& I w vHVJ m m m H13NV 59 G£i IMx 33 l - 2 $v 1 kJ> ( ■ THE FLOWERS OF LITERATURE; CONSISTING QF SELECTIONS FROM l^istorp, 33fofirnpi)B, $oetrg, anb Romance; JEUX D' ESPRIT, TRADITIONARY RELICS AND ESSAYS, WITH TRANSLATIONS FROM APPROVED AUTHORS SECOND EDITION, REVISED AND CORRECTED FROM THE WORK OF THE LAI K WILLIAM OXBERRY, Comedian. " An Olio Compiled from quarto and from folio; From pamphlet, newspaper, and book. IN I "I l; \<>| I MKS. vol.. in. LONDON PRINTED FOB THOMAS TEOG, ( HEAPSIDE 1824. London PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON', Willi EfRIA RS. a$ CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. Page The Spanish peasant girl .... To . • • • • . . H Tombstone warehouse • • • • .12 To a log of wood upon the fire . . . . .19 The eccentric poet . ... . .21 The brothers . • • ' • 27 Egyptian mummies, tombs, oke to the heart of his victim. "I shall wander, Annette/' be exclaimed, " to other scenes; but my soul will be ever desolate. Amid the din of war, and the gaieties of fashion, I shall call to mind the evening rambles we bave taken, and cling to the days that are pMt lint you, my love, you will still be happy, and, in the arms of some worthier person, may forget the itranger who adores you." He paused — he pressed her convulsively to his heart, and kissed her glowing cheek Tears were t!ie only answer she could make, but tin passions of her soul Bpoke in her flushed bosom and palpitating heart Don Manuel observed his triumph : •1 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. he folded her gently to his breast, and roved with a wanton eye over the charms which the light Spanish garb bttt half concealed; and eventually succeeded in profaning that holy sanctuary of love, which it was worse than sacrilege to have violated. Night, tranquil night, was the only witness of the poor girl's disgrace; ,,ik1 the summer gale the only tell-tale that whispered the story of her degradation. With faltering steps she rose from the bank where she was seated, and moved onwards to the cottage. Don Manuel followed at a distance, and came up with her as she reached her home. With the eloquence of desperate infatuation, he I ioncd her to fly from the village, where every scene would but serve to remind her of her disgrace. He promised to write to her mother, and request her to follow them; and at last succeeded in persuading her to enter his chariot, which was stationed at a trifling di- stance from the cottage. On their arrival at Seville, Don Manuel paid that deference to his mistress which her desolate situation required. She seemed grateful for his kindness, but pined in excess of melancholy. She was like some tender flower transplanted from its kindred soil, to bloom and wither in a foreign land. Still she never complained : and it was only in the sweet hopelessness of her smile that the secret of her sorrow could be discovered. In the long summer twilight she would love to seat herself by her favourite harp, and play some plaintive air that reminded her of the home of her infancy. The thoughts of her childhood would then rush over her soul, and she would weep from the bitter reflections they inspired. But youth is incapable of lasting grief, and the gay associates of Don Manuel \\ ere ill calculated to cherish the softer emotions of the so»il. Annette gradually improved in spirits, and would often escape from the bitterness of the moment, to the refined flattery of her admirers. This, though at first accepted as a mere opiate for grief, soon became ne- cessary to her existence ; and, ere a few months had elapsed, the once tender, melancholy Annette wa' FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 5 toasted among the debauchees of Seville as the dashing mistress of Don Manuel. So complete a transformation of character was the gradual work of time : it com- menced in flattery, and terminated in the ruin of its victim. Among the profligate acquaintances of her seducer was a young man who paid assiduous court to her beauty. He was witty, accomplished, and well calculated to excite favourable sentiments in. the weak breast of a woman. He told her she was handsome, and she believed it; and, under pretence of excessive sensibility, estranged her affections from her former protector. When the heart of a female is once led astray, inevitable ruin must ensue. Such was the case with Annette; she rushed blindly from vanity to folly, from folly to vice, and completed her destruction by eloping with her paramour from the palace of Don Manuel. A duel with his rival ensued ; and by the death of his antagonist he was compelled to quit Spain. To heal his wounded feelings, he wandered from dime to clime, a helpless, hopeless pilgrim, and endeavoured in vain to escape from the settled blight of his own soul. In spite of her desertion, he still loved Annette, and her image was ever present to his mind. He wrote often to his friends concerning her, but was informed in reply, that her character was blighted, her principles utterly i lot roved. Time rolled, but Don Manuel Was still the victim of an almost incurable gloom. Two years had now elapsed Biace he last quitted his native land; and during that interval Ik; had been a wanderer on the face of the earth. He had roved among the sunny climes of Ttaly, and visited the consecrated ground of ancient Greece. He had lived in England) the darling seat of love and freedom; and deeply studied the characters of mankind, and the laws of nations ; and resolved at last to return home an accomplished traveller. Th'- Mm was getting a« he reached his native Seville, from which he had so lcen presented, the inheriting sorrower has insisted thai they were coowaanded in black, as most suitable for mourning. Inscriptions to the memory of 1G FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. faithful wives and affectionate husbands have been given to me, where epithet has vied with epithet, and exclamation with exclamation, to f make a phrase of sorrow;' and, sir, would you believe it, after the chisel had done its duty, I have had the charge disputed, on the ground that the eulogium was extravagant and in- applicable! Surely ive could never have said so, I have been doomed to hear, when the instructions have been entered, right to a letter, in my warehouse-book of inconsolables. In short, sir, grief is prodigal; but reflection calculates. I thought it therefore best, as customers increased, and we had the prospect of an epidemic, to prepare a stock of ready-made articles, at ready-money prices; so that a gentleman might, if he pleased, be waited upon with his monument some days before his death, or, at all events, his heirs be fixed at once, and no opportunity be left for after-repenting." I could not help expressing my admiration of a plan founded on such an exquisite knowledge of human na- ture, and apparently executed with an ability and in- dustry worthy the excellence of the original idea. At the same time, I expressed some doubt whether the variety of the demand could be fully met by anticipation, and inquired whether they were not, after all, often obliged to make to order ? " Seldom, sir, seldom : not but that we are exposed to caprice and eccentricity sometimes. So great, how- ever, is the extent and assortment of our stock, that one piece or other in it seldom fails to give satisfaction. The only persons, we may say, whom we have found at all troublesome, are the heirs of insolvents and foreigners. It is true, we have taken the precaution to engrave virtues suited to all the professions and classes of so- ciety; we have them too at all prices, and of every material from marble to plaster Good husbands may be had here from a guinea upwards, and friends to the poor at a still lower rate. Faithful wives, being a large department, go with us very cheap; virgins untimely cut of are dearer. Our poetry is paid for by the line, but notes of admiration are charged separately. If you FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 17 will take the trouble to walk round with me, I shall be happy to show you our philanthropists in marble, and widows in freestone : we have also a handsome assort- ment of politicians in wood. Of philosophers it must be confessed that we are at present rather out; for the lead has been all used lately for bullets : but you will see several physicians in the block, and a number of men qf'lettcrs, complete except the heads." I readily availed myself of this invitation ; and, as we proceeded, my interesting conductor left me nothing to desire in the way of information ; while I was lost in astonishment at the infinite sagacity which directed this great establishment. " I observe," said I, " that all the tablets in this di- vision are particularly profuse of moral qualities and religious impressions. They are designed for the clergy, I suppose." " No, sir, for the actors and actresses : these are the only people we now have that set much store by a cha- racter for virtue or religion : they demand, however, a great deal in this way, and we are almost obliged to be too full for a handsome distribution of lines, in order to satisfy their ambition to be exemplary." " 1 have lost," continued he, " much good material and capital workmanship by the political changes. ■ ions of honour are now a drug; and senators useless. Many a magnificent slab, connected with the imperial regime, I have been obliged to sell at the price of granite, for btiildiag the: foundations of statues to the BonrbODS; and the same police-officer that has com- manded their preparation has brought me the order for their destruction. What vexes me most, however, is, that we arc obliged to bear the damage when the selfish- ness of individuals speculates on gain. Mow many family monuments, executed to order, have been left on our bands, because relations have suddenly found it in- convenient to claim the titles and achievements which they had given in with pride! How many alterations hate wc been obliged t<> make, at our own expense, to save the articles from being rejected altogether! Such 18 FLOWERS OF LITKUATURE. of the bishops as have been provident enough to order memorials of their virtues and piety beforehand have given us a gnat deal of trouble in this way: Napoleon's chaplain has expected us to convert him, for nothing, into the almoner of Louis XVI II. ; and the preceptor to the king of Rome would have us metamorphose him, on the same terms, into confessor to her Royal Highness the Duchess of Berri. As to the sentiments, they give us much less trouble than the titles : loyalty and de- votion stand as before; it is only necessary to substitute the word royal for imperial, and this you know is with us the affair of a moment. Courage and fidelity are still a-propos; we must only be careful to interpolate the Bourbons in some principal part of the inscription, efface the eagles, and engrave a lily or two in their place. All this they expect us to perform as a matter of course; but " Le Sieur M. N. was interrupted in his complaint by suddenly meeting with his two customers, who were, in fact, seeking him. They had seen a monument of which they much approved; and the head of the establishment, when their choice was pointed out to him, complimented them very much on their good taste. They could not have selected any thing, he said, of a prettier melan- choly, or of a purer marble: the price was only five hundred francs ; and as there was at present no in- scription on it, they might have any thing they pleased engraved, for which, however affectionate, he would charge moderately by the letter. The gentlemen seemed startled by the price : they, however, proposed an in- scription, and inquired how much " the best of parents — tenderest of husbands," would come to? M. N. made his calculation. On hearing its amount, they seemed more appalled than before, and one of them instantly said, " Suppose then we were to leave the best of parents out of our lamented friend's monument ? It would come cheaper then; and, in truth, perhaps, the less we say of his conduct as a father the better." " I was just thinking," replied the other, "that propriety as well as economy seemed to require us to drop the allusion to FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 19 his conjugal life : it was not in the domestic circle that our deplored relative (and here the speaker's voice faltered) displayed most brilliantly tlie many virtues and amiable qualities by which his character was un- questionably adorned." The result of the discussion I did not wait to hear. Finding that the dealer in memorials was likely to be occupied for some time with these sincere mourners, I made an appointment with him for another day; and, when I saw him again, I learned, on inquiry, that the two gentlemen had gone away without ordering any monument at all. "W, London Magazine. TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE. When Horace, as the snows descended On Mount Soracte, recommended That logs be doubled Until a blazing fire arose, I wonder whether thoughts like those Which in my noddle interpose 1 lis fancy troubled. Poor Log ! I cannot hear thee sigh, And groan, ami hiss, and see thee die, To warm a poet, Wit 1 1* > ii t evincing thy success, And as thou wanest less and loss, Inditing a farewell address, To let thee know it. Peeping bom earth — B bud unvcil'd, Some " bosky bourne" <>r dingle bail'd Thj oatal hour, While infant winds around thee blew, And thou uert fed With silver dew, And tender mi n- beams oozing through Thy leafy bower. 20 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Earth — water — air — thy growth prepared ; And if perchance some robin, scared From neighb'ring manor, Perch'd on thy crest, it rock'd in air, Making his ruddy feathers flare In the sun's ray, as if they were A fairy banner : Or if some nightingale impress'd Against thy branching top her breast, Heaving with passion, And in the leafy nights of June Out pour'd her sorrows to the moon, Thy trembling stem thou didst attune To each vibration. Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots So grappled under, That thou whom perching birds could swing, And zephyrs rock with lightest wing, From thy firm trunk unmoved didst fling Tempest and thunder. Thine offspring leaves — death's annual prey, Which Herod Winter tore away From thy caressing, In heaps, like graves, around thee blown, Each morn thy dewy tears have strown, O'er each thy branching hands been thrown, As if in blessing. Bursting to life, another race, At touch of Spring, in thy embrace Sported and flutter'd; Aloft, where wanton breezes play'd, In thy knit-boughs have ringdoves made Their nest, and lovers in thy shade Their vows have utter'd. How oft thy lofty summits won Morn's virgin smile, and hail'd the sun With rustling motion ; FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 21 How oft in silent depths of night, When the moon sail'd in cloudless light, Thou hast stood awe-struck at the sight, In hush'd devotion — 'Twere vain to ask; for doom'd to fall, The day appointed for us all O'er thee impended: The hatchet, with remorseless blow, First laid thee in the forest low, Then cut thee into logs — and so Thy course was ended — But not thine use —for moral rules, Worth all the wisdom of the schools, Thou may' St bequeath to me; Bidding me cherish those who live Above me, and the more I thrive, A wider shade and shelter give To those beneath me. So when Death lays his axe to me, I may resign, as calm as thee, My hold terrestrial; Like thine my latter end be found Diffusing light and warmth around, And like thy smoke my spirit bound To realms celestial. New Monthly Magazine. THE ECCENTRIC POET. Yoc shall perceive him dive his hand into his pock' t he would insinuate by this, and have you infer, that he mom , but no such thing is there; it were as lonable to expect that the collision of two (lakes (if snow would make a jingle, as hope to hear the sound of one shilling dnetting-it with another. The hand went in emptv, it came out so; and though lie buttons up that pocket so carefully, there is nothing in it : — it is as 2L' flowers of literature. empty as Coates's* head, and farthingless as a poor's box. About four you shall perceive him picking his teeth with the worn-down stump of a pen that has written to you, in its time, half a dozen odes To the scornful Nona, who proves to be his landlady, a fat and fifty-year-old widow ; — a folio of poems upon Fortune and Hope, Charity and Independence} — odes On Retirement, com- posed in the seclusion of his back-garret ; together with some hundred sonnets to and on ruins, woods, forests, hills, castles, rivers, streamlets and lakes, the " over- flowings of his mind\," and ten sonnets on a 'waterfall, written to the overflowings of his landlady's water-butt ; — a hundred extempores (each of them produced after a long November night's labour) ; a few dozen of dedi- cation-asking letters to beggarly noblemen, by which he netted a clear profit of twenty kicks on his unseated seat of honour, thirty door-shuttings in his face, and a French half-crown insinuated into his pocket by a sentimental fat porter at a great man's door, who proved to be more of a Maecenas than his master; besides plays, operas, and farces; and pamphlets on the easiest mode of paying off the national debt, written when he was dunned for two-pence, an arrear in an account of three- pence due to his milkwoman. Now you would suppose this picking of teeth indicated his having dined ; no such thing ; he picks them, that he may remind you to remark, " What, you have dined ?" upon which he promptly answers, "No, only lunched ;" that is, he has eaten a gooseberry. You cannot choose but have him 10 dinner; and then you learn by the state of his appetite that he breakfasted with Duke Humphrey. He says little during dinner ; he allows that there was an appetite-provoking air in the park that morning; and when he gives over eating, which is a very protracted operation, remarks, to prevent your doing it, " I don't know when I ate a heartier dinner;" neither does he, unless you can tell him when he last dined with you, or where he dined the day before. • An amateur actor. f Wordsworth. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 2'< For his wit, which savours of the true attic, it comes in with the salt, but it is broached with the wine. He denies that beef is " a sore spoiler of v ' ~ "' '' He is witty because it is expected of him; . .s wit is, at first, rather disagreeable and bitter ; iti*. sauce piquante to your meat, and an olive to your wine. Like worm- wood, the mere you have of it, the less you dislike it, and you at last palate it. Ke takes care to say as many brilliant things as the dullards, his auditors, will be a week in retailing as their own 5 — my lord takes all he says ou books and women as his share ; and my lady all he says on men as hers. For his suit, you instantly know it to be the livery of those elderly maiden ladies the Muses, to whose suite he is attached, con amore. His coat, once black, is, through long exposure, of a dun colour — the most disagreeable of all complexions to the eyes of a dunned . All things change ! Its white button-moulds were once snugly enveloped in the best dark drab ; but, after much struggling, they have at last protruded themselves into public notice; and as they more or less show their bony faces, remind us of the moon in her various quarters or phases. For the rest of his suit it is suitable; and is what painters call keeping with what I have just described. Most likely his stockings are of a rusty, mouse-coloured black 3 and bis shoes are very like to be less brilliant than his head. Day and Martin would sneer at their poverty of polish, and fall to blessing their -tar- that they h ive more blacking than wit. Hi< lodging is as high as his circumstances are low: its furniture will be hard to describe, seeing that it has nunc. His bed is a truckle one; he reconciles its po- verty to himself; indeed he considers it poetical, for he that that choice spirit Mcrcutio, preferred his tmckle to a field bed. It lies immediately beneath a window that looks as much like a c!ies>-board as a window, one pre being white, and giving as muchlighi as its onclean < i i ; . lt; > > * >s will allow; and the, next black (or block- d up like a late admiral's eye); the net-work of a cobweb server BS a Mutilator in one corner, and 24 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Baxter's " Light to the Unconverted' darkens the sky- light. He has a ehair sans back; and a deal table, a deal too large for the most Descanted meal ever spread on it by its present possessor. Then he has a eorner cupboard " more for ornament than use;" an old-fa- shioned, lacquered, and gilt thing, like the Lord Mayor's coach, containing in its compartments two views of Chinese pagodas, and Mandarins, and tea-trees, and bridges, ike. the gilding nearly gone. Its non-contents are too numerous to mention ; but its contents are — one plate and two-thirds of another, both very dusty from long disuse ; two or three rusty odd knives and forks, the forks usually short in one prong, and pointless as Hacket's, Epigrams ; one cracked basin, a cream jug minus handle, and a tea-pot sans nose. The walls of his attic are not without their ornaments. On one side you shall perceive some half-dozen ballads and " last words of notorious malefactors/' pasted im- movably against the wall by the last tenant, a son of St. Crispin, since hanged j on another side is the portrait of that most celebrated of all celebrated horses, ishevoball, the decoration of a previous tenant, an out- of-place groom. Over the fire-place is a portrait of tShakspeare , framed, but not glazed ; in summer, after you have succeeded in brushing off the rlies, to gain a look at it, you would suppose it to to be a dot engraving, but it is really an aquatint, the dotting is the work of Messieurs the Flies. He had till lately an old bust of " one John Milton, a blind man, who wrote a long poem;" the said Milton has since accidentally lost his nose as well as his eyesj but he consoles liimself with its still resembling a poet, and calls it a Darenant. The manner and the occasion of the loss of the said nose are as follows : — it seems that a silly and unin- formed mouse, ignorant that he had entered a poet's dormitory, while searching about the place with the near-sighted curiosity of a Bankes, was then and there discovered by the only companion of the poet's studies, an elderly and faithful tabby (the solitary gift of a rich old counter v> ho never offered him a dinner), who, being FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. -«> much enraged at this gross ignorance of the mouse, m coming to such a place of starvation (forgetting that she was herself equally silly), Hew indignantly at the gaid unwitting mouse, and in the hurry of her expedition overturned the head of her master's favourite Milton. A bust of Sappho stands in a nook by his bed-side. It was a long time draped by a thick, broad, black cobweb, which having fallen (for cobwebs as well as kingdoms must fall) upon her temples, she has now not taken the veil, but has had it given her. His library consists of manv odd things and much literary lumber. The blank leaf of a copy of the " A eta Way 'to Pay Old Debts," is filled with a journal of debts, some of long standing and large amount, con- tracted before he was known to be a poet (for who would trust a poet ?) His latter debts are small, and are kept on the back of the title-page. Among other ite.ns you u ill find these, which are here quotcd,as apt instances of his poverty and his extravagance: — £. s. d. It. -To Simon Wil choose, tailor, for seating breeches 2 6 To .Mrs. Doublechalk, for cream 5 4£ To Crispin W'axvell, for heel-tapping my pumps with the fashionable red 7 To Diana Soapcr, for one month's washing . . . .0 1 3 2 To Miss Juliana Doriana Augiotina Lena Selina Otafton*, for footing silk stockings three times 'A A copy of Thomson's " Castle of Indolence" is much dog d and grease-spotted, from his repeatedly going fu sleep over the second canto, which seems to have in- spired the indolence i< deprecates; thejirsi canto is pectably clean, and its beauties are carefully nnder- • A spinster lady, of high pretensions but low situation, who carries on the business of stocking-grafting, in a stall " under the Rose" ■> P' t-house in WhitechapeL She is the reputed author of the following tenHmmtal nouvclicUei, u iht calls them, (as it is conjectured, on account of then brevity,) printed at the Minerva press: ^" The . ,■ i'i. .1/ Chanibt rmald" 7 vol . ; " The Tat- I Shirt, or the Su I oman" '.) vols. ; and " The Y,t :i \ Sympatheticul, and Peripati Patrol ,'' 12 vol ; with many other, but less interesting producti fOV. in. i 26 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. lined. A copy of the same author's poem on " Liberty," with Ms. annotations] made to beguile the slow hours, whilst lodging in the Fleet. Akenside's "Pleasures of Imagination ;" much thumbed and read. The covers, title, and preface of Blackmore's short poem " The Creation,'" the title bearing this motto, " Let there be light, and there was light:" the poem gone; seems to have been torn up for kindling his lamp; for he burns oil, as he considers it classical : his real motive is economy. Phillips's " Splendid Shilling" (the only one he is at times possessed of) is in a very worn and depreciated state, and not worth sixpence. Shakspcarcs /forks are in 8 vols, of eight various editions. " Paradise Lost" was borrowed by his nearest and dearest relation, a money- getting uncle; and " Paradise Regained*' was mortgaged for a beef-steak at Dolly's chop-house ; so that, as he says. Paradise Lost cannot be regained, and Paradise Regained is lost. The " Wealth of Nations" he made over to a wandering Jew-clothier, one of the tribe of Gad, for a pair of appendages to his braces ; and a small stereotyped Spenser was, at the same time, transmuted into a great coat. Most of his valuable works may be found in the before-mentioned relative's library, who, as he is merely a monicd-man, and not a poet, estimates the value of every thing by its appearance (the way of the world) ; " For what's the worth of any thing, But just so much as it will bring ?" and though he makes a very ostentatious display of books, he never reads deeper into a volume than the title-page. For a long time our poet was afflicted with the Bi- bliomania ; and during that period, all his talk, even his very dreams, were of Caxton and Wynkin-de-Worde. He could not buy rare books, but he could purchase priced catalogues of those which had heen sold ; and though his extravagance was sometimes bounded by his means, he never could resist purchasing a catalogue for ten shillings, even when his ten toes were covetous of its Russia-binding, for a cover to their semi-nudity. FfcOWEUS OF LITERATURE- 27 lie nas at length known by the distinguishing appellation of the Cat (or catalogue) hunter. He was sometimes told that he had more Cats than caught mice, yet he went on with his hobby. At length he discovered that he had really more catalogues than books : this gave the alarm to his pride, and partially cured him of his folly. Vet even now he is a more inveterate stall-hunter than any I-Koxdd-be-prebend in the three kingdoms ; but a book-stall is his game: he'll scent you one at half a mile ; and when he has run it down, noses it (from near- sightedness) for an hour or two before you can call him off, till he is as black in the hands (if not in the face) as a whitesmith. He has an instinctive faculty of tracking out a book-stall} the musty breath of an old Cawton is sweeter to his nose than the sigh of Roses; and a peep into a soiled " Mirror for Magistrates' is to him more picturesque than the Norfolk window of stained glass. Such are some of the eccentricities and whimsicalities of genius. I'ocket Magazine. THE BROTHERS. A NARRATIVE FROM REAL LIFE. Count de B — , a Lieutenant-General in the French army, wdo died about the commencement of the Revo- lution, had lived on terms of intimacy with the two MM. de Belle-Isle, of whom he occasionally related interesting private anecdotes. The following are so extremelv curious that tlicy deserve to be recorded. The Count and the Chevalier dc Belle-Isle were grandsons of the famous Intendant Fonquet; and, not- withstanding the disgrace of their grandfather, they were pretty well advanced in the military service ;it the death of Louis XIV. After the saturnalia of the regency. they became involved in the disasters of Be Blanc, the ecretary of state for the war department, and the two brothers wen treated ami put under close confinement in the Ba tile To aggravate their misfortune, the\ 28 FLOWERS OF LITERATUM.. were imprisoned in separate apartments. The Chevalier" was constantly devising some plan by which he might be enabled to enjoy the society of bis brother. He had with him a valet- dc-chainbrc, a young man of spirit and activity, and who, moreover, possessed no small share of cunning: he had been educated as a surgeon, and, at his own solicitation, was permitted to share his master's captivity. — By means of intrigue and artful interrogations, he learned that an apartment, then un- occupied, was the only disposable one in the prison, and that it was immediately below that allotted to the Count. He accordingly formed his plan, without saying a word on the subject to the Chevalier. The Chevalier, though a man of intrepid courage, occasionally exhibited a weakness of mind which is not; without example even in persons of the firmest character: he was unable to bear the sight of a wound, or even to hear one spoken of, without experiencing those disa- greeable sensations to which nervous persons are liable, and which often terminate in completely overpowering the organic faculties. This reciprocal mental and phy- sical re-action, in the human frame, is unaccounted for, though its existence cannot be doubted. It resembles those puerile, but unconquerable antipathies we ex- perience at the sight of certain animals, or the odour of particular plants ; or rather, perhaps, those fits of vertigo with which persons (who on all other oc- casions exhibit perfect self-possession) are seized on ascending a height, or when on the brink of a precipice. Be that as it may, no man is a hero to his valet-de- chambrc; and the knowledge of this habit enabled the faithful servant of the Chevalier de Belle-Isle the better to arrange his schemes. The Governor of the Bastile paid frequent visits to his two prisoners. The conversation of the Chevalier particularly pleased him. The valet was occasionally permitted to join them; for he had a number of stories, anecdotes, and jests, n ith which he enlivened con- versation, and excited the interest and curiosity of his hearers. One day he very adroitly turned the discourse i- LOWERS OF LITERATURE. 29 to the battle of Hochstadt, in which he had served in the medical department of the army. He did not fail to dwell on this subject with all the eloquence he was master of. All the wounds he had dressed — all the amputations he had seen performed — all the heart- rending groans he had heard — nothing was spared. At leugth, to effect his object with the more certainty, he even overcharged the picture. The talisman had the desired effect. The Chevalier performed his part the better by not being prepared for it : he grew pale, became gradually more and more languid, and at last fainted. "The zealous valet flew to his assistance, and by applying the usual remedies, soon recovered his master. The Governor anxiously inquired the cause of the sudden indisposition of the Chevalier. " Sir," said the valet, " grateful for your attention, my master did not venture to complain to you ; but certainly the room you have assigned to him is very injurious to his delicate nerves. The accident you have witnessed takes place almost daily; and indeed I cannot answer for the Che- valier's life if his lodging be not changed." The Gover- nor, an old officer, better acquainted with military affairs than with physiology, did not hesitate a moment. " W hy did you not speak before," exclaimed he, " my dear Chevalier/ There is a room vacant on the other side of the fort, and you shall be removed to it this very even- ing." — The Chevalier returned thanks, and the Gover- n tired to give his orders. He well knew that the two brothers would thus be nearer each other; but he relied on the thickness of the walls and the vigilance of the sentinels, to prevent all intercourse between them. He was deceived, for misfortune is ingenious. After a minute search, the Chevalier and his valet discovered a chimney-pipe, which led to the Count's chamber) and a communication was si ion • tablished between the two brothers. It wi of great imp irtanceto the prisoners to be able thus to concert together for their common defence; but that was noi all — it was necessary to find the means oi annihilating the material evidence which might compro* 30 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. mise them. The Chevalier had acquired a knowledge of the charges that were brought against him. There was one very serious accusation, which would be sup- ported only by one individual, namely, a clerk in one of the offices of the war department. This man was easily intimidated, and still more easily gained over by pro- mises ; the prisoners, however, had but a very super- ficial knowledge of him. The Chevalier de Bellc-lsle therefore arranged his plan from conjecture, and tran- quilly awaited the day when he should be confronted with his accusers. According to the old French system of judicial investigation, the first examinations were always secret. The witness appeared in the presence of the accused, and no person was present at the proceedings except the judge and the clerk. The prescribed rules, however, were not very rigorously observed when the accused party happened to be a person of rank. In the present case the deposition was read. It was very strong} but the Chevalier soon knew the man he had to deal with. He composed himself, and listened with profound at- tention to the evidence. Surprise, grief, and impatience, were by turns painted in his countenance. When the reading was ended, he rushed forward to the witness, and seizing his hand, he exclaimed, in the most emphatic way, " How, sir, can it be possible that you are my accuser? You, for whom I have always felt so much interest ! You, whom I have ever regarded as a friend ! Can you lend an ear to such absurd calumnies ?'' He continued to address the witness in a tone of vehemence and warmth, which indicated an affectionate complaint rather than a bitter recrimination, until he observed some happy result of his eloquence. He moreover employed an argument on which he relied with still greater con- fidence. On seizing the witness's hand, he contrived secretly to slip into it a note, which he had prepared for the purpose j and thus placed the witness in the delicate alternative of becoming either his accuser or his accomplice. The movement of the Chevalier de Belle- Isle was so suddeu and unexpected, that nobody could FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 31 think of opposing him ; and, besides, it appeared ex- tremely natural, and strictly within the bounds of legal defence. The witness was confounded by the impressive appeal that had been made to him, and found that he was in possession of a secret, w hich might decide the fate of an accused person, who had thus thrown himself on his generosity. — He was aware of the danger of re- tracting, while at the same time he was flattered by the condescending way in which a man of rank treated him as his friend— in short, he was perplexed by conflicting thoughts and sentiments. The Chevalier observed the embarrassment of his antagonist, and felt the necessity of immediately relieving him. Resuming the evidence article by article, he endeavoured to soften it down, and at the same time to avoid compromising the witness by blank denials. His plan succeeded. The charge became more and more feeble, till at length, the whole evidence rested on a few unimportant assertions, which, there was reason to hope, might be satisfactorily refuted. — The silting terminated j but such was the terror with which the witness was seized, that he had not courage to unclose the hand in which he held the note. He passed the drawbridge of the Bastile, and wandered through almost every street in Paris, like a criminal, dreading the glance of every one he met — It was not until he reached the Poot-Royal that be ventured by stealth to cast his eyes on the note. Within the first envelope were written these words : — " If you fail hfully and speedily deliver the I note according to it^ address, your fortune is made." The inner note was directed to a lady, the intimate friend of the Chevalier, requesting her to take charge <»f, and to suppr< certain letters which might prove of tin- i;t most injur) to his cause. The commission was punctually fulfilled, and the witness received the promised rew ard. The above were not the only extraordinary circum- stances attending tin fate of the \IM. de Belle-Isle. When the evidence against them was at an end, the two brothers were granted Bomewhat more freedom, and also the ] rmission of living together^ By means of ■ ■Mi communications, the) bad agreed with a friend, 32 FLOWERS OF LITERATI').. that, if their sentence should be unfavourable, they were to be warned of it by the firing of a certain number of guns. One day, as they were walking together on one of the ramparts of the prison, they heard the signal, and. the fatal number of guns announced their irrevocable condemnation. They descended mournfully, find retired to their gloomy apartment. In a few moments their friend rushed in to inform them of their acquittal. On inquiring into the cause of the mistake, it was found to have been occasioned by a gunmaker of the Faubourg St. Antoine, who happened that day to be making trial of some of his guns. After their liberation, the most brilliant fortune at- tended the two prisoners. The Chevalier was created a Count, and promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Ge- neral. After distinguishing himself honourably in the service of his country, he was killed at the attack of Col-de-1'Assictte, in the year 174G. His elder brother, who is celebrated for many acts of valour and military skill, particularly for the retreat of Prague, was created a duke, a peer, and marshal of France, and died minister of war in 1761. At the commencement of the seven years' war, he had the misfortune to lose his only son, the Count de Gisors, a young officer of the greatest promise. Thus perished the last branches of the family of the Intendant. Like him, they possessed all the brilliant qualifications necessary for the success of ambitious projects; and they were memorable examples of the frowns and favours of fortune. EGYPTIAN MUMMIES, TOMBS, &c. Gournou is a tract of rocks, about two miles in length, at the foot of the Libyan mountains, on the west of Thebes, and was the burial-place of the great city of ,i hundred gates. Every part of these rocks is cut out by art, in the form of large and small chambers, each of which has its separate entrance; and, though they arc very close to each other, it is seldom that there is OWEBS OF LITERATURE. 33' any interior communication from one to another. I can truly say, it is impossible to give any description sufficient to convey the Smallest idea of those subterranean abodes and their inhabitants. There are no sepulchres in any part of the world like them ; there are no excavations or mines, that can be compared to these truly astonishing places j and no exact description can be given of their interior, owing to the difficulty of visiting these recesses. The inconveniency of entering into them is such, that it is not every one who can support the exertion. A traveller is generally satisfied when he has seen the huge hall, the gallery, the staircase, and as far as he can conveniently go : besides, he is taken up with the strange works he observes cut in various places, and painted on each side of the walls ; so that when he comes to a narrow and difficult passage, or to have to descend to the bottom of a well or cavity, he declines taking such trouble, naturally supposing that he cannot sec in these abysses any thing so magnificent as what he sees above, and consequently deeming it useless to proceed any far- ther. Of some of these tombs many persons could not withstand the suffocating air, which often causes fainting. A vast quantity of dust rises, so fine that it enters into the throat and nostrils, and chokes the nose and mouth to such a degree, that it requires great power of lungs to resist it and the strong effluvia of the mammies. This is not .-'11; the entry or passage where the bodies rire, i- roughly cut in the rocks, and the falling of the sand from the upper part or ceiling of the passage causes it to be nearly filled up. In some places there is not more than a \acancy of a foot left, which you must contrive to pass through in a creeping posture like a snail, mi pointed and keen stones, that cut like glass. Affi r getting through these paSSageSj sonic of them two or three hundred yards long, yon generally find a more Commodious place, perhaps high enough to sit. lint what a place of rest! surrounded by bodies, by heaps of mummies in all directions; which, previous to my being accustomed to the Sight, impressed me with horror. The blackness of the wall, the faint light given by th> C o 34 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. candles or torches for want of air, the different objects that surrounded me, seeming to converse with each other, and the Arabs, with the candles or torches in their hands, naked and covered with dust, themselves resembling living mummies, absolutely formed a scene that cannot be described. In such a situation I found myself several times, and often returned exhausted and fainting, till at last I became inured to it, and indifferent to what I suffered, except from the dust, which never failed to choke my throat and nose j and though, fortu- nately, I am destitute of the sense of smelling, I could taste that the mummies were rather unpleasant to swallow. After the exertion of entering into such a place, through a passage of fifty, a hundred, three hun- dred, or perhaps six hundred yards, nearly overcome, I sought a resting-place, found one, and contrived to sit j but when my weight bore on the body of an Egyptian, it crushed it like a band-box. I naturally had recourse to my hands to sustain my weight, but they found no better support ; so that I sank altogether among the broken mummies, with a crash of bones, rags, and wooden cases, which raised such a dust as kept me motionless for a quarter of an hour, waiting till it sub- sided again. I could not remove from the place, how- ever, without increasing it, and every step I took I crushed a mummy in some part or other. Once I was conducted from such a place to another resembling it, through a passage of about twenty feet in length, and no wider than what a body could be forced through. It was choked with mummies, and I could not pass without putting my face in contact with that of some decayed Egyptian; but as the passage inclined downwards, my own weight helped me on; however, I could not avoid being covered with bones, legs, arms, and heads rolling from above. Thus I proceeded from one cave to another, •H full of mummies piled up in various ways, some standing, some lying, and some on their heads. The purpose of my researches was to rob the Egyptians of their papyri ; of which I found a few hidden in their brea«ts, under their arms, in the space above the knees, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 35> of on the legs, and covered by the numerous folds of cloth that envelope the mummy. The people of Gournou, who make a trade of antiquities of this sort, are very jealous of strangers, and keep them as secret as possible, deceiving travellers, by pretending that they have arrived at the end of the pits, when they are scarcely at the entrance. The people of Gournou live in the entrance of such caves as have already been opened, and, by making par* titions with earthen walls, they form habitations for themselves, as well as for their cows, camels, buffaloes, sheep, goats, dogs, &c. I do not know whether it is because they are so. few in number, that the government takes so little notice of what they do; but it is certain that they are the most unruly people in Egypt. At various times many of them have been destroyed, so that they are reduced from three thousand, the number they formerly reckoned, to three hundred, which form the population of the present day. [Continuing his excavations at Gournou and Carnak, Mr. Belzoui, the enterprising and indefatigable author of the above passage, observed enough of the three modes of embalming the dead to confirm in the main the ac- count of Herodotus, that the corpses of the great were kept from decay witli the utmost carej that the richer classes were also disposed of in a costly manner, and that even the poor were obliged to liniments and nitre for a prolonged posthumous preservation. Among other notices, tin- following is worthy of extract, as it may tend to explain the finding of animal bones in the sarco- phagus of the pyramid; and indeed furnishes the best general information to be met with respecting Egyptian sepulture :~\ I must not omit, that among these tombs we saw some which contained the mummies of animals intermixed with human boilies. There were bulls, cows, sheep, monkeys, foxes, bats, crocodiles, fishes, and birds in them: idolo often occur j and one tomb was filled with nothing but cats, carefully folded in red and white linen, the bead covered by a math representing the cat, and made of the sain.