ana 
 « we women arc loo fond of having the last. With the water in your mouth , you were sure to 
 « — hold your tongue! ».... How many bickerings in married life, how much of conjugal unhappiness 
 would cease , by the simple recollection of the witch's spell ! 
 
— 22 — 
 
 of thought , joined in the same request. The next day found the father and daughter 
 still in the depth of affliction , hut the father sternly supporting his load of ill through 
 a proud sense of religious duty, and the daughter anxiously suppressing her own 
 feelings to avoid again awakening his. Thus was it with the afflicted family. » . . 
 
 « Deans raised the Bible with his left hand , so as partly to screen his face , 
 
 and , putting back his right as far as he could , held it toward Butler in that position , 
 at the same time turning his body from him, as if to prevent his seeing the working 
 of his countenance. Butler clasped the extended hand, which had supported his orphan 
 infancy, wept over it, and in vain endeavoured to say more than the words — 'God 
 comfort you— God comfort you ! ' » 
 
 The Heart of Mid-Lolhian. — Scott. 
 
 «'You are right, my boy,' cried his mother, 'Old England is the only place in 
 the Avorld for, husbands to get wives.' — 'And for wives to manage their husbands,' 
 interrupted I. 'It is a proverb abroad, that, if a bridge were built across the sea, 
 all the ladies of the Continent would come over to take pattern from ours; for there 
 are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle more . Deborah , 
 my life! and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven 
 for thus bestowing tranquillity, health , and competence. I think myself happier 
 now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such 
 pleasant faces about it. Yes , Deborah , we are now growing old ; but the evening 
 of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no 
 stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While 
 we live, they will be our support and our pleasure here, and when we die, they 
 will transmit onr honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for. a 
 song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub's 
 voice is always sweetest in the concert.' — Just as I spoke, Dick came running in, 
 ' papa! she is gone from us! she is gone from us! she is gone from us! my 
 sister Livy is gone from .us for ever.' — 'Gone, child!'— 'Yes , she is gone off with 
 two gentlemen in a postchaise; and one of them kissed her and said he would 
 die for her; and she cried very much, and was for coming back; but he persuaded 
 her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, '0, what will my' poor papa 
 do when he knows I am undone ! ' — ' Now then ,' cried I , 'my children , go and 
 be miserable, for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And may heaven's ever- 
 lasting fury light upon him and his ! — thus to rob me of my child ! And sure it 
 will , for taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to Heaven. Such 
 sincerity as my child, was possessed of! but all our earthly happiness is now over! 
 Go, my children, go, and be miserable and infamous; for my heart is broken 
 
 within me!'» « You may remember, my love, how good she was, 
 
 and how charming ; till this vile moment , all her care was to make us happy. Had 
 she but died!— But she is gone, the honour of our family is contaminated, and I 
 must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw 
 
— 23 — 
 
 them go off : perhaps he forced her away. If he forced her, she may yet be innocent.' 
 — 'Ah no, Sir,' cried the child; 'he only kissed her, and called her his angel; and she 
 wept very much , and leaned upon his arm , and they drove off very fast.' — ' She's an 
 ungrateful creature ,' cried my wife , who could scarce speak for weeping, ' to use us 
 thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile strumpet 
 has basely deserted her parents witbout any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs 
 to the grave , and I must shortly follow.' » 
 
 The Ticar of Wakefield.— Goldsmith. 
 Let us soften the picture a little. 
 
 « When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause of my long 
 stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of every particular, 1 pro- 
 ceeded to prepare them for the. reception of our lost one; and, though we had nothing 
 but wretchedness now to. impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome to what we 
 had. This task would have been more difficult, but for our own recent calamity, which 
 had humbled my wife's pride , and blunted, it by more poignant afflictions. Being 
 unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful , I sent my son 
 and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not 
 the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to 
 a perfect reconciliation , for women have a much stronger sense of female error than 
 men. 'Ah, madam,' cried her mother, ' this is but a poor place you are come to, after 
 so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons 
 who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor 
 father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.' 
 — During this reception , the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep 
 or to reply : but I could not continue a silent spectator of her distress; wher-efore , 
 assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with 
 instant submission , ' I entreat , woman , that my words may be now marked once for 
 all : I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty 
 demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of life are now coming fast 
 upon us; let us not, therefore, increase them by dissension among. each other. If we 
 live harmoniously together, we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut 
 out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of heaven 
 is promised to the penitent, and let ours he directed by the example. Heaven, we are 
 assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than niueh-niue persons 
 who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude... And this is right; for that 
 single effort, by which we stop short in the downhill path to perdition, is itself a 
 greater exertion of virtue than a .hundred acts of justice.' » 
 
 , Ibid. 
 
 Let us soften it a little more. 
 
 <(The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season,; so that we 
 agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank, where, while we sat, my 
 
— 24 — 
 
 youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to the concert on the trees about 
 us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every object served 
 to recall her sadness. But that melancholy, which is excited by objects of pleasure, or 
 inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother 
 too , upon this occasion , felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as 
 before. ' Do , my pretty Olivia ,' cried she , ' let us have that little melancholy air your 
 papa was so fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child, it will 
 please your old father.' She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic, as moved 
 me. 
 
 « When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 
 « And finds too late that men betray, 
 « What charm can sooth her melancholy? 
 
 « What art can wash her guilt away? 
 « The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 « To hide her shame from every eye, 
 K To give repentance to her lover, ■''*$ 
 
 « And wring his bosom , is — to die. » 
 
 ibid. 
 
 
 
 Notes to tEse sketcBa im prose* 
 
 (1) — « The moment that the folding-doors (which open from the JJxbridge Road) had 
 fairly closed upon us , I ivas seized , as the expression is , with a sort of ' all- 
 over-ishness ,' » 
 
 What is this in comparison with something told me by D r Ellis? ( Luckily for the 
 
 party, the effect was just the other way. ) « When I was Physician to the Lunatic 
 
 Asylum at Wakefield , » said the Doctor, «' a lady, raving mad , was driven in her car- 
 « riage up to the folding-gates. In crossing a kind of drawbridge, the rumbling of the 
 « wheels — aided, no doubt, by the general aspect of the place— caused such a revulsion 
 « of feeling, that she recovered her senses on the spot , and never, as I heard of , lost 
 « them afterwards. ».... To descend a little. In my «freshman's term» at Cambridge, 
 ( and very « fresh » I was certainly ) I accompanied , ( nolens volens perhaps , ) after 
 (c wine-ing» with him, «a man of the same year» to Wombwell's travelling menagerie, 
 in the out-skirts of the town. With no consciousness whatever of how I had arrived 
 there, I found myself, all of a sudden, standing, quite sober, before the cage of a 
 
— 25 — 
 
 laughing hyaena! It was feeding-time, and the horrifying cry of the excited animal had 
 
 brought me to myself To descend again. A solicitor of Maidstone, in Kent, 
 
 (we had incidentally been talking of the tooth-ache,) assured me, that, after having 
 suffered agonies for a fortnight, he went to a surgeon (whom he named) to take the 
 torment out. The latter was engaged at the moment. In the interval , the dread of the 
 cold steel had wrought a counter-action so powerful , that the pain evanished in the 
 parlour of M r Haffenden, and the tooth (which he showed me in his head) had never 
 troubled him since ! The gentleman was speaking of fourteen years ago ! 
 