- linen. I have opened all these Ki.OWKUS OF LITERATURE. sorts of animals. Of the hull, the calf, and the sheep., there is no part but the head which is covered with linen., and the horns project out of the cloth; the rest of the body being represented by two pieces of wood, eighteen iuelies wide and three feet long, in an horizontal direction, at the end of which was another, placed per- pendicularly, two feet high, to form the breast of the animal. The calves and sheep are of the same structure, and large in proportion to the bulls. The monkey is in- its full form, in ;i sitting posture. The fox is squeezed up by the bandages, but in some measure the shape of the head is kept perfect. The crocodile is left in its own shape, and after being well bound round with linen, the eyes and mouth are painted on this covering. The birds are squeezed together, and lose their shape, except the ibis, which is found like a fowl ready to be cooked, and bound round with linen like all the rest. It is somewhat singular that such animals are not to be met with in the tombs of the higher sort of people ; while few or no papyri are to be found among the lower order; and if they occur, they are only small pieces stuck upon the breast with a little gum or asphaltum, being probably all that the poor individual could afford to himself. In those of the better classes other objects are found. I think they ought to be divided into several classes, as I cannot confine myself to three. I do not mean to impute error to Herodotus when he speaks of the three modes of embalming; but I will venture to assert, that the high, middling, and poorer classes, all admit of farther distinction. In the same pit where I found mummies in cases, I found others without; and in these, papyri are most likely to be met with. I re- marked that the mummies in the cases have no papyri ; at least, I never observed any : on the contrary, in those without cases they are often obtained. It appears to me, that such people as could afford it would have a case to be buried in, on which the history of their lives was painted : and those who could not afford a case, were contented to have their lives written on papyri, rolled up, and placed above their knees. Even in the appear- ance of the cases there is a great difference: some are FLOWERS Of LITERATURE. 37 exceedingly plain', others more ornamented, and some very richly adorned with figures, well painted. The cases are generally made of Egyptian sycamore; ap- parently this was the most plentiful wood in the country, as it is usually employed for the different utensils. All the cases have a human face, male or female. Some of the large cases contain others within them, cither of wood or of plaster, painted. The inner cases are some- times fitted to the body of the mummy: others are only covers to the body, in form of a man or woman, easily distinguishable by the beard and the breast, like that on the outside. Some of the mummies have garlands of flowers, and leaves of the acacia, or sunt tree, over their heads and breasts. * * * The next sort of mummy that drew my attention, I believe I mav with reason conclude to have been appro- priated to the priests- They arc folded in a manner totally different from the others, and so carefully exe- cuted, as to show the great respect paid to those per- sonages. The bandages are stripes of red and white linen intermixed, covering the whole body, and producing a curious effect from the two colours. The arms and legs are not enclosed in the same envelope with the body, as in the common mode, but are bandaged sepa- rately, even the fingers and toes being preserved distinct. They have sandals of painted leather on their feet, and bracelets on their arms and wrists. They are always found wit Is the aims aCTOBS the breast, but not pressing it; and though the body is bound with such a quantity of linen, the shape of the person is carefully preserved IB every limb. The cases in which mummies of this sort are found are somewhat better executed, and I have seen one that had the eyes and eyebrows of enamel, beautifully executed in imitation of nature. Vases are sometimes found containing the embalmed entrails of the mummies. These- are generally made q| baked clay, and painted over: their si/.es differ from eight, inches to eighteen: their covers represent the head of some divinity, bearing either the human form, or that of a monkev, fox, cat, or some other animal. 38 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE I met with a few of these vases of alabaster in the tombs of the kings, but unfortunately they were broken. A great quantity of pottery is found, and also wooden vessels in some of the tombs, as if the deceased had resolved to have all he possessed deposited along with him. The most singular among these things are the ornaments, in particular the small works in clay and other compositions. I have been fortunate enough to find many specimens of their manufactures, among which is leaf-gold, beaten nearly as thin as ours. The gold appears to me extremely pure, and of a finer colour than is generally seen in our own. It is somewhat singular that no instruments of war are found in these places, when we consider what a warlike nation the Egyptians were. What has become of their weapons I cannot conjecture; for in all my researches I found only one arrow, two feet long. At one extremity it had a copper point well fixed in it, and at the other a notch, as usual, to receive the string of the bow; it had been evidently split by the string, and glued together again. The dwelling-place of the natives is generally in the passages, between the first and second entrance into a tomb. The walls and the roof are as black as any chimney. The inner door is closed up with mud, except a small aperture sufficient for a man to crawl through. Within this place the sheep are kept at night, and occa- sionally accompany their masters in their vocal concert. Over the door-way there are always some half-broken Egyptian figures, and the two foxes, the usual guardians of burial-places. A small lamp, kept alive by fat from the sheep, or rancid oil, is placed in a niche in the wall, and a mat is spread on the ground ; and this formed the grand divan wherever I was. There the people assembled round me, their conversation turning wholly on antiquities. Such a one had found such a thing, and another had discovered a tomb. Various articles were brought to sell to me, and sometimes I had reason to rejoice at having stayed there. I was sure of a supper of milk and bread served in a wooden bowl; but when- ever they supposed I should stay all night, they always FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 39 killed a couple of fowls for me, which were baked in a small oven heated with pieces of mummy cases, and sometimes with the bones and rags of the mummies themselves. It is no uncommon tiling to sit down near fragments of bones; hands, feet, or skulls, are often in the wav ; for these people are so accustomed to be among the mummies, that they think no more of sitting on them than on the skins of their dead calves. I also became indifferent about them at last, and would have slept in a mummy pit as readily as out of it. Here they appear to be contented. The labourer comes home in the evening, seats him- self near his cave, smokes his pipe with his companions, and talks of the last inundation of the Nile, its products, and what the ensuing season is likely to be. His old wife brings him the usual bowl of lentils and bread moistened with water and salt, and when she can add a little butter, it is a feast. Knowing nothing beyond this, he is happy. The young man's chief business is to accumulate the amazing sum of a hundred piastres (two pounds and ten shillings), to buy himself a wife, and to make a feast on the wedding-day. If he have any children, they want no clothing: he leaves them to themselves till mother Nature please to teach them to work, to gain money enough to buy a shirt or some other rag to cover themselves ; for while they are children they are generally naked or covered with rags. The parents are roguishly cunning, and the children are schooled by their examplej bo that it becomes a matter of course to cheat strangers. Would any one believe that, in such a state of life, luxury and ambition exist? If any woman be destitute of jewels, she is poor, and looks with envy on one more fortunate than herself, who perhaps has the worth of half-a-crown round her neck; and she u ho lias a few L;lass beads, or some sort of coarse (oral, a COOple Of silver brooches, or rings at her arms and legs, is considered ai truly rich and great. Some of them are as complete coquettes in their way as any to be seen in the capitals of |]mo|ie. When a yonng man wants to marry, he goes to the 40 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE, father of tlic intended bride, and agrees with him what he is to pay for her. This being settled, so much money is to be spent on the wedding-day feast. To set up housekeeping, nothing is requisite but two or three earthen pots, a stone to grind meal, and a mat, which is the bed. The spouse has a gown and jewels of her own ; and, if the bridegroom present her with a pair of bracelets of silver, ivory or glass, she is happy and fortunate indeed. The house is ready without rent or taxes. No rain can pass through the roof; and there is no doer, for there is no want of one, as there is nothing to lose. They make a kind of box of clay and straw, which, after two or three days' exposure to the sun, be- comes quite hard. It is fixed on a stand, an aperture is left to put all their precious things into it, and a piece of mummy case forms the door. If the house does not please them, they walk out and enter another, as there are several hundreds at their command; I might say several thousands, but they are not all fit to receive in- habitants. Behonis /Fork on Egypt. THE CHESS PLAYERS AND THEIR DUMD ASSISTANT. Omnibus Juts prccsentes literas inspecturis notion Ju- cimus quod. — I am a bachelor, and consequently deprived of a partner in my evening entertainments. Two little dogs, it is true, keep me company, and as, by their coax- ing and dancing about me, they occasionally remind me that I am not without friends, so my returning thanks for thanks, and caresses for caresses, is to them a proof that their master is not without feeling. But when an acquaintance dines with me, I cannot at the dessert proudly exhibit three or four boys, and as many girls, to the great annoyance of my guests, whose knowing eyes would be fastened upon the blooming face of a smart nursery-maid, and who would care little about Master George, who goes to school; Master James, who was FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. -41 breeched last Sunday ; Master Robert, who is a sad rogue, and drinks wine : nor about MissGeorgina, the boarding- school bird ; Sophia, with a cast in her eyes ; and Sukey, who will be called Susan, or else be sulky. These con- stituent parts of a married man's happiness were not allotted me by the wisdom of Providence, and I console myself with the selfish contemplation, that I fear no scoldings at home, no squallings to disturb my night- cap ; and that no rib of mine presses too hard upon my heart : therefore I do not seek for amusement out of my own precincts, nor do I (like the poor man mentioned lately in some newspaper, who used to pass his evenings with " tiis neighbour's widow,") seek for happiness out of doors. This man, when he became a widower, Avas advised to marry her, in whose conversation he seemed to find so much comfort : but he was no fool. " No, no;" said he, " for if she becomes my wife, where shall 1 pass my evenings V Running accidentally over this short, but excellent anecdote, I thought I had in my album something ana- logous to it. 1 referred to the index, and found the following fact: — There was at I'aris, before the revolution, a celebrated coffee-house in the Palais Royal, particularly known to, and famous as the resort of eminent chess-players. Few people except adepts, in the scientific and patience- trying game, frequented the place; and yet it was gem-rally well attended every evening from seven till ten or eleven o'clock, by of course unexceptionable and truly genteel company. A man, God bless him ! an honest tradesman of the u Rue St. Honored" used to repair there every evening without fail, drank his humble " liavaroise," (hewed his " pain mollet," and, with his elbows pressing the board, and his head resting upon his hands, " sat," for three whole hours, " likl patience," watching closely and " smiling at" the suc- IVe moves Of the chess-men. This lie had done constantly for teveral years; aud though he never said one single u ord, never gav< a ign of applause or disap- probation) and never interfered with the noble com 42 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. batants; yet he seemed to take a great deal of interest in the mighty strife. One particular evening he took his scat by a couple of deeply engaged players; and, imperturbably silent, had been spying the scientific evolutions of the pawns at the front of the army — the square, deliberate, and heavy motions of the castles or rooks — the wayward and crab-like strides of the knights — the cross-ways and independent processions of the bishops, and so forth, when a dispute arose between the learned antagonists. It was a delicate point about the right of a move. After a warm contest, the gentleman turned round to the dumb spectator, and begged most earnestly that he would condescend to give his opinion as an impartial umpire, both declaring at the same time, that they would gladly submit to his decision. My good man began instantly to look sheepish, to sit uneasy, to rub his forehead. " Come, come, you must decide; do not keep us in suspense; what do you think of the case?" — " Upon my word, gentlemen," answered he in a mild and submissive tone of voice, " I really know not what to say; for, in truth, I do not understand an iota of the game." "What!" both the players exclaimed, "you do not understand the game ? And in the name of Palamedes, who invented it under the walls of Ilion, what demon of imbecility brings you here every night, to look at a game which you do not understand ?" — " Why,gentlemen, you behave rather unceremoniously with me., and that is not right. Am I obliged to settle your disputes ? I never interrupted you — never offered an opinion— never uttered a word. Why do you put yourselves in such a passion r 1 declare to you that I know" no more of chess-playing than of Ilion or Palamedes. But if you will be civil and quiet, I have no objection to tell you why I choose to pass my evenings here, and kill time in looking at the chess-board, which is a mere blank to me." " Well," then eagerly asked the more composed inquisitors, "what can.be the cause?" — "Ah!" answered the tradesman, wringing his hands and gnashing his teeth, " / have a tvife at home." FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. THE VENETIAN GIRL. The sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had marie happy. It seemed also by his looks, as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow ; but there was at times a deep breathing western Avind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were playing however on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary ; but any difference from the usual apparel of their countrywomen appeared so to them; and crying out, " A French girl ! a French girl!" they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence on the rude urchins. She had a bodice and petticoat on of different colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers ; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Any one cl>e would also have thought her very ill, bul tl V nothing in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they ed her to play. " (> che bei ragazzi!" sahl she, in a Soft and almost inaudible voire; — " Che visi licti'*!" and she began to play. Sue tried to sing too, but her i< e failed her, and she shook her head smilinglj , saying, " Stanca! Stancal !" " Sing; — do sing," said the chil- dren; and nodding her head, ihe was trying to do so, when a set of schoolboys came up and joined in the re- quest. " No, no." said one of the elder boys, " she i not Well. You are ill, a lit you, — miss?" added lie, • Ob, what fine boys I What happy facet I t Weary! Wi II FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. laying his hand upon hers as if to hinder it. lie drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appear- ance perplexed him : he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroller, or a lady straying from a sick bed. " Grazic!'' said she, understanding his look: — " troppo stanca: troppo*." By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in French, but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. " She is an Italian;" said he, looking round with a good-natured importance ; " for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking he was speaking of the fair musician. " Non dubito," continued the usher, " quin tu lectitas poetam ilium celebcrriuruin, Tassonemf; Taxum, I should say properly, but the departure from the Italian name is considerable." The stranger did not understand a word. " I speak of Tasso," said the usher, — "of Tasso." "Tasso ! Tasso !" repeated the fair minstrel; — "oh — conhosco — Tas-sojj" and she hung with a beautiful languor on the first syllable. " Yes," returned the worthy scholar, " doubtless your accent may be better. Then of course you know those classical lines — Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrosy pianty D'antica selva dal cavallo— what is it?" The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend : — Intanto Erniinia infra l'ombrose piante D'antica selva dal cavallo e scorta ; Ne piu governo il fren la man tremante, E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta §. Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with * Thanks : — too weary ! too weary ! -j- Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. * Oh — I know Tasso. § Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore Erminia deeper into shade and shade ; Her trembling hands could hold him in no more, And the appear'd betwixt alive and dead. £LOWEftS OF LITERATURE. a fortunate passage, for it was the favourite song of her countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. There was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had bad; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl; " Italian-French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on like the hand she spoke of. " I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines/' said the boy who prevented her from playing. " Montague," repeated the stranger^very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. She put one of her hands in turn upon the boys affectionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church was. " Yes, yes," cried the boy; — " why she knew my cousin: — shenrast have known him in Venice." " I told you," said the usher, "she was an Italian." — u Help her to my aunt's," continued the youth ; " she'll understand her : — lean upon me, miss ;" and he repeated the last word without his former hesitation. Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest having been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stranger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady who received her kindly, she exclaimed " La Signora Madre," and fell in a swoon at her feet. She was taken In bed, and attended with the utmost rare !>y ber hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out that the Btraoger bad known her son in Italy; and she was tin own into a painful state of guessing by the poor girl's eyes, which followed ber about the room till the lady fairly came up and < losed them. " Obedient ! obedient!' said tbe*patient; "obedient in everything: only the Bignora will let me kiss ber hand;" and taking it with her own trembling one she laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till he dropped asleep for weariness — Silken rc>>t Tie all thy ran s up — Dgh her kind watcher was doubly thrown upon 46 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont am Fletcher, by the suspicion she bad of the cause of the girl's visit. " And yet," thought she, turning her eye with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, " he was an excellent boy — the boy of my heart." When the stranger woke, the secret was explained : and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours j and it was greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink ; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. " But you do not call your voice and your music a noise," said he, " do you, Rosaura? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Rosaura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs. " You get better and better, signor," said she, " every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had ?" " The best in the world," cried he, as he sat up in bed put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. " Pardon me, signora," said the poor girl to her hostess ; " but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after, 1 — ay, almost as much as if it had been there." " And Charles felt that you did," thought his motherj " for he never told me the story." — " He begged my pardon," continued she, " as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 47 to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he might think of myself — it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter and yet such sweet tears ! But he did not hear them : — no, madam, he did not know indeed how much I — how much I — " " Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. Montague ; " you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." " Oh, good God !" said the dying girl, her tears (lowing away, " this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: " for I'll tell you, madam," continued she; " I do not believe you'll think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so ; but I have had a long thought" (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke) " which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a paper, which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus: — "This conies from the Englishman whom Hosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness WU in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be still greater than he could uidi it to be. lint many one of your kind countrymen, ■By good girl; for all in u ^ t love Kosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tODgue only can." " As soon as I read this letter, madam, and what he said about heaven, it flashed fato my head thai though I did not deserve him 48 FLOWERS OF LlTERATUki I. guitar, which was also more independent; and I had often heard your son talk of independence and freedom, and commend me for doing what lie was pleased to call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar from Venice all the way to England, and all that I earned by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven and thought he might see me. I have sometimes, though not often, met with small insults; but if ever they threat- ened to grow greater, I begged the people to desist in the kindest way I could, even smiling, and saying I would please them if Iliad the heart; which might bewrong,but it seemed as if deep thoughts told me to say so; and the) used to look astonished, and left off; which made me the more hope that St. Mark and the Uoly Virgin did not think ill of my endeavours. So playing, and giving alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighbourhood of your beloved village, where I fell sick for a while and was very kindly treated in an outhouse; though the people, I thought, seemed to look strange and afraid on this crucifix — though your son never did, — though he taught me to think kindly of every body, and hope the best, and leave every thing except our own endeavours to heaven. I fell sick, madam, because I found for certain that the Signor Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was growing weaker and weaker ; and her hostess would fain have had her keep silence; but she pressed her hand as well as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of voice to be allowed to go on that she was. She smiled beautifully and resumed : — "So when — so when I got my strength a little again, I walked on, and came to the beloved village ; and I saw the beau- tiful white church spire in the trees; and then I knew where his body slept; and I thought some kind person would help me to die with my face looking towards the church as it now does — and death is upon me, even now; but lift me a little higher on the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of the hill." FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. -49 She was raised up as she wished, and after looking awhile with a placid feebleness at the hill, said in a very low voice — '* Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, " O heavenly Father of us all, who in the midst of thy manifold and merciful bounties bringcst us into strong passes of anguish, which nevertheless thou enablest us to go through, look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and innocent servant, the daughter that might have been, of my heart, — and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling bonds of mortality, and be ga- thered into thy rest with those we love : — do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy ; for we are poor weak creatures, both young and old." Here her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness; and after remaining on her knees a moment, she rose, and looked upon the bed, and saw that the weary smiling one was no more. Indicator. PYGMALION. Wf. are not aware that this piece of Rousseau's has hitherto appeared in English. It is a favourite in France, and very naturally so, on all accounts. To our country- men there will perhaps appear to be something, in parts • if it, too declamatory and full of ejaculation ; and it mutt Ik- confessed, that if the story alone is to be con- rideredj the illustrious author lias committed one great fault, which was hardly to !><■ expected of him ; and that i3, that he has not made the Bentiraent sufficiently pro- minent. The original Story, though spoiled by the rake Ovid, informs us, that Pygmalion, with all his warmth towards the Bex, Was SO disgusted at the manners of his countrywomen, that instead of going any longer into their society, bi preferred making images, in his own mind, and with hi-, chis( I, of what a woman ought to be vol.. in. D 50 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. informing her looks, of course, with sentiment and kind- iio-s, as well as with the more ordinary attractions. It appears to us, therefore, that instead of making him fall in love, almost out of vanity, as Rousseau has doue, it might have been better, in the abstract point of view- above mentioned, to represent him fashioning the like- ness of a creature after his own heart, lying and looking at it with a yearning wish that he could have met with such a living being, and at last, while indulging his imagination with talking to her, making him lay his hand upon hers, and find it warm. The rest is, in every re- spect, exquisitely managed by Rousseau. But now we must observe, that while the charge of a certain prevail- ing air of insincerity over the French style in these mat- ters, appears just in most instances, a greater confidence is to be put in the enthusiasm of the Gencvese ; for he was a kind of Pygmalion himself, disgusted with the world, and perpetually, yet hopelessly, endeavouring to realise the dreams of his imagination. This, after all, is perhaps the most touching thing in his performance. Pygmalion's self predominates over the idea of his mistress, because the author's self pressed upon him while he wrote. The only actual difference between the fabulous solitary and the real one was, unfortunately, that Pygmalion seems to have been willing enough to be contented, had he found a mistress that deserved him ; whereas Rousseau, when he was really beloved, and even thought himself so, was sure to be made the ruin of his own comfort ; partly by a distrustful morbidity of temperament, and partly perhaps by a fastidious me- taphysical subtlety, which turned his eye with a pain- ful sharpness upon the defects instead of humanities of his fellow creatures, and made the individual answer for the whole mass. The Scene represents a Sculptor's work-shop, in which are several blocks of marble, sculptured groups, and sketches of statues. In the midst of these is another statue, concealed under a drapery of a light and shining stuff, ornamented with fringes and garlands. Pygmalion is sitting, supporting his head with his FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 51 hand, in the attitude of a man who is uneasy and me- lancholy. On a sudden he rises ; and taking one of his tools from a tahle gives some strokes of the chisel to several of the sketches j then turns from them, and looks about bin with an air of discontent. Pjtgmalion.-There is neither life nor soul in it ; it is but a mere stone. I shall never do any thing with all this. Oh, my genius, where art thou ? AV^hat has become of thee ? All my fire is extinguished ; my imagination is frozen ; the marble comes cold from my hands. Make no more gods, Pygmalion : you are but a com- mon artist — Ye are instruments, no longer instru- ments of my glory, ye shall dishonour my hands no more. (He th rotes atvaif his tools with disdain, and walks about iviih hie arms crossed, as in meditation.) W hat am I become ? What strange revolution has taken place in me ? — Tyre, proud and opulent city, your illustrious monuments of art no longer attract me. I have lost my taste for them. All intercourse with artists and philosophers has become insipid to me; the society of painters and poets has no attraction for me j praise and renown have ceased to elevate me 5 the ap- probation of posterity lias no interest for me ; even friendship has to me lost all her charms. And you, young masterpieces of nature, whom my art lias presumed to imitate, — you, in whose train Hie plea- sures ever led mc, — you, my charming models, who con- nun l.) D i 52 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. It is over, it is over : I have lost my genius ! So young, — and yet I have survived it ! And what then is this internal ardour which con- sumes me? What is this ftre which devours me? Why, in the languor of extinguished genius, should I feel these emotions, these bursts of impetuous passion, this insur- mountable restlessness, this secret agitation which tor- ments me ? I know not : I fear the admiration of my own work has been the cause of this distraction : I have concealed it under this veil — my profane hands have ventured to cover this monument of their glory. Since I have ceased to behold it, I have become more melan- choly and absent. How dear, how precious this immortal work will be to me ! If my exhausted mind shall never more pro- duce any thing grand, beautiful, worthy of me, I will point to my Galatea, and say, " There is my work." my Galatea ! when I shall have lost all else, do thou alone remain to me, and I shall be consoled. (He approaches the veiled statue ; draws back ; goes ; comes ; stops sometimes to look at it, and sighs.) But why conceal it ? What do I gain by that ? Re- duced to idleness, why refuse myself the pleasure of contemplating the finest of my works ? — Perhaps there may yet be some defect which 1 have not perceived ; perhaps I might yet add some ornament to the drapery : no imaginable grace should be wanting to so charming an object. Perhaps the contemplation of this figure may re-animate my languishing imagination. I must see her again ; I must examine my work. What do I say ? Yes ; I have never yet examined it ; hitherto I have only admired her. ( He goes to raise the veil, and lets it fall as if alarmed.') I know not what emotion seizes me when I touch this veil : I feel a tremor, as though I were touching the sanctuary of some divinity. — Pygmalion, it is but a stone j it is thine own work — what can it mean? In our temples they serve gods made of the same material, and formed by the same hand as this. (He raises the veil trembling, and prostrates himself FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 53 before the statue of Galatea, which is seen placed on a pedestal, raised by semicircular steps of marble.) O Galatea ! receive my homage. I have deceived myself: I thought to make you a nymph, and I have made you a goddess. Even Venus herself is less beau- tiful. " O vanity, human weakness ! I am never weary of ad- miring my own work; I am intoxicated with self-love ; I adore mvself in that which I have made. — No, never was there any thing in nature so beautiful ; I have sur- passed the work of the gods — What ! so many beauties formed by my hands ; my hands then have touched them ; my mouth has — T see a defect. This drapery too-much conceals it. I must slope it away more; the charms which it shades should be more displayed. {He takes his mallet, and chisel, and advancing slowly, begins with much hesitation to ascend the steps towards the statue, which it seems he dare not touch. He raises the chisel; he stops.) What is this trouble — this trembling? I hold the chisel with a feeble hand — I cannot — I dare not — I shall spoil every thing. (He endeavours to conquer his trouble, and at last raising the chisel again, makes one stroke, and lets it fall, tcith a loud cry.) Gods ! I feel the quivering flesh repel the chisel ! ( He descends, trembling and confused.) Vain terror, blind folly ! — No — I will not touch her — the gods affright me. Doubtless she is already deified. (He contemplates her again.) What would yon change, Pygmalion ? Look what new charms can you ^i\ e her ? Alas ! her only fault is her perfection. — Divine Galatea ! less perfect, nothing would be wanting to thee. [Tenderly.) lei a soul is wanting. That figure boold not be without a soul. (With still increasing tendernea.) How fine should be the Km! to animate that body ! (He stops a long time . then return* to his scat, and speaks with a slow and changed voice.) 54 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. What desires have I dared to form ? What senseless wishes ! What is this I feel ?— O heaven ! the illusion vanishes, and I dare not look into my heart. I should have too much to reproach myself with. (He pauses a long time in profound melancholy.) This then is the noble passion which distracts ine ! It is on account of this inanimate figure that I dare not go out of this spot — A figure of marble ! — A stone ! — A hard and unformed mass, until worked with this iron ! — Madman, recover thyself, see thine error, groan for thy folly — But no — (Impetuously.) No, I have not lost my reason ; no, I am not wander- ing ; I reproach myself with nothing. It is not of this marble that I am enamoured 5 it is of a living being whom it resembles ; the figure which it presents to my eyes. Wherever this adorable form may be, whatever body may bear it, whatever hand may have made it, she will have all the vows of my heart. Yes, my only folly is in the power of discerning beauty ; my only crime is in being sensible to it. There is nothing in this I ought to blush for. (Less lively, but always with passion.) What arrows of fire seem to issue from this object to burn my senses, and to carry away my soul unto their source ! Alas ! she remains immovable and cold, while my heart, consumed by her charms, longs to quit my own body to give warmth to hers. I imagine in my de- lirium that I could spring from myself, that I could give to her my life, that I could animate her with my soul. Ah, let Pygmalion die to live in Galatea! — What do I say, O heaven ? If I were she, I should no longer see her ! I should not be he that loves her ! — Xo, let my Galatea live ; but let not me become Galatea. Oh ! let me always be another, always wish tier to be herself, to love her, to be beloved — ( Transported.) Torments, vows, desires, impotent rage, terrible fatal love — Oh! all hell is in my agitated heart. — Powerful, beneficent gods ! — gods of the people, who know the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 55 passions of men, ah, how many miracles have you done for small causes ! Behold this object, look into my heart, be just, and deserve your altars! {With a more pathetic enthusiasm.) And thou, sublime essence, who concealing thyself from the senses, art felt in the heart of men, soul of the universe, principle of all existence, thou who by love givest harmony to the elements, life to matter, feeling to bodies, and form to all beings ; sacred fire, celestial Venus, by whom every thing is preserved, and uncea- singly reproduced ! Ah, where is thy equalizing jus- tice ? Where is thy expansive power ? Where is the law of nature in the sentiment I experience ? Where is thy vivifying warmth in the inanity of my vain de-' sires r All thy flames are concentred in my heart, and the coldness of death remains upon this marble ; I perish by the excess of life which this figure wants. Alas ! J expect no prodigy ; already one exists, and ought to cease; order is disturbed, nature is outraged ; restore to her laws their empire ; re-establish her beneficent course, and equally shed thy divine influence. Yes, two beings are left out of the plenitude of things. Divide between them that devouring ardour which consumes the one without animating the other. It is thou who hast formed by my hand these charms, and these fea- tures, which want hut life and feeling. Give to her the hail of mine, Give all, if it be necessary. It shall suf- fice me to live in her. Oh thou ! who deignest to smile upon the homage of mortals, this being, who feels no- thing, honours thee not. Extend thy glory with thy works. QoddeM of beuty, spare this affront to nature, that a form so perfect should be an image of which there is no living model ! {He gradually re-upproaclies the statue tvith an air of confidence and joy.) I rettime my senses. What an unexpected calm ! \\ hat nuhoped courage reanimate* me ! A mortal fever burned my Mood, a balm of eODUdeUOe and hope flows in my veins, and I led % new life. Thus the sense of our dependence sometimes becomes our consolation. Hon- r. 6 FLOWEES OF LITEEATUEE. ever unhappy mortals may be, when they have invoked the gods, they are more tranquil — And yet this unjust confidence deceives those who form senseless wishes. — Alas ! in the condition I am in, we call upon every one, and no one hears us j the hope which deceives is more senseless than the desire. Ashamed of so many follies, I dare no more to con- template the cause of them. When I wish to raise my eyes towards this fatal object, I feel a new trouble, a sudden palpitation takes my breath, a secret tremor stops me — (With bitter irony.) O look, poor soul ! summons courage enough to dare behold a statue. {He sees it become animated, and turns avoay with alarm ; his heart oppressed with grief.) What have I seen ? Gods ! what have I imagined that I saw ? A colour on the flesh, a fire in the eyes, even movement — It was not enough to hope for a mi- racle ; to complete my misery, at last I have seen — • ( With expressive melancholy.) Unhappy creature, all is over with thee — thy delirium is at its height — thy reason as well as thy genius aban- dons thee. Regret it not, Pygmalion, for the loss will conceal thy shame. (JVith indignation.) The lover of a stone is too happy in becoming a visionary. {He turns again, and sees the statue move and descend the steps in front of the pedestal. He falls on his knees, and raises his hands and eyes towards heaven.) Immortal Gods ! Venus, Galatea! O illusion of a furious love ! (Galatea touches herself, and says) — Me ! Pygmalion. ( Transported) — Me ! Galatea. {Touching herself again) — It is myself. Pygmalion. — Ravishing illusion, which even reaches my ears ! O never, never abandon me ! Galatea. {Moving towards another figure, and touch- ing it) — Not myself. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 57 (Pygmalion in an agitation, in transports which he can with difficulty restrain, follows all her movements, listens to her, observes her with a covetous attention, which scarcely allows him to breathe. Galatea advances and looks at him ; he rises hastily, extends his arms, and looks at her with delight. She lays her hand on his arm; he trembles, takes the hand, presses it to his heart, and covers it with ardent kisses.) Galatea. {With a sigh.)— Ah ! it is I again. Pygmalion. Yes, dear and charming object — thou worthy masterpiece of my hands, of my heart, and of the gods ! It is thou, it is thou alone— I have given thee all my being— henceforth I will live but for thee. ARABIAN SONG, Founded on an Anecdote related by an Oriental Traveller. Away ! though still thy sword is red With life-blood from thy sire; No drop of thine may now be shed To quench my spirit's fire : Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest Thai dews npon the desert's breast. I 've sought thee midst the haunts of men, Through the wide city's fanes; I 've sought thee by the lion's den, O'er pathless, boundless plains : No step that traek'd the burning waste, But I its lonely course have traced. Thv name bath been a baleful spell, (')Vr my dark bosom cast ; No thongnl may dream, no words may tell, What there unseen hath pass'd: This hollow check, this faded eye Are letJl of thee : — behold, and lly ! d5 58 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Haste thee, and leave my threshold-floor, Inviolate and pure ; Let not thy presence tempt me more — Man may not thus endure : Away ! I hear a fetter'd arm, A heart that burns — but must not harm ! Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd, Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored, Within my dwelling laid ? What though unknown — yet who shall rest Secure — if not the Arab's guest ? Begone! outstrip the fleet gazelle, The wind in speed subdue : Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, As vengeance shall pursue : And hate, like love — in parting pain, Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again. To-morrow — and th' avenger's hand, The warrior's dart is free; E'en now, no spot in all thy land, Save tins, had shelter'd thee : Let blood the monarch's hall profane, The Arab's tent must bear no stain ! Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast Avoid thy sacred way, And fetter'd, till thy steps be past, Its whirlwinds sleep to-day : I would not, that thy doom should be Assign'd by Hcav'n to aught but me. Mrs. Hemaks. DANCES OF OUR ANCESTORS. As many of our fair readers, who delight to " trip it on the light fantastic toe," may be pleased to receive FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 59 some information with respect to the dancing of their ancestors, we have made, from Dr. Drake's " Shak- speare and his Times," the following extracts for their use. " Dancing was an almost daily amusement in the court of Elizabeth ; the queen was peculiarly fond of this exercise, as had been her father, Henry the Eighth : and the taste for it became so general during her reign, that a great part of the leisure of almost every class of society was spent, and especially on days of festivity, in dancing. To dance elegantly was one of the strongest recom- mendations to the favour of her majesty; and her cour- tiers, therefore, strove to rival each other in this pleas- ing accomplishment ; nor were their efforts, in many instances, unrewarded. Sir Christopher Hatton, we are told, owed his promotion, in a great measure, to his skill in dancing ; and in accordance with this anecdote, Gray opens his " Long Story" with an admirable de- scription of his merit in this department ; which, as containing a most just and excellent picture, both of the architecture and iiumners of " the days of good Queen Bess," as well as of the dress and agility of the knight, we with pleasure transcribe. Stoke-Pogeis, the scene of the narrative, was formerly in the possession of the Hattons. " In Britain's I-le, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands; The Huntingdon.* and Hattons there Employ'd the power of fairy hands u T« raise the ceiling's fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing. " Full oft within the spacious wall , When he had fifty winters o'er him, Ify BfeYC lord- keeper led the brawls ; Tin' teal and mao dana f him yourself?" Whether my answer, though rivi n in the negative, was ottered in inch a tone as to imply an affirmative, thereby exciting suspicion, F cannot tell ; but it is certain that I soon alter perceived a visible change towards him in the deportment of the whole household. When lie spoke to the waiters, their jaws VOL. HI. £ 7 I FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Fell, their fingers spread, their eyes rolled, with every symptom of involuntary action ; and once when he asked the landlady to take a glass of wine with him, I saw htr, under pretence of looking out at the window, throw it into the street ; in short, the very scullion fled at his approach, and a chambermaid dared not enter his room unless under guard of a large mastiff. That these cir- cumstances were not unobserved by him will appear by what follows. Though I had come no nearer to facts, this general suspicion, added to the remarkable circumstance that no one had ever heard his name, (being known only as the Gentleman,) gave every day new life to my hopes. He is the very man, said I ; and I began to revel in all the luxury of detection, when, as I was one night undressing for bed, my attention was caught by the following letter on my table. " Sir, n the authority of my respectable landlord, that ever since tl.i- gentleman's arrival, he has been in- cessant in his attempts to blacken my character with every person at the inn." "Nay, my friend'' — but I put an end to I laiinan's further defence of me, by taking bin aside, and liankly confessing the whole truth. It i- 2 76 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. was with sonic difficulty I could get through the ex- planation, being frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter from my auditor; which indeed I now began to think very natural. In a word, to cut the story short, my friend having repeated the conference verbatim to Mr. Bub, he was good natured enough to join in the mirth, saying, with one of his best sardonics, he " had always had a misgiving that his unlucky ugly face Would one day or other be the death of somebody." Well, we passed the day together, and having cracked a social bottle after dinner, parted, I believe, as heartily friends as we should have been (which is saying a great deal), had he indeed proved the favourite villain in my novel. I >ut, alas ! with the loss of my villain away went the novel. Here again I was at a stand; and in vain did I torture my brains for another pursuit. But why should I seek one? — In fortune I have a competence — why not be as independent in mind? There are thousands in the world whose sole object in life is to attain the means of living without toil j and what is any literary pursuit but a series of mental labour, ay, and oftentimes more weary- ing to the spirits than that of the body 5 Upon the whole, I came to the conclusion, that it was a very foolish thing to do any thing. So I seriously set about trying to do nothing. Well; what with whistling, hammering down all the nails in the house that had started, paring my nails, pulling my fire to pieces and rebuilding it, changing my clothes to full dress, though I dined alone, trying to make out the figure of a Cupid on my discoloured ceil- ing, and thinking of a lady I had not thought of for ten years before, I got along the first week tolerably well. But by the middle of the second week — 'twas horrible ! the hours seemed to roll over me like mill-stones. When I awoke in the morning I felt like an Indian devotee, the day coming upon me like the great temple of Jugger- naut; cracking of my bones beginning after breakfast; and if I had any respite, it was seldom for more than half an hour, when a newspaper seemed to stop the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 77 wheels ; — then away they went, crack, crack, noon and afternoon, till I found myself by night reduced to a perfect jelly — good for nothing but to be trundled into bed, with a greater horror than ever at the thought of sunrise. This will never do, said I ; a toad in the heart of a tree lives a more comfortable life than a nothing-doing man j and I began to perceive a very deep meaning in the truism of "something being better than nothing.'' But is a precise object always necessary to the mind? No: if it be but occupied, it matters not with what. That may easily be done. I have already tried the sciences, and made abortive attempts in literature, but never yet tried what is called general reading; that, thank Heaven, is a resource inexhaustible. I will hence- forth read only for amusement. My first experiment in this way was on voyages and travels, with occasional dippings into shipwrecks, murders, and ghost-stories : it succeeded beyond my hopes; month after month passing away like days 3 and as for days — I almost fan- cied that I could see the sun move. How comfortable, thought I, thus to travel over the world in my closet ! how delightful to double Cape Horn and cross the African Desert in my rocking-chair ; to traverse CafFraria and the Mogul's dominions in the same pleasant vehicle ! This is living to some purpose; one day dining <>n bar- bacued pigs in Otaheite ; the next in danger of perishing amidst the snows of Terra del FnegO ; then to have a lion cross my path in the heart of Africa; to run for my life from a wounded rhinoceros, and sit by mistake on a sleeping boa-constrictor: — this, this, said J, is life ! Even the dangers of the sea were but healthful Stimulants. If I met with a tornado, it was only an agreeable va- riety ; water-spouts and ice-islands gave me no manner of alarm: and I have seldom been more composed than when Catching a whale. In short, the case with which I thus circumnavigated the globe* and convened with all its varieties of inhabitants, expanded my benevolent I found every place, and every body in it, even to the Hottentots, vastly agreeable. But, alas! 1 was doomed 78 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. to discover that this could not last for ever. Though I was still curious, there were no longer curiosities ; for the world is limited, and new countries, and new people, like every thing else, wax stale on acquaintance; even ghosts and hurricanes become at last familiar ; and books grow old like those who read them. I was now at what sailors call a dead lift 5 being too old to build castles for the future, and too dissatisfied with the life I had led to look back on the past. In this state of mind, 1 bought me a snuff-box ; for as I could not honestly recommend my disjointed self to any decent woman, it seemed a kind of duty in me to contract such habits as would effectually prevent my taking in the lady I had once thought of. I set to snuffing away till I made my nose sore, and lost my appetite. I then threw my snuff-box into the fire, and took to cigars. This change appeared to revive me. For a short time I thought myself in Elysium, and wondered 1 had never tried them before. Thou fragrant weed ! O that I were a Dutch poet, I exclaimed, that I might render due honour to thy unspeakable virtues! Ineffable tobacco! Every puff seemed like oil poured upon troubled waters, and I felt an inexpressible calmness stealing over my frame j in truth, it appeared like a benevolent spirit re- conciling my soul to my body. But moderation, as I have before said, was never one of my virtues. I walked my room pouring out volumes like a moving glass- house. My apartment was soon filled with smoke ; I looked in the glass and hardly knew myself, my eyes peering at me through the curling atmosphere like those of a poodle: I then retired to the opposite end, and surveyed the furniture ; nothing retained its original form or position ; the tables and chairs seemed to loom from the floor, and my grandfather's picture to thrust forward its nose like a French-horn, while that of my grandmother, who was reckoned a beauty in her day, looked, in her hoop, like her husband's wig-block stuck on a tub. Whether this was a signal for the fiends within me to begin their operations I know not ; but from that day I began to be what is called nervous. The FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 79 uninterrupted health I had hitherto enjoyed now seemed the greatest curse that could have befallen me. I had never had the usual itinerant distempers ; it was very unlikely that I should always escape them; and the dread of their coming upon me in my advanced age made me perfectly miserable. I scarcely dared to stir abroad; had sand-bags put to my doors to keep out the measles ; forbade my neighbours' children playing in my court-yard to avoid the hooping-cough ; and to prevent infection from the small-pox, I ordered all my male servants' heads to be shaved ; made the coachman and footman wear two wigs, and had them both regularly smoked whenever they returned from the neighbouring town, before they Here allowed to enter my presence. Nor were these all my miseries ; in fact, they were but a sort of running bass to a thousand other strange and frightful fancies ; the mere skeleton to a whole body- corporate of honors. 1 became dreamy, was haunted by what I had read, frequently finding a Hottentot, or a boa-constrictor, in my bed. Sometimes I fancied myself buried in one of the pyramids of Egypt, break- ing my shins against the bones of a sacred cow. Then I thought myself a kangaroo, unable to move, because somebody had cut off my tail. In this miserable state I one evening rushed out of my house. I know not how far, or how long I had been from home, when, hearing a well-known voice, 1 suddenly stopped : it seemed to belong to a face that 1 knew; yet how I should know it somewhat puzzled me ; being then fully persuaded that I was a Chinese .losh. My friend (as I afterwards learned he was) invited me to go to his club. This, thought I, is one of my worshippers, and they have a right to carry me where- ever they please; accordingly I suffered myself to be led. I soon found myself in an American tavern, and in the midst of a dozen urave gentlemen w ho were empty- ing a large bowl of punch: the] each salated me, somi calling me by name, others saying they W6TB happy t<- make my acquaintance; but what appeared quite on* 80 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. accountable was my not only understanding their lan- guage., but knowing it to be English. A kind of reac- tion now began to take place in my brain. Perhaps, said I, I am not a Josh. I was urged to pledge my friend in a glass of punch ; I did so. My friend's friend, and all the rest, in succession, begged to have the same honour : I complied again — and again, till at last the punch having fairly turned my head topsy-turvy, righted my understanding ; and I found myself myself. This happy change gave a pleasant fillip to my spirits. 1 returned home, found no monster in my bed, and slept quietly till near noon the next day. I arose with a slight head-ache and a great admiration of punch; re- solving, if I did not catch the measles from my late ad- venture, to make a second visit to the club. No sym- ptoms appearing, I went again, and my reception was such as led to a third, and a fourth, and fifth visit, when I became a regular member. I believe my inducement to this was a certain unintelligible something in three or four of my new associates, which at once gratified and kept alive my curiosity, in their letting out just enough of themselves while I was with them to excite me when alone to speculate on what was kept back. I wondered I had never met with such characters in books j and the kind of interest they awakened began gradually to widen to others. Henceforth I will live in the world, said I; 'tis my only remedy: a man's own affairs arc soon conned ; he gets them by heart till they haunt him when he would be rid of them; but those of. auother can be known only in part, while that which remains unrevealed is a never-ending stimulus to cu- riosity. The only natural mode therefore of preventing the mind preying on itself — the only rational, because the only interminable employment, is to be busy about other people's business. The variety of objects which this new course of life each day presented, brought me at length to a state of sanity; at least, I was no longer disposed to conjure up remote dangers to my door, or chew the cud on my in- digested past reading ; though sometimes, I confess, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 81 when I have been tempted to meddle with a very bad character, I have invariably been threatened with a relapse ; which leads me to think the existence of some secret affinity between rogues and boa-constrictors is not unlikely. In a short time, however, I had every reason to believe myself completely cured ; for the days began to appear of their natural length, and I no longer saw every thing through a pair of blue spectacles, but found nature diversified by a thousand beautiful colours, and the people about me a thousand times more in- teresting than hysenas or Hottentots. The world is now'my only study, and I trust I shall stick to it for 'lie sake of my health. SONG. FROM THE SPANISH. O broad and limpid river ! O banks so fair and gay ! O meadows verdant ever ! O groves in green array ! O if in field or plain My love should hap to be, Ask if her heart retain A thought of me ! O clear and crystal dews That in the morning ray, All bright with silvery hues, Make field and foliage gay— O if in field or plain My love should hap to be, .Vk if her heart retain A thought of me ! elms tluit to the breeze W ith (raving branches play ! piifls, where oft at ease Hi i careless footsteps stray i e5 82 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. O if in field or plain My love should chance to be, Ask if her heart retain A thought of me ! O wail ding birds that still Salute the rise of day, And plain and valley fill With your enchanting lay — O if in field or plain My love should hap to be, Ask if her heart retain A thought of me ! ANONYMOUS. A RAINY DAY. When the duke of Nivernois was ambassador in Eng- land, he was going down to lord Townshend's seat in Norfolk, on a private visit, quite in deshabille, and with only one servant, when he was obliged, from a very heavy shower of rain, to stop at a farm-house in the way. The master of this house was a clergyman, who to a poor curacy added the care of a few scholars in the neighbourhood, which, in all, might make his living about eighty pounds a year, and which was all he had to maintain a wife and six children. When the duke alighted, the clergyman, not knowing his rank, begged him to come in and dry himself, which the other ac- cepted, by borrowing a pair of old worsted stockings and slippers of him, and otherwise warming himself by a good fire. After some conversation, the duke ob- served an old chess-board hanging up, and as he was passionately fond of that game, he asked the clergyman whether he could play ? The other told him he could pretty tolerably, but found it very difficult in that part of the country to get an antagonist. " I am your man," says the duke. " With all my heart," says the parson : • FLOWEBS OF LITERATURE. 83 u and, if you will stay and eat pot-luck, I will try if I cannot beat you." The day still continuing to rain, the duke accepted bis offer, when the parson played so much better, that he won every game. This was so far from fretting the duke, that he was highly pleased to meet a man who could give him such entertainment at his favourite game. He accordingly inquired into the state of his family affairs, and, just making a memorandum of his address, without discovering his title, thanked him, and so took bis leave. Some months passed over without ever the clergyman's thinking a word about the matter, when one evening a footman, in a laced livery, rode up to the door, and presented him with the following billet : " The duke of Nivernois' compliments wait on the Rev. Mr. ; and, as a remembrance for the good drubbing he gave him at chess, and the hospitality he showed him on such a day, begs that he will accept of the living of , worth four hundred pounds per year, and that he will wait on his grace the duke of Newcastle, on Friday next, to thank him for the same." The poor parson was for some time before he could imagine it any thing more than a jest, and was for not going; but his wife insisting on his trying, he came up to town, and found the contents literally true. BARBARITY. The following horrible instance of the barbarity with which the American plauters punish their slaves, is given by Hector St. John, who was a Pennsylvanian farmer : " I was not long since invited to dine with a planter who lived three miles from , where he then re- sided. In order ko avoid the heat of the sun, I resolved to go on foot, sheltered in a small path, leading through a pleasant irood. 1 was leisurely travelling along, at- tentively examining some peculiar plants which I had collected, when all at once I felt the air strongly agi- 84 1 LOWERS OF LITERATURE. tatcd, though the day was perfectly calm and sultry. I immediately cast my eyes toward the cleared ground, from which 1 was but at a small distance, in order to see whether it was not occasioned by a sudden shower, when at that instant a sound, resembling a deep rough voice, uttered, as I thought, a few inarticulate mono- syllables. Alarmed and surprised, I precipitately looked all around, when 1 perceived, at about six rods di- stance, something resembling a cage suspended to the limbs of a tree, all the branches of which appeared covered with large birds of prey, fluttering about, and anxiously endeavouring to pitch upon the cage. Ac- tuated by an involuntary action of my hands, more than by any design of mind, I fired at them : they all flew to a short distance, with a most hideous noise, when, horrid to think, and painful to repeat, I perceived a Negro suspended in the cage, and left there to expire ! I shudder when I recollect that the birds had already picked out his eyes ; his cheek bones were bare ; his arms had been attacked in several places ; and his body seemed covered with a multitude of wounds- From the edges of the hollow sockets, and from the lacerations with which he was disfigured, the blood slowly dropped, and tinged the ground beneath. No sooner were the birds flowu, than swarms of insects covered the whole body of this unfortunate wretch, eager to feed on his mangled flesh, and to drink his blood. I found myself suddenly arrested by the power of affright and terror j my nerves were convulsed ; I trembled j I stood mo- tionless, involuntarily contemplating the fate of this Negro in all its dismal latitude. The living spectre, though deprived of his eyes, could still distinctly hear, and in his uncouth dialect begged me to give him some water to allay his thirst. Humanity herself would have recoiled back with horror ; she would have balanced whether to lessen such reliefless distress, or mercifully, with one blow, to end this dreadful scene of agonizing torture ! Had I had a ball in my gun, I certainly should have despatched him ; but finding myself unable to perform so kind an office, I sought, though trembling, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 85 to relieve him as well as I could. A shell, ready fixed to a pole, which had been used by some Negroes, presented itself to me. I filled it with water, and with trembling hands I guided it to the quivering lips of the wretched sufferer. Urged by the irresistible power of thirst, he endeavoured to meet it, as he instinctively guessed its approach by the noise it made in passing through the bars of the ca^e. ' Tanke you, white man, tanke you, pute some poison, and give me.' How long have you been hanging there? I asked him. 'Two days, and me no die; the birds, the birds ; a-a-ab me !' Oppressed with the reflections which this shocking spectacle af- forded me, I mustered strength enough to walk away, and soon reached the house at which I intended to dine. There I heard that the reason of this slave being thus punished was on account of his having killed the over- seer of the plantation. They told me that the laws of self-preservation rendered such executions necessary; and supported the doctrine of slavery with the argu- ments generally made use of to justify the practice, with the repetition of which I sliall not trouble you at present." THE DOWNFAL OF DALZELL. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Tin: wind is cold, the snow falls fast, The night is dark and late, As I lift aloud my voice and cry By the oppressor's gate. There is a voice in every hill, A tongue in every stone ; The greenwood sings a song of joy, Since thOQ art dead and gone : A poet's voice is in each month, And songs of triumph swell; (.lad soriL's, that tell the gladsome earth The downfal of Dal/.ell. S(i FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. As I raised up my voice to sing, I heard the green earth say, Sweet am I now to beast and bird, Since thou art past away : I hear no more the battle shout, The martyrs' dying moans; My cottages and cities sing From their foundation-stones ; The carbine and the culverin's mute — The deathshot and the yell Are turn'd into a hymn of joy, For the downfal of Dalzell. I've trod thy banner in the dust, And caused the raven call From thy bride-chamber, to the owl Hatch'd on thy castle wall; I've made thy minstrels' music dumb, And silent now to fame Art thou, save when the orphan casts His curses on thy name. Now thou may'st say to good men's prayers A long and last farewell : There 's hope for every sin save thine— Adieu, adieu, Dalzell ! The grim pit opes for thee her gates, Where punish'd spirits wail, And ghastly death throws wide her door, And hails her with a Hail. Deep from the grave there comes a voice, A voice with hollow tones, Such as a spirit's tongue would have, That spoke through hollow bones:— " Arise, ye martyr'd men, and shout From earth to howling hell ; He comes, the persecutor comes : All hail to thee, Dalzell!" O'er an old battle-field there rush'd A wind, and with a moan The sever'd limbs all rustling rose, Even fellow bone to bone. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 87 " Lo ! there he goes," I heard them cry, " Like babe in swathing band, "Who shook the temples of the Lord, And pass'd them 'neath his brand. Cursed be the spot where he was born, There let the adders dwell, And from his father's hearthstone hiss : All hail to thee, Dalzell!" I saw thee growing like a tree — Thy green head touch'd the sky — But birds far from thy branches built, The wild deer pass'd thee by : No golden dew dropp'd on thy bough ; Glad summer scorn'd to grace Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds woo'd Beside thy dwelling place : The axe has come and hewn thee down, Nor left <>ne shoot to tell Where all thy stately glory grew, — Adieu, adieu, Dalzell ! An ancient man stands by thy gate. His head like thine is gray — Gray with the woes of many years, Years fourscore and a day. Five brave and stately sons were his j Two daughters sweet and rare ; An old dame dearer than them all, And lands both broad and fair :— Two broke their hearts when two were slaiD, And three in battle fell — An old man's curse; shall cling to thec : Adieu, adieu, Dalzell ! And yet I sigh to think of thec, A u anior tried md true As ever spurr'd a steed, when thick The splintering lances lle released in peace. I knew where I was, and who were near me in their affection and their grief. But, on opening my wearied eyelids, ghastly indeed was the change that struck my affrighted soul. They whom I had loved, and who once would gladly have died for my sake, stood around me with wrathful countenances, and eyes flashing fire through the dark stains of blood. I knew the features of my children, in the grinning faces of the fiends that leered upon me with the young cruelty of demons, enjoying the yet novel transport of their lust of guilt; andthedearimageofherwhornlknew to be their mother stood over me like Sin, beautiful, but terrible, and pierced my heart with words of wrath, scorn, and blasphemy, while the mingled passion streamed like lava from her coal-black eyes. Curses and execrations at one moment, delivered in scowls of black and sullen m ag nify, and, at another, in peals of fierce and furious laughter,' like the gabble of an insane Fury, smote me to the heart, while, through the whole of these denuncia- tions, seemed to run dark charges of an unintelligible crime committed by me, of which, innocent though I knew myself to be, I yet felt the shame, and the con- fusion, and remorse of some loathsome and inexpiable guilt. l>(forc the pale glare of this merciless phantom, the images of my friends seemed, at first, to stand >lirunkcn and transfixed, till, obeying some fell sign, they advanced towards me, and changing into violent but shrouded shapes bore me down, as I thought, unto a chill floor of ice, and bound me to it with fetters, ■ which all my agonizing convulsions were in vai». They clutched me round the throat with long bony fin- gers— while m) ey balls start, l from Aefcr sockets, an. I my tongue forced through my jaws, now locked in the last struggle of life, was feU to cover my corpse with foam ainl blood. I had seen people in ( ..nvulsions, on the wet pavement of the street, falling down as if ihol 96 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. and, by the power of their distorted faces, driving away the constantly filling crowd, as if some demon had be- come incarnate, to terrify the cruel in the moment of enjoyment. I knew that I was now in that piteous, hideous, degraded condition, and I knew, moreover, that I was never to escape from that state while time endured; but that thenceforth, to the day of judgment, I was to be thus rent asunder in tormenting convulsions. It was my doom; and I came at last to be satisfied that I deserved it — that it was the righteous infliction of torment on a spirit deeply polluted with crime. In a moment I was drenched in blood. It seemed that a sharp weapon, like a scythe, at one sweep, from an unseen arm, cut off a limb, and miserably mutilated my body. The agony changed my swoon ; and as I was sensible for a single moment of the transition from one swoon to another, a whole crowd of familiar objects drove by my soul, and then I was again plunged into the haunted darkness. My life now seemed to be ebbing away — slight glimpses of sense visited my soul — I tried to articulate — to stretch out my remaining arm to some- thing alive, that seemed to be near me — but speech — motion — almost thought and volition were gone, and I lay with palpitations and singultus at my heart, as if all my body were become insensible, and a mere clod, ex- cept my heart, in whose out-pouring blood, conscious- ness and torment were together growing fainter, and fading iuto annihilation. Some change took place. There was a bearing along of my remaining life — there was motion and sound — they were united. It was I who was borne along — and a weeping, wailing, lamenting voice, kept close unto me, the voice of love and of grief. Something touched my forehead — it was repeated again and again. It felt like a tear — and then a kiss seemed to drop upon my eyelids. But still I was wafted unconsciously along and along, and down and down interminable windings — and still the tears, and sobs, and sighs continued — and then a small hand seemed to touch mine, and I thought of my children. Are they living still, thought I, or are we all FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. •'' hurrying down together, by some mysterious avenue, and on the wings of some mysterious power, into th rlnik bosom of eternity? There was then a grating as of a huge iron door on its hinges, but louder than any thunder, and I was flung down a gulf, and dashed into nothing. But from this blessed insensibility I was too soon awaked, and what 1 afterwards suffered, though perha less hideous and terrific, was yet such as, even now, to make the drops of sweat to stand on ray brow, and my blood to curdle. I seemed to be recovered iuLo a sort ol delirious stupor, in which I had just power of perception sufficient to discern the horrors of my situation. I be- held a figure clothed in white, like a ghost risen in its winding-sheet, standing before me, and on its breast a wide wound, from which the blood had issued in tor- nl Btaiued all that part of the shroud from the heart to its feet. It fixed its hollow eyes upon mine, and when I started with horror, the phantom seemed to imitate my action with derision, and to bring its corpse- like features into a horrid likeness of mine. In the blind- ness of superstitious terror, I staggered headlong to- wards the object, and while it disappeared with a hideous >h, as if the earth or the bell where [ was imprison* - were falling into pieces, I felt myself transfixed, as it were, with a thousand daggers, and recovering my voice through the agony, BDrieked aloud. Then I thought there descended upon me, as from the angry heavens, a ..mi lit such icy chilness, that the little blood left in my exhausted veins irai entirely frozen, and 1 was con- ii life only by a feeling of the utmost intensity of ;, as if 1 were some insect enclosed in a frozen global of (rater in some great ice bay in the Polar sea. This feeling gradually relaxed into a -Inuring fitresemblii g •nation,— - my eyes opened of t Ik nisei i tood before me mj wife, and the two friend* in whose presence thi^ calamity had fallen upon me. Tin' truth is, Mr. Editor, that 1 bad got as drunk as an OWl, and that the prect ding narrative presents the pub- TOL. III. F 98 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. lie with a very slight and imperfect sketch of my feelings after falling off my chair, till I came to my recollection in my own bed- room, with a Kilmarnock nightcap on my head, and my good wife's dressing-gown on, to keep me from catching cold, my own having been sent to have a patch put upon the sleeve, by Air. Nightingale, at whose shop, No. 72, IVince's-street, I purchased it some four years ago. 1 am now nearly about fifty years of age — little ad- dicted to the use of fermented liquors of any kind, and no member of the dilettanti. During dinner, I had taken a single caulker of Glcnlivet with Dr. B. and the Captain j one glass of Bell's beer; and, I am positive, not more than three glasses of Campbell and Somcrville's choice Madeira. After dinner, I had my share of four bottles of Port, and three of claret. Now I feel per- suaded that a moderate dose, such as this, which is a mere flea-bite to what my excellent friend, the late Dr. Webster, author ofthe Widow's Fund, used to take almost daily, could never have cut me so confoundedly as it appears I was cut, had I not, in an unlucky moment, gone to the door, either to look at the comet, as I said, or for some less celestial purpose, when a single mouthful of fresh air did the business. Where a man may get a single mouthful of fresh air in Edinburgh, between I hours of ten and eleven at night, is not so obvious ; nor flo I mean to give you either my real signature or ad- dress. Suffice it to say, I took a gulp of that deleterious fluid, the fresh air, and to that, like many a stronger headed man, have I to attribute that catastrophe. I am informed that, on returning to my chair, I stared like a goshawk, and made a number of gross personal reflections on my military and clerical friends — the former of whom talked of challenging me. I then turned up my eyes to heaven, as if mimicking the doctor in the pulpit, and fell flat upon the hearth-rug. On this rug was worked in worsted an exceedingly good portrait of a royal Bengal tiger — the very same that devoured young Mr. Hector Monro in that country ; and as my FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 99 face met his, my miud immediately commenced dreaming of a demon, with stripes upon his body, and, I presume, a tail. The tiger on the rug was scarcely so large as life, measuring only five feet four inches, from the tip of the snout to the tip of the tail. But the tiger in the dream was much larger than life, though I had no means of measuring him, and seemed at least as large as the Mastodonton seen in America by Serjeant Pollock, man- servant to Doctor Hodgson of Blantyre, and natural historian to the new series of the Scots Magazine. I showed that I was extremely sick, and the noise of my fall, &c. brought down Mrs. , who, though an excellent woman in most respects, is less remarkable than Griselda of old for her patience. She flew, it seems, into a violent passion, on seeing me stretched, in a state of perfect insensibility, on the rug, and had like to have thrown the parson's wig into the fire, and scratched the captain's remaining eye out. Drunk as I was, 1 -aw the storm, it would appear, through my half- bunged-up day-lights, and hence that phantom, of which I have now tried to make the most, — who might well seem, like Mrs. Duncan Davison, (well, the name is out — it can't be helped) being no other than Mrs. Duncan Davison herself. She kept, I am credibly informed, yell- ing in ray ear for several minutes, "O Duncan Davi- son! you drunken beast, Duncan Davison ! how dared you to behave thus to our new hearth-rug, Duncan Davison?" This explains the nature of the charge brought against me in my dream, which at the time was perfectly in- comprehensible to me, but for the error involved in which, I now beg leave to express my most unfeigned Contrition. It seems, however, that Mrs. Davison's wrath was boob converted into consternation. For m\ Deckcloth having been tOO tight, I had begun to get black in the face, and ti> loam at the month Like Mr. Ward's picture of the hydrophobia, now or lately exhibiting in Pall-Mail. She therefore, in a quandary, beseeched the gentlemen, (neither of whom, by the wav, was quite f2 100 FT.OWERS OF LITEIIATURE. steady, and who, had they swallowed a whole mouthful of fresh air, as J had done, might have fallen under it, a* I did,) to untie my cravat, and open my vest. This thcv eagerly did — and during that tender act of friend- ship, they appeared to me, who was not in complete possession of my senses at the time, to be the fiends men- tioned above, as throttling, and otherwise maltreating, theauthor of this article. Asto the scene of the fiery fur- nace, it was nothing more than the blaze from my own register grate, which the doctor had roused by a thump of the poker, that stirred up the Newcastle coals ; and the fiends of my dream were merely the captain and my wife, and who, it seems, had used the word salamander; why 1 know not. In a fit I most assuredly v. as, and our maid was despatched for a doctor, lie came i jiffy — having been fortunately in the street, cutting oft a neighbour's thigh from the socket — and bled me copiously iu the arm. This not only throws an air of probability over that part of the previous narrative, in which I describe myself as having in a trance lost an arm from the sweep of a scythe, but also throws, artiest I greatly err, much light on the whole theory and prac- tice of dreaming. After I had filled a wash-hand basin, with excellent, warm, pure, ruddy blood, I was lifted up on a seat formed of the interlineation of all the fingers belonging to my wife, the maid, the parson, the captain, and the doctor ; and, with one arm over the shoulder of the church, and the other over the shoulder of the pro- fession, 1 was borne along the lobby, and carried up stairs, with the view of being deposited in the stranger's bed-room. But it was not made down ; so I was brought back again down stairs to our own room, where I understood theprocession met our little Tommy, with his finger in his month, crying lustily on the sup- position that his daddy was dead. Grief being catching, Mrs. Davison had also begun to blubber; and being sensible, I presume, that she had been too violent in the dining-room scene, during which I had never spoken n word, she burst, into tears, kissed me just as 1 v. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 101 and hid her lovely face in her husband's bosom. The reader, by referring to that part of the narrative which describes the impression made upon me during my in- toxication, by this touching little incident, will not fail 10 admire the singular coincidence between those wild and strange feelings, and the character of the ca' which produced them. • I laving seen me put to bed in my wife's night-gown, aforesaid (which having been done rather violently, seemed to me like dashing me down on the pavement from a house-top,) the party left me, and went down stairs to take a check of supper. 1 had snored away for a couple of hours, till findi 1 presume, from Mrs. D. not being by my side, t something unusual had occurred, I reeled out of bed. A candle, of about twenty to the pound, had very consi- derately been placed in a bowl, and by i!s light a la _ looking-glass, at which my wife admires her person, had reflected ti» me mvself, standing in my wife's night- . n, which, I am sorry to say, bore testimony, by its ^anguine hue, that I had been sick — very sick, after having been put to bed. In my very natural fear of that ghost, I broke my wife's looking-^lass into shiv* and cut myself considerably in the concussion. The noise brought the family up, one of whom immediately threw a basin of cold water in my face, which made think of the Polar sea ; and after mutual explanation reconciliation, I marched down stairs, somewhat muzzy, and took my jug of hot punch with the rest. 1 had tt slight head-ache next dayj bat the bleeding did it good. I never was better than at the moment of now writing to you. As to tiie moral, it is too i to be Overlooked ; SBd therefore I leave the world to I by it. ■ is mosl 'lv, D. L>. Blackwood' M J 02 FLOWERS OF 7 LITERATURE. HAYDN AND THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS. The first productions of Haydn were some short so- natas for tlic piano-forte, which he sold at a low price to his female pupils, for lie had met with a few. He also wrote minuets, allemands, and waltzes for the Ri- dotto. He composed, for his amusement, a serenata for three instruments, which he performed on fine summer evenings, with two of his friends, in different parts of Vienna. The theatre of Carinthia was at that time- directed by Bernardone Curtz, a celebrated buffoon, who .unused the public witli his puns. Bernardone drew crowds to his theatre by his originality, and by good "pera-buffas. He had, moreover, a handsome wife; and this was an additional reason for our nocturnal ad- venturers to go and perform their serenade under the harlequin's windows, Curtz was so struck with the originality of the music, that he came down into the street, to ask who had composed it. " I did," replied Haydn, boldly. "How! you, at your age?" "One must make a beginning sometime." " Gad, this is droll! come up stairs." Haydn followed the harlequin, was introduced to the handsome wife, and re-descended with the poem of an opera, entitled, "The Devil on Two Sticks." The music, composed in a few days, had the happiest success, and was paid for with twenty-four se- quins. But a nobleman, who probably was not hand- some, perceived that he was ridiculed, under the name of the Devil on Two Sticks, and caused the piece to be prohibited. Haydn often said, that he had more trouble in finding out a mode for representing the motion of the waves in a tempest of this opera, than he afterwards had in wri- ting fugues with a double subject. Curtz, who had spirit .iid taste, was difficult to please; but there was another obstacle. -Wither of the two authors had ever seen sea or storm. How can a man describe what he knows nothing about? If this happy art could be discover"' FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 10.') many of our great politicians would talk better about .irtue. Curtz, all agitation, paced up and down tlie room, where the composer was seated at the piano-forte. •'Imagine," said he, "a mountain rising, and then a valley sinking, and then another mountain, and then another valley ; the mountains and the valleys follow one after the other with rapidity ; and at every momo.it alps and abysses succeed each other." This fine descripti m was of no avail. In vain I harlequin add the thunder and lightning. " Come, de- scribe for me all these horrors,'' he repeated incessant- ly, " but, particularly, represent distinctly these mo - tains and valleys." Haydn drew his fingers rapidly over the key-boar I, ran through the semi-tones, tried abundance of sevenths, passed from the lowest notes of the bass to the highest notes of the treble. Curtz was still dissatisfied. At • . the young man, out of all patience, extended hands to the two ends of the harpsichord, and bringing them rapidly together, exclaimed, " The devil take tempest!" "That's it! that's it!" cried the liarleq Bpringing upon his neck, and almost stifling him. Haydn added, that when he crossed the Straits > Dover, in bad weather, many years afterwards, he laug ed during the whole of the passage, on thinking of itorm in "The Devil on Two Sticks." LAW-SUITS AC A INST ANIMALS. M. Bkkriat Saint Phix, professor of law proceed- ings in the school of jurisprudence at Paris, has made teenrious researches on the subject of law-suits car- ried on against animals. In a kind of introduction to the History of the M of the Vaudois, of Merindol, and of Cabriere, the president De Thon (historian of about A. D. 1550) relates that tbi ctariea bad enjo • I ome security FL0W££6 OF LITERATURE. whilst Barthelemi Chassauee was first president of the parliament of Provence, and he attributes the cause of the tacit protection afforded to them by Chassauee to their having reminded him of his former conduct, when he was still only an advocate, during a law-suit, in which he was appointed to defend the rats of the bishop- ric of Autiin. These animals had multiplied thereto such a degree, from about the year 1522 to 1.030, as from their devas- tation in the country to cause an apprehension of famine. Human remedies having appeared insufficient, the eccle- siastical judge of the diocese was petitioned to excom- municate them. But the sentence about to be hurled against them by the spiritual thunder was not considered likely to be sufficiently efficacious, without regular pro- ceedings were instituted against the devoted objects of destruction. In consequence, the proctor lodged a formal complaint against the rats. The judge ordered that they should be summoned to appear before him. The period having expired without their having presented themselves, the proctor obtained a first, judgment by default against them, and demanded that the definite judgment should be proceeded to, (as at that time several judgments were necessary for the decisive condemnation of a delinquent). The judge deeming it but fair that the accused should be defended, officially named Chassauee to be their ad- vocate. He, knowing the discredit in which his singular clients were held, availed himself of many dilatory cx- < i ptions, in order to give time for prejudices to subside. lie, at first, maintained, that the rats being dispersed amongst a great number of villages, a single summons was not sufficient to warn them all. He therefore de- manded, and it was ordered, that a second notification hould be given to them by the clergyman of each parish it the time of his sermon. At the expiration of the considerable delay occasioned by this exception, he made an excuse for the new default ■.I his parties, by dwelling on the length and difficult r FLOWKltS OF LITEUATURE. 