 (2) — « The bell was answered by a (jiggling, half-witted girl, in a bonnet which was 
 turned the wrong side before. » 
 The damsel in question (apparently about 18) was pronounced by M rs Ellis to be 
 a really a very good servant, — considering. » Her hallucination, par excellence, was 
 hebdomadal, inasmuch as, once in every week, (Sunday,) she imagined herself the 
 mistress of the establishment ! As it happened, I saw her in the height of her delusion. 
 In the Chapel, with the wonted reversion on her head, she presided at the piano. I will 
 only say of her performance (would that the « prestissimo » were confined to her!) that 
 
 «panting Time toil'd after her in vain! » 
 
 In the Drawing-room, she presided at the tea-table, and did the general honours 
 of the evening. Her gracieusete's were confusing of course , especially to one , who , 
 never finding anything to say to a lady in her right senses , was trebly at a non-plus 
 with a lady in her ivrong. (D r and M rs Ellis seldom interfered with a patient's whims, 
 provided they were innocent. ) 
 
 (3) — a From the previous impression on my mind, that lunatics ivere usually gifted 
 with good health and commonly attained to longevity, I ivas loholly unpre- 
 pared for the sickly and appalling sight which argued the reverse. » 
 Out of the 450 patients, which, in 1835, formed the average complement of the 
 Asylum, there were, in general, two deaths a week. Doubtless, as the Doctor said, 
 — their constitutions ruined by intemperance ,— they only came to die. 
 
 (4) — « The Asylum I ivas in ivas expressly for the poor, the very poor, » 
 
 To the pauperism (by birth at least) there were evident exceptions : the Telegraph , 
 Captain Macheath , and his Grace the Duke of Buckingham had certainly been born in 
 better than a workhouse. It may be questioned , too , if some of them had ever tasted 
 a drop of gin. 
 
 (5) — « spirituous liquors {at once their solace and their curse) » 
 
 « 'The spirit I drink may be poison, — it may kill me, — perhaps it is killing me : 
 — but so would hunger, cold, misery,— so would my own thoughts. I should have 
 gone mad without it. Gin is the poor man's friend , — his sole set off against the rich 
 man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be treacherous , it 
 
— 26 — 
 
 may lay up a store of future woe ; but it insures present happiness , and that is suffi- 
 cient. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses 
 from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gate-way where 
 I have sought shelter, — when 1 have crept into some deserted building, and stretched 
 my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose, — or, worse than all, when, 
 frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation , and earned a meal in the 
 only way I could earn one, — when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink 
 within me, I have drunk of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my 
 poverty, my guilt. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned 
 to me, and I have fancied myself happy, — as happy as I am now.' And she burst into 
 a wild hysterical laugh. 
 
 ' Poor creature ! ' ejaculated Wood. 'Do you call this frantic glee happiness?' 
 ' It's all the happiness I have known for years,' returned the widow, becoming sud- 
 denly calm, ' and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. I tell you what, M r Wood,' 
 added she, in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, 'gin may bring ruin; but as long 
 as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist , it will be drunk.' » 
 
 Ainsworth's « Jack Sheppard. » 
 
 (6)— ncould never be permitted there. » 
 
 The physician , however, as he himself informed me , found it indispensable at 
 times to administer a dram. 
 
 (7) — « Our entrance was speedily remarked by a portion of the patients, and occasioned, 
 as ivas natural , a good deal of additional excitement. » 
 The sole visitors, which Lunatic Asyhims should have, are official ones. As to idle 
 curiosity, the gates should be imperatively shut against it. The appearance of a 
 stranger, as I can testify, can only serve to irritate the brain and, by consequence , 
 augment the ill. I was happy to learn in 1845, when in the neighbourhood of Hanwell, 
 that admission had become much more difficult than formerly, and that it then required 
 the written sanction of a county magistrate. 
 
 (8) — (i Having shirked, as I best could , (my friend was more au fait at it than I) the 
 stealthy importunities of four or jive more of them, » 
 
 The Chaplain told me , that « the quantity of scribbles , » slipped into his hands 
 ( and frequently his pockets) during his professional visits at the Asylum , was « quite 
 ((astonishing.)) Like the Starling of Sterne, the poor creatures had but one cry: 
 « / can't get out I I can't get out ! » 
 
 (9) — « and made more funny faces in a minute than Munden in the course of a 
 
 ivholc farce.n 
 
 « There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, oae (but what a one it is!) of 
 Liston ; but Munden has none that you can properly pin down , and call his. When 
 
you think he has exhausted his battery of looks, in unaccountable warfare with your 
 gravity, suddenly he sprouts out an entirely new set of features, like Hydra. He 
 is not one, but legion. Not so much a comedian, as a company. If his name could 
 be multiplied like his countenance, it might fill a play-bill. He, and he alone, 
 literally makes faces : applied to any other person , the phrase is a mere figure , 
 denoting certain modifications of the human countenance. Out of some invisible 
 wardrobe he dips for faces , as his friend Suett used for wigs , and fetches them 
 out as easily. I should not be surprised to see him one day put on the head of a 
 river-horse; or come forth a pewitt, or lapwing, some feathered metamorphosis. 
 « I have seen this gifted actor in Sir Christopher Curry — in Old Dornton — diffuse 
 a glow of sentiments which has made the pulse of a crowded theatre beat like that 
 of one man; when he has come in aid of the pulpit, doing good to the moral heart 
 of a people. I have seen some faint approaches to this sort of excellence in other 
 players. But in the grand grotesque of farce , Munden stands out as single and 
 unaccompanied as Hogarth. Hogarth, strange to tell, had no followers. The school 
 of Munden began , and must end with himself. » 
 
 Charles Lamb , « On the acting of Munden. » 
 
 (10)— « Like Rousseau and Richardson, he corresponded with himself !» 
 
 (( La nouvelle Heloise , » « Sir Charles Grandison , » « Pamela , » etc. , are all in the 
 epistolary form. In calling to mind the reputation of the authors, we are led to reflect 
 on the arbitrary growth and diversified developement of the human intellect. The genius 
 of Rousseau, of Richardson, and Chaucer lay absolutely dormant, — of the first, till he 
 was forty, of the other two , till they were fifty, years of age. Tasso , Raphael , Burns , 
 Byron, and Bellini died at thirty-seven. The victor of Lodi was little more than half 
 as old as Turenne, when the great Marshal won his first battle. At a period of existence, 
 when Pascal was astonishing the world with his varied powers of thought, Lamennais 
 was dismissed from a tutorship in London, as nun pauvre homme, sans capacite.v 
 At twenty-four, William Pitt was leader of The House of Commons, where Samuel 
 Whitbread, for fifteen years, sat and said nothing but «cw/e» or ««o.» Chatterlou 
 committed suicide in his teens; White was worn out and carried to the churchyard at 
 one-and-twenty, — an age, when the mind of * Alfieri was full of weeds. At sixteen, 
 Pope composed his Pastorals; at sixteen, Sheridan was cited as a fool, etc. , etc. , etc. 
 