10o ,i the journey; on the danger they were exposed to from the eats," their mortal enemies, who would lay in wait for them in all directions, &c. When these evasive means were exhausted, he rested his defence upon considerations of humanity and policy. Was there any thing more unjust than those general proscriptions levelled at whole families, which punished the child for the guilt of the parents, which involved, without distinction, those of tender years, and even those ose incapacity equally renders them incapable of ' rime," <&c. &c. We are not informed what award was decreed by the ge. De Thon only observes, that Chassanee's repu- ion commenced from this cause, and that he afterwards rose to the chief office of the magistracy. It- is added, that when the persecutions commenced inst the Yaudois, one of their friends asked Chassa- ■ why lie dispensed with the usual judicial forms to- rds those unfortunate sectaries, when he had insisted 106 FLOWERS OP LITERATURE. was solemnly pleaded, and he condemned them to de- part from the diocese. But they did not obey : human laws have no control over the instruments of divine justice. It was then deliberated and agreed upon to proceed against these animals by means of anathema, and by imprecation, and, as it is said, by malediction and excommunication. But two lawyers and two divines having been consulted, the grand vicar was induced to change his intentions, so that abjuration, prayers, and sprinkling with holy water, were only had recourse to. The life of the caterpillar is short ; and these devotions, having lasted during several months, were supposed to have had the miraculous effect of exterminating them !" The satirical observations with which Chorier has ornamented his story had again increased our scepticism, and the more so, as neither he nor De Thon were con- temporary with the authors of these anecdotes, and they have not indicated precisely the sources whence they have received them : but the following additional au- thorities have removed all our doubts, and have com- pelled us to acknowledge the reality of these proceed- ings, which we had previously deemed to be incredible. 1st, Gui Pape relates, that going to Chalons (this must have occurred in the middle of the loth century), to present his homage to the king, he saw upon a gibbet a pig which had been hanged for having killed a child. See id. quest. 238, edit. \667, in folio. 2d, On the 22d of September, 1543, at an assembly held by the principal council of the city of Grenoble, one of the members represented, that the slugs and the caterpillars did dreadful mischief. He concluded by de- manding " that they should petition the ecclesiastical judge to excommunicate the said beasts, and to proceed against tlicm by means of restriction, to obviate the damage they daily committed, or would occasion in fu- ture," and the council decreed in conformity to this de- mand. See the manuscript registers of that council for the same year, folio 179, in the archives of the city. Lastly, we have found a work, and what is most sin- gular, a work published in the middle of the 1 7th ecu- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 107 tury, in which is treated, ex-professo, and with minute detail, the subject of law-suits to be instituted against animals. The author, Gaspard Bailey, advocate of the senate of Savoy, carries the point to the great exactness of giving examples of the reciprocal pleadings that may be made by the plaintiff inhabitants, and by the advo- cates named to defeud the accused animals, of the con- clusions of the proctor, and of the judge's sentence, &c. Ac. See his Treatise " ties Monitoires," (Lyon, 1668, -Ito. in the public library at Grenoble, No. 6,522) at the article de I Excellence des Monitoires, page 27, &c. What should prevent us, possessed as we are of these precedents, from adopting a similar system ? Would it not destroy the cruelty with which wc are justly charged towards the brutes, by rendering every punish- ment the result of impartial investigation and judicial decision ? And, above all, would it not greatly benefit BOCisty* by furnishing employment for that numerous ! valuable body of legal advocates who are so mainlv instrumental in removing the root of all evil from their clients* teaching patience by the length of a Chancer) snitj and curing troublesome and turbulent dispositions by the never-failing length of their bills ? Benjamin Briefless, Barrister at Law. From an attic apartment in Palace-yard, taken for of my /.■ call h un d si u dies . OLD AGE. •• old ige, neglected, and in corners thrown."— Skakspi \.m . I r is one of the w eaknessea of our nature to dread a i ■liition. The desire of reaching " agood old is an universal feeling. Those who die young ai regretted and pitied, b they were young j ana the 108 II.OWKUs OF LITERATURE. idea of being cat off in the il<>\wr of youili is always regarded as a subject of terrible and mournful consider- ation. Vet it' this clinging to existence were not as innate principle, to resist whose powerful impulse reason '■--ays in vain, who that contemplates the inevitable ills to which senility is exposed, in every station, and under everj circumstance of life, would wish to attain it ? I have not commenced this essay with the view of iblishing any position. I know that for some secr< i cause (it were a vain endeavour to dcvelope) the I of life suffers no diminution from years : The tree of deepest root is found Unwilling most to quit the ground. Jiut let us suppose the possibility that argument could conquer this inherent principle, and inquire into the advantages and disadvantages of a protracted period Of existence. The man who reaches the autumn of life has so far the advantage of those he survives, that he has enjoyed a larger portion of days ; and were life indeed like a least, at which he who has partaken the most has the least inclination for more, if, when he had " breakfasted, dined, and supped," he were willing to depart, — the balance would be decidedly in favour of the longest liver. But the comparison fails. There is no such thing as satiety of existence from superabundant enjoy- ment. Men become weary of being, from the adversities With which they are surrounded; they are not glutted with prosperity ; they do not tire of their load, because it is light and easy, but because it is too heavy to be borne; and if, at an advanced age, life grows burthen- some, it arises from the pressure of increasing infirmi- ties, — the loss of former enjoyments, — which impart a melancholy hue to all around them. Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntcs, Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum. Each year, some pleasure destined to destroy, Kobs us of love, convivial mirth, and joy. FLOWERS OF LITERATUIU-;. 10!) hince then, good aud evil are so mixed, that in point of actual enjoyment, he who lives long, and he who dies young, arc on an equality ; sinee length of days Appears abridged to a span, when viewed at the elose ; and years and hours gone by are alike brief and breath-like, what is there desirable in a prolonged existence ? Let me anticipate the reply : the pleasure of being the pro. niton of a numerous offspring ; of seeing our image multiplied in succeeding generations; of being sur- rounded by our children's children ; and reflecting that we are the source from whence they have sprung. And rhese are, indeed, delightful feelings. The anticipations of futurity, as connected \". ith onr offspring, are doubtless the most pleasurable moments of life. To survive the care of rearing these pledges of affection, and to behold them and ourselves renewed, as it were, in a second ex- istence, is the highest earthly happiness of which our nature is capable. Hut are there no alloys, — no draw- backs to this felicity : — Are there no dark shades in the picture ? — No repulsive realities to dispel the l>ati< ideal of this dream of bli is ? — If our aggregate of hi - i is increased, are not our care- increased likewise s Nay, do wc not often find that this happiness exist.- only in the anticipation ; and that the ultimate event is rather the source of fresh disquietudes than an addition to our felicity • — Could we calculate with certainty on the duty, affection, and prospi rity of our offspring, who would be childless? But the cares of a family are among the bitterest dregs in the cup of life. The bliss of a parent i< connected with the well-being of his children. His feelings are identified with their glory and disgrace, their prosperity and adversity j and thus every addition to his family becomes a fresh source of anxiety. If the chan of happiness then are so remote, as concerns the first neration, who would wish to encounter a similar ha- zard in t second I If those pleasant feelings, which warmed our heart in the day-spring of life, when our nerves were firmly strung, and capable of resisting the pressure of calamity, were even then clouded by care, and ;i sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thoug . 110 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. not this renewal of existence promise an equal portion of sorrow, with less energy to endure it, as a fair balance against the trifling modicum of happiness that may be cast into the scale ? But independently of the patriarchal felicity of seeing our grand-children sporting around us, and which it requires the full possession of our faculties, and a great portion of our youthful elasticity to enjoy, — there is no brighter picture in the perspective fancies of a well-in- formed mind, than the pleasure, when we arc grown old, of unlocking the treasures of our understanding, and communicating to the attentive ear of youth, the experi- ence of a long life. Delightful vision of imagination ! To mark the fairy forms of these young shoots, from a stock of which we are the progenitors, catching with greedy ear the lessons of instruction that drop from our withered lips ; to hear the innocent inquiries of these second selves, and to gratify that thirst for knowledge which we have ourselves excited, proud that ihe germ of intellect exists, and eager to cultivate it ; — these would indeed be pleasures, could we be assured of their reality. Smooth would' be the rugged road of life's de- cline, could we seize these rainbow colourings of the imagination, and fix them on the canvas of truth. Calmly should we sink into the vale of years, with such heart- cheering consolations around us. But though this pic- ture of fancy sometimes proves a reality, how much oftener do we meet its reverse ! The conversation of age assimilates so little with the light and buoyant feel- ings of the young, that except in the rare instances of deep discernment and premature expansion of intellect, it is listened to rather as a toil than a pleasure, as a task prescribed, and not as a source of entertainment. The young congregate together, and leave senility musing in his chair on days gone by; on the "green spots'' of existence long since faded, and on " sunny hours" clouded o'er with the sombre shadows of infirmity. If they disturb this absorption of faculty, it is more fre- quently to annoy than to console. A marked attention to the wants, the wishes, and the caprices of age is more FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Ill often the result of pecuniary expectation than of that pure affection which is seated in the heart. " Old age,'' says the simple-hearted, but acute Montaigne, " im- presses more wrinkles on the mind than the face;" and the honest Frenchman is right ; for who can reflect on purchased affection, (if such a thing can exist) without revolting at the possibility of being indebted for the attention of his offspring to the sordid view of gain when he shall have become " a clod of the valley J" Stubborn hardness of the human heart ! That even our own blood, which is but transfused into other veins, should rebel against us ! That abstracting the natural ties of affec- tion and duty, even the sense of gratitude is not strong enough to repay the attentions we paid to the helpless infancy of our progeny with a commensurate measure of kindness to our equally helpless old age ! and that weary of our stay on earth, they are impatient to thrust us off this mortal stage ; and think, if they do not say to us, in the words of the Satirist — " Edisti, satis, ludisti atque bibisti ; Tcmpus abire tibi est." • Vou've eaten, drunk, and laugh'd enough; •Tis time to go." How deeply rooted is the passion of selfishness in the human breast ! Parents love their children from a na- tural impulse. The affection of a mother knows no hounds : it is disinterested love personified ; and while .lories in the prosperity of its object, clings to it un- shaken in adversity j and when deserted by the world, stained by crime, and branded with ignominy, alone i mains to soothe and comfort, and quench with the tears of sympathy the burning agony of remorse ! But though, thank heaven ! dutiful and affectionate children are to be found, duty and affection do not appear to be de- cidedly intuitive feelings. They seem to spring from a c of kindnesSj and may rather be traced to a feeling of gratitude than an impulse of nature. At least. 1 cannot err in asserting that the natural attachment of 112 FI.OWl-.ltS OF LITER ATI' UE. parents is deeper rooted, and proceeds from ;i strongei principle, than the affection of their offspring. But if, with the means of purchasing the external comforts of life, the aged have reason to mourn that fche\ are often indebted to this circumstance alone for the little attention they receive ; — if the obvious reflection, that the brief span which remains of existence is envied, on account of their possessions, adds poignancy to the "thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to," and to which senility is doubly exposed ; — how much more acute must be their feelings when they are dependent on their children for support ! 1 have no need to dilate upon this part of the subject : — it is a truth that must " come home to every man's business and bosom." Nor is old age, in a state of celibacy, a jot more en- viable. A childless old man is like a withered tree in the midst of a desert, whose branches, when green and vigorous, neither sheltered nor shaded ; and now, strip- ped of its verdure, sapless and decayed, it is left to perish in the loneliness of neglect. To receive from -•'angers, whose services are purchased, those offices which should only be tendered by the hand of affection ; — to feel our throbbing temples pressed, not by the tender touch of love, but the hired fingers of a menial ; — these are indeed reflections, bitter and depressing, even when we have the power of bestowing a pecuniary recom- pense ; but who can anticipate a friendless — childless old age ; an abstracted, solitary, isolated existence in penury, without a shudder, and a mental prayer to be shielded from so dire a calamity ? If there be an excuse for avarice, — if scraping together the yellow dirt is at all venial, — it must arise from the reflection tha't it pur- chases an exemption from such ills ; that whether we have passed our days in celibacy, or survived those whose affection might have cheered our decline, — we are secured by our wealth from absolute neglect, and if we cannot calculate on disinterested attachment, we are at least sheltered from abandonment and contempt. It has always appeared to me an hiatus in our chari- table institutions, that we have none set apart for the FLOWERS OF -LITERATURE. 1 1 J exclusive and genera] reception of the aged. What can be more painful to the philanthropist, than to see them depending on chance for a precarious existence ? To reflect that at a period of life, when they should be nursed in the lap of comfort, they are driven forth to «cek the means of support by laborious drudgery, to which their strength is unequal, and compelled, in a ite of helpless decrepitude, to submit to offices which should only be executed by the youthful and the vigor- r 1 cannot assent to the cold-hearted theory of those political economists who oppose a provision for age, because it would encourage a laxity of exertion in the young. If the contributions to effect this purpose were fairly equalized and duly enforced; — if it were impera- tive on youth to administer towards a fund which should afford them succour in old age, they would have a clear right to partake of it, thus parting with no portion of 'heir independent ! of mind, and the improvident and thoughtless, as well as the unfortunate, might then have a legal claim to a provision, which natural temperamenc and an inherent principle, as much as culpable neglect, Id never else "have thought of securing. Bat under no circumstances, save one, does old age appear to me desirable ; and this is, when it is accom- ied by piety. I cannot conceive a more heart- in, — a more soothing and powerful Mote against the sorrows of senility, than that placid resignation, thi I ci Im disposition of soul, which results from an implicit reliance on the uill of Heaven; which looks back to a yooth of error W ith the hop'' of forgive- ness, — mid forward to eternity with the prospect of bliss. This were indeed " a consummation devoutly to be wished." All the struj »f a life of misery, all the " heart-aches which flesh is heir to," shrink into nothingness, when compared with this might) reco pen ■■ they fade aw ij al it i touch, and arc like a feath< r ;n the balance. I am about to moralise, when my intention was only to investigate. Bat rarely we maybe allowed to be 01 — and even the young, the tho 1 1 1 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. , and the gay, — if they are tempted to glance over this sombre picture of human nature, which loses no portiou of its fidelity from its distance, — even the light- hearted — may join me in tlie hope that these reflections will engender sympathy for age, ere gray hairs are scat- tered on our own brow ; not indeed with the hope of pur- chasing an exemption from its sorrows, but (should Pro- vidence crown us with length of days) that we may at least reflect, our cup of misery is not merited by our neglect of the old when we were young ; and that we are but partaking, in the bitterness of its dregs, the common lot of humanity. Literary Speenlum. DRAMATIC CHARACTERS. [The following whimsical characters are from a very amusing work, entitled " The Itinerant."] TONY LEBRUN. * * * A short time before the season closed, a gentleman requested to see me at the Cheshire Cheese. I lost not a. moment to obey the summons, and was entering the room, when the landlady told me, he was at that mo- ment engaged with his washerwoman ; and the door being a- jar, I found they were literally disputing about the merits of washing a shirt. " I can't wash it, sir," said the woman ; " 'twill fall to pieces." " Od rabbit it /" re- plied the other, " then hang it against the wall, and throw a bucket of water at it; but don't abuse it, for it is an oidy child, and dry it as fast as you can, that I may get into better habits. It's an hour's good exercise every morning to find my way into it : 1 must have a chart drawn, that I may know how to steer ; for when I think 1 am sailing through the neck, I find myself floundering in the arm-pits, or ramming my head into elbovo-laner conclusion of this speech, I rushed into the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 115 room, took the poor fellow in my arms, threw the shirt into the fire, and turned the washer-woman out of doors. Feeling choked his utterance — " Od rabbit it /" was all he could articulate. I stood gazing with astonish- ment and pity ; clothed in the same habit he wore nine months ago, but grown ragged and shabby by constant use ; his once fat and rosy gills now bore the semblance of penury ; even his laughter-loving eye had lost its lustre, — it was sunk and hollow ; yet still his heart was whole, and still he laughed at sorrow. After mentally making these observations, " Tony," exclaim- ed I, " is that you r" " A piece of mej I'm in famous trim for the starved ■•dieearv, c for all the world like a forked radish.' ' Misery brings a man acquainted with strange bed- fellows }' but more of this anon." " My good friend, what has brought you here r I am heartily glad to see you ; but 'tis with sorrow I observe you hang out signals of distress." '• And you, Mr. Romney, like a brave English sailor, heave to — take me on board and place me on the doctor's list — being weak from hard work, and short commoi.s, he orders the grog to be thrown in immediately — so Od rabbit it ! ring the bell, and I'll tell you all, how, and about it." After some refreshment, his eyes recovered their lustre, his pipe was filled, and between each puff lie Spoke ;n follow - : '* It i- about nine months since you left me in London, and — well remembered, thank you for the note you sent me ; the five pounds stood me in good stead ; God bless you for it. Well, I was comfortable enough, thing! considered, and held the booh, whilst, 'prentice made fools of themselves at Dibble Qavies's ghter>housej till the cash came in so slowly, thai Dibble hopp'd the twig, and Left roe to shift as well as I d. Now, your note stood my friend. For three I took my drop-, and smoked a social pipe at . as usual, little about the morrou 11G FLOWKIIS OF LITERATURE. One evening, when I had been very successful in boi of i,i\ best stories, a little gentleman who sat in the corner, and had laughed till his sides ached, insisted upon treating me with a bottle of wine, which, rather than give offence, I suffered him to do. After a glass or two, 1 found that he w;is manager of a small company at Barnet, and though he had never heard of my fame as an actor, which is rather odd, he took it into his head that 1 must be a very excellent comedian from my conversation and appearance, : red me an. engaj ment. 1 snapped immediately, struck the nail on the head whilst it was hot, and agreed to play at Barnet six nights on profits — Od rabbit it ! how I hate the word ! [f you will believe me, the profits were all losses; and after exerting my talents before a set of stupid dolts, who did not know good acting when they saw it, 1 found myself reduced to half a crown; so that rather than go back to town, and stand the roast at Spencer's, I engaged to give them another lift at the next town, in hopes of better luck. Nut here the manager (who ought to have known better from the sample he had had of my acting), gave me inferior parts : instead of Richard, 1 saw my name down for the Lord Mayor. Thus neg- lected, 1 thought it best to decamp ; but not before I had given them the bag in Style, and serve them right too, for they often gave me the goose. Another unfor- tunate son of Thespis, who, like myself, meant to leave a bad business, without knowing where to get a better, hit upon the following scheme. We had a set of hand- bills printed, informing '• the nobility, gentry, and public < I large, that Signior Grimalkim was just arrived with a most astonishing cat, the wonder of the world ; this amazing animal was capable of articulating >evc::al words, in many languages, and could absolutely hold a conversation in English. Likewise the signior's own in s, which would embrace many well known characters of the present day, and finally, that he would take himself off, to the great surprise of all present." Od rabbit il ! Mr. Rotsney, John Bull is always to be had; 1 intend to revive the bottle conjuror next time 1 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 117 am put to my shifts. We took a large room, which was presently rilled. L received the money, whilst the signior prepared the cat and himself for their public entre. At length he went forward with his green hag, which bei opened, the cat naturally enough ran away, which the signior as naturally accounted for, by attributing it to fright. However, to give the quadruped time to recover herself, he would begin with his imitations ; and fir he would have the honour of taking himself off. ' Ladies and gentlemen,' said he, ' by the compression of the Larynx' here he was conveniently seized with a fit of coughing] and requesting their patience whilst he re- tired for a glass of water, joined me, and making the best of our way out of town, we left the audience to use one another, and the reflecting part of the inha- bitants to Laugh at their credulity." " Why, Tony, that was letting the cat out of the bag to Bomepnrpo j butwhatsaid your conscience? Had you no qualms r" " I cannot say I felt quite comfortable: but 'since the world will, win. let it be deceived.' The greatest iuses in the pi ion pave before now been put to their shifts. I rem. mber when John Kemble was at Tewkesbury, his Landlady was very importunate for several weeks' Lodging in arrears. Vain was her application; John had no money, and was at his wit's end. At length ho hit upon a grand manoeuvre. In the apartment be- Beath, for John was in the attic, a gentleman lodged, whose state of health was so precarious, that the great* eat CBSe, attention, and quiet were necessary. Join., knowing this pnrcbased two tops, and with much ex- perti bipped them about the room, as if his vcrv existence depended upon their constant motion. The Landlady in vain repi esented t be state of her e ii k lodger , in ' had a complaint in his ch< t, and bis physician prescribed that mi rcise as the only cure.' And so it proved, for the woman forgave till arrears, pro- i leave her bouse, and thus John whipped kimtel/ "id ',/ i . i Tony, in I: iry-t< lling, forgot hi 1 1 8 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. situation, and the misery he had experienced ; but as he imitated the whipping of the top, I perceived his elbow through his coat — " Why, bless me, Tony, are you without a shirt ?" " To be sure. Did not you burn it r" I instantly wrote i'or a couple, and insisted on his putting one on. " What ! before I have finished my story ? No ! not for a laundry full of shirts. Where did I leave off? oh ! at John Kemblc whipping himself out of his lodging. A Veil, by giving them the bag, we put a few pounds in our pockets, and set off full speed to a town about twenty miles distant, where a small com- pany occupied a barn under the management of a Mrs. A—— — , a lady, whose infirm state of health rendered a course of cordial medicine necessary, and she found great relief from the drops. Here we took up our rest in a public-house, and having confided our wardrobe, contained in two handkerchiefs, to the landlady's care, retired to the chimney corner to enjoy the comforts of a pipe. Though the room was nearly full, being strangers, they gave place to us, and I was witness to one of the most instructive conversations that the united genius of man ever formed. Politics were the subject, and the mayor of the body corporate principal spokesman. With all that attention and awe which power begets on weak minds, his open mouthed hearers swallowed his worship's nonsense with the greatest avidity, although his harangue was often interrupted with, ' Mr. Mayor, your good health.' ' Thank you, Mr. Recorder.' ' Mr. Sheriff, my service to you.' ' Thank you, Mr. Alderman.' So that I found we were in the very bosom of the body corporate ; and these simpletons were so elated with the pride of office, and so puffed up with their silly titles, that it was thought an insult to greet them by their pa- trimonial appellation. Nay, this absurdity was carried so far, that the whip-beggar and street-cleaner dignified each other with the titleTof ' Mr. Beadle and Mr. Sca- venger.' " As we joined them, the mayor was on the point of reading some glorious news from the seat of war } on FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. the strength of which they were charged brimful of liquor and loyalty. After abusing the Americans, by the name of Yankee Doodles, for daring to rebel against her mother's country, he gave a loud hem ! and began — ' We hear from America, that his majesty's forces have obtained a complete victory by a coup de main, and this news will be authenticated by the general in propria persona, who, it is said, is leaving the army, supposed to have taken umbrage.' At the end of this sentence, lie dashed his pipe upon the ground, took off his hat, and, as if all the blood in his body had taken possession of his face, roared out, ' Shout, gentlemen, shout — three times three — we have taken Humbriche' As s this ceremony was over, they sat down and drank, ' Success to our arms, and confusion to the i ankees.' For a short time, a pompous, solemn silence ensued. At length -me of this erudite body, taking his pipe from beneath his rubicund nose, said, ' Humbridge ! urn — I have seen it in the map of America, but I don't exactly recollect in what part.' ' Why, a — ' replied the mayor, ' you see a — there are a vast many bridges in America ; but if my memory docs not fail me, this crosses the Delaware, just below Bunker's Hill.' ' Pray, Mr. Mayor,' said Mr. Alderman, ' what is that coup de main and propria persona, you so often read about ?' " ' What ! Mr. Alderman, don't you know who Coup tic main is ? why then, I'll tell vou — Coup de main is a // eneral, and Propria persona is his aid de ramp.' And thus they settled the matter. 'Ay, ay,' continued the mayor, • they can't hold out long ; but I'm very sorry, Mr. Sheriff, to find some of our own countrymen hold with them through thick and thin. The laws are too lenient in this respect : they ought to be punished; for the man that will not stand up for bis cour.try, i- no true Briton.' You know, Mr. Romney, I in to taciturnity; but the profound lorn of these politicians had in a manner over- whelmed my faculties i they now, how e\ er, gave me an opportunity 1 could not resist, ' Give me leave, Mr. Mayoi I, 'to ask your adv'u. • His worship 120 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. nodded approbation. ' My father, sir, was an English- man, my mother an American, whom he married at Philadelphia. In crossing the seas' I was born about (ho midway between the two countries. Now, sir, as I iilcntly belong to neither, which, in the present con- test, should I stand up for ?' ' Why, sir,' replied the mayor, not a little puzzled, " yon sec — a — water is no country — and — a — that is — d n me, sir, you are a rebel, and ought to be sent out of the country.' With all their affected gravity, it Was as much as the major part of them could do to avoid laughing; but as the mayor was offended, tkej stifled this propensity, called for their reckoning, and in solemn silence left the house." " I give you credit for your invention, Tony ; but you are too severe upon the body corporate.'' " Invention! I swear it is all true! I can tell you what the word alderman is derived from ; it arose sim- ply from the circumstance of the two boys, sons of a carpenter, who, dining their leisure hours, chizzlcd out of an useless lump of wood a curious man, which, when finished, was found to be made of wood called aider ; hence we have the word alder-man, and hence we may naturally account for the more than ordinary thickness of the heads of these gentlemen. " We took up our lodging at the public-house, and as it was a sharing company, I thought it better to board, that I might be sure of some share of eatables, if there should be none of money. Well, sir, 1 played in Mrs. A *s company for four months, and might per- haps, upon the average, share ten shillings per week ; this, with a few pounds at my fen*, did moderately, — that is, I existed. I don't know how it was, but I soon be- came thin, and nervous as a tea-drinker ; in fine order for fiddling, I could shake with every finger ; and as to my hose, I am quite ashamed of it : formerly it hung out ign of sumptuous fare arid good living; but now it ■ i s like the pale wattles of a turkey-cock in good l umour. However, to cut my story short, I found if I * Benefit. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 11-' did not move ' whilst I had strength to run, and some- thing to cover me,' I might soon be, ' not where I should eat, but where I should be eaten.' So, leaving the remainder of my wardrobe in my landlady's care for safety, with my cane in my hand, and half a crown in my pocket, I have padded the hoof one hundred and fifty miles without drops, and frequently without a bed ; but seeing your name in a Manchester play-bill, I knew you would make interest to get your old friend a situa- tion, rather than see him reduced to the ' lathy con- sistence of Joe Snip the tailor.' Buxton lay in my route, and by the greatest good fortune in the world I find you here. And how is the dear woman, and my friend Fanny ?'' " The former is well, and will rejoice to see you; the latter, our faithful travelling companion, we buried about 8 week ago." " So poor Fanny is put to bed with a shovel ! Well ! it is \s hat wc must all come to ! She lived a virtuous and a happy life, and died full of years !" Tony was filling his third pipe, and the linen lay unnoticed on the table : " My good fellow,'* said I, " you forget the shirt." " Od rabbit it ! I can make a shift without till morn- ing. As I knew there was no moving him that night, J ordered supper and a comfortable bed. As we were eating some fine Derbyshire trout, a luxury Tony had not Lately indulged in, I rallied him on the advantages derived from fasting, and appealed to his own experience, which gave tgoict to this meal it would otherwise have wauled. " (Jd rabbit it ! Mr. Roinncy, I see no advantage in fasting, except toget one's self a better appetite for ' next meal. Beside&i one may carry a joke too far: fast- terday, for instance, caused a quarrel between two old friends, Mr. Tony L< brutl and his small guts — ! indeed! for I could have ' crept into an alder* man's thumb-ring.' — Coming npa hill, about nine miles off, my Gut unbroken, I heard a rumbling, something like stage-thunder. Stopping to listen, what should it VOL. III. (; FLOWEBS OF LITERATURE. be but my old friends growling and grumbling, a breeding intestine discord ! ' What the devil are yon at,' said I, 'you ungrateful scoundrels? Have I not, for these forty years, maintained you at an immense ex- pense ? Have you not been my peculiar care, even to the neglect of more noble friends ? and now, when a little fasting is necessary for the good of the constitution, like seditious subjects, you grumble at my government. Admonition was useless — they grumbled on ; so \ thought it best to say no more, for they are a set of never-to-be-satisfied, weak, windy, griping citizens ; and the more you indulge them, the more they want." * * " ■> * # * * * * " Let me see, you left us at Worcester, and 'twas well you did, or quod would have been the word. Besides, the Worcester people are quite altered — such an undiscern- ing audience ! Would you think it, my dear friend, after playing all my Up-tops, such as Hardcastle, Doiley, the grave-diggers, first and second, which I can do with any man in the kingdom, they had the blindness to prefer old Edwin, who only played for a few nights, and when my ben came on, it was all my eye, a paper house, a meeting of creditors — so I left them to make a dividend, and came away with my wardrobe in my pocket-hand- kerchief, a short stick in my hand, and the first volume of Sterne's Sentimental Journey in my pocket. With these I set forward on a pedestrian tour. As I came through a small village near Hereford, I observed a crowd of people in high glee surrounding a mountebank stage, on which a Merry -Andrew was performing various tricks and fancies. You know my way is to seize mirth wherever I find it, so I seated myself on a stone bench at the door of a public-house opposite, and as it was about the hour I generally take my drops, I called for my quantum ; and whilst I smoked my pipe in comfort, though reduced to my last shilling, joined in the laugh, for really the fellow was very whimsical. But guess my surprise when the doctor came forward, at beholding my old friend, manager Norton, to whom I introduced you at Stone. ' Tony,' said I to myself, ' thou art in FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. I 2 5 luck ! the doctor is in full practice ; he must prescribe for Lhcc : surely he'll stand a quid.' Dressed in a scarlet coat, laced waistcoat, and ruffled to his fingers' end, he alarmed the natives, and they threw up their handker- chiefs (each enclosing a shilling) by hundreds. The prize that day was a breeding sow and six little pigs. I had but one shilling left, — but thedoctor was my friend, and he had many, — so Od rabbit it I thinks I, I'll try my fortune. Still there required some management ; the only handkerchief I possessed contained my wardrobe ; however, once set upon the thing, I was not to be balked with trifles ; so slipping behind the house, I drew off one of my boots, robbed my leg of its stocking, and placing my shilling in its foot, wrapt it up with a small scrap of paper, on which I wrote * Tony Lebrun's shift.' I threw it up, and saw the doctor open it. When he had perused the note, lie cast a scrutinizing glance amongst the mob, but not descrying me, he was on the point of retiring, when luckily he cast his eye towards the public-house; and as I have not an every- day appearance you know, he recognised me with a gracious bow, which I as most magnificently returned. The sport went on ; the Merry-Andrew ate fire, balanced coach-wheels, and danced the rope. At length the awful moment arrived ; handkerchiefs were claimed with eager- ness, but, to the disappointment of the owners, contain- ed nothing but powders, pills,, and drops: at last, the elegant covering that contained my deposit made its appearance; the owner was called for, and Od rabbit it ! Mr, R'tinney, if I was not ashamed to own it, hang me up like ■ dog ! However, the third time I came forward and put in my claim. Thinking to show a degree of calm indifference, I did not examine the contents, but put the itocking in my pocket, and returned to my pipe j for as all the handkerchiefs I had seen opened contained pills and poffders, and as I valued not such trash, I felt little '•uriosit.y. " The sport over, the winner of the prize was desired to come forward, but nobody answered. Od rabbit it ! thinks I, let's have a peep j who knows but this may o 2 FLOWERS OF LITEKATUHE. 1 • v; my lucky day! Slowly unfolding the cotton cover- l of my leg, I found a scrap of paper, on which was written the following elegant couplet : ' This here is one of fortune's rigs. Come up, my friend, and claim the pigs.' ' Od rahbil U ! you might have knocked me down \\ it) a straw, I was so pleased, and at the same time so per- plexed ; for what could I do with pigs ? — how dispose of them ? — where put them ? An actor of my merit, who had had the honour to perforin in most of the theatres royal in the kingdom, turned swine-herd ! However, I determined to claim my prize, let the consequence be what it would; so up I mounted, and had no sooner made my exalted and first appearance on that stage, than I was greeted with a general huzza ! and though I am not easily put out of countenance, this was more than my modesty could well stand. The doctor now harangued the mob : — ' Ladies and gemmen, all's fair and above-board, do ye see; none of your canuvering ; every gemman that vins a prize receives it there and then :' thus saying, he opened a pen, and out came six young pigs, and the old fat sow. ' This here little xman in the cocked hat, who is the owner of that there prize, has only to pay Mr. Merrymau a shilling, I he may drive his hogs to another market.' Here- was an incident, Mr. Romney ! I could as soon pay the national debt as another shilling, and my driving the pigs would have been a pretty exhibition for the natives. 1 gave the doctor to understand the state of my finances, when with wonderful quickness he turned from me, and holding up a guinea, ' Mr. Merryman, the gemman vants change.' ' That is,' replied the clown, ' hcvanis twenty hog before he can drive off his pigs.' When the change was procured, he counted it into my hand, but with astonishing dexterity, and unperceived by the crowd, smuggled them into his own pocket, which I of course countenanced, by pretending to put them into mine. The mob dispersed, we adjourned to the public-house. 'My FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 125 dear Mr. Lebrun,' said the doctor, shaking me again by the hand, ' this is a lucky meeting ; you are the man above all others, d'ye see, I have long risked for, and if you are disengaged, I can give you a sittiation ten times as lucrative as that there playhouse.' * Od rabbit it ! that's just the tiling ; I want to get money honestly : the stage is but a poor livelihood ; and though I am now manager of a company of pigs, that will in all proba- bility make me a decent ben, I am at present, what is vulgarly called stiver cramped.' " ' Say no more, my dear boy ; you sha'n't vant the corianders whilst you stay vith me.' The bargain was concluded over a quart of eight-penny, and I was to re- ceive two guineas a week, and a guinea in hand. ' Now, doctor, what am I to do in this business ? I won't be your Jackpudding ; and what other deportment can ; give me ; ' " ' Oh !' said the doctor, winking his eye, and speak- ing in a low voice, ' you are to be my chum.' — " ' Your chum! Explain.' " ' Only the same business over again. I attend ano- ther milage to-morrow, whither my man is gone with the stage, and them there pigs : you must throw up your shilling as you did before, and viu the sow again.' " * What. ! my own pigs, doctor ?' " ' Ha ! ha! ha ! friend Tony, you are had; do you think any prize Vorth having is ever carried avay fv-'..i oui No, no, ve have alvays a chum for them there things; and if yon had not come quite in the tuck, re must have got somebody c! • • 1 [ere was a preciou ; business ! After winning tin herd of swine, and getting a place at two guineas a week, I was to be chummed out of one, and I disdained to accept the other ; for though I WOnld do any thing for an honest penny, Mr. Romney, I am no swindler. The doctor was gone to look after bis horse, and as I found then: was nothing to lie expected from him on honest principles, I scorned to I ■ a the j uinea he 1 given me j so folding it up in a piece or paper, I wrotco'i the cover : 120* FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Sir doctor, I own I'm not up to your rig, And therefore, d'ye see, I shall now hop the twig ; For honest I came, and honest I'll go, So, good master doctor, farewell, D. I. O. and leaving it on the table, made the best of my way to Hereford, where I knew my friend W had opened his theatrical campaign." GEOUGE COOKE. George Cooke* is so well known as an actor, that my opinion can neither add to nor diminish his fame : were either in my power, panegyric would run through a dozen pages, and yet fall short of his merits. In some characters he is as much superior to any actor of the present day as Garrick was to those of his time ; but tliey are limited to such parts as suit his figure, which wants grace and proportion : where these can be dis- pensed with, he has no competitor. As a man in prf* vate life, he is the gentleman, the scholar, the friend, the life of every party, an enemy to scandal and de- traction, and benevolent even to imprudence. Such is George Cooke in his sober hours ; but when stimulated by the juice of the grape, he acts in diametrical opposition to all this. No two men, bow- er different they may be, can be more at variance than George Cooke sober, and George Cooke in a state of ebriety. At these times, his interesting suavity of manners changes to brutal invective; the feelings of his nearest and dearest friends are sacrificed ; his best benefactor wounded, either in his own person, or in that of his tenderest connexions, and the ears of delicacy assaulted by abuse of the grossest nature. Such are the unfortunate propensities of this singular man — unfor- tunate, I say, because he seems incapable of avoiding them, although they have a tendency to ruin his health, injure his property, and destroy his social connexions. No one can more regret these failings than he does in bis hours of sanity, or make more handsome apologies ; and if at night he creates enemies, his conciliatory n: ■ The late George Cooke, the actor, FLOWEKS OF LITEEATUI in the morning are sure to raise double the number of friends. Of this great actor many ludicrous anecdotes are related : I shall point out a kw which came under my own observation. One eveuing, in Manchester, we were in a public bar, amongst a promiscuous company, where Cooke was, as usual, the life of the party. Mirth and good-humour prevailed till about ten o'clock, when I perceived a something lurking in lus eye which foretold a storm. Anxious to get him home before it burst forth, I pressed our departure under the plea of another engagement ; but instead of having the desired effect, it precipitated what I had foreseen. With a haughty, supercilious look, he said : " I sec what you are about, you hypocritical scoundrel ! >m canting, methodistical thief ! Am I, George Cooke, be controlled by such a would-be puritan as you? I will teach you to dictate to a tragedian.'' Then, pulling coat, and holding his fist in a menacing attitu — " Come out," continued he, " thou prince of decciv. though thou hast faith to remove mountains, thou ; halt not remove mc : — Come out, 1 say !" With much diffi- culty he was pacified, and resumed his coat. There was a large fire in the bar, before which stood, with his coat skirt s under each arm, a pitiful imitation of buckism, very deficient in cleanliness and costume. His face grimy, and his neckcloth of the same tint, which, never- theless, was rolled in various folds about his throat. lii-. hair was matted, and turned up under a round ity hat, with narrow brims, conceitedly placed <»u I ■ the head, which nodded under it like a shaking mandarin. Thus equipped, the filthy fop straddled before the fire, which he completely monopolised. At length he caught the eye of our tragedian, who, in silent aiiia/cin.'iit for the space of half a minute, i mined him from top to toe J then, turning to me, be burst into a bcfM*laugh, and roared out, " Bcu" by ." Perhaps intimidated by Cooke's former i . this i le puppy took Little notice ; bal I )-' s FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. knew George would not stop here, and indeed I thought the stranger fair game. Cooke now rose from his seat, and taking up the skirts of his coat in imitation of the other, turned his back to the fire : " Warm work in the hack scttlemetds, sir," said he ; then approaching still nearer, as if he had some secret to communicate, whis- pered, though loud enough for every one to hear : " Pray, sir, how is soap ?" "Soap?" " Yes, sir, soap : I understand it is coming down." "I am glad of it, sir." " Iudeed, sir, you have cause, if one may judge from your appearance." Here was a general laugh, which the stranyer seemed not to regard ; but nodding his head, and hitting his boots with a little rattan, rang the bell with an air of importance, and inquired " if he could have a weal kitlet or a ?nalton chip ?" ' f What do you think," said Cooke, " of a roasted puppy? because (taking up the poker) I'll spit you, and roast you in a minute." This had a visible effect on the dirty beau. He re- treated towards the door, Cooke following : " Avaunt, and quit my sight : thy face is dirty, and tliy hands un- washed ! avaunt! avaunt, I say !'' Then replacing the poker, and returning to his seat, he continued : " Being gone, I am a man again !" It happened that Pcrrins, the noted pugilist, made, one of the company this evening : he was a remarkably strong man, and possessed of great modesty and good nature. The last scene took such effect upon his imagination, that he laughed immoderately. Cooke's attention was attracted, and turning towards him with his most bitter look, " What do you laugh at, Mr. Swab- son — hey ? why, you great lubber-headed thief, Johnson would have beat two of you ! Laugh at me ! at George Cooke ! Come out, you scoundrel !" The coat was again pulled off ; and putting himself in an attitude, " this is the arm that shall sacrifice you.'' Pcrrins was of a mild disposition, and knowing Cool FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 3 29 character, made every allowance, and answered him only by a smile, till, aggravated by language and action the most gross, he very calmly took him in his arms as though he had been a child, set him down in the street, and bolted the door. The evening was wet, and our hero, without coat or hat, unprepared to cope with it , but entreaty tor admission was vain, and his application at the window unattended to. At length grown operate, he broke several panes, and inserting his head through the fracture, bore clown all opposition by the following witticism: "Gentlemen, I have taken so pains to gain admission : pray let me in, for I see thru mu error." The door was opened, dry clothes procure I, ' about one o'clock in the morning we sent him m a coach. -TEPIIEN KEMBLE AND PRINCE ANNAMABOO. Before the end of the season, n person joined the company, to do what is commonly called little business. He had been for many years the hero in an it troop of the lowest order, and in him were centred ail the imperfections of the old sc/iool, such as stain; before he made his appearance, crossing at every peri protruding the elbow, slapping the thigh, pointing the , and all the minor absurdities that are remembei with disgust, and were judiciously reformed by ".' Garrick. Thi i actor was thefac-simile of Knights T and generally bore the appellation of '■ but he was not the only curiosity in Mr. Kemble's com- pany; we had oc lly two prompters, neither •>( whom could otter an intelligible senl one from having lost the roof of his mouth; the other fi superabundance of tongue, which so tely fi of bis mouth, tl was no the formation of words, but they utiv gobbled forth i;i an unfinished tate, clustered together like nuts, and in- isting the memory, completely settheund ling at defiance. I n dj Tom, like Tony Lebi had an innocenl [institute! : ' Cut me dov 130 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. was an expletive of great use to him, particularly in times of irritation. At the period his benefit was an- nounced, there happened to arrive at Newcastle a show : no less a personage than the prince Annamaboo was to be seen at the small price of one shilling. Tom, without delay, waited on the proprietor, and for a handsome sum prevailed upon his highness to exhibit his royal person on the stage that evening. The manager, with much good-humour, consented ; and the bills of the day announced, that " between the acts of the play, prince Annamaboo would give a lively representation of the Iping operation ; likewise would give the Indian war- whoop in all its various tones, the tomahawk exercise, ! the mode of feasting at an Abyssinian banquet." The evening arrived, and many people attended to wit- ness these princely imitations. At the end of the third act his Highness walked forward, with dignified step, flourished his tomahawk, and cut the air, exclaiming, " ha ha — ho ho !*' Next entered a man with his face ked, and a piece of bladder fastened to his head with : the prince with a large carving knife commenced scalping operation, which he performed in a style truly imperial, holding up the skin in token of triumph. Next came the war-whoop, which was a combination of dreadful aud discordant sounds ; and lastly, the Abys- ian banquet, consisting of raw beef-steaks ; these he made into rolls as large as his mouth would admit, and devoured them in a princely and dignified manner. Having completed his cannibal repast, he flourished his tomahawk in an exulting manner, exclaiming " ha ha — ho ho !" and made his exit. The manager possessed a penetrating eye, and a pro- found knowledge of human nature; but without arroga- ting much of the latter to himself in this instance, he fancied this princely personage was an impostor, and his opinion was confirmed the following day; for in the middle of the market-place he espied the most puissant prince Annamaboo selling pen-knives, scissars, and mills, in the character of a. Jew pedler. "What!" said Mr. Kemble, " my prince, is that you? Are not you a FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 131 pretty Jewish scoundrel to impose upon us in this manner ?" Moses turned round, and with an arch look re- plied: ie Princh bed d! I vash no princh, I vash acting like you — you -cash kings, princh, emperors to- nightj Stephen Kembles to-morrow; I vash hump- rash humpugs, all vash humpugs." Tragedy Tom was a considerable gainer by this im- position on the public ; but when the stage-keeper pro- duced his property bill, a scene of warm altercation took place respecting the several items contained in it. The \perty man's employment in a theatre is to provide certain articles necessary for every performance 3 for instance, tea, coffee, wine, daggers, pistols, poison, thunder, lightning, soldiers, virgins, children, &c &c. M benefits these arr paid for by the performers, and the evening's bill ran thus : PROPERTE BILL. Hamlet — Interlard — and Pantomime. 11 and bones 1 () Geting fore mades of honnor 4 Geting too cortyers 2 Paper for rufs, do 2 ting fore men to cary conn 1 To a noddy for epilog , 1 Hinder for scalpin 2 (if. in on myself to be scalped . 2 (! ft pummatnm 2 6 kle ami water, for wipe at banqnit .... I ' wite sheets for gosts (\ eping bntey 1 o <■ ting a child for ditto 1 I r Pripc Anymabow I 1 ('.in for ditto . . ,'i If) 2 Wh Tom had with some pains made oul thr . . and n tal,hepull 132 V LOWERS OF LITERATURE. corner of liis bat over his eye, drew down his wristbands, took several strides across the stage, and in great tragic fury uttered : " Cut me down, scoundrel ! harkee, fellow ! what is this vile scroll you have put into my hand ?" " Why, sir, it's the property bill 1 have paid out of my own pocket for your cruel pantomime and prince Hum- bug* " Don't be impertinent, sir, ov cut me down if I don't shiver you to atoms." The enraged tragedian would certainly have annihilated the poor •stage-keeper if some one had not interfered. After his rage had in a great degree evaporated, he continued: "Carry this literary morceau to your manager : if his company are not sufficient to perform a common play and farce without supernumerary maids of honour, courtiers, and .sleeping beauties, he ought to be at the expense of them himself: as to your gelling a child, I have not the least objection to allow you a shilling for your trouble in that business ; I will likewise pay you for the gin, the bladder, the beef-steahs, and the ass, because I do not know that managers are obliged to provide quadrupeds (>fthat name; the biped is to be found in all companies, witness the sapient composer of this disputed bill." Throwing the paper with solemn indignation at the disappointed pro- pcrtv-man, he stalked away, muttering in an under voice, " cut me dorm .'" " If you wait till I cut you down, Mr. Stiffruinp," replied the other, " you may hang to eternity." THE ARTIST. On the second day {says Ryley) I engaged the artist to dinner, and amongst other matter, rendered peculiarly laughable by his gestures and broken English, he amused us with an account of his separation from bis wife some years previous. " All, monsieur Romney !" began my guest, e< I am vcr much please, to see you so happy vid your leetel vife ! By gar I vould have no devil blue if I bad leetel vife. Now, sair, I vonee had leetel vife, and I will tell you a story about madame Itoget, dat vas madame Ic Diable, dat is, for what Itoget do care. Now, •-air, my vife vas ver pret, and ver much accomplish. — FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 133 She sing-a de song vat you call Old Towcler, and de Beautiful Sarveut, like a de nightingale. And she vas ver good rife too, for English rife; — roastade beef, boila de pudding, scold in de kitchen — sometimes in de par- lor; — she vas vant to be vat you call de gray horse; but by gar I did choose to be de gray horse myself. Von day, sair, I must tell you, I did see in de market-place, looking at de lobster, de salmon, de soal, agentilhomme vid his coat button up to his shin — vat you call de gen- teel shabby — but for all dat he was ver shante, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. So, sair, it shock a me ver much to see de gcntilhomme smack a de lip at de ■ d ting in de market, and purchase noting. Maybe, link I, de gentilhommc cash be all at de bank, or lie vould not stand so long vid bis hand in his pocket, and pur- chase noting, for lie vas very shante, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. So, sair, 1 did ask a de gentilhommc to dine vid me. But ven I did bring him to my lodge- ment, madame Roget did cry out, ' Sacre Dicu ! vat lousy beggar you get dcre ?' You \ ill tink, sair, dis affront a iiu- much, to call a de gentilhommc de lousy beggar; for he vas very shante, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. Now, sair, as d •lliommc coat vas rader shabby, 1 take him to my vardrobe, and 1 say, help a yourself. So he did pull off bis coat, and by gar, sail', dere vas not bat de skin — va1 you call de bare back, for he had no shirt. I vas ver much shock at dis, for he vas very ntc, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. Veil, sair, he vas dress in my shirl and :ny coat, he did look veil — ver veil indi id madame Roget rib tink bim ar at all. Den, sair, he had ver good a] , tite— vat you call stomach— but de vine did make :' ver much indi pose vid d i de head, dat l>\ sar be could not stand, and ver much for bj'< 1 put him in my beat bed. Now, sair, in de mornii . , ,,-u did come — twelve o'clock did come — b he no come—- so I did go op to his chambre, and ven I ■ pen de door, by gar! dere did come out ver bad jmell — vat yon call stink .'i la diable, And, sair, 1 did «ce by de b< di ide my silver tabatier, and my gold rati 134 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. vorth fifty guinea j — and I did say, ' ah ! ah ! sair, vat you do vid my vatch and ray tabaticr ? you pick a my pocket :' and de geutilhomme did reply, ' de vatch vas to know dehour, and de tabac to snuff avayde bad smell !' So I vas satisfy, for he vas very shante, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. Now, sir, de gentilhomme vas ver much skill in de opera ballet ; so he undertake to teach madame Roget dc grand rigadoon, vich vas more dan I could expect, for lie teach a my vife for noting. Now, sair, von day I did send my violin — for I vas teach a de music den — to de house of dc latyto accompany de grand piano ; but ven I did open de case, dere vas no stick-fiddle. So I did run home quite out of de breath, and I did say to my boy, ' by gar ! I vill vip horse you — vere is my stick-fiddle ? and verc is mine vife ?' He did say, ' she vas up a de stair vid cic gentilhomme.' Ah ! ah ! tink I, den he vas teach her de grand rigadoon vid my stick-fiddle. So I did go up softly for fear of disturb de instruction ; but ven 1 did open de door, ma foi ! I did see de gentilhomme vid his arm round de neck of my vife. As you may tink, sair, I vas ver much enrage at dis. ' Ah ! ah ! madame Roget,' said I, ' vat you do vid a gentilhomme ?' And she say, ' hold a your tongue — de gentilhomme teach a me de grand rigadoon.' So you may tink, sair, T vas ver much oblige to de gentil- homme, for he vas skill in de opera ballet, and teach a my vife for noting — vie-h vas more dan I could expect, for he vas very shante, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat. So, sair, ven I did rise out of my bed de next morning, I did inquire for my vife, and I could no rind her : so I did say to de fille de chambre, ' vere is madame Roget ?' and she did make for answer, ' she vas gone out vid de gentilhomme.' Ah! ah! tink I to myself, teach a de grand rigadoon so soon in de morning ! But, sair, ven I did look amy bureau, by gar it vas open, and all my — vat you call money — de note — de gold — de silver —vas all gone. So, sair, de gentilhomme eat a my beef —drink a my vine — take a my coat, my shirt, my taba- tier, and my vatch — he dirty my best bed — steal a my monies — and by gar, sair, to make a de conclusion, he FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 135 did steal a my rife too. But for all dat, he vas very -hantc, but his hair vas a leetel out of his hat." MILLWOOD AS SHE SHOULD BE. As we were taking coffee, which Roget prepared after the French fashion, and indeed most excellent it was, the waiter entered with a manuscript play-bill, which ran literally as follows : — THEATRE. Mil. BENJAMIN BOULTER'S BAUN. Fur the Benefit of Mrs. and Master Doodle. For Tragedy, Comedy, History, Pastoral, Pastoral-comi- cal, Historical-pastoral, Scene undividable, or Poem unlimited, these are your only men. This evening will be performed in a most superb manner, the Tragedy of GEORGE BARNWELL, OR, THE LONDON 'PRENTICE. With all the Scenery, Machinery, and Dresses necessary for this splendid Piece. George Barnwell and Blunt Mr. Cockney. Thoroughgood and the Uncle Mr. Hazard. Tnieman and Lucy Master Doodle. filth a Song and Hornpipe in Character. Millwood Mrs. Doodh Who solicits the indulgence of her friends this evenil • mi account of the delay which will unavoidably ts place after the Sd Act, owing to her attendance i ■• the <)ooi-, to receive the half pi i E id of the Play, Rollai Address t<> the Peruvians by Mi. i ■■■ I •. which will lie added a humorous and iruK laughable I 'an • , called l Hi; FREEDOM OF El E( TION. No John Barleycorn, the bug essful candi- date Mr. ' ley. 136 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Billy Bribcwcll, liis Friend Mr. Hazard. Frank Frcedrink, who brought in Sir John Mast. Doodle. Mrs.Doublechalk, the patriotic Landlady Mrs. Doodle ; Who will speak an Epilogue seated on a beer barrel. Pit, One Shilling. — Gallery, Sixpence. The barn door will be open for the better sort of people at six o'clock, but those who go to the gallery must come through the pig-sty. A Musician wanted. A Blind Fiddler tvon't do. This curious bill of fare produced an irresistible effect, and completely routed the devil blue, as monsieur would have expressed it. " A play and farce performed by four people must be worth seeing," said Ann. " By gar, it is like vat Shaspear say," observed Ho- get, " von man in his time play many part, his acts being seventy ages." " Stop, my good friend," said I, " you are sixty-three wide in your calculation. Seven ages is the text." " Veil, never mind," replied he ; " vatever de text be, de sermon is goot. Vat say you, madame Romney? Shall we go to de play trough de pig-sty or de barn door ? I confess and profess I have no predilection of de former, but just as you please." The proposal was instantly agreed to, and a little be- fore seven we entered the barn door, and seated by a Mnall table found the representative of Millwood painted, patched, and curled. " This is hansel," she observed, as we placed throe shillings in her hand. Then turning le, out of delicacy, 1 suppose, she bedewed them with a copious sprinkling of saliva, and continued, " that's for luck. Would you choose a bill, ma'am "'" addressing my wife. "They are only written ones; but my Bobby writes such a beautiful hand, that the quality pefers them." " We are likely to have a good house to-night/' ob- served the representative of Millwood. " When the l< litiy comes soon, I always thinks it a good sign ; and FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 137 we are sure of a great half price. — Some coming to the gallery, I see. Wilhehnina, where are you ? — mind the pig-sty, you slut. As I was observing, sir, I always ■)iakes great benefits. Civility is a pleasant thing. If some of your vulgar folks stood at the door, the gentry lid be disgusted, and as I. says, civility costs nothing. V.,u must not expect much from our Barnwell to-night,' — lowering her voice — " he's hard upon sixty. But mum. He's manager, and that accounts for it. Only stay till I comes on. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I never yet saw one who understood the part. There's your delicate Millwoods, and your languishing Mill- woods ; but what is she ? I say, sir, what is she ? Why, a common prostitute, and how are we to give the charac- ter of sucli people, but by copying their manner? If you imitate a bird, you must whistle; if a pig, you must nt. When old Barnwell comes on you'll be laughing your jokes; but don't, I beg you won't, for he'll speak to you, you may depend upon't, if you do. The night -stand from about the door, you jjIs, and let the quality come in. — Four shil- lings — that's right. — Jack, where are you? Light the ps directly. — So, as I was saying, sir, the .• . : . made but a clumsy kind of i in Holla, and a g< ntleman in the pit cried ' Encore J' . which the Peruvian hero popped up his head, and led "lit, ' [f behave like a gentleman, you'd e;' then stretched himself out in, and died 111 PHECY. ARGUMENT. Tm: prophecy of the d< Hon of Bath, on G Friday, which all ile an instance oi >f the ninetci nth ci ntury, cannot be for- ■ en. Willi the usual fate of reports, which " gatl ill," the terrili' Qciation had, wh n it iding, b ad Lon 138 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. one of which was to he overwhelmed by the tide, and the other destroyed by fire, at the same moment that Bath was to be swallowed up by an earthquake. Under these impressions, the following poem was written $ and the result of the former part of the prophecy happily pre- cludes the necessity of apologising to this modern Cas- undra, for having added fresh horrors to her dreadful prediction : Woe, Albion, to thy cities proud ! Death hovers o'er the fated crowd ; Fly to some wood-cmbosom'd home, Far from the city's splendid dome ; Fly, fly, whilst yet you may! Woe to the day of fear and dread ; The day the blest Redeemer bled ! E'en in the consecrated hour Again shall midnight darkness lour, And cloud the noontide ray. Then shall the volleying thunder roar From Cambria's hills to Devon's shore; Red flashes light the darken'd heaven, Trees, mountains, rocks, in twain be riven, Whilst earth ope her womb. Then tremble, sinners! for in vain Ye fly, ye death-devoted train ! Vainly the screams of horror rise ! While shrieks of madness rend the skies, Closes your living tomb. Bristol, no more to Afric's strand Thy ships shall part from Freedom's land; Thy deeds are past : th' o'crvvhelming tide Shall swecj) away thy wealth, thy pride, Destroy thy very name. Bath, fair abode of vanity, O where now is thy revelry ? O'erthrown thy domes, thy storied walls, ^ay nobles perish in thy halls, With many a beauteous dame. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 139 .^till I see that horrid wild ! Where lovely cities gaily smiled ; Rocks, ruins, pillars, mountains frown, And echo to the dismal groan Of sorrow and of pain. Vainly yon buried wretches strive, Ne'er shall they leave those walls alive; Yon frantic mother to her breast Her lifeless child has fondly press'd, Nor knows her cares are vain. There, dead and dying men I see In every form of misery ; Tliose sounds of woe, those sights of fear, ill must see, I still must hear, With brain to madness driven. But what is yonder blazing light, That glares upon my aching sight. Now soars in dazzling columns high. Now casts red radiance on the sky, And lights the eastern heaven ? Tis London ! — God of mercy, save Her millions fr«»m their fiery grave! ' > grant the sons of wealth and crime ie short reprieve, some little time For penitence and prayer! It may not be : — the blaze is o'er; The mouldering ruins glare no more; \n Heard ye not that ? Count Butero. 'Twas but the mountain belching — out upon't ! Pray thee proceed, and let the choleric hill Rumble his bellyful, nor thus disturb 1 wary utterance of thy deep intents. What would you say? -' r To-morrow, my dear count, J ( :r]<> Aurenzebe, your sworn foe, And our fair Sicily's detested tyrant, If i in Palermo, with all antique rites, J coronation. Con A TO. I know that I '-. And tih your part, an old time-honour'd right, To place the diadem upon his brow. I B 1 i ed — go on. • ' And 'tie my duteous service X touch and ■• ■ u bun with the sacred oil. C /■' O. I am all ear — what then ? then, my lord f what might not you and I In that solemnity perform On him, T free the world of one M tyrannous?" The traitor archbishop then proceeds to devclopc the 142 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE- treason which he had hatched, and proposes, instead of the consecrated oil, to anoint the king with a deadly venom, of which he had provided himself with a phial. Occasional borrowed expressions may be here and there detected in the dialogue ; but, in general, they only scrvi to show the variety of the doctor s reading; we fear, however, that the following account of the preparation, which the archbishop had procured, must be considered as a palpable imitation of the history of Othello's hand- kerchief; at the same time, it certainly possesses much of an original freshness, and of the energy that belongs to a new conception. " The stuff in this [showing the bottle] a gipsy did prepare From a decoction made of adders' hearts, And the fell hemlock, whose mysterious juice Doth into mortal curd knead the brisk blood, Wherein the circling life doth hold its course : — A friar saw her sitting by a well, Tasting the water with her tawny palm, And bought the deadly stuff." The count and archbishop having agreed " to infdet with death" their lawful and legitimate monarch, while he is undergoing the fatigues of his inauguration, then go to the palace on purpose to confer with certain others of the rebellious nobles; and the scene changes to a narrow valley, and peasants are seen descending from the hills, singing " God save the King," being then on their way towards Palermo to see the coronation. Having descended on the stage, and finished their loyal song, one of them, Gaffer Curioso, sees an old gipsy woman, the same who sold the poison to the friar, standing in a disconsolate posture, and going towards her, he gives her a hearty slap on the back, and says, in a jocund humour — " What's making you hing your gruntle, lucky, on sic a day as, this? ('■<]>. Och hon ! och hen ! Gajfcr Curi. What are ye och-honing for ? Gip. Do ye see that bell in the dub there ? Gaffer Curi. WeeL, what o*t ? Gip. It's a' that's left me for an ass and twa creels." I LOWERS OF LITERATURE. The carliu having thus explained the cause of her grief, namely, the loss of her ass and paniers in the mire a conversation arises respecting the bad and neglected state of the roads, in which some political reflections, rather of a radical nature, are made on the Sicilian go- vernment and road trustees. In the end, however, as the poor woman is quite bankrupt, by the sinking of her quadruped argosy, Gaffer Curioso persuades her to go to the city, where she may perhaps gather as much money, by begging in the crowd assembled to see the corona- tion, as will enable her to set up again with another ass and baskets. The whole of this scene is managed with it skill, and the breaks and sparklings of natural pathos, here and there elicited, are exceedingly beauti- ful. The little incongruity of making the Sicilians con- verse in our Doric dialect, may, perhaps, by some, be deemed a blemish ; but when it is considered that the different high characters in the piece speak in English the propriety of making those of the lower order talk in Scotch, we are convinced, must, upon serious reflection, appear judicious and beautiful. When the peasants, with the gipsy, have quitted the stage, the scene is again shifted, and we arc introduced to Carlo Aurenzcbe, the king, and the beautiful Splen- dora, his royal consort, in their bed-chamber. His ma- ji >ty has been up some time, walking about the room, anxious for the coming of his lord chamberlain, whose duty it was, according to ancient custom, in such a morn- iiiLf, to dress him ; but the queen still presses her pillow ep: in this situation, the king happens to cast his towards the bed, and forgetting his own anxious cans about the impending ceremony of the day, ad- dresses her in the following tender and touching verses : — ' How like a ro ( her blooming beauty DTCMC The smooth |)luiii[) pillow ! and the dent it makes I i di pie in the giiflflfw check - 1 1 ■'><•, whose chubby innocence Smiles to provoke caresses, i >, my love — But let her sleep — too soon, alas ! too soon 144 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE She must be roused, to bear her heavy part In the great business of the coronation." His majesty then, in the most affectionate manner, steps towards the bed, and stoops " to taste her cheek, That, like a full-ripe peach, lures the fond lip." In the attempt he awakens her, and she leaps out of bed, startled and alarmed, exclaiming — " Arrest that traitor's arm ! dash down the bowl ! — 'Tis fraught with death.'' And in this striking manner we are apprised that her majesty lias been afflicted with a most awful and omi- nous dream, of which, when she had somewhat come to herself, she gives the following impressive description : — " Methought we sat within an ancient hall, Our nobles there, and all the peeresses GaTb'd as befits the feast you hold to-day. But as I look'd, a change came in my dream, And suddenly that old and stately hall, Whose gnarled joists and rafters, richly carved, Were drap'd and tassell'd by the weaving spider, Melted away, and I beheld myself In a lone churchyard, sitting on a tree, And a fell band of corse-devouring gowles, Both male and female, gather'd round a grave. King. What did they there ? Queen. With eager hands they dug, Fiercely as hungry Alpine wolves they dug, Into the hallow'd chamber of the dead, And, like those robbers whom pale science bribes To bring fit subjects for her college class, With hideous resurrection, from its cell They drew the sheeted body.- King. Heavens ! Queen. They did— And on the churchyard grass I saw it lie, Ghastly and horrible, beneath the moon, That paled her light, seeing a thing so grim. King. Then what ensued ? Queen. I tremble to disclose. King. I pray you, tell — dearest Splendora, tell. Queen. It is a tale will harrow up your soul. They tore the cerements, and laid out to view FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 145 The fatted paunch of one who erst had been The honour'd magistrate of some famed town, Or parson .capon -fed. »* Tremendous Powers ! Q" n. Then stooping down, a beauteous gowle Smelt the wide nostril, and on looking up, The moonlight brightening on her forehead, smiled. King. O who will beauty ever love again ? Qua a. Soon without knives the cannibals began To relish their foul meal — I saw a mother Give to her child, that fondled at her side, An ear to mumble with its boneless gums." Her majesty then continues to relate, that another change came over the spirit of her dream, and the gowles having vanished, she found herself in the midst of traitors, one of whom tried to force her to drink a howl of poison, when happily she was roused hy the king kissing her cheek. A few natural enough reflections arc made by both their majesties on the omen, and the first act is terminated bj the lord chamberlain knocking for admis- sion to assist his majesty to dress, while six mute ladies come in h it It a robe-de-chambre, which they throw round the queen, and lead ber off into her dressing-room. rj ond act opens in the street, with a conversa- tion between the friar who had bought the poison from the gipsy woman, and the king's principal secretary of State loi the home department: See. My lord archbishop is an honest man : Much do I owe lii ii i ; tor by his good favour I was promoted to the trusts I bold. I'ii a. I do not call his honesty in question, But knowing what I know, if you will promise To I ' the vacant see, I'll prove This huh ■ prond prelate a most plotting traitor. < ... to, go to ! thou grow si calumnious. I l bad a bottle once of deadly venom. Why bad jrou that? () thou most damped villain, pi you poi on in that bottle ? For whom, assassin , didst thou buy tin draught ? / Will you not listen ? ,s "- No : tnd leave me; I i 'i in holding converse with thy kind; And in my OttWS do I much oU'etid In suffering such a man to num at large. — VOL. III. „ .OWERS OF LITERATUi The cruel'st beast that in the forest dens. The tawny lion, and the grumbling bear. Are far less dangerous than such as thou ; They keep no murd'rous phials in their pockf Nor secrete-steel to do their guilty deeds." This scene is conceived \vitli great art ; for the friar, a.s the reader sees, is just on the point of telling the f'retary of state that he had given the poison to tin archbishop, and if the secretary would only have listened to him, the plot, in all human probability, would have been discovered. But the secretary, by his rashness prevents himself from hearing the suspicious circum- stance of the archbishop having secretly provided a l/ottle of poison, and quits the scene, vehemently ex- pressing his abhorrence of all murderers — " Whether their hests they do with pill or poniard, The ambush'd pistol, or the bludgeon rude, That strews the road with brains — " pretty plainly insinuating that he considers the friar a* one of those bad characters, " Who make no pause in their fell purposes." The friar, who is a very honest man, though longing a little for promotion in the church, — which, by the waj, is a natural enough feeling in a clergyman, — justly in- dignant at the imputation of the secretary of state, break out, after that minister has made his exit, into this noble soiiloquy: * " O that the gods, when they did fashion me Into this poor degraded thing of man, Had but endow'd me with the tiger's form, And for these weak and ineffectual hands, Had bless'd me with that noble creature's feet, I would have torn the saucy dotard's throat. Are murderer ! what, I that came to speak My strong suspicion of the plotting prelate, To have my words of truth with rage repell'd, And the warm milk of human kindness in me Tax'd with the thickness of a felon's blood !" While the friar is in this resentful mood, count Bu- tero enters, and a long and highly poetical dialogue takes FLOWERS OF LITERATURE." 1 17 place, in the course of which the friar is led to suspect t his lordship has some secret understanding with the uchbishop, and that between them something of a very dreadful nature has been concerted. " Count. But tell me, monk, where lies the guilt of it. To die is to be not — and what is slain I herefore nothing. How then, tell me, father, Can that which nothing is, be guilt, that is A thing most heinous — both in earth and heaven? Friar. There's atheism in such subtlety. I pray thee, son, to change these desperate thoughts ; They smack of sin, and may draw down for ever That winged thing that is more truly thee Than is the clothes of flesh and bone thou wear'st, Loading its pinions, that would else expand, And, eagle-hke, soar onward to the skies. Count. I'll hear no more — thou speak'st but priestly prate, And the archbishop has a better knowledge Of what 'tis fit we should believe. Friar. My lord, If that his grace — my lord Butero, hear me — Nor turn your back so, with a mouth of scorn — ! -ay, my lord, if the archbishop holds ^-Lcn shocking doctrines, and retains his see, I doubt, I doubt, he is no honest man, But one that's school'd and fashion'd for much sin. Count B. How know you, knave, that he's prepared to sin? Friar. I said not so, — you have not heard aright. But why, my lord, should you look so alarm 'd ? What signifies the prelate's sin to thee, Or thine to him— that thou shouldst quail to hear ? I did but say, he was no honest man. Ah, count Butero, you do know he is not. Why do you start, and lay your dexter hand u tin; cut steel of that glittering hih? r did Dot charge you with duhonesty; I spoke but or his grace— look to't, my lord: a threatening gestures volumes tell to me, Oi -omething dreadful in tbewomb of time. Hatching h n and that tricked prelate. | Exit //'■ I'i'i at ; the Count jbUowt him « /< .. pa ■u'lth Mi but tuddenlp • ami, retttming, iheathtt s royalty- a jilting priest Would but impair the lustre of the steel a 2 I 18 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Yet lie suspects^ and may to others tell His shrewd conjectures, and a search detect Our schemed intent to make the coronation Administer to bold ambition's purpose." The count then retires, and the scene changes to a hall in the palace, where the queen, in her lobes of state, ddressed by the old gipsy. " Giji. Stop, lady fair, with jewell'd hair, And something gie, to hear frae me, That kens what is, and what shall be. Queen. Alas, poor soul ! take that small change, and go — I have no time to list my fortune's spacing. This is the Coionation-day, and I, That am the queen of this resplendent land, Have a great part in that solemnity. (rip. Pause and ponder, noble dame; Swords have points, and lamps have flame : Bottles cork'd we may defy ; But doctors' drugs are jeopardy. Queen* This is most mystical. What doth she mean ? Gip. I heard a tale, I may not tell, I saw a sight, I saw it well ; In priestly garb the vision sped, And then a body without head ; A traitor died, a hangman stood — He held it up —red stream'd the blood ; The people shouted one and all, As people should when traitors fall ; But O, thou queen of high degree, What 'vails the gladsome shout to thee ? Queen. This is mere rave — I understand it not. Away, poor wretch, — I'll send for thee again !" The gipsy is accordingly dismissed with " the smali change" which her majesty had bestowed ; for " it is a law of our nature," in such circumstances, to deride ad- monition, and the author evinces his profound knowledge >f man, in thus representing the queen, reckless alike of her prophetic dream and the gipsy's prediction., still g undismayed to the coronation. The next scene represents an apartment where the regalia of Sicily is kept. The crown and the other en- . .is of royalty are seen on a table, and among them an y pigeon, with a golden collar round its neck. The archbishop enters with an officer, the keeper of the re- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 149 £alia, and the following brief but striking conversation ,es : • : Archb, Are all things now prepared ? Ojf. They are, my lord. I ■ !tb. Clean'd and made read}- for their solemn nse? . They have been all done newly up, your grace, For, in the time of old a phial out of his pocket, and, unscrewing nt the dove, . npties tht poison intuitu • i vhh '. In- . saying^] i- this will do— for who shall dare to questi ■ bade that doth repleni h till This legendary baul !<■ entet CM! - i with a torn t.\ '<'>. Officer, Be ye in readinesi ; the charter'd nobles, pointed to bring forth these b Uow'd ensigns, Will soon be here to bear them to thi ce. | l'.iit the Archbishop ; and the <>ji ; < uji the imlij nil as tin drop in m fall \ be whole of tin - act ii perfect, the dialogs ricl appropriate, and the action n< trer flaj foi a mi but proceeds with an awful and appalling rapiditj The drama is verv properly divided into onlythi 01 parts, the beginning, th middle, and the end, I 150 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. author tastefully denominates " the preparation/' " the operation," and " the consuinination ;" and the third and last opens with the peasants and Palermitans as- sembled to sec the coronation procession, and all talking Scotch in the most natural manner. 11 Gaffer Curioso. Hoots, ye stupit mucklc stot; what gart you tread on my taes, ye sumph that ye arc ? Cit. Taes! ha'e ye taes? I'm sure a brute like you should ha'e been born baith wi' horns and clutes. Gaffer Curioso. I'll tell you what it is, — gin ye speak hat gait in me, deevil do me gude o' you, but I'll split your barn -pan. I Fern. Cit. Black and sour, honest folk, for gudesake dinna fi<;lit. - /' / Cit. Wheesht, wheesht! it's coming noo! [Tin procession enters with solemn music ; tlte crowd increases, and the Friar comes in at one side, and the old Gipsy woman at the other.] . Wo. That's the friar who bought the venom frae me at tin well — I'll watch him — For what, I wonder, did he buy the venom ? Friar. As the archbishop passes to the church I'll mark him well — for, in my heart, I fear He meant no virtue, when he me entreated To give the deadly ointment to his care. Gip. Wo. The friar's surely no right in the head— He's speaking to himsel — I'll hearken to what he's saying. Friar. How he deceived me! no preferment yet Has recompensed me for the fatal phial. . Wo. Fatal phial! — He's talking about my wee bottle. / '/ i ir. The fell archbishop, and the count Butero, With others of the baronage, have long Been justly deem'd much discontented men. Gip. Wo, That's nae lie; for wha's no discontented noo a-days - Friar. The two have plotted ; — stratagems and spoil Were in the gesture of the choleric count, What time we spoke together, and his look Told me the prelate was with him concern'd To work some dire and woeful overthrow. Would that I ne'er had parted with that phial To the proud metropolitan ! dip. Wo. Ehj megsty ! he's gi'en the bottle to the archbishop ! 1 Fern. Cit. See ye that poor doited monk? he's been mumbling to himsel, and never looking at the show. '. CU. And the tinkler wife has been hearkening to every word he said. 1 Fem. Cit. But look, oh, there's the archbishop carrying the holy doo— and see count Butero with the crown— Oh me! what a ! like thing it is ! lads, be ready— the king's minister's coming. — Turu FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 151 your pipes for a gude hiss to him for the new tax on kail pots and amries. [As the mime minister pusses, the mob all hiss and howl. Friar. The prelate look'd at me as he pass'd by, And there was meaning in his scowling glance. Gip. Wo. I'll gie the king warning o' the plot, and may be he'll help me to another ass and creels. 1 Fern. Cit. Ah me! what a lovely, lovely gown the queen's on. ' ■ Now, three cheers for the king. I The King and Queen enter under a cloth of state, supported by Bashaws, and the people sing a terse of " God save the King," at the end of which the Gipsy Woman rushes forward.] Gip. Halt, king, and list — beware, beware, For traitors' hands have laid a snare ! Queen. Come in, my liege, 'tis but a crazy hag, That makes her living by predicting woe. King. Her voice is most portentous, it hath cow'd The manhood of my bosom, dearest chuck ; And I would fain, till some more happy omen, 5 coronation. Qif . ' . 