 * Alfleri (if the epithet may pass) was a man of as uncomfortable a genius, as ever disquieted a 
 human breast. Like Byron, a patrician born; fatherless, like Byron, at an early period; of untoward 
 temper and wayward disposition ; unseasonably soon his own master , and , by consequence , his own 
 slave ; of ample revenue ; of wilful inclinations and of wild indulgences ; the subject of a small and 
 jealous state , where the wings of Liberty were carefully kept cut ; adapted , it would seem , for a life 
 of action, but condemned, by circumstances, to one of inactivity; disgusted and indignant, blase and 
 ennuye, posting from realm to realm to hurry from himself; on four occasions in the land of Freedom, 
 
— 28 — 
 
 (11) — « Like Valhek in ' The Hall of Eblis,' when the fatal hour ivas come and the final 
 
 judgement was pronounced against him , each particular soul was stricthf 
 
 separate — rigidly apart — all acquaintance dead — all lies broken — in the 
 
 midst of company uncompanionable — smileless — ivordless — taciturnly sad 
 
 and gloomily alone. » 
 
 I regret to find , since printing off the text , that my memory has deceived me , 
 
 inasmuch as, in the fearful subterrane, so magnificently drawn by Beckford , all 
 
 acquaintance was not dead. The passage is too terrible to quote. 
 
 (12)— « As 1 gazed upon his fatuous affliction, 1 bethought me of a cretin in the 
 canton of Geneva. » 
 
 Having, one April day, taken shelter in a chalet at the foot of Le Grand Saleve, 
 near Geneva, from a violent snow-storm, I was shortly followed by a boy of 16 
 or 17, who, crying piteously, made his way to the fire and stuck himself in the 
 very corner of the hearth. Malgrd the warmth, his grief was unabated. «Qu'est-ce 
 a. que cela veut dire'h) 1 inquired of the peasant's wife, when my sympathising 
 questions had elicited no sort of answer from the object of them, ullien du tout, » 
 replied the woman, as she quietly continued kneading her dough : uc'est un cretin. » 
 Now, as I observed no * goitre nor indeed any particular trait of + Cretinisme, (such 
 
 and returning home as often, — the first time, with' the reputation of a roue, a jockey, and a coach- 
 man ; the second, with a heap of ridicule and the bitter consciousness of having glaringly deserved it ; 
 the third , with a string of horses ; and the fourth , with a library of books ; with every thing to do , 
 (a crude poet and a wretched scholar) a candidate for literary fame; of a hard mind, a hard manner, 
 and a style of writing to the full as hard ; severe of purpose ; a Calo of the closet ; a patriot of the 
 peri ; appealing on the boards, in the diction of Sallust, to the spirit of a people , which , however it 
 might laud the tenour of his dramas, was morally unequal to practise what it praised ; of a nature all 
 antithesis, and every thing by turns, — extravagant and mean, — plain and ostentatious, — talkative and 
 silent, — convivial and morose, — irascible and cold, — impetuous aud guarded, — infatuate and firm, 
 — assiduous and idle, — a student, and a dreamer, and a mope, — tenacious of his talent, yet mistrustful 
 of his powers, — ambitious of renown , yet deaf to what he coveted , — a foe to tyrants, yet a Tarquin 
 in his heart, — haughty and familiar, — a hero and a mime, — ed Achille e Tersile, as we have it from 
 himself; as little fitted to secure affection as to fix esteem : behold the Seneca of modern Italy, the 
 rigid play-Wright of the easy south , the author of « Timoleon,» of « Agis, » and of either « Brutus, » 
 Vittorio Alfieri , according to Byron , ( who , then , will deny it ? ) » the great name of the age ! » 
 
 See the autobiography or vol. I. of Lloyd's translation of the Tragedies. 
 
 * « Quoi qu'il en soit, une tumeur plus ou moins dure, situee a la partie anterieure ct inferieure du 
 coil , constiUie le symptome fondamental et caracteristique du goitre. Cette tumeur n'a quelquefois 
 que le volume d'une noix , mais bien souvent elle a trois et qualre fois la gro'sseur du poing , et em- 
 brasse route la partie anterieure du cou ; d'autres fois elle se dctache du larynx pour tomber plus ou 
 moins ba's sur la poitrine; on l'a meme vue descendre j usque sur l'abdomen. » 
 
 v n Les cretins sont des especes d'idiots, cliez lesquels l'absence des facultes morales et intellectuelies 
 
— 29 — 
 
 as I had seen in various part of Switzerland , of Savoy, and of Piedmont , ) she merely- 
 meant, I apprehend, that the stripling was an ideot. 
 
 (13) — «.he caught me by the xorist , and held me like Abraham Cann'.n 
 
 The famous wrestler was double-jointed, and, with one hand, could crush a pewter- 
 pot ! Of middle height and corresponding weight , he nevertheless, owing to the above 
 circumstance, was an equal match for Polkinghorne, — a Oner man by far. They 
 thrice contended for the Championship. The conquering game of the athletic rubber 
 came off at Exeter, in or about the year 1834, when, after a tremendous struggle 
 and a wonderful display of courage , strength , and skill de part et d' autre , Cann , 
 according to the Devonites, and Polkinghorne, according to the Cornwallers, eventuated 
 victor. The excitement, the esprit-de-corps , the jealousy, the irritation of the 8000 
 spectators (utriusque comitis) were so great, that, had the contest but occurred in 
 the time of the Heptarchy, it is extremely probable the two counties would have 
 * gone to war about it! I have often spoken on the subject to natives of either 
 side of the Tamar, and have always found it a party-question. Some idea of the 
 « pluck » and « bottom* of the combatants may be formed from the fact, that the 
 Devonshire hero had to deal with a man , whose rib-cracking hug made him actually 
 vomit for pain , and that he of Cornwall was standing to be kicked by a sinewy 
 fellow, the soles of whose half-boots were bound with iron , and had purposely been 
 boiled in bullock's blood ! Cann (who died a few months afterwards) I never saw, 
 
 s'accompagne d'une degradation non moins remarquable des formes exterieures. Connus le plus go- 
 ncralement sous le nom de cretins , ils sont encore appeles vulgairement cagols dans les Pyrenees, 
 pcsans clans le Valais, denomination qui exprime bien l'apathie inlellectuelle et physique dans laquelle 
 ils \ivent. Le portrait des cretins ofire a peu pres le nieme type dans tous les auteurs qui ont ecrit sur ces 
 ctres degrades et malheureux. Nous emprunterons , comme une des plus completes , la description du 
 crelinisme, donnee par M. Ferrus, dans ses lecons, recueillies par 51. le docteur Dugasl (Gaz. des hop, 
 annee, 1838) : 'Les cretins, dit-il, ont unetaille beaucoup au-dessous de la moyenne; quelques-uns 
 de ceux qui ont ete sounds a mon observation ne depassaient pas trois pieds ; leurs membres sont 
 epais et tres courts, surtout les inferieurs ,' >• etc. , etc. , etc. 
 
 « Dictionnaire de Medecine, » par le docteur Fabre. 
 
 JV. B. The curious in such matters 'would do well to read, in the aforesaid Dictionary, the two 
 articles on Goitre and on Crelinisme. They are exceedingly interesting, but, as extracts, quite beyond 
 the limits of a note. 
 