1 her not, But let us in, and on the seat of power dm aerated with the holy unction. E . Alas, my heart misgives ! — An unaccustom'd load Doth lung on my stufi"d stomach, and forbids All cheer to enter with my boding fancies — Would that most ominous wretch were well away; — A vaunt ! thou raving Pythia — hie thee hence ! I / . < '. Eh me ! how the spae-wife has terrified the king ! Ci . Down wi' the auld radical jaud, she's no canny. 77 Gipsy Woman and carry her off, and then the second verse of" God save the A ungi and the procession passes."] I iw of our nature" to have oppressive pre- on those occasions uhen we have prepared ourselves to enjoy the greatest pleasure ; and our authoi lias, in the foregoin ae, bandied this with a free and delicate pencil, happily representing Carlo Aorena in the very high and palmy state of his coronation, af- ' with thick-Coming fancies. The undaunted con- of the queen, and her contempt of the omens, is impressively illustrative of the blindness of mankind '■ ling misfortnm do not recollect that " this IBB illustrated in po» tl 152 FLOWKRS OF LITERATURE. the drama before. The action, too, of the spectators f£ singularly felicitous in this scene. Nothing can be more natural, than that in a crowd people should tread on one another's toes ; and the various shades of popular feel- ing are exhibited with great address. The first lord oi tin. treasury is hissed for having levied a new tax ; but the universal respect for the character and office of the monarch is finely displayed in the burst of indignation with which the populace seize tiic sibyl, and drag her to immediate punishment. They do not, however, put her to death, as might be supposed from what takes place, and by which the interest of the plot, now hasten- ing rapidly to an issue, is so much augmented, for she is afterwards seen dripping wet in the grand assemblage of all the dramatis personae at the catastrophe, having only, as her condition implies, been pumped upon. The second scene presents the interior of the cathe- dral, and the ceremony of the coronation going forward. The archbishop prepares to anoint, and he looks pale and agitated. The friar, who had followed him closely, observes his agitation, and also the interest and anxiety with which count Butero watches the action. '• /•', ; .; . Why should his hand so .shake ?— that iv' ed guileless from the Afric beast's huge tooth, Can have no harm in it. — He takes the spoon — What spell of witchery is in that spoon, To make his hand so palsied as with dread i — He pours the oil into its golden mouth ; Arid now he sets the pigeon on the altar, And 'gins to drop the unction on the head. Yc gods ! why should his majesty so start, As if the ointment were the oil of vitriol? King. Hold, my lord archbishop, I pray thee hold ! Thou droppest fire upon me. Treason, ho ! I burn, I burn ! — O for some quenching engii.e To lave my kindled head -O ! water, water ! .My love, Splcndora, I am scorch'd with something JI«»tter than fire !— Dost see if my head flames ? [A great commotion takes place in tin: church thi Queenfaints, as Carlo Aurenzebe r>< • off the stage.) . 1 1 >i'i. He's mad ! — the man is cursed by heaven wit'! < And fate has will'd Butero for our king. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. ] -->'o Friar. 'Tv.as you that did it ! — O thou wicked prelate ! - Noble Sicilians, draw your swords, and seize This holy traitor.— Here I do accuse him ' r, nighest treason, blood, and sacrili And count Butero art and part with him, In the dread action that appals you all. — Ladies, look to the queen. Secretary. Alas! good pricd, No luccour oil'er'd— all the trembling throng, I',-' :.■■■'• box, i- inscioaa ofbii strength, changes tin- b< m ind 154 flowers of literature. introduces the queen again, but iu a mad state, fol- lowed by her ladies, wringing their hauds. " Queen. I had a lover once — where is he now ? Oft in his vows he spoke of darts and flames ; Alas ! I heeded not that too fond tide, But I have lived to see him burn indeed. O ye cool fountains and ye flowing springs, Where were your waters in that fatal hour ? Could I have wept like you, my copious tears . been sufficient to have quench'd the fire. Ha! thou foreboding owl, thou gipsy hag, Why didst thou warn me of this woeful chance, And charm me to despise the admonition ?" " The law of our nature," which thus induces her ma- jesty at once to acknowledge the truth of the gipsy's predictions, and to accuse the old woman of having ren- dered her incredulous, every man who has had any ex- perience of himself must have felt, and cannot but be alive to the simplicity and beauty of Splendora's address to the doctor's Cassandra. But we must come to a conclusion. The extracts which we have so largely given v. ill enable the public to- appreciate the merits of this ex- traordinary performance, and we trust and hope the sale will be such as to induce the author to favour the world i n again with some new effort of his impressive talent. Whether '-'The Fatal Unction" is calculated to succeed in representation we cannot undertake to determine ; t we do not think that any sound critic will admit the objection as valid, which Miss Dance made to it when it was proposed to her to undertake the part of the gip- sy, namely, that no lady would consent to stain her complexion with umber, and therefore the piece never could be properly performed. We think, however, the experiment might have been made, and Miss Dance, in the part of Splendora, would have been a most lovely and interesting representative, particularly in the mad scene, for, to use the words of an eloquent theatrical critic in the Edinburgh Correspondent, " Who, that saw Miss Dance in Belvidera, can for a moment hesitate iu allowing her pathos and fine feeling ? and so true were tin to nature, that we shall venture to say, her . FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 1 5 T> were not feigned tears — who, that beheld her in that arduous part, will deny that she had a voice of great -extent and compass ? The mad scene was terrific and heart-rending in the highest degree ; and the ineffable smile of insanity which she gave, while she fancied that site had Jaffier in her arms, and the strangely changed tone of her voice on that occasion, were certainly never more happily conceived, or executed with more distract- ing effect." By the way, we should here mention, that f hc other day, in a certain bookseller's shop, we heard i professor in a university, not a hundred miles from the college, say to a gentleman who was speaking in raptures of Miss Dance's poor Belvidera's smile, " What did she mad for ?"' To think of any man in this enlightened king " What Belvidera went mad for?" and that it, too, not a professor of divinity ! ! Blackwood's Magazine. THE MISERIES OF SOLITUDE AND TERROR. Some few years ago, one of the prisoners belonging to the ontgangs, in Norfolk Island, being sent into camp on Saturday, to draw the weekly allowance of provisions for his mess, fell unfortunately into the company of a rfcy of convicts, who were playing at cards for their al ance, a thing very frequent amongst them. With as little r >n as his superiors in similar situations, while :i looker on, he at length suffered himself to be persuaded to take a hand ; and in the event, lost not only his own portion, but that of the whole mess. Being a man of a timid nature, his misfortune overcame his i , and coi \ his situation among his mess- mad dd be insupportable, he formed and executed the lution of absconding info the gli Every po ible inquiry was now made after him : it • that he bad draws the allowance of his me » and almost in the oomenl discovered thai he had lost it at play; search \\\ ch was h< waver mail i 156 ll.oWKUS OF LITKUATUKK. to ho purpose. However, as it was impossible thai could subsist without occasionally marauding, it. was be- lieved that he must bo shortly taken in his predatory ex- cursions. These expectations, however, were in vain, for the fellow managed liis business u ith such dexterity, keeping closely within Ins retreat during the day, and marauding for his subsistence by night, that in despite oi the narrow compass of the island, he eluded all search. His nocturnal depredations were solely confined to the supply of his necessities ; — Indian corn, potatoes, pump- kins, and melons, lie seldom visited the same place a second time; but, shifting from place to place, always contrived to make his escape almost before the theft was discovered, or the depredator suspected. In vain was a reward offered for his apprehension, and year after year every possible search instituted : at times it was consi- dered that he was dead, till the revival of the old trade proved that the dexterous and invisible thief still ex- isted. In the pursuit of him, his pursuers have often been so near him, that he has not unfrequently heard their wishes that they might be so fortunate as to fall in with him. The reward being promised in spirits, a temptation to which many would have sacrificed their brother, excited almost the whole island to join in the pursuit; and even those whose respectability set them above any pecu- niary compensation, were animated with a desire of hunting in so extraordinary a chase. These circum- stances concurred to aggravate the terror of the unhappy fugitive, as from his repeated depredations he indulged not the most distant hope of pardon. Nothing of this kind was, however, intended ; it was humanely thought that he had already sustained sufficient punishment tin his original crime, and that his subsequent depredations, being solely confined to necessary food, were venial, and rendered him rather a subject of pity than of criminal infliction. Of these resolutions, however, he knew no- thing, and therefore his terror continued. Chance, however, accomplished what had baffled every fixed design. One morning, about break of day, a man FLOWEES OF LITERATURE, \o7 going to his labour observed a fellow hastily crossing the road; he was instantly struck with the idea that tins must be the man, the object of such general pursuit. Animated with this belief, he exerted his utmost efforts to seize him, and after a vigorous opposition on t lie part of tlie poor fugitive, finally succeeded in his design. It was to no purpose to assure the afflicted wretch that his life was safe, and that his apprehension was sought only to relieve him from a life more suited to a be than a human creature. The news of his apprehension flew through the island, and every one was more curious than another to gain a siglit of this phenomenon, who, for upwards of five y sars had so effectually secluded himself from all human ci< t\. Upon being brought into the camp, and the pre- sence of the governor, never did condemned malefactor feel more acutely; he appeared to imagine that the mo- ment of his execution approached, and, trembling in every joint, seemed to turn his eyes in search of the exe- cutioner. I J is pei son was such as may well be COU- . from his long seclusion from human society ; his beard had never been shaved from the moment of his disappearance ; he was clothed in some rags he had picked up by the way in some of his nocturnal peregi ina- IS, anil even his own language was at first unutter- able and unintelligible by him. After some previous questions, as to what had in- duced him to form such a resolution, and bj what means he had vi long suhsi-r,-.], the governor gave him his pardon, and re tored him to soi iety, of which he afti tme •« \< i ;. useful membsr. SCI T THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. I li. wandei 'd on, along the beach, Till w it hin the : •; a carbine's reach Of the leuguer'd wall ; hut t 1 ,. y b&w him not, Or how could I" 'scape from thf hostile sh 158 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold? Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell The sullen words of the sentinel, As his measured step on the stone below Clank'd, as he paeed it to and fro ; And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall Hold o'er the dead their carnival, Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb j They were too busy to bark at him ! From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fallen for that night's repast. And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, The foremost of these were the best of his band. The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw j But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, Scared by the dogs, from the human preyj But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, Piek'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay! Alp turned him from the sickening sight : Never had shaken his nerves in fight; But he better could brook to behold the dying, Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, Scoich'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain. Than the perishing dead who arc past all pain. There is something of pride in the perilous hour, Whate'er be the shape in which death may low FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. For Fame is there to say who bleeds, And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! But when all is past, it is humbling to tread O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; All regarding man as their prey, All rejoicing in his decay ! Byron. CHARACTER OF LA FONTAINE. Jean de la Fontaine, remarkable for carrying to it.- bighest and most amusing pitch the quality which the French happily call naivete, that is to say, a certain fresh taste of the most natural and ingenuous feelings that arc innate with us, was born at Chateau Thierry, July the 20th, (8th, O.S.) 1621. He was well educated, mid at nineteen went among the Fathers of the Oratory, but left them shortly. His father, who was the forest- keeper of the district, put his son in his place ; but In- had as little taste for business as for polemicks, and quitted the forest ledger to converse with the birds. His discovery of the poetic faculty, however, was of ;i piece with the resl of his simple and off-hand charactei for he did not find it out till his twenty-second war, alien, upon accidentally hearing an ode of Malherbe's, he was seized with a transport which hurried him into the arms of the Muses. He chose the wildest and liest, but b) do means tin least knowing of the family, retaining, nevertheless, his personal chara for le quietness and simplicity. Of this apparent itradiction, the pleasant phenomenon called La 1 tain i afterwards composed. He was a good ould be critical with Quintilian, and roman- lly moral with Plato; but his favourite authors were the roman nd novelists of Italy, and such of his countrymen as bad given wa) to their animal s j » : ■ and Marot. < )ne of I i 10U FLOWEltS OF LITEftATUl biographers has well said, that although averse to re- straint of any kind, yet, to oblige his parents, he " suffered himself to be married." An anecdote of this marriage, and some other accounts of him, will display his character at once in the truest and most amusing light. His wife, while he was present with her, sufficed him both with her beauty and wit, and he used to consult her on what he wrote ; but the duchess de Bouillon coming to Chateau Thierry, and Fontaine being introduced to and pleasing her, he was tempted by her society, and by the hope of seeing the Parisian wits, to go with her to the metropolis, where he made no more ado, but took up his abode like a bachelor. A pension was soon procured him. He was subsequently in the service of Henrietta, duchess of Orleans, the -ister of our Charles the Second, and finally settled for twenty years in the house of madame de la Sabliere, who one day having greatly diminished her retinue, said she had retained but three animals on her establishment : her dog, her cat, and La Fontaine. It was the same lady, we believe, who, in allusion to the apparent insensibility with which he put forth the finest pro- ductions, called him the fable-bearing tree. In the ■ i' .in while, (though we know not how long the practice continued,) he bad by no means quarrelled with his wife, but used to go down in the couutry to her every September, the lady perhaps being well contented to pass the rest of her time, and that also, as she pleased. They were neither of them economical, and whenever lie made a visit, he used to contrive to part with some piece of his family property in house or land, so that a hand- some estate was well nigh consumed. Whether this or any other of his habits produced a rupture we cannot say ; but we read of his being advised to reconcile himself to madame de la Fontaine, and of his going down in the country for that purpose. His friends were surprised to meet him speedily in town again, and upon asking him about his reconciliation, he said, with his usual air of simplicity and sincerity, that " he had been down to see his wife, but was told she was at FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. l(Jl c!i." La Fontaine had a son, who v. i under the patronage of the president Harlay. One day he met a youth at a house who pleased him so, that be observed to the company what a promising boy that Me was told that it was his own son; upon which be replied, " Indeed ! well, I'm very glad of it." This was not affected. It was only carrying to exc what lia> been observed in Goldsmith and others. We know a living author of whom it would not surprise us to hear the same thing. La Fontaine was seen one morning by mudame de Bouillon on her way to Versailles, sitting under a tree. On her return in the evening, ' there was La Fontaine," says his biographer, " in the same attitude, though the day had been cold, and much rain fallen." Racine once put a Bible into his hands. He happened to pitch upon the prophet Baruch, and his prayer for the Jews struck him so much, that lie asked he met if they had read " one Baruch, who a fine genius." During an illness, somebody re- commended the Xew Testament. He read in it ac- cordingly, and was much pleased with some passages; but "there is Paul,'' said he, '"he is not a temper to my liking." Sitting one day in company with ine, l>oi!i.au, and some ecclesiastics, among whom Dr. Boileau, the critic's brother, the talk fell upon Augustine, who was highly praised. After a pro- found silence, La Fontaine asked Dr. Boil. 'an. with the t gravity, '• whether lie thought St. Augustine had more wit than Rabelais." The doctor, who appears to have had hi, brother's shrewdne88, looked al him from head to foot) and said, " M. La Fontaine, oui youi stockings is wrong side out." lie was invited Oni e to a dinner at a great house, in hopes of his o the cotnpauy's intellectual enjoyment. Mr took the invitation however at it. word; and did 80 ch justice to the dinner, that not a syllable could out of hi i.i. He even ro to > away when he had dom '. and upon being a ked why he did so, said ' tend a littio r of the Acadi my. " But I : ' • d the poel 162 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. I always go soon." " But M. dc la Fontaine," returned the guests, " the Academy is only over the way." " All, f this FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. clause), shed, to the memory of me his departed kins- man, sooner than the other six competitors, one, or, if possible, a couple of tears, in the presence of a respect- able magistrate, who is to make a protocol thereof. Should, therefore, all remain dry, in that case, the house must lapse to the heir general — whom I shall proceed to name." Here Mr. Mayor closed the will : doubtless, he ob- served, the condition annexed to the bequest was an unusual one, but yet in no respect contrary to law : to him that wept the first the court was bound to adjudge the house : and then, placing his watch on the session table, the pointers of which indicated that it was now just half past eleven, he calmly sat down, that he might duly witness, in his official character of executor, assisted by the whole court of aldermen, who should be the first to produce the requisite tear or tears on behalf of the testator. That since the terraqueous globe has moved or ex- isted, there can ever have met a more lugubrious con- gress, or one more out- of temper and enraged than this of Seven United Provinces, as it were, all dry and all confederated for the purpose of weeping, — I suppose no impartial judge will believe. At first some invaluable minutes were lost in pure confusion of mind, in asto- nishment, and in peals of laughter : the congress found itself too suddcnlv translated into the condition of the dog to which, in the very moment of his keenest as- sault upon some object of his appetites, the fiend cried out — Halt ! whereupon, standing up, as he was, on his hind legs, his teeth grinning, and snarling with the fury of desire, he halted and remained petrified : — from the graspings of hope, however distant, to the necessity of weeping for a wager, the congress found the transition too abrupt and harsh. One thing was evident to all — that for a shower that was to come down at such a full gallop, for a baptism of the eyes to be performed at such a hunting pace, it was vain to think of raising up any pure water of grief : no hydraulics could effect this ; yet in twenty-six minutes FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. (four unfortunately were already gone), in one way or other, perhaps, some business might be done. " Was there ever such a cursed act," said the mer- chant Neupeter, "such a piece of buffoonery enjoined by any man of sense and discretion ? For my part, I can't understand what the d — 1 it means." However, he understood thus much, that a house was by possi- bility Boating in his purse upon a tear; and that was enough to cause a violent irritation in his lachrymal elands. Knoll, the fiscal, was screwing up, twisting, and dis- torting his features pretty much in the style of a poor artisan on Saturday night, whom some fellow-work- man is barfcr-ously razoring and scraping by the light of a cobbler's candle. Furious was his wrath at this abuse and profanation of the title Last Will and Testa- ment : and at one time, poor soul ! he was near enough to tears — of vexation. The wily bookseller, Pasvogel, without loss of time, down quietly to business: he ran through a cursory retrospect of all the works, anyway moving or affect- ing, that he had himself either published "or sold on Commission;— -took a flying survey of the pathetic in general: and in this way of going to work he had fair expectations that in the end he should brew something or other; as yet, however, he looked very much like a dog who i- slowly licking oh 1 " an emetic which the Pa- risian surgeon Demet has administered by Bmearing it on his nose; time,— gentlemen, time was' required foi op ration. .r Fiitte, from Alsace, fairly danced up and down the Sessions-chamber : with bursts of iaughtei !"■ ! the rueful faces around him ; lie confessed thai be Was not tin' riches! among them; but for the whole citj ofStrasburgh and Alsace to boot, he n not the man that could Of would weep on such a men-, oca on. He went on with his unseasonable laoghtei and indecent mirth until llarpiecht, the police in- spector, looked at him very significantly, and said that perhaps Monsieur flatterer] hi uself he might, by VOL. III. J !/"(» FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. means of laughter, squeeze or express the tears requk from the well-known Meibomian glands, the caruncnhi &c and might thus piratically provide himself with surreptitious rain ; but in that case he must remind him that lie could no more win the day with any such secretions, than he could carry to account a course of sneezes or wilfully blowing his nose ; a channel into which it was well known that very many tears, fa more than were now wanted, flowed out of the eye. 1 " through the nasal duct ; more indeed, by a good deal, i han were ever known to flow downwards to the l>ottom of most pews at a funeral sermon. Monsieur Flitte ot Alsace, however, protested that he was laughing out pure fun, and for his own amusement ; and, upon his honour, with no ulterior views. The inspector, on his side, being pretty well ac- quainted with the hopeless condition of his own dc- phlegmatised heart, endeavoured to force into his eye something that might meet the occasion, by staring with them wide open and in a state of rigid expansion. The morning lecturer, Flacks, looked like a Jew beggar mounted on a stallion which is running away with him : — meantime, what by domestic tribulations, what by those he witnessed at his own lecture, his heart was furnished with such a promising bank of heavy laden ids, that he could easily have delivered upon th< spot the main quantity of water required, had it not en for the house which floated on the top of the storm ; and which, just as all was ready, came driving with the tide, too gay and gladsome a spectacle not to banish his gloom, and thus fairly dammed up the waters. The ecclesiastical counsellor, — who had become ac- quainted with his own nature by his long experience in preaching funeral sermons, and sermons on the ucv year, and knew full well that he was himself always the first person, and frequently the last, to be affected by the pathos of his own eloquence, — now rose with dig- nified solemnity, on seeing himself and the others hang- ing so long by the dry rope, and addressed the chamber : FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 1/1 — Mb man ; he said, who had read his printed works, could fail to know that he carried a heart about him as well as other people ; and a heart, he would add, that had occasion to repress such holy testimonies of its tender- ness as tears, lest he should thereby draw too heavily on the sympathies and the purses of his fellow-men, rather than elaborately to provoke them by stimulants for any secondary views, or to serve an indirect purpose of his own : " this heart," said he, " has already shed tears (but they were shed secretly), for Kabel was my friend ," and, so saying, he paused for a moment, and looked about him. With pleasure he observed that all were still sitting as dry as corks ; indeed, at this particular moment, when he himself by interrupting their several water- | lis had made them furiously angry, it might as well have been expected that crocodiles, fallow-deer, ele- phants, witches, or ravens, should weep for Van der Kabel, as his presumptive heirs. Among them all, Flacks was the only <>ne who continued to make wa\ : he kept steadily before his mind the following little ex- tempore assortment of objects: — Van der Kabel's good and beneficent acts; the old petticoats, so worn and tattered, and the gray hair of his female congregation at morning service; Lazarus with his dogs; his own long coffin; innumerable decapitations; the Sorrows of VVerterj a miniature held of battle 3 and, finally, himself and hia own melancholy condition at this mo- ment, itself enough to melt any heart, condemned as he in the bloom of youth* by the second clause of Van der Kabel'fi will, to tribulation* and tears, and struggles : — Will done, Flacks! Three; strokes more with the pump-handle* and the water is pumped up — and tlie • all 1 1 1 1 i t . iitime Glantz, the eccle iastical counsellor* pro ded in hii pathetic harangue: — "O Kabel, mj " I ' 1 1 ejacnlati d* and almo ' r epl w iih joy at i approach of his tears, " the time shall come that by the d of thy loving breast, covered with earth, mine al ihall lie mouldering and in cor — " i 2 172 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. — ruption, he would have said : but Flacks, starting up in tremble, and with eyes at that moment overflowing, threw a hasty glance around him, and said, — " with submission, gentlemen, to the best of my belief 1 am weeping;" then sitting down, with great satisfaction lie allowed the tears to stream down his face : that done, he soon recovered his cheerfulness and his aridity. Glantz, the counsellor, thus saw the prize fished away before his eyes, — those very eyes which he had already brought into an Acccssit*, or inchoate state of humidity: this vexed him j and his mortification was the greater on thinking of his own pathetic exertions, and the abortive appetite for the prize which he had thus uttered in words as ineffectual as his own sermons; and, at this moment, he was ready to weep for spite — and "to weep the more because he wept in vain." As to Flacks, a protocol was immediately drawn up of his watery compliance with the will of Van der Kabel ; and the messuage in Dog-street was knocked down to him for ever. The mayor adjudged it to the poor devil with all his heart : indeed, this was the first occasion ever known in the principality of Haslau, on which the tears of a schoolmaster and a curate had converted them- selves—not into mere amber that encloses only a worth- less insect, like the tears of the ileliades, but, like those of the goddess Freia, into heavy gold. Glantz congratulated Flacks very warmly ; and observed, with a smiling air, that possibly he had himself lent him a helping hand by his pathetic address. As to the others, the separation between them and Flacks was too pal- pable, in the mortifying distinction of wet and dry, to allow of any cordiality between them, and they stood aloof therefore ; but they staid to hear the rest of the will, which they now awaited in a state of anxious agitation. London Magazine * To the English reader it may be necessary to explain, that in the continental universities, ice. when a succession of prizes is offered, graduated according to the degrees of merit, the elliptical formula of " Accessit" denotes the second prize ; and hence, where only a single prize is offered, the second degree of merit may properly be ex- pressed by the term here used. FLOWERS OF literature. 173 MISCELLANEA. A HINT TO CRITICS. A sailor, who had been many years absent from his mother, who lived in an inland county, returned to his native village, after a variety of voyages to different parts of the globe, and was heartily welcomed home by the good old woman, who had long considered him as lost. Soon after his arrival, the old lady became in- quisitive, and desirous to learn what strange things her -•mi John had seen upon the mighty deep. Amongst a variety <>f things that Jack recollected, he mentioned his having frequently seen Hying fish. " Stop, Johnny," says his mother, " don't try to impose such monstrous impossibilities on me, child j for, in good truth, I could as soon believe you had seen flying cows ; for cows, you know, John, can live out of the water. Therefore, tell me honestly what you have seen in reality, but no more falsehoods, Johnny." Jack felt himself affronted ; and turning his quid about, when pressed for more information, he said, prefacing it with an oath, " Mayhap, mother, you won't believe me when I tellyou, that casting anchor once in the Rod Sea, it was with difficulty we hove it up again ; which was occasioned, do yon see, moth* i. by a large wheel hangiBg on one of the flukes of the anchor. I* appeared a strange <»ld Grecian to look at, we hoisted it in ; and our captain, do yon mind me. being B scholar, overhauled him, and discovered it was h." i.i < i.Ni no itii;s '■I i in. LATE REV. TIMOTHY PRIESTLEY. This reverend gentleman was brother to the cele- brated Di Priestley, and formerly minister of th< dis- 171 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. senting chapel in Canon-street, Manchester, from the pulpit of which he uttered many eccentricities, which have been attributed erroneously to other preachers. Observing one of his congregation asleep, hecalledto him (stopping in his discourse for this purpose), "Awake, J siii/, George Ramsay, or I'll mention your name." He had an unconquerable aversion to candles which exhibited long wicks; and often in the midst of his most interesting discourses, on winter evenings, he- would call out to the man appointed for that purpose, " Tommy, Tommy, (op these candles." He was a man .1 great humour, which he even carried into the pulpit. He was the preacher, though others have borne the credit or odium of the circumstance, who pulled out of his pocket half-a-crown, and laid it down upon the pulpit cushion, offering to bet with St. Paul, that the passage where he says "he could do all things" was not true ; but reading on " by faith," put up his money, and said, "Nay! nay! Paul, if that's the case, Til not bet with thee." It is known that his principles were decidedly Calvinistic, of course diametrically opposite to those of his brother, who was an Unitarian. He once paid him a fraternal visit at Birmingham, and, in the course of it, wished to preach in room of the doctor, who objected, in consequence of their difference of opi- nion, and the principles of the congregation. Mr. Priest- ley, however, overcame these scruples, by promising to keep clear of doctrinal points, and to confine himself to the general duties of Christianity. However, when he mounted the pulpit, he laid by his promise, and com- menced thus : — " I have been guilty of an honest fraud to gain your attention, which I was determined to have at any price. My brother Joseph's pulpit has never had the gospel of Christ preached from it } for once, however, having possession of it, I am determined you shall hear it 3 so here goes!" and he preached a furious sermon, in which he insisted on all the peculiar tenets of Calvinism, and his own views of the Christian ispensation. He left Manchester many years ago to reside and preach in the metropolis, where he was very OWEES OF LITERATURE. 17 J popular, as minister of the independent chapel in Jewin-street. He published a work, entitled " The Christian's Looking-glass," &c. &c. against which the late rev. William Huntingdon published " The Barber, ►r Timothy shaved a second time;" in which he says, "the title 'of Timothy's book should have been Opium f>r foolish Virgins /" THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY. Contained in a Letter from a Young Lady at Brighton to her Couiin in London. ■ Dear Jenny, On parting I gave you my word to write an account whatever occurred at Brighton, deserving your lady- ship's ear, and thus I begin : — In the first place, my dear, if you mean to come down, book your place in the Dart 5 a coach which is not only dashing and smart in its look, but exceeds every one on the road in quickness kg. So much for the mode. — >.'ovv as to the friends and acquaintance you'll meet when once you come down, I should never complete a list of them all; however, your friend, fat Deputy Dump, and his wife, from Mile- , are both of them here ; and, of course, such a pair are sure to occasion a general stare ; for there is not a soul in the place who beholds this corpulent dealer in rushlights and moulds without being struck by little clii|> bat — his stomach rotunda — his coloured craval — bit ap] '<, drawn carefully in ;.t the back, that his beautiful shape may be seen — his Wei- trowsers, and bootlinga provided with sj Yon will certainly fancy, as 1 did ', that the tale -]>ur.-> is invention, but I have seen bim accoul in all thai 1 mention. His equestrian deeds, I was per- ore, were confined to a chamber-horse, kep a cure for the gout ; so i made a fine quiz of hi much for the deputy's di to bers, imagine >han1 (il d and riveted d in stays a la Di enburgb bonnet, and carbuncle face, like a < le holding axnelon — ker and j)uff— 176 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. petticoats scolloped with flounces enough to cover her knee — and, to finish the whole, conceive an umbrageous red parasol, with a fringe of pea-green. iiut Brighton appears to level all ranks, all distinc- tions of years: the black-leg and rustic, the peer and the cit, all gladly conspire to exhibit their wit in killing the general enemy Time. To accomplish this object, some cheerfully climb up the neighbouring hills in the heat of the day j some, mounted in donkey-carts, list- lessly stray to the villages round; some, sweltering, lidc on Jerusalem ponies, and all coincide that, when they have toiled to the object in view, it was not worth seeing. An indolent few lounge the whole of their morning away on the Steyne — or skim a romance in a bathing machine — or wager at billiards — or lollop about in the library rooms, whence they seldom come out till they have got all the papers by heart. Thus it is clear (at least to my judgment) that plea- sure is here the greatest of torments : the tyrant ennui throws a gloom over all. It is easy to see that the killers of time (as they vainly conceive) are themselves being killed; and indeed I believe there is a great deal of truth in the common remark, that the busiest people are always the but, hark — the ringing of bells, and the firing of guns, proclaim that the king is come down, and, for once, his majesty is welcomed with shouts of applause. A reception like this is an adequate cause for my breaking off short, as you know such a sight may never return. Perhaps 1 may write another epistle to- morrow, till when, always Yours, faithfully, W. N. P. S. O ! such a discovery, Jenny ! just now brother Tom (who is a bit of a poet, you know), looking over my letter, exclaimed with an oath, that it was written in numbers, and though I was loth to think I could scribble my nonsense in rhyme, and never observe it the whole of the time, yet I find it will run in the Ansteyan measure; so pray lay it by as a wonderful pure ! FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 177 THE V1PPIXG MAX. It happened one morning, whilst doctor Busby was at his desk, hearing a class, that a stone came suddenly through the window, and fell very near him ; on which, knowing that some of the boys were without, he de- - pitched two of the larger boys of the class he was hearing to bring in the culprit, for whom he, in the mean time, took out his instrument of flagellation. The boys being, however, unwilling to bring in their offending comrade, who was soon discovered, they laid their hands upon a meagre looking Frenchman, who happened to pass by at the time: they brought him in, and accused him of the trespass, upon which, without hearing what he had to say for himself, the doctor Baid, " Take him up ;" and gave him just such a flogging as he would one of his own boys. The Frenchman, thinking it in vain to show his resentment for the un- expected chastisement he had received to a master ' -ui rounded by his scholars, and exposed to their hootings, indignantly retreated; but at the first coffee- house he came to, stopped, wrote the doctor a chal- lenge, and sent it by a porter. Having read this billet-doux, he ordered in the messenger, on whose appearance, says the doctor again, " Take him up," and served him exactly as he had done his employer. It was now the porter's turn to be wrathful, who returned growling and swearing thai the Frenchman should make him full amends for the treatment he hail exposed him to ; from whom, however, all the redress he got was a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied with the exclama- tion, " Ah, sure he he de vipping man : he v/p me, you, and lip all de world." riir. PBBB and Tin-; BHEEP-STBALBB. Lord Kaimes used to relate a story of a man who 1 1 1 ' 1 the honour <>f bis acquaintance on rathei singular grounds. His lordship, when one of the jus- ticiary judges, returning from the north circuit to Perth, happened one nighl to sleep :>t Dunkeld. Th 1/3 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. morning, walking towards the ferry, but apprehending lie had missed his way, he asked a man whom he met to conduct him. The other answered, with much cor- diality, " That I will do with all my heart, my lord. Does not your lordship remember me ? My name's John ; I have had the honour to be before your lordship for stealing sheep !" "Oh, John ! I remember you well; and how is your wife ? She had the honour to be before me too, for receiving them, knowing them to be stolen." " At your lordship's service. We were very lucky; we got off for want of evidence; and I am still going on in the butcher trade." " Then," replied his lordship, "we may have the honour of meeting •again." THE BOXING ADMIRAL. Several years since, the bargemen of his majesty's ship Berwick, then at Spithead, quarrelled with the barge- men of the ship which AdmiraJ Milbank then com- manded as captain, and the latter were heartily drubbed, to the no small mortification of the admiral, who was in his younger days exceedingly athletic, and some- what addicted to boxing. A few days after, the ad- miral called the boat's crew together, upbraided them for a set of cowards, dressed himself in a common jacket and trowsers, and observing the Berwick's barge rowing ashore to Portsmouth beach, ordered his own to be immediately .manned ; and thus disguised, took an oar as one of the crew. The cockswain, as particularly directed, run the head of his barge against the Ber- wick's barge quarter; in consequence of which a broad- side of oaths was given and returned, which produced a challenge to fight with more substantial weapons. The admiral, as champion of his crew, beat the whole of the other barge's crew, one after the other, (eleven in number,) to the great joy and admiration of his sailors, and then making himself known, went and visited liis fiiends in Portsmouth, as if nothing had happened. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 179 THE SORCERER ACQUITTED. A fortune-teller was arrested at bis theatre of divina- tion, alfresco, at the corner of the Rue de Bussy in Paris, and carried before the tribunal of correctional police " You know to read the future?" said the president, ;i mau of great wit, but too fond of a joke for a magistrate. " I do, M. le President," replied the sorcerer. " In this case," said the judge, "you know the judgment we intend to pronounce." " Certainly." " Well, what will happen to you ?" " Nothing." " You are sure of it ?" " You will acquit iue." " Acquit you !" " There is no doubt of it.'' "Why?" "Because, sir, if it had been your intention to condemn me, you would not have added irony to misfortune." The president, disconcerted, turned to his brother judges, and the sorcerer v rifted. HOW TO GET A PLACE. A person, who by misfortunes in life had been re- duced to very low circumstances, and being at a loss to know bow to provide for his family, took it into his head it last to wait on a certain lord to ask for a place. The usual answer of " I have no vacancy" was given him however, this did not prevent him from calling and wait- ing, and calling and waitin ; again and again. When his lord-hip sent for him up, and with anger asked him t could induce him to behave in so impudent and nnprea a manner, he i d, " My lord, that I am im for which 1 hope my I lity will plead my i I am so without ny, as this will prove ; — lie then put following into his lordship's hands: — " As pi i - at dinner, in came a huge mast tnd ' actuary under the * ible. The page beal him • of tlir. room; but for all that, Lion came punctuallj one hour next da) , and i o continued his i i though tin j still continued the same treatment to him. At lasl the prince ord i . • and made much of ] 180 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. commenced a perfect courtier, followed the princx wherever he went, lay all night at his chamber-door, ran by his coach-side as duly as one of his lacqueys j in short, he so insinuated himself into his master's favour, that, when he died, he settled a pension upon him for life." This pleased his lordship so much, that in a day or two after he gave the supplicator a very com- fortable hirth in the Customs. RODOLPH THE ROBBER, A TALE BY MB. DE WILD. " Deeds eternity cannot annul." Lord Byron. Mark yonder cottage in the glen, Secluded from the haunts of men ! O'ergrown with moss, with ivy bound, It rises like a burial mound. Long undisturb'd that cot has stood, Save by the moping bird of night, That midst its ruins hides her brood Deep from the glare of clay's broad light ; For superstition flits around, And changes e'en the wind's low sound To sighs and groans — and oft, 'tis said, When evening shadows o'er the scene, Hovering around the spot is seen Rudolph the Robber's restless shade ! Loud howl'd the storm — the awful thunder Seem'd heaven's high vault to rend asunder; The lightning on that awful night Flash'd in one blaze of living light ! \nd who is she, with raven hair, Her hands upraised to heaven, Who stands the picture of despair, And seems almost heart-riven ! FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 181 Tis she, that robber's lovely bride: Heiress to grandeur, wealth, and fame; Yet left them all her charms to hide For one who bore an outlaw'd name. And vet she knew it not, for he Esteem'd the beauteous prize too well, The dark and guilty tale to tell, And break her heart with misery. And she, who never dreamt of ill, Bow'd all obedient to his will 3 And 'tis for him she trembles now, Lest on that much-loved honour'd brow Heaven's swift avenging fire should fall, And 'reave her of licr love — her all ! Ah ! little did her fond heart deem dark a fate he merited — But, hark! — that voice, that step, proclaim That all her cares her woes are fled. <>li! ye whom expectation e'er Has raised to fairy throne of bliss I " plunge the deepei in despair, By knowing all thejoyfi ye miss; Oh ! ye alone the pang can know, The overwhelming weight of woe That on that wretched fair one fill, When him she loved, alas! too well, Before her wondering vision stood, Drench'd in life's purple streamlet — blood! < laudine," he Cried, "the die i> cast — Guilt's dark career is mn at last — < >h ! I have lived an oul law 'd lend Hated li\ nil, sue thee alom ; And to this heart thou ne'er hadst leaa'il Had t thou but half its vices know 11 i have deo ived i bee, but ti-, o'er ; 1 it can now avail no in<>ie ' Life ebbs — 1 do nol seek to live — Bui e l>""ii — canst thou forgiv< \ ored of thai . oh ' death t>» in< e but release from miser) 182 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Yet dare I hope r — oh ! no, accurst For ever be this hated hand! Claudinc! Claudinc, oh! learn the worst! Thy father's blood bedews this brand !" Claudine replied not — woe had done Its deadliest work — the spoil u'as won ! No tear escaped her glassy eye, Her bosom heaved no rending sigh — Reason's bright sun was fading fast ; She shudder'd, sank, and breathed her last. He caught her ere to earth she fell, And gazed upon each lifeless charm That in his bosom raised a hell No earthly power could ever calm. Remembrance, like a meteor, llash'd Across his mind, and pictured there The time ere he her cup had dash'd With the dark poison of Despair. " Poor faded flower! nipt in the bud, And I the sharp unpitying frost That froze the crimson vital flood Those lips, alas ! for aye have lost, One last embrace — the fell blood-hound Has sounded Rodolph's knell; For thee shall harps of seraphs sound, — For me the screams of hell." * * * * * Justice has track'd the murderer's path, But he is free from human wrath; His still warm bleeding corpse they found Defaced with many a ghastly wound : One arm his lovely bride embraced, One hand the blood-stain'd steel; And in his look might well be traced To Heaven a last appeal ; But 'twas for her his love had slain, — 1'raycrs for himself he deem'd but vain. For her the solemn mass was said, For her the requiem of the dead FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 18 Resounded through the vaulted aisle, And incense fumed the time-worn pile. For him nor mass nor prayers were heard, No faithful friend his limbs interr'd ; Torn by che carrion bird by day, Bv night to the gaunt wolf a prey, His mouldering bones the wind dispersed, Unwept, unhonour'd, spurn'd, and cursed. Pocket Magazine. o RECOLLECTIONS OF A CLASSICAL TOUR THROUGH VATUOUS PA JIT 8 OF GREE< IE, TURKEY, AND ITALY, I /\*1818r ),by Peter Edmund Laurent. .Mr. Laurent left Oxford in LUG, in company with two members of tlie university. They pa the Alps by the Mount C'enis road, crossing Piedmont and the fertile valley of Lombardy, through i lie towns of Turin, Lilian, Mantua, Verona, Vicenza, and Venice From the last place they proceeded to Trieste, where, after mall an excursion to the ruins of I'ola, they embarked for Constantinople . In the course of the voyage they visited the Trojan plain, and the probable he of Ilium. Dreading to face the plague, which then /aged in the northern provinces of Greece, they re-embarked al iple for Athens ; thence passed into the Peloponnesus ; . .Mai, tinea, , Phigalia, 01' which the ttlanl ic ail >r i i unknown in ra coi in < ry part, a ei are hai 184 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. at hand, to shield the battered vessel from the rage of the sea. In a summer voyage, they have little more to do than to eat and drink, tell horrid tales of pirates' cruelty, and hail each ship that passes; this last prac- tice is never neglected, and the mode of executing it proves forcibly that some portion of that proneness to compliment which characterises Italy and all other nations swayed by despotic governments may trans- fuse itself even into the dominions of Neptune. An English ship hails in a manner rough and abrupt — "Ho the ship — whither bound — where from?" In the Mediterranean, all communication must be preceded by the hoisting of the colours, and the compliment : " Buon giorno, signor capitano, e tulta la compagnia, buon giorno ;' while every question is ended by a " di grazia," which is made to reverberate for several se- eonds in the speaking trumpets. TURKISH CHURCHYARD AT SCIO. Near the town on the sea shore, is seen a vast burial- ground, appropriated to the Turks ; the cause of its being so extensive is, that their religion forbids the burial of more than one person on the same spot of ground. The graves are indicated by stones, inscribed with gilt Arabic characters ; they are shaded with cypress, aloes, and the other trees by most nations regarded as expressive of grief. Viziers and other great men have a huhbe, that is, a tower and monument beau- tifully built, placed over their graves. People of a middle station have two stones placed upright, one at the head, the other at the feet. One of these stones has the name of the deceased, elegantly written ; to which is added, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, a prayer of this or the like form, at the direction of the heir : Damn Allaho halahi rahmataho, — may God show eternal mercy to him. If a man is buried, upon the top of the stone is a Turkish turban ; if a woman, another sort of orna- ment is placed there. The stone at the feet is the same in both. The sepulchral chapels erected in memory of some FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 185 saints of Islamism and of the sultans are called turbeh. These buildings are generally placed in the gardens of rlie mosques, founded by these princes j thej are very richly adorned. The grave, which is in the middle of the chapel, is covered with a wooden chest, wrapped in i I velvet, enriched with gold and precious stones, and having different verses of the Koran embroidered on it. Towards the side where reclines tlie head of the defunct monarch, is seen a piece of the veil which has covered the shrine of Mecca (for no Moslem must be buried without a piece of that sacred cloth), over which is a muslin turban. Silver rails, incrusted with mother-of- pearl, surround the grave, at the extremities of which are two lofty chandeliers with tapers. The interior of these chapels is magnificently adorned with marble, porc< lain, and golden inscriptions. Lamps, ever lighted, hang from the roof, and the turbehdars, or keepers of the tomb, arc constantly reading chapters of the Kon Q for tin of the soul of the saltans. Constantinople contains about twenty of these turbehs. The Turkish bnrial-gronnds are always placed near the towns, and, g kept clean and adorned with verdure, are agree- able yet impressive objects : they are never imagined to be haunted, a circumstance more to be attributed to i attractive appearance than to any strength of mind peculiar t<> the followers of Mahomet. Indeed, no 1 • why the n si ing-placc of our de- parted friends should be in the most dirty and mclan- • , or why their remains should be jo often and . rily disturbed. i in: i DOUGH. I til tin til, •■(.lined red, and Stuck upon a pole, with a sill knob at the top: this is one ol the militan en n of the Turks j and tho dignity of a .I/hi \t determined bj the number of these hoi i i which I ! Iloweu to carry before him. Besides the /// i h dozen of m< n ha . wh< ti on man I dard, the number of which < m i the armv t«,, 186 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. be crowded with flag-bearers, who in battle are worse than useless. The Turkish soldiers think it no disgrace to lose their colours, excepting, however, the holy banner of Mohammed, which in battle is kept at a convenient distance from the field, and at the first appearance of a defeat is precipitately removed. The Janissaries con- ceive military glory to consist in a strenuous defence of their kettles and spoons. — Quid Rides? Is it more- rational to place honour in the defence of a piece ol tattered silk, or of a monstrous two-headed black eagle? PUBLIC BATHS AT CONSTANTINOPLE. The very frequent recurrence of ablutions, enjoined by the wisdom of Mohammed to preserve his followers from the disorders produced in a warm climate by an accumulation of dirt on the skin, has caused pious in- dividuals to erect fountains in almost every street of the Turkish cities, and even on the border of the roads, far distant from any town : the tomb of the founder is gene- rally placed in the neighbourhood, and is surrounded with trees, which offer a delightful shade to the wearied traveller. These fountains are generally built in the Moorish style, and adorned with Arabic inscriptions. To the same precept, of cleanliness we may attribute the number of warm baths seen in Turkey : every village has its hamman or public bath, and every large hons provided with the same convenience. These thermae are heated by a subterraneous vault, which serves as a furnace, and is filled with logs of wood, above which, and immediately below the marble pavement of the building, is a large caldron of water, which is kept in a constaut state of ebullition. Tubes placed in the interior of the walls carry off the steam, while others furnish the interior with hot water from the caldron, and with cold water from a contiguous cistern. The bather, havinj paid to the keeper of the bath the price of entrance, is shown into a square room, along the walls of which runs a wide seat, covered with cushions : he here leaves his clothes, and girding round his body a wide piece of ttoiv, which hangs from his waist to his ankles, and FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 187 placing his feet in a pair of wooden clogs, to preserve them from the burning heat of the floor, he proceeds through several rooms, successively increasing in warmth, to the interior chamber. This chain her is built in a circular shape, and covered by a cupola, in which there are many openings covered with very thick glass, which gives a free passage to the light, but not to the visual rays of the curious ; a circular dais on the pavement indicates the position of the caldron, which is imme- diately underneath j small fountains and marble basins are seen at equal distances round the wall. TEMPLE OF THESEUS. This celebrated ruin, which is well preserved, stands a large open place, where a rope-maker was ex- ercising Ins trade when we passed. This spot is en- livened in the evening with the youthful games of many Athenian boys. It v\ as Dear this temple, according to Pausanias, that stood Ptolemy's gymnasium and the forum. A part of the temple is now used as a church, .*. ! to St. George : it is closed by a door made of iron bars, at which the Turks, with most disgraceful ' . , amuse themselves in trying the force of their . In the chancel are the graves of three English travellers, who have paid the i! '•' of nature in this ntry; one is that o infortnnate Tweddellj by his side is buried a M Iker, who fell a victim to : bj i I heat. The inscripl graved in the true antique ■, v. ithonl il cannol be i without >le attention ai tndy. It is ind< >iiis!iinL r thai mi n Bhonld be willing to Bacrific I . .nia of iinii;.liliL r thl inns of the ai; w h'u h i pitapfa would ere it h gible. A nan i Mr. Phillip \, w bo bad died w bile mail thi I i he Morea. I le bad quitted Athens in August • time •• ; itb violence in the Pi poi upon t of his. constitution 18S FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. he had refused to follow the advice given him by the consuls, to defer his journey till the autumn : lie de- parted, neglecting even to provide himself with me- dicine. We saw his name scratched upon one of the columns of a temple in Arcadia, near which the pea- sants told us he was seized with a fever, which threw him into delirium. By the uneducated, both Greeks and Mohammedans, it is imagined that after interment, the body of a Frank is conveyed by some invisible power to his native land. The Theseum is comparatively small, but its effect is striking : in shape it is similar to the Parthenon : the beautiful frieze with which it is decorated represents part of the histories of Hercules and Theseus : it is most entire of all the Athenian monuments; and long may the protecting genius of Greece defend it from the defiling touch of the Turkish mason, and the no less destructive dilapidations of European virtuosi ! WEDDING AT ATHENS. Every traveller who has visited Athens for a few days returns with a description of the weddings, burials, and christenings at which he assisted. Whether during our stay Hymen had ceased to inspire the Athenian youths, and death to strike, ccquo pede, I cannot determine ; but I assure you, although we remained at Athens more than a month, we witnessed no funeral, and were pre- sent at one wedding only. — The happy couple were not of the highest rank : that you should not, however, accuse my journal of being deficient in the article of matrimony, I shall add to this chapter of musty an- tiquity an account of one of the most extraordinary and ridiculous scenes I ever witnessed. It was on a Sunday afternoon ; the heat was excessive, and we were occupied in arranging our journal; my ear was struck with the monotonous sound of a Greek tam- bour, and the noise of people hurrying through the street. I followed them, and after turning through two or three lanes, came to the spot whence the sound pro-> FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. fceeded. Some dirty musicians, with a tambour, a fiddle, : a guitar, v. ere 'dancing, playing, and singing] after them came a Greek damsel, supported by two grave matrons, and followed by a long string of dames hoary with age ; she was the bride ; and notwithstanding the thermometer stood at 96°, was covered with mantles and furs : her fingers' ends and joiuts were stained red ; the lower part of her eyes were tinged with a blue colour, and her checks were ornamented with stars of black dye and leaf gold : a dirty urchin, walking backwards, held a mirror in such a manner that the young woman had her image constantly before her. They moved literally at a snail's pace. The people threw from their windows and doors bottles of orange water, which perfumed the air ; and the crowd, loud in their expressions of joy and congratulation, augmented i- we advanced, hurrying round the bride, whose brou was never bent with a frou n, and whose lips were never ssed with a smile, during the ceremony. The proa -ion stopped at the house of the bride- .111. The bride was seated in an arm chair, and placed on the right of the bouse door; on the opposite side . her husband, his hairless head uncovered ; ,d a Turkish barber, holding in his hand a circular looking-glass (similar to that with which Venus ■ :,. nted), and other shaving instruments: the music continued playing, and the crowd shook the air with their shouts. Bach placing a feu paratt on the barbers looking-glass, Bprinkled with orange water the of the bridegroom, and kissed him on th< forehead and th( The mone) thus collected was to procure ortable establishment for the young people. 1 subscribed my share, but preferred dispensing with the A Greek, an old man, whose ag< was a sufficienl the joke, pushed me towards the bride, whom I wu consequently obliged to salute amidsl the loud cheers of the a embl How the ceremony ended 1 Cannot tell jrou, as the day fell, and 1 returned home ere all had i m b be bridegroom \0O FLOWERS OF LITERATUU,.. ANTIQUARIAN THICKER*. The eager desire of tourists to obtain some relics of antiquity is so well known in Argos, that when walking the streets, you are repeatedly stopped by the natives to examine the articles they have found in the vicinity. A kaloieros, or monk, drew from his breast, with great care, what he conceived to be a precious antique; it was a Roman crucifix, broken from its cross. This re- calls to my memory a similar scene, which I witnessed at Athens. A young man showed me a French half- penny, of Louis the Fifteenth, imagining it to be a valuable medal : ore of my companions inquired with pretended eagerness the price he asked for the coin ; the youth significantly raised the fingers of his right hand, and pronounced the words " zzssre ^o'8." Some square ruins of walls, con- structed from very massy stones, are also seen in dif- ferent par' I regretted much not having a better guide. The person who conducted us, a Bardouniote, seemed com- pletely ignorant >>f the place. Our questions were an- : i'i barbarous accents which, by their roughs i ailed to the memory the language of the I mmon answer to every question is ■ ! l^topw Syoa). Borotas are evidently mm i than those of the northern parts of the the travellers, whon to ii ' tr lands, with a welcOflM d not from the lips onlj band 'I on the heart, and the words kale Ome, sir," arc pronounce' e of hospitality. Some were harvesting tic rio In the martin . the banks of the Eurotas while on the citadel of ancient Sparta othert were beat- 192 FLOWEllS OF LITERATURE. ing out the maize: for this purpose, twelve horses were fastened abreast, and driven circularly round a post, about which the ears had been scattered. GREEK MONASTERIES. A Greek monastery is inhabited by two descriptions of monks — the kaloieros and the papa. No one is ad- mitted into either of those classes, without the consent of the whole fraternity: no member of the society can marry without forfeiting his character of monk. The kaloieros or kalogeros (for the word is of disputed orthography, some affirming that it is derived from xaAo; and lepog ; others, that it is deduced from xaAoj and yigcav), is of the inferior order: his duty is to clean the chapel of the building, to tend its flocks and herds, and to wait on the papas or fathers. The little community is governed by a person, the nomination of whom de- pends upon some rich neighbouring Greek, or the bishop; he is called the egoumenos: he must always be in priest's orders, and his duty is to assemble and take the opinion of the papas in all cases of mutual interest- as the nomination of a new member, the exaction of the Pasha, or the purchase of new lands. Each monastery pays a certain tribute, according to its revenue : that of Vourkano pays yearly eighteen hundred piasters ; but this does not always suffice to preserve them from the sacrilegious depredations of the Moslems. When the monastery is in the vicinity of a Turkish settlement, the fathers, if rich enough, procure a guard of some Albanian soldiers, or a Turkish Janissary. Although generally plunged in the deepest ignorance, it is not to be inferred that all the monks who inhabit these sacred buildings are entirely without the ad- vantages of literature. The acquirements of many are such as surprise those who consider the difficulty of obtaining knowledge in this secluded land : those ac- quirements are, however, confined to a smattering of their own theology, a slight acquaintance with the ancient Greek or Hellenic, and a knowledge of the lives FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 193 of their saints. Books are rarely met with in the in- terior of the Morea, and it is not improbable that it is one of the causes of the barbarism which pervades this part of Greece. As in Italian, so in modern Greek, every syllable is pronounced, and each letter bears con- stantly the same sound; children consequently learn to read Romaic and Italian with a rapidity much greater than one accustomed only to the slow progress made the English schools would easily be brought to believe. I am, therefore, convinced, that the distribution of im- proving and entertaining books would be speedily fol- lowed in these provinces by an extension of knowledge — the only incentive which will ever rouse the Greeks from their present degrading torpidity. SANTA MAURA. The canal which separates Santa Maura from Albania IS not above half a mile broad ; it is frequently crossed in canoes, or niono\yla, and, at certain seasons of the year, the inhabitants find no difficulty in wading from shore to shore; in milder weather the wind blows up this canal in an easterly direction from sun-rise till past noon ; it then shifts, and generally blows from the west. The modern town is built in the most unhealthy part of the island, and close to several salt-pits; these are formed on the coast, and separated from the sea by sluices, which admit the water in»o a shallow preserve, the heat of the sun sufficing to effeel crystallization. The fori is placed between the town and the opposite sin. re of Ubania, at l be extremity of a peninsula, joined to the land bj a narrow and temicircnlar isthmus, three miles long, and is surrounded with Bhoals, abounding in fish of different kinds, A shorter communication it ob- tained by the remains of a narrow Turkish aqueduct, which < • '!,' hallows: i' consi ts of above three hundred at id, in windy weather, the passage i by i>" mean the pedestrian runs the risk of being blown into ♦ !,<• S ea. The garrison consisted of ▼or,, hi, k 194 FLOWERS OF LITER ATUi it three hundred men, commanded by captain R-- ntlcman whose hospitality is unbounded. A beautiful road, shaded by olive-trees, leads from the modern town to the aneient Lcucas. About three miles distant, the ruins are seen on an eminence, covered with vineyards, at the foot of which is a copious foun- tain, adorned with a pompous Veneto-Latin inscription , the walls are of Cyclopean masonry, and very extensive no edifices can be clearly traced, although heaps of ruins are seen on all sides. We were shown an ancient mill dug up on this spot: it was hewn in the infancy of mechanic art; a hemispherical stone, revolving within a corresponding vase of granite, reduced the corn 16 powder. On the opposite shore of Albania is set castle containing a garrison of soldiers belonging to Ali Pasha. Near the ruins of Leucas a gibbet has been erected, from which, enclosed in a cage of iron, hangs the coix of an inhabitant of this island: he murdered his father, his mother, his brothers, and his sisters, and then rlc! from his country; but' the long arm of justice seized the parricide j he was taken in the Morea, brought to Santa ira, and executed. His example struck with in- describable terror the Ionian s, few of whom dare proach the spot where the body is exposed. The exe- cution of this individual took place at the time general Campbell commanded in these islands. The necessi although severe justice of this gentleman, produced a most salutary effect: the islanders then learnt, for the first time, that pardon was not, as before, to be obtai by money. We crossed several fine groves of olives. The green turf under the trees produces abundance of mushrooms. The peasants were gathering the fruit; some, standing on the branches, were beating down the olives, striking, according to Pliny's advice, always in one direction and with a gentle "force; others were picking them up, and transporting them in hampers to the town. FLOWERS OF LITEKATURE. 195 MODERN PATRIOTISM. Negotiations were carrying on, during our stay at Corfu, between the lord high commissioner of the Ionian states, and an ambassador from Ioania. An anecdote was mentioned to us which I cannot refrain from repeating, as it affords an example of honest patriotism and noble disinterestedness which would have honoured a Phocion or a Fabius. The ambassador, it Beans, had received orders from his sovereign to hasten the negotiation by making some presents to the secretary of the high commissioner. In one of their conferences the Mussulman made known his intentions : the secretary led him to a window of the palace, and, pointing to the highest mountain in the island, told him, " were that mountain a mass of gold, and your master to offer it to us, he would not obtain Parga one moment ere the dictates of justice had been fulfilled." Monthly Magazine. STATE OF SOCIETY IN LONDON. It may happen, that, although individuals may exist in a society endowed with ever] pow r of entertaining and enlightening, yd the forms of society may be such, thai it u very inmcull to obtain the full advantage of their raperioi qualities^ This difficulty is the misfor- tune of London, n h< re t here rue more men of cultivated understanding i n ncd uit, and literary or political eminence» than in any metropolis of Burope. N«t it is I, thai there is little freedom, little intimacy ( and little case in London iocie1 , "To love Borne per- I i y inn' h, and I bo I thai I 1" ■ ' ■ ays the old dm !x ol Marlborough, " r tin- greatest hap piness I can enjoy." Bui in London ii is equally dif- ficult to art to love an] bedj ver) much, orto see often those that we have Idved b There are such w " 196 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE- numbers of acquaintances, such a succession of engagi merits, that the town resembles Vauxhall, where tin dearest friends may walk round and round all night without ever meeting. If you see at dinner a person whose manners and conversation please you, you may wish in vain to become more intimate; for the chance is, that you will not meet so as to converse a second time for three months, when the dice-box of society may, perhaps, turn up again the same numbers. Not that it is to be inferred that you may not barely sec the same features again ; it is possible that you may catch a glimpse of them on the other side of St. James's- street, or sec them near to you at a crowded rout, without a possibility of approaching. Hence it is, that those who live in London are totally indifferent to one another; the waves follow so thick, that any vacancy is imme- diately filled up, and the want is not perceived. At the same time, the well-bred civility of modern times, and the example of some " very popular people," have intro- duced a shaking of hands, a pretended warmth, a sham cordiality, into the manners of the cold aud warm alike — the dear friend and the acquaintance of yesterday. Hence we hear continually such conversations as the following : — " Ah! how d'ye do? I am delighted to see you ! How is Mrs. M ?" — " She is very well, thank vou." — " Has she any more children ?" — " Any more ! I have only been married three months. I see you are talking of my former wife — she has been dead these three years." — Or, "My dear friend, how d'ye do? — you have been out of town some time — where have you been — in Norfolk?" — "No, I have been two years in India." Thus, ignorant of one another's interest and occupa- tion, the friendships of London contain nothing more tender than a visiting card. Nor is it much better, — indeed it is much worse, — if you renounce the world, and determine to live only with your relations and nearest connexions : if you arc to sec them at one o'clock, they are not up; at two the room is full of in- different acquaintance, who can talk over the night be- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 197 fore, and of course are sooner listened to than yourself; at three they are gone a-shopping; at four they are in the Park; at five and at six they are out; at seven they are dressing; at eight they are dining with two n friends; at nine and ten the same; at eleven they are dressing for the ball ; and at twelve, when you are going to bed, they are gone into society for the evestng. Thus you are left in solitude; you soon ijin again to try the world; — let us see what it produces. The first inconvenience of a London life is the late hour of dinner. To pass the day impransus, and then to sit down to a great dinner at eight o'clock, is entirely ust the first dictates of common sense and common stomachs. — Some learned persons indeed endeavour to - ipport this practice by precedent, and quote the Roman supper; but those suppers were at three o'clock in the afternoon, and oaght to be a subject of contempt rather than imitation in Grosvenor- square. Women, however, are not so irrational as men in London, and generally down to a substantial luncheon at three or four: if men would do the same, the meal at eight might be lightened of many of its weighty dishes, and conversa- tion would be no loser; for it is not to be concealed, that conversation sutlers great interruption from the manner in which English dinners are managed : first the ■' and bo ti (01 tier unfortunate coadjutor) are em- ployed during three parts- of the dinner in doing the work "i the servants, helping fisb, or carving Luge of venison to twenty hungry souls, to the total of t lie host's power- of amusement, and the entire disfigurement of the fair hostess's face. Much time is lost by the attention every one is obliged t<> pay, in order to find out (which he can never do if he is short- sigl hat dish< - are at the other end of the table; and if a must wishes for a glass of wine, he must peep through the Apolloi and Cupids of the plateau, in order to find some one to drink with him, which will probably happen in I thai after having no wine for hall an hour, he will have to drinlc five glasses in five 108 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. minutes. Convenience teaches that the best manner oi enjoying society at dinner, is to leave every thing to servants that servants can do ; so that you may haw no farther trouble than to accept of the dislies that arc offered to you, and to drink, at your own time, of the wines which are handed round. An English dinner, on the contrary, seems to presume beforehand on the silence, dulness, and stupidity of the guests, and to have provided little interruptions, like jerks which the chaplain gives to the archbishop, to prevent his going to sleep during sermon. Some time after dinner comes the time of going to a ball, or a rout ; but this is sooner said than done ; it often requires as much time to go from St. James's- square to Cleveland- row as to go from London to Hounslow. It would require volumes to describe the disappointment which occurs on arriving in the brilliant mob of a ball-room. Sometimes, as it has been before said, a friend is seen squeezed like yourself at another end of the room, without a possibility of your com- municating except by signs ; and as the whole arrange- ment of the society is regulated by mechanical pressure, you may happen to be pushed against those to whom you do not wish to speak, whether bores, slight acquaint- ances, or determined enemies. Confined by the crowd, and stifled by the heat, and dazzled by the light, all powers of intellect arc lost; wit loses its point, and sagacity its observation ; indeed the limbs are so crushed, and the tongue so parched, that, except par- ticularly well-dressed ladies, all are in the case of the Traveller, Dr. Clarke, when he says in the plains of Syria, that some might blame him for not making moral reflections on the state of the country ; bat that he must own the heat quite deprived him of all power of thought. Hence it is, that the conversation you hear around you is generally nothing more than " Have you been here long?" — " Have you been at Mrs. Hatroom's ?" — " Are you going to lady Deathsqueeze's ?" Hence, too, madam de Stall said, very justly, to an Englishman* FfcOWEAS OF LITERATURE. 199 ans vos routs le corps fait plus de frais que 1' esprit." But even if there are persons of a constitution robust enough to talk, yet they do not dare to do so, as twenty heads are forced into the compass of one square foot ; tad even when, to your great delight, you see in- dividuals to whom you have much to say, and, by fair means or foul, elbows and toes, knees and shoulders, ►t near them, they often dismiss you with shaking you by the hand, and saying, "My dear Mr. — — , how do?*' and then continue in conversation with a pa vrhose ear is three inches nearer. At one o'clock, however, the crowd diminishes ; and if you are not tired the five or six hours playing at company which you have already had, you may be very comfortable for the rest of the evening A OMENADE ON THE PRADO AT MADRID- The clock has already struck four, — the siesta ;s now shed j let u.-i therefore hasten to the Puerto de los tos, where the beautiful Prado lies before us, ttend( rti r of a mile. Even beneath the .-hade j d elms and chestnut trees, we yet feel the -mi ; — we • somewhat to and may tl • well W an i down tin promenade at our leisure, and then intermix ,HL r the . and make our observation-, upon the ioue <■},: w , behold. 1 lere and th . ome indolent fellou i l_\ ing npon I ; and ipon and beneath the stone b i and then a i ■ police officer) wakei the ilambi the toncfa of bis cane, in 01 . them from th( ■•■ hii b are de stined foi B-fflOnde of Madrid. A'ioiiI tlii> time tlie .. I | •i to appear in the \>. al!<->, and sprinkle the Mid, to pn '.i Hi ' be du il from Incomra ling the ig them cloud. 200 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. The farther wo advance beyond the Franciscan Con- vent, the wider do the walks become, — while a stream of water in the vicinity imparts a cooling freshness to the air. In the centre of a noble basin stands a figure of Cybele, drawn by a yoke of lions, from whose manes falls the light spray of water that glitters in the rays of the sun. The majestic avenue expands itself, as we approach the Alcala gate, to five rows of trees : — here too we find both a multitude of stone seats, and several hundred light straw chairs with backs, which are ar- ranged in rows, for the gratuitous accommodation of the visitors of this place of resort. Opposite to the street of Alcala is situated the old royal palace of liuen Retiro, — which, although it is far from striking either through its architecture or situation, is nevertheless exceedingly imposing, in consequence of its monstrous extent. On the left hand we meet with another basin, in which stands a majestic Neptune with his elevated trident, drawn by dolphins, who emit torrents of water from their nostrils. In this part of the promenade the various streams of passengers unite so as to form a crowd ; and here too is indisputably the finest situation of any upon the whole extent of the Prado. The botanic-garden fills the air with the most delicious perfumes, — while through its palisades are seen, in all their luxuriance, the rarest exotic plants refreshing the sight with their beauty. Further on, a fountain, de- corated with statues of the Seasons, cools the atmosphere by a fine drizzling shower, on which the beams of the sun cast all the hues of the rainbow. Jiesides the three fountains we have mentioned, there are two others to be found in the course of our walk. One is astonished at meeting with such fresh trees and luxuriant foliage upon a soil so little favourable to vegetation as the dry sand on which Madrid is situated ; — yet when we notice t lie artificial hollows seooped out around every tree and supplied with water from the fountains, the enigma is at once solved, — since we perceive, that it is to those we are indebted for the cooling freshness of the at- mosphere. When we have passed the street of St. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 201 Jerome, the walk begins to contract : before us stands Hie beautiful Atocha Gate j — on one side the convent of our Lady with its noble garden of olives ; and then the enraptured eye roves over the Pasco de las Delicias, and its intersecting walks, as far as the flowery banks of the purling Manzanares. Yet we must not tarry here too long, admiring the natural charms that present themselves to our view. It is time to hasten in search of character 3 and for this purpose let us mingle among the groups that are to be found before the duke of Albas palace ; in front of the venerable Retiro ; or between the St. Jerome and Aleala streets. The benches and chairs are now all occupied. Throngs, composed of persons of every description, roll, like the billows of the ocean, towards the shade beneath the elm trees. Uniforms of all varieties are seen in- termingled amongst grave merchants and tradesmen, who come here for the purpose of indulging in con- versation, in which they are interrupted by the buzz ■ ceding from Bwaruu of professed and privileged idlers. In one place we may perceive a couple of monks wrapped up in their dusky garments, and seated in silence upon a stone bench, — the other end of which is occupud by two fashionables, who are discussing the last bull-fight, and who interlard their discourse with many a earns. Elderly citizens are seen with their mantles thrown aCTOSS the left shoulder, in spite of the intense heat of the sun, while the younger ones pass by '. • in -p- And now for our glasses to examine the ladies. There goes a charming yonng creature, modestly paring down the walk, wrapped op in an gant veil, and attended by an elderly duenna. For- : on, two nymphs of less reserved appearance trip along with huge bunches of Bowers in their hands, which they wantonly whirl around. Groups of well ! women have arranged themselves in semicircles upon the chairs, behind which the gentlemen are sta- tioned. It i-. in this rich parterre that we meet with itiful flo hicfa this mi tropolis can k 5 202 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. produce; while, here and there, we may observe among them a fair Andalusian, more charming still. A stolen glance, cast from beneath a half-lifted veil, addresses itself in the language of the heart to a youth, who, buried in amorous reverie, is leaning in the ad- jacent walk with his back against one of the elms. The Argus eyes of the watchful matron relax their vigilance, for she is now engaged in deep discourse with her neighbour upon some most interesting topics — the sub- jects discussed in this conversazione al fresco being to the full as important as those which occupy the fair votaries of a northern tea-table. The men, in the mean time, whether arrayed in the ecclesiastical or lay- costume, examine this gay flower-bed with the pene- I rating look of connoisseurs ; for it is here that coquetry (although, by the by, the Spanish language, in other respects so rich, has no distinctive term for this noble science) exerts all its arts ; — vanity all its manoeuvres. Here a captivating little foot and ankle just discover themselves by chance; — there the mantilla, — formed of a long piece of fine muslin, that is thrown over the head, crosses the bosom, and then falls down on each side, — displays its magic powers, and achieves those wonders which used formerly to be produced by the once favoured but now banished fan. When exercised by one who is a mistress of the art, the mantilla is sure to arrest the attention of all the passengers : from beneath its half-expanded veil, propitious glances are thrown at the favoured lover; — contracted in closer folds, it envelopes its wearer in a mysterious obscurity that cannot be pierced — it betrays a blush in a most advantageous manner, — yet, at the same time, serves to onceal an embarrassing confusion, while the fair hands of the owner are busied in adjusting the folds. In the midst of this multitude employed in gallantry, or some one of the pursuits of pleasure, are many who are intent only on gain. Itinerant sellers of articles of luxury raise their cries, some being melodious, and others harsh, which thus form a chaos of rounds. Me- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Ions, limones, naranjas, figas, dulces, aqua-fresca, liino- la, rlorres, eigarras, fuego, &c. &c. re-echo on ev< rj side. Young lads or pretty damsels offer you slu melons, oranges, pomegranates, figs, sweetmeats, and nosegays tastefully disposed in elegant baskets ; while athletic Galicians carry about water for sale in large pitchers, and for a single octavo refresh many a parched tongue. Scarcely is the cigar-merchant passed but he is succeeded by a ragged boy, who carries a small lamp, and continually exclaiming " Qtd guiere Juego?' (wh.» wants tire?) will furnish you with a light for so trifling a coin as a maravedi. The broad carriage-way, separated from the walks set apart for the use of the foot-passengers, is now gra- dually tilled with vehicles of every description. Thi 'lays and festivals particularly, form a continued procession, driving up one side of the Pnulo, until t 1 turn round in the circular place before the Convent of Recollects, and so return to the Atocha Gate. This ne is by do means one of the least entertainine : !