 * If, on the folly and triviality of lighting, Voltaire is pleasant, Sterne is pleasanter still. The latter, 
 among a mass of others, has a piquant story of a certain king, who, on the birth of an heir to his 
 throne, was -solicited by three adjoining states to vouchsafe them the honour of the sponsorship. The 
 sovereign consented but retracted in alarm, as soon as lie had heard of the proposed prcenomina for 
 his hoy,— Shadr ach , Meshuch, and Abcdnego ! A special mission was dispatched with his paternal 
 remonstrances, "hut they were unavailing : the royalvvord was passed. A second mission having met 
 with a similar rebuff, his Majesty cut the matter short by saying to his ministers: "Well, then, by G-! 
 <: tce'ii go to tear with tliem ! >• 
 
— 30 — 
 
 but I was introduced to Polkinghorne by his landlord at St. Colomb , where he kept 
 an inn. It was market-day, and the celebrated athlete, assisted by a son and daughter 
 was as busy as a bee with a bar-full of customers. They were a splendid trio , 
 —the father, high and broad , and the children ( who bore a strong resemblance to 
 him ) each of them 
 
 « As tall and straight as a poplar-tree ! » 
 « Polkinghorne , » said my agreeable stage-coach companion from Exeter, « here's a 
 gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance. » «I shall be happy to try a fall with 
 the gentleman,)) replied his tenant, as he eyed me with a comical expression of 
 face. icQh! as to that,» I answered, showing him my broken fingers, «my horse 
 made the same experiment a twelvemonth back and so, thoroughly succeeded , that, 
 if it's all one to you , M r Polkinghorne , I 'd rather not. » The wrestler laughed and 
 trusted I 'd try his sherry at all events , and , reaching down a bottle overhead , he 
 
 poured out three glasses, and I hob-and-nob-ed with M r and «(dies albo notanda 
 
 lapillo ! ) with the powerful opponent of the double-jointed Cann. 
 
 (14)— « His mind (and by implication his body) was clearly in « the regions of thick- 
 ribbed ice. » 
 
 A good many years ago , when we visited together, in the month of June , Burford's 
 panorama of Spitsbergen , a brother of mine was much amused at seeing me , on 
 entering the rotunda, suck in my breath, button up my coat, thrust my hands 
 into my pockets, and give myself a January shrug! 
 
 (15) — ..... ^fancied himself (could madness go beyond?) no other than /» 
 
 « Facts are stubborn things;)) otherwise the reader (to put it mildly) might be 
 sceptical about the following, which figured in the Journals of the day. Even as it is, he 
 will scarcely credit, that, so recently as 1838 and under the very walls of Canterbury 
 Cathedral , one individual could be found to pass himself off for our Saviour and a 
 hundred to believe in him !!! By a hyper-hallucination , the lunatic in question (John 
 Thorn, a native of Cornwall) claimed to be the Earl of Coventry as well ! Of a striking 
 and abetting mien, he was usually attired in the fashion of the East, and was singularly 
 like (*do painters read Isaiah?) the portraits and \liz prints of Jesus-Christ. Hence the 
 
 * In 1825 , I saw , in the Mus£e at Rouen , a young artist engaged upon the copy of a head , which 
 would have done for Adam's, as he woke in Paradise. Now, according to tradition, the Redeemer of 
 mankind ( it was meant for his ) had a homely appearance , pitted face , and sandy hair. But then 
 (worth all the beauty in the world) the sentiment, the sensibility, the sense of the countenance ! what 
 purity, what feeling , what sagacity, what thought it must have shown ! And then , again , the soft 
 sublimity of that unsullied character ! Let us cite, for instance, the grief for Lazarus, — the lamentation 
 for Jerusalem,— the address to the woman taken in adultery,— what divine humanity it was, and what 
 a look must have accompanied it ! 
 
— 31 — 
 worst delusion of the two. Obnoxious (I forget on what account) to the laws of the 
 land , he was , at the head of his miserable devotees , encountered in the fields by a 
 detachment of soldiers, the leader of whom, Lieutenant Bennet, he deliberately shot. 
 An engagement, regular or irregular, then took place, and the madman, with some 
 fellow-fanatics , lost his life. Before they came to blows , he appears to have told his 
 besotted partisans, that, in the event of his being killed, all they had to do was to wet 
 his lips with a little water, and he infallibly would rise again. He was killed, and they 
 did wet his lips with a little water, but the Coroner (as the curious expression is) sat 
 upon the body of John Thorn all the same ! 
 
 (16)— « My jriend (as well as I can recollect) drew a key from his pocket, unlocked 
 a communicating door, » 
 
 Fortunately, in the present case, topographical precision is of no vast consequence. 
 Taken aback from the very first (as I have said I was) by the ivhite emaciation of so 
 many of the patients, I may surely be excused, especially at the lapse of seventeen 
 years, for a possible confusion of doors. At the period of my casual visit to the Hos- 
 pital at Hanwell, I had no idea of writing of it. The sketch in 1852 is traceable to 
 the verses in 1835, and the latter were composed because I could'nt help it. The 
 sequel will expound. A dash against a brick-wall— approximating , in its effects, 
 so close to a concussion of the brain, that, for better than a week, 1 lay in a darkened 
 room, with a double-folded bandage on my eyes, — had necessitated, among other 
 measures, the shaving of my head. As soon as I could pay some personal attention 
 to cleanliness, on beholding the figure, which the looking-glass reflected , I exclaimed 
 (an enigma to the hearer) « Benjamin! Benjamin! » and said no more. The operation 
 (for such it was) of the toilette being over, the shutters were reclosed and I was left 
 alone. But the train was fired : the thoughts, that, unsuspected of myself, had 
 gathered strength from day to day, were ignited , as it were, by the match of accident, 
 — the thoughts , I mean , of that depressing place , — that painful edifice , — that naked 
 garden , — that dreamy handiwork , — that madness-opened door, — that staring hall , 
 — that silent kitchen, — that slow distraction, — that ghastly corridor, — that varied 
 phrenzy,— that kindred court, — that thistled ground,— that mournful spot, — that 
 rugged bier, — that nameless coffin, — that swampy grave, — that friendless funeral, 
 — that ready spade ,— that ready rope,— that gestic sign, — that crazy help,— that 
 lowered corpse,— that clay to clay, — that sadding service, — that touching lark, — that 
 dust to dust, — that living sympathy, — that dead unconsciousness, — that final prayer, 
 
 — that burying amen! 
 
 « Tis better thus, thou poor unfortunate! » 
 and so the lines went on (whatever their desert) both feelingly and fast. The only 
 interruption was my tears, more fast and feeling still! In this wise was it, then, 
 the pauper of Hanwell— and , shortly afterwards, the patriot of Trafalgar— received 
 the tribute of my verse, — my simple monody,— my humble requiem. Expostulation 
 
— 32 — 
 
 was in vain; My mind was over-mastered, and I really had no power— no choice 
 — but to go on composing till either piece was finished. To the tears, that, ever 
 and anon , so seasonably fell , and lightened and relieved and cooled my brain , I 
 owe , without a doubt , my cerebral escape , and that I did not , in that hazardous 
 exertion of it, according to the apprehensions of anxiety, become the inmate of a 
 Lunatic Asylum, from which (and I pray for others as for me myself) may God 
 preserve us all ! 
 
 
 
 
THE DEBTOR'S DODGE, 
 
 OR 
 
 ^aa saaaasa &2?2> saa s&aaass. 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, M. A. 
 
 A SKETCH OF LEVY'S WAREHOUSE , » CtC. 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 ©asms?* 
 
 1852. 
 
THE DEBTOR'S DODGE, 
 
 OR 
 
 aaa saaaaaa &sjid sas a&a&asi?. 
 
 The curious occurrence, versified beneath, was recorded in « Le Journal du Nord » 
 a week or two ago. The paragraph , as given by Galignani's « Messenger, » 
 is cited in the Note. The incident , for poetic purposes , has been a little 
 embellished. 
 
 Of a miller in France I relate ye a fact, 
 
 Whose affairs at Avesnes were so far from compact, 
 
 That a bailiff had sought , both by hook and by crook , 
 
 From December to August to bring him to book, 
 
 But the other, as little a man to be done, 
 
 Never loosen'd a bolt till the set of the sun, 
 
 And as certain he was, when the morrow had birth, 
 
 To repair to his keep as a fox to his earth. 
 
 * For the « copious notes » to this foolery see the recent octavo edition of it. Here but only one is 
 retained , the first to wit. 
 
Yet one morn he had left, to the shame of his nous, 
 inadvertently open the door of his house, 
 So the badiff ( who chanc'd , with the writ in his pocket , 
 To be passing at sunrise) for fear he should lock it, 
 (Iross'd the sill in a jiffey, and, grinning' with joy, 
 Thought (in French) « By the masses! I've nabb'd ye, my boy? 
 ■< For the sun of good-luck after all has arisen , 
 - That shall light ye to limbo aud lodge ye in prison ! ■• 
 
 Then the bailiff look'd here, and the bailiff look'd there, 
 
 And the bailiff stood looking a-top of the stair, 
 
 Where the miller at hand , of no warrant in dread , 
 
 With his bonnet-de-nuit on his whitey-brown head, 
 
 The reverse of the lark , was just going to bed ; 
 
 And a blessing be ow'd to his fortunate star, 
 
 That the shadows were strong and the door was a-jar, 
 
 Or the orient orb , of a counter avail , 
 
 Would have leagu'd with the badiff to pop him in jail. 
 
 As it was, why, the miller no sooner caught sight 
 < )f the ominous shade than , hnpelTd by affright , 
 From the window he juiup'd unaccoutred below, 
 And was off (it was time!) like a shot from a bow, 
 But the badiff, albe't unprepar'd for a chase 
 With a man without raiment, felt sure of the race, 
 Inasmuch as , tho' hamper'd with nethers and blouse , 
 He possess'd the decided advantage of shoes. 
 
Over hedge , over ditch , over gardens and fields , 
 With a posse of harvesters hard at their heels , 
 Unto whom — for they all knew the bailiff — the run 
 — And they guess'd at the miller — was capital fun , 
 
 Did the latter, whose soul would have gone for his shoes, 
 And the former, a-swearing away at his blouse, 
 Helter-skelter along, to the laughing delight 
 Of the peasants that chevi'd and cheer'd at the sight. 
 
 With the gravel and stone ' the poor debtor ' to bother, 
 
 And a pair of old high-lows to favour the other, 
 
 Whose « invincible courage » bested him so gaily, 
 
 That « * The Cope » would have laid « any odds on the baili » 
 
 Notwithstanding his blouse's occasional hitch 
 
 In a hedge and an awful hang-up in a ditch, 
 
 It was clear on a course , not exactly of heather, 
 
 What the shoemakers say) that « there's nothing like leal her. « 
 
 Now the miller, unable to fairly compete 
 
 With the man with the writ on account of his feet, 
 
 Fell in love with the turf, that his « trotters » befriended, 
 
 While the river it border'd as luckily tended 
 
 A diversion to make and suggested a ruse 
 
 To outset « the decided advantage of shoes , » 
 
 So, with nothing his own liquid path to oppose, 
 
 He permitted the bailiff to — strip if he chose, 
 
 * Copenhagen House, in tbe Islington fields, is the prime arena of the great pedestrian matches of 
 the day. ( See Bell's « Life in London » for any week you please. ) 
 
And in he went souse, and made off like a frog, 
 
 As his sanguine pursuer, a moment agog 
 
 Yet deterinin'd to beat, reach'd the edge of the mead, 
 
 And began to undress with a mischievous speed. 
 
 Down the bank, first of all, flew his float-away hat, 
 
 Then he knotted still worse his untoward cravat , 
 
 Then a tussle he had with his rascally blouse, 
 
 Then he fought with Ms shirt, then he tugg'd at his trews 
 
 But he settled at once not to part with his shoes, 
 
 And in he went souse, and made off from the shore 
 To the sound of a fresh cachinnatory roar 
 From the hinds and two cavalry constables there 
 And the rural police and his Worship the Mayor 
 And a farmer, a fat as a steer o' the stall, 
 And a curate of course, — « early birds » of 'em all, 
 Whose ' unquenchable mirth caus'd the ether to shake , ' 
 To behold such a hunt a la dog and a drake ! 
 
 It was well for the miller, with justice's claw 
 So alarmingly close , he had five minutes' law ' 
 ^Thus abroad as at home, on the stage of Avesnes 
 Was that laughable farce acted over again, 
 Lata and Justice » I mean , — which is visible dady 
 In the Court o' King's bench or the gallows Old Bailey, 
 Where, thanks to some technical quibble or flaw, 
 They, that Justice pursues, owe their safety to Law ! J 
 
It was well for the miller he took to the water 
 With a far better motive than « * Sestos's daughter, » )- • 
 It was well for the miller the water was wide, 
 ( It was wider just then on account of the tide , 
 And the tide was a spring on account of the moon , ) 
 Or the resolute bailiff infallibly soon 
 
 Would his shoulder have tapp'd, for he swum like Leander, 
 Who, in love with a goose, cut along like a gander! 
 
 But a five minutes' start on a river of France, 
 Which is never as wide as a reach of the Ranee, 
 More especially too, if ye hap to compete 
 With a bailiff (as then) that has shoes to his feet, 
 And presuming you more than a match for a fowl 
 ( Say a long-legged ' cock o' the walk ' ) or an owl 
 Or a pig that commits suicide by the way, 
 Is a pretty good step towards winning the day. 
 
 Now the miller, who else was devoid of a chance 
 
 With as clipping a swimmer as any in France, 
 
 Was indebted to both, as the river he eross'd 
 
 And by water regain'd what by land he had lost. 
 / His alarm at an end, and the fun to prolong 
 < For the sake of hunself and the jocular throng, 
 \ He was seen to proceed where the current was strong , 
 
 With a canny look-out tho', like Robinson Crusoe 
 
 Ever after the eddy had serv'd his canoe so! 
 
 " Hero, who drowned herself for love in the Hellespont , when she discovered the dead body of 
 Leander on the shore. 
 
But the bailifl , afeard of « the current or eddy » 
 Just as much as a butcher-boy is of a « neddy » 
 Or a o nigger '» o' drowning , kept puffing along 
 Till he came where the water was << coming it strong , » 
 And was presently spuming about in the whirl, 
 While the miller (who once had been caught by the twirl) 
 Said ( in French ) , as he wisely sheer'd off for the sod , 
 « II est flam be , pardi ! » ("he is diddled, by G — / » J 
 
 Round and round in the river, again and again, 
 Went the bailiff, the busiest man of Avesnes, 
 Tout ebahi » (the gallic of our « flabbergasted » ) 
 While his shock of surprise at the whirligig lasted. 
 And the boys on the bank, how they pointed and jeer'd, 
 As his head in the wet hurly-burly appear'd 
 ( « Si liceat magnis componere parva, »J 
 
 Like a skiff at some junction aquatic of Java ! 
 
 Round and round in the river, again and again, 
 Went the bailiff, the busiest man of Avesnes, 
 f And was bobbing about like a « taty » or what- 
 < Ever else ye may please in a boiler or pot 
 ( When the dinner is nigh and the water is hot, 
 Till, as clearly unfit to contend with the worry 
 As was * Ajut to tackle the whale in its « flurry, » 
 He was borne to a sort of a jetty below, 
 As the miller had been just a twelvemonth ago. 
 
 See « The Rambler » for the charming Utile story of « Anningait and Ajut. » 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
With the game on his left , and the folk on his right , 
 There were fifty at least to assist at the sight) 
 Did the myrmidon look , as he staringly went , 
 
 hike a spaniel at fault on the flood of the Trent 
 
 Out o' breath on the marge at the place that I spoke of, 
 Not to be in Avesnes made a butt and a joke of, 
 When his bird, with a limp, took to running anew, 
 Why the bailiff, of course, took to padding it too. 
 
 As the partridge (no reynard on earth could do better) 
 
 Will an accident feign to benoodle the setter, 
 
 And will flounder in front, at the length of a perch 
 
 From the pointer, to leave him at last in the lurch, 
 
 So the miller pretended the cut of a stone 
 
 Or the thorn of a bush had gone right to the bone 
 
 As he skirted the stream, that led round to his house, 
 
 Till , by Jove ! in the water once more he went souse .' 
 
 Thought the myrmidon then , as he stopp'd to get wind , 
 What a sell to be sure ! why the * weasel is ginn'd ! 
 And a finish he's put to his voyage and travel , 
 
 Since his option at present is granite or gravel ! » 
 
 In a « petit quart d'heure » ( for he swum with a will ) 
 He emerg'd from the wave with the man o' the mill, 
 And, as much as to say « you my prisoner are, » 
 Laid his paAv on his shoulder and gasp'd out « ha — ha ! » 
 
 « Catch a weasel asleep'. » 
 
As the hoarse interjection came slow from his lips f 
 
 His professional phiz was the colour of dips, 
 
 And was never a face more ineffably pale 
 
 At the cap of a judge in the hall of a jail ! 
 
 But the mirth of the crowd hung its manifold head 
 
 Till the cut-and-dry miller had jestingly said 
 
 In a tone of surprize and concern and contrition , 
 
 Which partook after all of the tone of derision : 
 
 I'm afraid , Sir, you're ill ! How it shocks me to see 
 By your cheek and your chest — if it's owiug to me, 
 Why may Satan requite me and give me my due, 
 That have given alas ! such vexation to you ! 
 But , to prove my remorse for the scoff and disgrace , 
 Which on Justice I've brought by this crododile chase , 
 Will I walk at your heels and with patience submit 
 To my fate : you have only to show vie the writ. » 
 
 Then the bailiff, as savage as Swift at tbe core, 
 
 Was pursu'd by a fresh cachimiatorv roar 
 
 From the hinds and the cavalry constables there , 
 
 And the rural police and his Worship the Mayor 
 
 And the farmer, as fat as a steer o' the stall , 
 
 And the curate and them — the * young cucumbers all, 
 
 Who had follow'd the chase and that shard in the fun 
 
 Of a jackall of Justice thus diddled aud done! 
 
 * Pickles (cornichons in French). 
 
For the debtor, they soon set him up with a blouse, 
 
 And a sine-qud-non pair of casual shoes , 
 
 And a bevy conducted him home to his door, 
 (As the Romans did Sylla, dictator no more,) 
 
 And a volley of cheers was bestow'd on the miller, 
 ( Who deserv'd 'em — aye , almost as richly as Sylla , ) 
 i While the bailiff (like Chryses) went back by the shore 
 r With « a plague, on 'em all » and internally swore 
 [ That « he'd never serve writs of a Friday no more ! » 
 
 « Mais pour fmir enfin » and to finally say 
 What occur'd at the close of this singular day. 
 When the bailiff (whose house, to make matters complete, 
 Was expos'd by his gossiping bonne in the street , ) 
 To forget his annoy was just going to bed , 
 Why, who should Avalk in but the miller that said , 
 With a bow, as polite as the best in the land, 
 And his saluing casque tie of course in his hand : 
 
 « From my deep obligations — a thousand and more — 
 « To that well-meaning gentleman , Monsieur Lenoir, 
 « I were thankless indeed my adieus not to pay, 
 « For I'm off, as you see, Sir, at close o' the day 
 « And by sunrise shall be many leagues on my way 
 « To behold at Liege ( the reflection is sore ) 
 « Nor Avesnes nor my mill nor my creditors more 
 « Nor that sharp sheriffs officer, Monsieur Lenoir ! » 
 
£f©^3» 
 
 « The paragraph, as given by Galignanfs « Messenger, » is cited in the Note.» 
 
 « The Impartial du Piord relates the following : 
 
 «A curious fact has just taken place in a commune in the arrondissement of 
 Aveynes , in the presence of a number of people. A huissier was charged with a 
 writ for debt against a miller which be bad for some time endeavoured, but in vain, 
 to serve. A few days since he again made his appearance at the residence of the 
 miller, accompanied by some gendarmes. The miller was almost in a state of nudity 
 when the huissier made his appearance , but he nevertheless determined to have a 
 run for it. He rushed out of the door en chemise , closely followed by the huissier, 
 who had the advantage over his opponent in the race, as he had shoes on. After 
 running some time the miller found that his pursuer was gaining ground on him , 
 and be determined on plunging into the river. The huissier hesitated, but, spurred 
 on by the jeers of the assembled crowd , he stripped and jumped in , and they both 
 breasted the waves like perfect Leanders. The miller kept the advantage while in 
 the water, but at length was compelled to land , when another foot-race took place 
 across the meadows. Here the huissier was more than a match for him , and was 
 on the point of seizing his prey, when , on reaching the bank of the canal , the 
 miller again took to the water. The huissier followed, and another swimming match 
 took place. At length the miller got tired of the race, landed, and told his pursuer 
 that he had had enough of it, and that he would constitute himself his prisoner if 
 he would produce his writ to prove that he had a legal right to arrest him. This, of 
 course, the huissier could not do, having left the important document with his clothes. 
 The miller then made the best of his way home, and took care to conceal himself until 
 after sunset, when he called very politely on the huissier, and told him, that, as he 
 intended that very night to leave the country for Belgium , the huissier must defer the 
 execution of his writ until a future opportunity. » 
 
I TO A PIS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN PRENTIS, M. A. 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN k CEMETERY ABROAD ; THE COMMON HOME , OR THE GRAVE 
 
 again ; etc. 
 
 J.-B. HUART, 
 
 ©asms?. 
 
 1853. 
 

 
 
 
TO A POS 
 
 OR 
 
 & &?&33&©s as? & s®a^ B s aa^a, 
 
 How many a mind, how many a mourning mind, 
 By absence pain'd or separating death , 
 The fond delusion of a picture feeds ! 
 But thou , with no similitude to charm , 
 No features to beguile , no mimic life , 
 Besembhng nothing but tiie thing thou art, 
 -The parcel of a tree , — a standing log , — 
 Can'st yet, effective as Apelles' skill, 
 Albe't in other guise, an image show, 
 And vision to my heart a face, — a form, — 
 That ne'er shall bless my outward sight again. 
 
 Insensate thou, yet able to awake 
 
 A fount of earnest feeling in my breast, 
 
 Whose secret waters (a peculiar source) 
 
In their embosom'd bed have silent slept 
 Since last I saw thee on this sylvan knoll. 
 
 Twas here , — a blooming mother at her side , 
 
 And cherub children at their childish play, — 
 
 She stood and leant, as now I leaning stand 
 
 And fancy, for association's sake, 
 
 The better to recall that quiet hour) 
 
 Yon chilly arch of unreceding clouds 
 
 The zephyr'd vault of May's unsulli'd blue. 
 
 'Twas here, unconscious of the hazard prop 
 
 She rested on in attitude of ease, 
 
 She seem'd an emanation of the Spring, 
 
 That circled her with joy, and bent the while , 
 
 With me discoursing in the boughy shade, 
 
 Her eyes of youth on eyes no longer young. 
 
 Our desultory talk was birds and flowers, 
 -The voices , and the odours , and the dyes , — 
 
 That welcome and perfume the vernal year, 
 —The same, as have inspir'd a thousand bards 
 
 Before ' The Song of Solomon ' and since. 
 
 The converse at an end, I went mv wav. 
 
 
 We met again , aye , casually oft 
 
 Again Ave met, — that lovely girl and I, — 
 
 But here no more. 
 
 By dangerous degrees , 
 A little and a little at a time, 
 The maiden grew a too-absorbing thought 
 For Season to approve. In anger half 
 
And half in pity at my folly did 
 The goddess speak. I listen'd and ohey'd, 
 Tho' not without a mutiny of sighs, 
 Which, after all, was questionably quell'd. 
 
 Is this the sum of thy evoking power, 
 —Its magic substance, — wooden wizard? no. 
 
 We parted soon, — that lovely girl and I.... 
 At midnight , with an interchange of smiles , 
 Which was not of the eyes, for even her's 
 Had sure a sharing sadness in the look 
 She gave me , — with an interchange of hopes 
 As hollow, — with a prest and pressing hand, — 
 And lips , that lowly breath'd a last adieu , 
 We parted — upon earth to meet no more. 
 
 ( And thus , as unenduring as a dream , 
 The tie (whate'er it was) was sever'd there. 
 Not only upon earth we met no more , 
 But next to never with her very name 
 I after met on these Lethean banks , 
 Till she, the tenant of a distant tomb, 
 Was snatch'd untimely from the world away. ) 
 
 Those rapid wheels , — I seem to hear them yet ! 
 
 Is this the sum of thy evoking power, 
 — Its magic substance, — wooden wizard? no. 
 
 How long — how weary lone; — the morrow was! 
 
Uneasy and unhing'd, unable quite 
 My wonted occupations to pursue , 
 To tedium in its rigid sense a prey, 
 -My listless home abandon'd for the sweet 
 Distraction of the woods , which ne'ertheless 
 Was negative and all but fail'd me then , — 
 Hour after hour, from heigth to ashey heigth , 
 From dell to dell, (reposing here and there,) 
 I saunter'd on and on , till , hither come , 
 I sat me down , unwitting stock ! by thee. 
 
 The air wa& calm and hush , as softly still 
 
 As that Madonna look, which haunted me, 
 
 And, sinking deep,, had settled in my heart. 
 
 The crimson legacy Hie Sun had left 
 
 Was blended with the rich and purple hue 
 
 Of eve. His fabled sister rose anon. 
 
 j\or crescent she nor vest of argent had r 
 
 But full of orbed and of golden light 
 
 She was, that turn'd to sdver as she scald 
 
 The sky. Her fitting mirror was the wave 
 
 Below; and not one jealous shadow robb'd 
 
 Her image from the gently-swelling river, 
 
 Save where the floating fragment of a cloud 
 
 A moment dhnm'd her loveliness with its 
 
 Thin fleecy veil, whose burnish'd border told 
 
 How fraught with heaven the face that shone beneath . 
 
 The azure over-head, by Venus lit, 
 
 Was momently begemm'd with other stars. 
 
 The birds had ceas'd to sing. The nightingale, 
 
 To Dian dear, alone was audible. 
 
Reserv'd at first , her melancholy lay 
 
 Was timid aud disjoin'd , but , bolder made 
 
 By Nature's rapt attention to the sounds , 
 
 In one continu'd fervidness of song 
 
 She wildly pour'd her plaining passion forth, 
 
 And chanted like a Sappho of the leaves. 
 
 As silent aud as motionless as thou , 
 
 I sat and listen'd with the moving Moon. 
 
 Tereu ! Tereu!«... again!... again!... again! — 
 
 Ascending but to fall , and falling but 
 
 To rise afresh from that melodious bed , 
 
 Up went the thrilling tones, — a surging shower !- 
 
 The play of liquid harmony, — a jet, 
 
 That shot its gather'd SAveetness in the air, 
 
 Dissolv'd , and came in dulcet atoms down ! 
 
 In common with the ear of charmed Night 
 And thirsty as my own, my spirit too 
 Imbib'd the melting music of the bird. 
 As tho' a mystic part of it she were, 
 The viewless warbler to my soul appear'd 
 A sentiment, and not a thing create. 
 
 Responsive to the tender woe I heard, 
 Responsive to the tender scene I saw, 
 Suhdu'd by sorrow in its mildest shape, 
 I bow'd my head, and answer'd with my eyes. 
 
 The drops , that issu'd from the lids at first , 
 Were like the mournful wellines in the thorn; 
 
Bu1 soon, In sad and sympathetic turns , 
 — Their flowing thn'd by Philomela's grief — 
 A rill, a stream, and then a flood they ran. 
 
 No other form or order did they have. 
 
 A sentient sluice let gradually go , 
 
 Of feeling unmethodically full , 
 
 They were not of the mind, hut of the heart. 
 
 As unconnected as the vari'd spoil 
 
 Of swollen rivers in the rainy west, 
 
 What snatches of the past were then adrift! 
 
 My being was before me , not entire , 
 But shown in pieces , as they floated by. 
 
 A something was there of the happy date, 
 When I, together with an urchin band 
 Disporting in the yellow fields of June , 
 Abruptly ceas'd the gambol and the shout 
 Of joy, arrested by the nightingale. 
 
 Eight lustres of my human span alas ! 
 
 Were gone , since , vying with the giddy troop , 
 
 I chas'd the typic butterfly, and yet, 
 
 xVs tho' no solemn thought could thence arise, 
 
 The nnsuggestiug image pass'd away. — 
 
 « Tereu ! Tereu ! «... again ! . . . again ! . . . again ! . . . 
 Up went the touching notes, down came the passive tears! 
 
 A something was there of a later time, 
 When I, — a bigger boy, but still a child, — 
 
Assisted by my father's ready hand, 
 
 Was traversing a copse of early green, 
 
 Irrelevantly talking this and that, 
 
 As Childhood will do. On a sudden he 
 
 The sign of silence made, and whisper'd «hush!» — 
 
 I held my peace , and heard the nightingale. 
 
 As here , as mute and motionless as thou , 
 I sat and listen'd with the moving Moon 
 To that recurring voice of deathless Spring, 
 My sire had long beeii number'd with the dead, 
 As shortly must my chddren's father he; 
 And yet , as tho' the worm was hut a word , 
 And Man's caducity an idle sound, 
 — No solemn thought presented to the mind , — 
 The unsuggesting image pass'd away. — 
 
 o Tereu! Tereu! «... agaiu!... again!... again!... 
 Up went the touching notes, down came the passive tears ! 
 
 A something was there of my wasted youth , 
 
 When I (the idlest of the idle then 
 
 And since, abusing every golden chance 
 
 Of science , offer'd by a hfe of ease , ) 
 
 Was walking , to refresh my fever'd frame , 
 
 At midnight with a son of revelry 
 
 Fast by the classic Cam. In either head 
 
 The fumes of dizzy Bacchus were at work , 
 
 And speech and laughter, riotously loud , 
 
 Disturb'd the holy cahn , till lo ! rebuk'd 
 
 We stopp'd beneath the fulgent lamp of Heaven , 
 
Where, close beside us, in her willow'd haunt, 
 The seraph of the shade her hymn began. 
 
 As here , as mute and motionless as thou , 
 
 I sat and listen'd with the moving Moon 
 
 To that recurring chorister of Night, 
 
 The gay companion of my noisy hours 
 
 Was dumb as his sarcophagus, and yet, 
 
 As tho' no solemn thought could thence arise, 
 
 The uusuggesting image pass'd away. — 
 
 ■< Tereu ! Tereu .'»... again ! . . . again ! . . . again ! . . . 
 Up went the touching notes , down came the passive tear* ! 
 
 A something was there of my after age, 
 More shapeless even than the rest, — a sort 
 Of double dream of person and of place, 
 — An old familiar park, — a foreign vale, — 
 A heronry, — a line of margent trees, — 
 And dappled deer, — and snowy nenuphar, — 
 And things, that indiscriminately mix'd, 
 Were faintly vision'd by the filming show'r 
 The while two pallid beings at my side 
 A moment stood together, and were — gone ! 
 
 And with 'em went the old familiar park , 
 And with 'em went the foreign vale, where erst 7 
 When watching Death was waiting for his prey, 
 The nightingale to each so sadly sang! 
 
 As here^ as mute and motionless as thou, 
 I sat and listen'd with the moving Moon 
 
To that recurring, bird-embodi'd grief, 
 The pair were turning into dust, and yet 
 — No solemn thought presented to the mind . — 
 The unsuggesting image pass'd away. — 
 
 « Tereu ! Tereu ! «... again ! . . . again ! . . . again ! . . . 
 Up went the touching notes, down came the passive tears ! 
 
 The sequel was a worse confusion still , 
 « Confusion ivorse confounded. » Vaguely rife 
 With broken memories, — a figur*d flood! — 
 Taster and faster, till the song was done , 
 Down came the passive tears , the passive-pouring tears ! — 
 
 A small , dark object flitted from the thorn , 
 
 And, chilly with the dew, my seat I left 
 
 To bend my homeward steps to yonder town. — 
 
 And such the passage in a poefs life, 
 Too oft alas! a waking, weeping dream! — 
 
 But who was she , that , 'perding his peace , 
 Could so divide the jealous faith of one , 
 Whose earthly cult had been the beautiful , 
 As long beheld in Beauty's fairest form? 
 
 No other revelation will he make, 
 No other answer will he give , than this : 
 For them, that over-think , is laughter good, 
 For them, that over-feel, the balm is tears. 
 

 
 
(1) — « How many a mind, hoiv many a mourning mind, 
 
 u By absence pain'd or separating death, 
 « The fond delusion of a picture feeds ! » 
 
 « Constitit et lacrymans : Quis jam locus inquit, Achate, 
 
 « Quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris? 
 
 « En Priamus : sunt hie etiam sua pramia laudi , 
 
 r Sunt lacrymae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt. 
 
 (i Solve metus : feret ha;c aliquam tibi fama salutem. 
 
 « Sic ait : atque animum pictura pascit inani 
 
 « Multa gemens, largoque humectat flumine vultum. » 
 
 Mneid. Lib. 1. 
 
 (2) — « The voices, and the odours, and the dyes, 
 
 <( That welcome and perfume the vernal year, 
 — « The same, as have inspir'd a thousand bards 
 « Before ' The Song of Solomon ' and since. » 
 
 « My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come 
 away. 
 
 « For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; 
 
 « The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and 
 the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; 
 
 « The fig tree putleth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape 
 .give a good smell. Arise , my love , my fair one , and come away. » 
 
 Solomon's song. Ch. 2. vers. 10, 11, 12, 15. 
 
 (3) — « No other form or order did they have. 
 
 « A sentient sluice, let gradually go, 
 
 « Of feeling unmethodically full , 
 
 « They were not of the mind , but of the heart. » 
 
 Should the reader (as well he may) have found a sense of vagueness in the 
 unes to a post, all the author can alledge is this : they record a fact. In 
 
common with the rest , the paroxysm of tears , described therein , is literally true. 
 So many, perhaps , of the same nature and in the same time , were never shed , 
 at one bout, by sober rationality before. Unaccompanied by thought as far as it was 
 possible they could be, he can account for neither their duration nor their violence, 
 the one so singularly long, the other so singularly great. Himself unequal to enact 
 the sphinx, he leaves the question, for solution, to "'metaphysics and the — nightingale. 
 But, however null as a matter of mind, they were, as a matter of heart , (to speak 
 commercially) «« discharge in full ! » His spirits, next morning, were buoyant to 
 a degree. He can liken the effect to nothing but to that of a Turkish bath , for a 
 capital description of which, by the bye, see Lady Mary Worthy Montague"s « Letters 
 « from the East,» or Willis's « Pcncillings by the way. » 
 
 (4) — « A something was there of the happy date, 
 
 « When I, together with an urchin band 
 
 « Disporting in the yellow fields of June, 
 
 « Abruptly ceas'd the gambol and the shout 
 
 (i Of joy , arrested by the nightingale. » 
 
 On one occasion, I heard the nightingale so late as Midsummer-Day; on another, 
 (a rare event) on the twenty-first of July. The song is seldom audible after the 
 middle of June, the cock-bird having to bear his part in providing for the wants of 
 the little family. The poet Cowper (a very unlikely man to be mistaken in the note) 
 has registered a perhaps unique occurrence in the verses which I quote : 
 
 « TO THE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 « WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD Sl.NG ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792. 
 
 
 « Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear 
 « From yonder wither'd spray, 
 
 <( This foremost morn of all the year, 
 « The melody of May? 
 
 
 <( And why, since thousands would be proud 
 
 « Of such a favour shown , 
 « Am I selected from the crowd , 
 
 « To witness it alone? 
 
 * « The topics of ontology or metaphysics » ( says Watts's ' Logic ' ) « are cause , effect , action , 
 « passion, identity, opposition, subject, adjunct and sign. » This is all very well, but the following 
 is better still. A Scotchman , in the course of conversation , having been asked the meaning of the 
 word metaphysics, happily replied : « When the mon ye're talking to does no understand what ye're 
 « talking abool, and when ye no understand what ye're talking aboot ycr ain sel,— that's metaphysics. » 
 
« Sing'st thou , sweet Philomel , to me , 
 
 « For that I also long 
 « Have practis'd in the groves like thee, 
 
 « Though not like thee in song? 
 
 « Or sing'st thou rather under force 
 
 « Of some divine command, 
 <( Commission'd to presage a course 
 
 « Of happier days at hand? 
 
 « Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 
 
 « And joyless year have I , 
 » As thou to-day, put forth my song 
 
 « Beneath a wintry sky. 
 
 <( But thee no wintry skies can harm, 
 
 « Who only need'st to sing, 
 « To make ev'n January charm, 
 
 « And every season Spring. »