■■ may be seen an old-fashioned, heavy, wonn-entcu cos rloaded with monstrous gilt ornaments ; this ttqoe family equipage of some Hidalgo. Next ap- pears a splendid English phaeton, whose snorting i;:i- •ient Andalusian steeds are detained by the tai pace of the bar jaded mules, with bells at theii n ■ f a coachman, attempts in vain m by hi ant Ana mnla ! I [01 various in their appearand as the carriages, surround the mode] procession: the stately prancing Navai Uion appears to glance contemptuously at the starved Rosinante of a second Quixote, and while splendid li\' ite the admiration of the gazing Bp< i tat many a clums) , i_ Sancho Panza bind a vehicle a-, odd as Inn CltCB I li- mil h ♦ he young ami fashionable ' its. '1 lie sun is now I oding liehiml the G darana mountatne : — the i >egin to di p , the dashing of the fountains is more distinct a\; 201 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. the aromatic perfumes from the botanic garden, borne along by the cool evening gale, emit a more sensible and delicious fragrance ; the heavens already expand their starry canopy of deepest azure across the Prado ; and the silvery orb of the moon breaks through the thick branches of the elm trees, casting a pale splen- dour on the solemn shadowy walks. The strict duenna has now conducted home her fair charge, through streets where no sound is heard, ex- cept where some scguidillas have been gently whispered here and there from balconies ; — nor i3 the fair one herself sorry to exchange the bustle abroad for the social circle at home, — in the midst of which some in- spired youth chants his warm strains to the guitar or mandoline. About this hour, little parties form dances round some lofty elm, while the castagnets beat time to their lively motions. The evening breeze begins to breathe more keenly over Bueu Retire : the ladies wrap themselves up closer in their mantillas, and the crowd gradually disperses itself. — It is at this time that poor creatures who have obtained a few octavos by begging during the day, and labourers whose hard destiny al- lows them no better shelter than the open sky, succeed to the gay world of fashion : — they are seen gliding along through the deserted walks, ill-covered by their ragged cloaks : they lie down to sleep upon the benches aud seats which have been just occupied by the most blooming beauties and most elegant beaux of Madrid. London Magazine. MRS. JORDAN AND THE METHODIST PREACHER. Those who, like me, have had the pleasure of being on terms of friendly intimacy with thJ3 unrivalled act- ress, equally a credit to her profession and an honour to human nature, will corroborate my testimony in FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 205 asserting that, in addition to her many otliev good qualities, she possessed a heart susceptible of the most tender and humane emotions, called into instant action by the least approach of misery or distress. During her short stay at Chester, where she was performing, as usual, to crowded and enraptured houses, her washer- woman, a widow, with three small children, was, by a merciless creditor, thrown into prison 5 a small debt of forty shillings having, in a very short time, by the usual process of the glorious uncertainty, item, this, that, and the other, been worked up to a bill of eight pounds. As soon as this good creature heard of the circum- stances, she sent for the attorney, paid his demand, and observed, with as much severity as tier gool-na- tared countenance could assume, " You lawyers are certainly infernal spirits, sent on earth to make poor mortals miserabli ." The attorney, however, pocketed the affront, and with a low bow made his exit. On the afternoon <>f the same day the poor woman was li- berated. Aa Mrs. Jordan, with her servant , was taking her usual walk on the Chester walls, the widow with her three children followed her, and just as she had taken shelter from a shower of rain, in a long kind of porch, dropped on her knees, and with difficulty exclaimed, "God lor ever bless you, madam ' yon have saved me and inv family from rain." The children beholding their mother's tears, added their plaintive cries, and formed together a scene too affecting for so sensitive a mind to behold without the strongest Bensations of sympathetic feeling, affording, I should conceive, a sort ofheavenl) pleasure not to be described, and felt hut. by those whom Providence has blessed with a soul of sufficient magnitude. The natural liveliness of disposi- tion Mrs. Jordan was well known to po would not easil] hi' damped by sorrowful Bcenea . neverthe- , although be trove to hide it, the teai of feeling tole down the cb< ' ol ensibility, and stooping to I ■ the children, ihe slipped a pound note into the mother's band, and in In i at nal playful manner replied, " lie i JOG FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. there j now it's all over ; go, good woman, God bless vou ! don't say another word." The grateful creature would have replied, but this good Samaritan insisted on her silence and departure, which at last she com- plied with, sobbing forth thanks, and calling down bless- ings on her benefactress. It so happened that another person had taken shelter in the porch, and witnessed the whole of this interesting scene, who, as soon as our heroine observed him, came forward, holding out his hand, and with a deep sigh exclaiming, " Lady, pardon the freedom of a stranger, but would to the Lord the world were all like thee." The figure of this man plainly bespoke his calling ; his countenance was pale and woebegone, and a suit of sable, rather the worst for wear, covered a figure thin and spare. The penetrat- ing eye of our fair philanthropist soon developed the character and profession of this singular-looking per- son, and with her wonted good-humour and playfulness, retiring a few paces, she replied, '* No, I won't shake hands with you." — " Why ?'' — " Because you are a me- thodist preacher, and when you know who I am, you'll send me to the devil." — " The Lord forbid ! I am, as you say, a preacher of the gospel of Jesus Christ, who tells us to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and re- lieve the distressed ; and do you think I can behold a sister so cheerfully obeying the commands of my great Master, without feeling a spiritual attachment that leads me to break through worldly customs, and offer you the hand of friendship and brotherly lover" — ** Well, well, you arc a good old soul, I dare say ; birt — a — I don't like fanatics, and you'll not like me when I tell you who 1 am."— " I hope I shall."— " Well, then, I tell you I am a player." — The preacher turned up his eyes, and sighed. " Yes, I am a player ; you must have heard of me ; Mrs. Jordan is my name." After a short pause, he again put forth his hand, and with a complacent countenance replied, " The Lord bless thee, whoever thou art 5 his goodness is unlimited ; lie hath bestowed on thee a large portion of his spirit, FLOWERS OF LITEIiATUUi:. and as to thy calling, if thy soul upbraid thee not, the Lord forbid that J should !" Thus reconciled, the rain having abated, they left the porch together, whilst the deep impression this scene, together with the fascinating address of our heroine, made on the mind of the preacher, overcame all his prejudices, and the offer of his arm being accepted, the female Roscius of the comic English drama, and the melancholy disciple of John Wesley, proceeded, arm in :, affording, in appearance at least, rather a whim- sical contrast, till the door of her dwelling put an end to the scene. At parting, the preacher again took her hand. " Fare thee well, sister," said he ; " I know not what the principles of people of thy calling may be, for thou art the first I ever conversed with ; but if their levolent practice equals thine, I hope and trust, at. great day, the Lord will say to each, " Thy : given (/> Ryley's Itinerant <>\)E TO A FRIEND. PROM THE SPANISH OK FRANCESCO DE MED8ANO. i RIED in good and evil hour. My partner through life'.- thorny track. pitious to ni\ prayer, what po i :. given thee to thy country back • <> partner of □ oon With thee the dancing momenta flewj (Jnfell the burning breath of noon Unl ' ' icy breezes bh nioo in calamity . U e tied the ,toi nr. from »i.' ■ ' b bon — -08 FLOWERS OF LITEUATUJtE. Thee hapless, the retreating wave Swept to the ocean as it pass'd, Again the wat'ry war to brave, Again to buffet with the blast. Santiso, let thy grateful vow, Thy thankful tear and prayer be given ; Safe at the last I see thee now, And pour my silent thanks to Heaven. O might we find in this repose A home and harbour for our age, Here might we rest, and calmly close Our passions with our pilgrimage ! Here, where the early roses blow, The first to bloom, the last to die : Here, where the favouring heavens bestow A constant spring and cloudless sky. Then come, the hasting moments flee, The rustic board and wine invite : How sweet with such a friend as thee To steep those moments in delight! Anonym* us. DESCRIPTION OF THE LAIGH KIRK OF GLAS- GOW, NEAR THE ERA OF THE REBELLION IN 1745. Conceive, Tresham, an extensive range of low- browed, dark, and twilight vaults, such as are used for sepulchres in other countries, and had long been dedi- cated to the same purpose in this, a portion of which was seated with pews and used as a church. The part of the vaults thus occupied, though capable of contain- ing a congregation of many hundreds, bore a small pro- portion to the darker and more extensive caverns which FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 209 yawned around what may be termed the inhabited space. In those waste regions of oblivion, dusky banners and tattered escutcheons indicated the graves of those who were doubtless once " princes in Israel." Inscrip- tions, which could only be read by the painful anti- quary, in language as obsolete as the devotional charity which they implored, invited the passengers to pray for the souls of those whose bodies rested beneath. Sur- rounded by these receptacles of the last remains of mortality, I found a numerous congregation engaged in the act of prayer. The Scotch perform this duty in a Standing, instead of a kneeling posture, more, perhaps, to take as broad a line of distinction as possible from the ritual of Rome than for any better reason, since I have observed that in their fhmily worship, as doubtless in their private devotions, they adopt, in their imme- diate addresses to the Deity, that posture which other tians use as the humblest and most reverential. tiding, therefore, the men being uncovered, a crowd - .eral hundreds of both sexes, and all ages, listened' with great reverence and attention to the extempore, at leal t unwritten prayer of an aged clergyman, who was very popular in the city. Educated in the same re- ligious persuasion, I seriously bent my mind to join in the devotion of the day, and it was not till the con- gregration resumed their seats that my attention was diverted to tin considi ration of the appearance of all id inc. lie Conclusion of the prayer mO I "I the men put on their hat- or bonnets, and all who had the happi- lal down. Andrew and I were not t thil number, having been too late in entering the church to secure Bach accommodation. We stood rag a i.iiiulii i of other persons in the same situation, forming a sort of ring round t he m at d pai t of t be con- Behind and around us were the vaults ! have already described; before M was t ont au- nce, dimly shown by the light which strearoei on uui ■ brough one or tw< I lothic indo i 2)0 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. such as give a i r and light to charnel-houses. L>y this were seen the usual variety of countenances, which are generally turned towards a Scotch pastor on such oc- casions, almost all composed to attention, unless where i father or mother here "and there recalls the wandering eyes of a lively child, or disturbs the slumbers of a dull one. The high-boned and harsh countenance of the nation, with the expression and shrewdness which it. frequently exhibits, is ycen to more advantage in t lie act of devotion, or in the ranks of war, than upon lighter and more cheerful occasions of assemblage. The discourse of the preacher was well qualified to call forth the various feelings and faculties of his audience. Age and infirmities had impaired the powers of a voice originally strong and sonorous. He read his text with a pronunciation somewhat inarticulate ; but when he closed the Bible, and commenced his sermon, his tones gradually strengthened as he entered with vehe- mence into the arguments which he maintained. They related chiefly to the abstract points of the christian faith, subjects grave, deep, and fathomless by mere human reason, but for which, with equal ingenuity and propriety, he sought a key in liberal quotations from the sacred writings. My mind was unprepared to Coin- cide in all his reasoning, nor was I sure that in every instance I rightly comprehended his positions. But nothing could be more impressive than the eager en- thusiastic manner of the good old man, and nothing more ingenious than his mode of reasoning. The Scotch, it is well known, are more remarkable for the exercise of their intellectual powers than for the keen- ness of their feelings ; they are therefore more moved by logic than by rhetoric, and more attracted by acute and argumentative reasoning on doctrinal points, than influenced by the euthusiastic appeals to the heart and to the passions, by which popular preachers in other countries win the favour of their hearers. Among the attentive group which I now saw might be uished various expressions similar to tfc FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 211 the audience in the famous cartoon of Paul preaching it Athens. Here sat a zealous and intelligent Cal- vinist, with brows bent as much as to indicate profound attention ; lips slightly compressed ; eyes fixed on the minister, with an expression of decent pride, as il sharing the triumph of his argument ; the fore-ringer of the right hand touching successively those of the left, as the preacher, from argument to argument, ascended towards its conclusion. Another, with fiercer and sterner look, intimated at once his contempt of all who doubted the creed of his pastor, and his joy at the appropriate punishment denounced against them. A rd, perhaps, belonging to a different congregation, present only by accident or curiosity, had the ap- pearance of Internally impeaching some link of the rea- : '!i_ r ; and you might plainly read, in the slight mo- . of his head, his doubts as to the soundness of pr< argument. The greater part listened wit ' lied countenance, expressive of a consci merit in being present, and in listening to such an in* nise, although perhaps unable entirely to comprehend it. The women in general belonged t<- this last division of the audience 3 the old, li- ming more grimly intent upon the abstract doctrines laid before them ; while the younger females permitted their eyes occasionally to take a modest circuit around tin egation ; and some of them, Tresham (if my lit) did cot greatly deceive me), contrived t<> di- Iguisfa your friend and servaul, as a hands- n uilt nL't-r and an Englishman. As to tli'' rest of the i on- til'- st lipid gazed, yawned, Of slept, f ill ! by the application <>f their more . rhboars' heels to their shinB •, and the idle 1 beir i' 'f their '•} dared give n<> more decided token ofwearine id lowland co 'us e "i i ••■' and cloak, I <■■ 1 dis< rn a highland plaid, the wean r "i • ing '>ti hi 1 bs ket-hil tbi 212 FLOWERS OF LITEEATURE. der j and who, in all probability, was inattentive to the sermon for a very pardonable reason — because be did not understand the language in which it was delivered. The martial and wild look, however, of the stragglers added a kind of character which the congregation could not have exhibited without them. Hob Roy. THE COMFORTS OF UGLINESS. Is it not a comfort to be free from all the petty so- licitude and toil which the consciousness of personal beauty subjects one to ? To comb the eye-brows twenty times a day, to watch perpetually the changing bistre of the eyes, and the fluctuations of colour in the com- plexion ? An ugly fellow is free from all these cares. Beautiful faces are often unmeaning, and fine persons deficient in agility and vigour. It is ugliness, or some- thing very near it, that is- compatible with strong manly expression in a countenance ; and it is the thickset, broad, coarse form that is usually the most remarkable for active strength. Personal elegance and beauty are flowers which quickly fade ; and the memory of them is pain to the subsequent life of him who has lost them. The fading of ugliness is but the withering of a thistle, the decay of a nettle : — he, to whom this chance comes, has the pleasure to discover, that the difference be- tween the ugly face and the handsome one is every day diminished. Was he but little concerned about the cast of his phiz ? He can, however, suffer no uneasiness on account of any effect of growing years upon it, unless it become by growing years more powerfully comic. It is curious to observe that an ugly face is ge- nerally the sign hung out over a witty and humorous mind : it suggests innumerable exhilarating witticisms to the wearer himself, and is the cause of wit to others. There is scarce a merry, shrewd, witty fellow, even in FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 213 fictitious history, but has the honour of ugliness at- tributed to him. .Esop was a very ugly, little crouch- back : uglier still was Socrates, not less a wit, and a man of humour, than a philosopher. The heroes of Rabelais were famous for personal ugliness. Sancho Panza, his master, and Rosinante were, in their several conditions, absolutely patterns of this interesting quali- fication. Hudibras and Ralpho were still more con- spicuously ugly. Fal staff, liardolph, ancient Pistol, and almost every character of wit and humour in the whole drama of Shakspeare, were eminently ugly. Scarron, the favourite wit of France, was the most de- formed little figure that ever a lovely woman allowed* herself to be coupled to. What amusement is there not to be derived from any thing peculiar in the nose ? Is your nose excessively long r Comfort yourself that you have fared as well as if you had been to the promontory of DOSee — it is the proboscis of the elephant — it is the sutpeniui nasut which the Romans held to be so re- markable an indication of acute delicacy in the percep- ti i of the ridiculous. A short nose is like every thing that is little, smart, and pretty; in any dangers and hair-breadth escapes of the face, a humble little nose is not much more exposed than your cheek or your chin. A pimple, a wait, a polypus by enlarging, onlv tttify it ; it is ever brisk, alert, erect, and upon the fni vivc ; it affords a shortened passage to the brain, t is a perfection in nature to accomplish all her ends with the smallest possible means. Such noses are well known to have been much valued bv the Romans, as a sure pro<»f that the wearer was a person of shrewd dis- ment, arid of a lively sarcastic wit. A prodigious deal of comfort in a bump-back ! Who re chatty, uho mon conceited of Ins personal ap- pearance, who more lively in wit and discernment than the little '■ m i ford* y " The bump appears to the little fellow who I" ara if as if it was a knapsack, in which be had bundled up all bis cares, his follies, his absur- difir . iii- ogl and fast them behind him. II. who can earn nothing with his bands, may get a fortune 214 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. by lending out his hump, if lie has one, for ;i poi tabic writing-desk. It is well known what wealth a little 11 my lord" got at Paris during the famous Mississippi rage, by putting his hump to advantageous use in this way. A peerage conferred by the king has, perhaps, no- thing more gratifying in it than the address of my lord ; but he whom nature has honoured with a hump- back, needs no royal creation to enable him to have his ears constantly saluted with this high and flattering address. Polyphenutt THE GUAHIBT MOTHER. The following affecting story is told by Humboldt : Where the Atabapo enters the RioTemi, but before we reached its confluence, a granitic hummock, that rises on the western bank, near the mouth of the Guasacavi, is called the Rock of the Guahibi Woman, or the Rock of the Mother, Picdra de la Madre. We inquired the cause of so singular a denomination. Father Zea could not satisfy our curiosity j but some weeks after, another missionary, one of the predecessors of this ecclesiastic, whom we found settled at San Fernando, as president of the missions, related to us an event which I recorded in my journal, and which excited in our minds the most painful feelings. If, in these solitary scenes, man scarcely leaves behind him any trace of his existence, it is doubly humiliating for an European to sec per- petuated by the name of a rock, by one of those im- perishable monuments of nature, the remembrance of the moral degradation of our species, and the contrast between the virtues of a savage, and the barbarism of civilised men. In 1797, the missionary of San Fernando had led hib Indians to the banks of the Rio Guaviare, on one of tliose hostile incursions which are prohibited alike by religion and the Spanish laws. They found in an Indian hut a Guahibi mother with three children, two of FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 215 still infants. They were occupied in pre- paring the floor of Cassava. Resistance was impos- sible : the father was gone to fish, and the mother tried in vain to flee with her children. Scarcely had she reached the savannah, when she was seized by the In- ds of the mission, who go to hunt men, like the whites and the negroes in Africa. The mother and her children were hound and dragged to the bank of tin liver. The monk, seated in his boat, waited the is of an expedition of which he partook not the daogei Had the mother made too violent a resistance, the In- dians would have killed her; for every thing is per- ted when they go to the conquest of souls, and it is n in particular they seek to capture, in order to heat them in the mission as pottos, or slaves of the ' hristians. The prisoners were carried to San Fer- nando, in the hope that the mother would be unable to rind her way back to ber home by land. Far from those children who had accompa Died their father on the daj in which she had been carried oft', this unhappy woman of the deepest despair. She attcrnj> >•. take back to her family the children who had been bed away by th< lionary, and fled with them tedly from t he village of Sun Fernando, but the Indians sever failed to seize her anew; and the mission- ary, after baring caused her to be mercilessly beaten rael resolution of separating the mother from two children who had been carried oft" with hei i j •( d alone tow ard the missions of the Ne- going up the Atabapo. Slightly bound, she was the bow of the boat, ignoranl of the fate thai d her j bnl si •■ judged, In th>' direction of tin . that she 1 farther and farther from bei hut and ber native country. She succeeded in break! herself into the water, and swam to the left bank i apo. The eorrenl carried hi' roch which hears lur name to this day. 8 • landed, and took inthe woods j bul the pn of th< mil ions ordered the Indians to row to th< shore, and follow the traces of the Guahibi. In th« 216 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE- evening she was brought back. Stretched upon the rock (la Picdra de la Mac/re), a cruel punishment was inflicted on her with those straps of manatee leather, which serve for whips in that country, and with which the alcades are always furnished. This unhappy wo- man, her hands tied behind her back with strong stalks of mavacurc, was then dragged to the mission of Javita. She was there thrown into one of the caravanseras that arc called Casa del Hey. It was the rainy season, and the night was profoundly dark. Forests, till then believed to be impenetrable, separated the mission of Javita from that of San Fernando, which was twenty- five leagues distant in a straight line. No other part is known than that of the rivers ; no man ever attempted to go by land from one village to another, were they only a few leagues apart. But such difficulties do not stop a mother who is separated from her children. I ler children are at San Fernando de Atabapo; she must find them again, she must execute her project of delivering them from the hands of christians, of bringing them back to their father on the banks of the Guaviarc. The Guahibi was carelessly guarded in the caravansera. Her arms being wounded, the Indians of Javita had loosened her bonds, unknown to the missionary and the alcades. She succeeded by the help of her teeth in breaking them entirely j disappeared during the night ; and, at the fourth rising sun, was seen at the mission of San Fer- nando,, hovering around the hut where her children were confined. " What that woman performed," added the missionary who gave us this sad narrative, " the most robust Indian would not have ventured to undertake. She traversed the woods at a season when the sky is con- stantly covered with clouds, and the sun during whole days appears but for a few minutes. Did the course of the waters direct her way, the inundations of the rivers forced her to go far from the banks of the main stream, through the midst of woods, where the movement of the waters is almost imperceptible. How often must she have been stopped by the thorny lianas that form a FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 217 net- work around the trunks they entwine ! How often i\ -he have swam across the rivulets that run into the Atabapo ! This unfortunate woman was asked how she had sustained herself during the four days. She said, that, exhausted with fatigue, she could find no other nourishment than those great black ants called vachacos, which climb the trees in long bands to suspend on them their resinous nests !" We pressed the missionary to tell us whether the Guahibi had peacefully enjoyed the happiness of remaining with her children, and if any re- pentance had followed this excess of cruelty. He would not satisfy our curiosity j hut at our return from the Rio Negro we learnt, that the Indian mother was not allowed time to cure her wounds, but was again separated from her children, and sent to one of the missions of the Upper Oroonoko. There she died, refusing all kind of nourishment, as the savages do in great cala- ies. 3 h is the remembrance annexi d to this fatal rock, "PUdra de la Mucin." Humboldt's Travels. DESPERATE COURAGE. Tin: following instance o|; enthusiastic valour and i ontempt of life is not exceeded by any thing which is recorded in history. It occurred in India, at the storming of th< fortrest ofBobilee, belonging to Ran- rajahs. The attack, Bays the toriao, commenced at day-break, on the 24th of January, with the field-pieces against the four towers; and the d< fendei , I might catch the thatch ■ le rampart, had pulled it down. By nine o'clock, several of the battlements wer^e broken, when all the leading parties ol the four divisions advanced, at the iroe, with scaling ladders; but after much en- deavour for an hour, not a man had been able to er the parapet, and many had fallen wounded j other parties followed with as little success, until all VOL. in. i. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. were so fatigued, that a cessation was ordered, du. which the field- pieces having beaten down more of the parapet, gave the second attack more advantage but the ardour of the defence increased with the dan- ger. The garrison fought with the indignant ferocity of wild beasts, defending their dens and families ; se- veral of them stood as in defiance, on the top of the battlements, and endeavoured to grapple with th< first ascendants, hoping with them to twist the ladders down, and this failing, stabbed them with their lances, but being wholly exposed themselves, were easily shot bv aim from the rear of the escalade. The assailants admired, for no Europeans had ever seen such excess of courage in the natives of in- dostan, and continually offered quarter, which was always answered by the menace and intention of death : not a man had gained the rampart at two o'clock in the afternoon, when another cessation of the attack ensued; on which llangarao assembled the principal men, told them there was no hope of maintaining the fort, and that it was immediately ne- cessary to preserve their wives and children from thi violation of the Europeans, and the more ignominious authority of Vizeramrauze. A number called without distinction were allotted to the work; they proceeded, every man with a torch, his lance, and poniard, to the habitations in the middle of the fort, to which they set fire indiscriminately, plying the flame with straw pre- pared with pitch and brimstone, and every man stabbed, without remorse, the woman or child, whichsoever at- tempted to escape the flame and suffocation. Not the helpless infant, clinging to the bosom of its mother, saved the life of either from the hand of the husband and father. The utmost excesses, whether of revenge or rage, were exceeded by the atrocious prejudices which dictated and performed this horrible sacrifice. The massacre being finished, those who accomplished it returned, like men agitated by the furies, to die them- selves on the walls. Mr. Law, who commanded one of the divisions, observed, whilst looking at the con- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 2 i 9 flagration, that the number of the defenders was con- siderably diminished) and he advanced again to the attack. After several ladders had failed, a few grena- diers got over the parapet, and maintained their footing in the tower till more secured the possession. Rangarao, hastening to the defence of the tower, was in this instant killed by a musket-ball. His fall in- creased, if possible, the desperation of his friends; who, crowding to revenge his death, left the other parts of the ramparts bare; and the other divisions of the French troops, having advanced likewise to theii respective attacks, numbers on all sides got over the parapet without opposition : nevertheless, none of the defenders quitted the rampart, or would accept quar- ter j but each Fell advancing against, or struggling with an antagonist j and even when fallen, and in the last ay, would resign his poniard onlj to death. The ilaughter of the conflict being completed, another, nraco more dreadful, presented itself in the area below: the transport of victory lost all its joy: all gazed on one another with silent astonishment and remorse, and the fiercest could not refuse a tear to the deplorable destruction spread before them. Whilst contemplating on it, an old man, leading a boy. w as perceived advanc- ing from a distant recess: be was welcomed with much attention and respect, and conducted by the crowd to Mr. Law, r., phom he presented tlie child with 1 1 i - words: — "This i- the son of Rangarao, whom 1 have I against hi- father's will. Aiiothci emotion !. and the preservation <>!' this infant bit by all as some alleviation to the horrible eatastro] f which they bad bei n the unfortum authors, 'I tor and the child wire immediate!) U> M. B who having heard of the condition of the fort, would not go into it, but remained in I i rued the sacred captives w itli the boo ■(' a guardian appointed bj the strongesl claims of nature, and immediateK commanded patents to be prepared, appointing the ton lord of the territory which he bad offered the fathei i i exchange foi the l 2 220 i LOWERS OF LITERATURE. district of Bobilee; and ordered them to l>c strictly guarded in the camp from the malevolence of enemies. The ensuing night and the two succeeding days passed in the usual attentions; especially the care of the wounded, who were many; but in the middle of the third night, the camp was alarmed by a tumult in the quarter of Vizeramrauzc. Four of the soldiers of Rangarao, on seeing him fall, concealed themselves in an unfrequented part of the fort until the night was far advanced, when they dropped down the walls, and speaking the same language, passed unsuspected through the quarters of Yizeramrauze, and gained the neighbouring thickets, where they remained the two succeeding days, watching until the bustle of the camp had subsided 3 then two of them quitted their retreat, and having by their language again deceived those by whom they were questioned, got near the tent of Yizer- amrauze; then creeping on the ground, they passed under the back part, and entering the tent found him lying on his bed, alone, and asleep. Yizeramrauze was extremely corpulent, insomuch that he could scarcely rear himself from his seat without assistance : the two men, restrain- ing their very breath, struck in the same instant with their poniards at his heart : the first groan brought in a centinel, who fired, but missed; more immediate!;, thronged in, but the murderers, heedless of themselves, cried out, pointiitg to the body, " look here! we are sa- tisfied !" They were instantly shot by the crowd, and mangled after they had fallen; but they stabbed Vizer- amrauzc in thirty-two places. Had they failed, the other two remaining in the forest were bound by the same oath to perform the deed, or perish in the attempt. AN ADVENTURE IN THE SOUTH SEAS. In the summer of the year , I was the only pas- senger in the merchantman, Alceste, which was bound to One fine moonlight night I stood on deck, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 221 and gazed on the quiet ocean, on which the moon- ms danced. The wind w;is so still that it scarcely ruffled the sails which were spread out to invite it. 1 looked round; it was the same on every side — a world <r intercepted the long and steady look which I threw over the waves. I have heard many complain of the :"iiess and unvarying uniformity of the objects which perpetually encounter the eye of the voyager. I feel differently j I can gaze for hours on the deep without weariness, occupied with the thoughts it produces. I can listen to the rush of the element as the vessel • •leaves it, and these tilings have charms for me which others cs nnot perceive. I beard on a sudden a noise, which seemed to c from near the captain's cabin, and I thought I could distinguish the voices of several men speaking earnestly, though in ;; suppressed tone. I cautiously drew near the spot from whence tl i i e appeared to con but the alarm was give;.', and I could see no one. I returned to rest, or rather to lie down, for I felt I heavy and f< e of evil overpower me, which know not bori or wherefore. I knew there had been dispel ween the captain and his w, resp< .-me trilling point of discipline, and I feared to think what might be the consequences A long time 1 lay ov d with these unpleaj ois; at last, wearier! with my thoughts, ray I, and I dropped to sleep. But it was i ot i \ liicli recruits the exham • spirit, and !•_ in forgetfulm renders them fitter for exertion on awakening, p ith hideous and confused di murder and blood seemed to surround me, I awakened by convulsive starts, and I sought in again for quiet slumber; the same images Idled mj mind, diversified in a thousand horrid forms. Earlj in the moruii I >se, and h enl ■ bovi . and the cold dispelled my uneasi Poring the whole of the daj nothing occurred to -22 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. justify the fears which had haunted me : every thing went on in its regular course: the men pursued their occupations quietly and in silence. I thought the fit of temporary dissatisfaction was passed over. I had yet to learn, that the passions of men are like deep waters, that are most to be feared when they seem to glide along most smoothly- Night came on. I retired to rest more composed than on the preceding evening. I endeavoured to con- vince myself that the noises I had heard were but the fancies of a disturbed mind; and I slept soundly. Ill- timed security! About midnight I was awakened by a scuffling, which seemed to be near the place where I had before heard the whisperings. I hastened to the spot; the captain and one of his officers only were fighting against a multitude of the ship's crew; in a moment after, I saw the officer fall. Two fellows ad- vanced to me, and clapping pistols to my breast, threatened me with instant death if I stirred or spoke. 1 gazed on the bloody work; the bodies which lay around me, steeped in gore, testified that the mutineers could not accomplish their murders with impunity. A swimming came over my eyes, my limbs failed me, and I fell sense- less. When I recovered, I found myself lying in my bed. Every thing was still ; I listened in vain for a sound. I lay quiet for a considerable time; at last I rose and walked about the vessel. I could see no one. I searched f-very part of the sliip. I visited the place of slaughter, which I had at first carefully avoided; and I beheld the bodies of the slain. There were nine of them. The coa- gulated blood formed a loathsome mass around them. I shuddered to think I was desolate. " Good Clod!" said I, " and they have left me here alone." The word sounded like a knell to me. I was left a companion with death. This reflection reminded me that it was necessary I should throw the bodies overboard. I took up one; I dragged it to the ship's side : it plunged into the waves. The noise which it made reminded me mor< forcibly of my solitude, by the contrast which it pro- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 223 duced with the still silence that prevailed. The sea was so calm, that I could scarcely hear the light rippling of the water by the vessel's side. One by one I committed the corpses to their watery grave. At length my dreadful task was finished. My next thoughts were for the ship's boats. They >\ere gone. I could not bear to remain in the ship. It seemed a vast tomb for me. I resolved to make some kind of a raft, and depart on it. This occupied two or three days; at length it was completed, and I -ncceeded in setting it afloat, without much damage. I lowered into it all the provisions which I could rind a the ship; but the quantity was trifling, for the sailors, I suppose, had carried away the remainder. All was ready, and it only remained for me to leave the ship. I trembled at the thought of the dangers I was mt to encounter 1 was going to commit myself to ocean, separated from it only by a few boards and trunks, which one wave might scatter over the surface of the water. I might never arrive at laud; 1 should be without shelter, and almost without food. I half resolved to remain in my present situation, but a mo- ment's reflection dispelled my purpose. I descended. I stood on my raft. I cut the -rope by which I had fastened it to the ship. I was confused to think of my situation; I could scarcely believe that i had dared to nture alone on the wide waste of waters. I fruitlessly deavoured to resign myself to it. As far as I could nothing presented itself to my view but the vessel which 1 had left. The sea was perfectly still, for not a breath was stirring. 1 endeavoured with two pieces of wood) which supplied the place of oars, to row myself along but the little progress I made alarmed me. If calm should continue, I should perish of hunger. I gtd to sec tlic sail, which I had made, agitated by the wind* I watched it from morning to uighl ; it was my onl\ employment, but I watched it in vain, — the ■ r continued the same. Two da 'l over. I looked at my provisions j they would not, I sup three or four 22 1 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. days more at the farthest. Those days were quick!] passing over, [gave myself up for lost; I had no hope of ever escaping. On tlic fourth day after my leaving the ship, I thought I saw something at a distance ; I gazed at it intently ; it was a sail ! (iood heavens ! what did I feel at this sight. I fastened my handkerchief to the top of a piece of wood, and waved it, in hopes that it would be ob- served, and I should be rescued from my horrible situa- tion. The vessel kept on its course. I shouted ; I knew tliey could not hear ine, but still some vain hope impelled me to try so useless an expedient. It passed 0113 it grew dim. I stretched my eye-balls to see it. It vanished — it was gone ! I will not attempt to de- scribe the exquisitely torturing feelings which 1 endured at seeing destroyed the chance of relief which had offered itself. I was stupid with grief and disappointment. My stock of provisions was now entirely exhausted and 1 looked forward with horror to an excruciating death. It was eight hours since I had tasted food. I sought without effect .for any thing to satisfy my hunger; a little water which still remained quenched iny thirst. I wished that the waves would rush over me. I wept like an infant. My hunger shortly beca dreadful, but I had no means of satisfying it. I en- deavoured to sleep that 1 might forget for a while m\ torments, and my wearied frame yielded to slumber. When I awoke, I was not, however, refreshed. 1 was weak, and felt a burning pain at my stomach. 1 be- came hourly more feeble. I lay down, but I was un- able to rise again: my limbs tailed me; my lips and tongue were parched ; a convulsive shuddering agi- tated my frame; my eyes seemed darkened; 1 gasped for breath. The burning pain of my stomach now departed. 1 experienced no pain, but a dull torpor came over me. My limbs became cold. I believed that I was dying, and I rejoiced at it. Presently I lost all thought and feeling. I lay senseless on the few boards that di\ i< me from the ocean. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE- 225 hi this situation, as I was afterwards informed, 1 was ikcn up by a small vessel, and conveyed to . I slowly recovered, but was some time before I could call to mind the event- which had lately taken place, i remembered only waking as from a deep sleep, and seeing a strange person, who, when I attempted to -peak, motioned to me to be silent. The mutinous crew I presume perished, for none of them were ever heard of, and it is probable that I was the only one who came to land. Pocket Magazine. A< COUNT OF THE VERBETERING HUISEN, or Houses of Dom stic Reformation in Holland. There are, in most of the huge cities of Holland. or more institutions ti.us called, the object of which is to confine and restrain an) person, mail >i female, whose conduct is marke ! by ruinous extra- . '.nee; and many a family have been preserved fi ruin by their salutary operation. They are placed under the immediate superinti the magistracy, and such obstacles are opp to their abus >, thai il is not possible to place any in- dividual in one of those houses without showing «;tuse for the coercion. , who, in \796, lived in u hi Ad n, had .1 verj mod i H, , t e xti >|y, pla i ' and showed every dis] "i to help off '.-. on money quite as fasl as her hus- band ever g iin 3he was young, handsome, i iin, and giddj ; and i ompletely the Blave of fashion, I [< i husband bad not the politene is to allow hiui to be rained by her unfe ling folly and di ipation; he complained ol hi i i onducl to hei parents and n tion . v. bo e idvice wot of no more avail than ,,u "■ I be bad n i to a respectable mini of the Lutheran church, who might as well i 226 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. preached to the dead. It was in vain to deny her money, for no tradesman would refuse to credit the * legant — the fascinating wife of the rich Van Der . Involved as the young lady was in the vortex of fashionable dissipation, she had not yet ruined either her health or reputation : and her husband, by the advice of his friend, M — k — r, determined to send her for six months to a Verbctering Huis. With the utmost secrecy he laid before the municipal, authorities the most complete proofs of her wasteful ©ctravagauce and incorrigible levity; added to which, she had recently attached herself to gaming with French officers of rank, who lay under an imputation of being remarkably expert in levying contributions. She was already in debt upwards of thirty thousand florins to tradesmen, although her husband allowed her to take from his cashier a stipulated sum every month, which was more than competent to meet the current expenses of his household ; whilst to meet a loss which occurred at play, her finest jewels were deposited in the hands of a benevolent money-lender, who accommodated the necessitous, upon unexceptionable security being pre- viously left in his custody. Her husband was full twenty years older than his volatile wife, of whom he was rationally fond, and at whose reformation he frfbvcd, before she was carried too far away by the streamer fashionable dissipation. Againstj^kiw/ill, she had agreed to make one of a party of kadiesVho were invited to a grand ball and supper atjthe bxnise of a woman of rank and faded cha- racter. Vv* Her hti'sijznid, at breakfast, told her she must change her course of life, or her extravagance would make him a bankrupt, and her children beggars. She began her usual playful way of answer; said, " She certainly had been a little too thoughtless, and would soon commence a thorough reformation." " You must begin to-day, my dear," said her husband, " and, as a proof of your sincerity, I entreat you to drop the company of , and to spend your evening at home, this day, with me FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 227 :md your children." — " Quite impossible, my dear man," ♦said the modest wife, in reply ; " I have given my word, and cannot break it." ° Then," said her husband, " if you go out this day dressed, to meet that party, re- member, for the next six months these doors will be barred against your return. — Are you still resolved to go ?" " Yes," said the indignant lady, " if they were to be for ever barred against me !" Without either anger or malice, Mynheer Van Der told her, " not to deceive herself ; for, as certain as that was her determination, so sure would she find his foretelling verified." She told him, " if nothing else had power to induce her to go, it would be his me- nace." With this they parted, — the husband to pre- pare the penitentiary chamber for his giddy young wife, and the latter to eclipse every rival at the ball that evening. To alTbrd her a last chance of avoiding an ignominy which it paimd him to inflict, he went once more to try to wean her from her imprudent courses, and pro- posed to set off that evening for Zutphen, where her ther dwelt; but he found her sullen, and busied with milliners and dressers, and surrounded with all (he paraphernalia of splendid attire. At the appointed hour the coach drove to the door, and the beantiful woman (lull dressed, or rather un- • d,) tripped gaily down stairs; and, stepping lightly into the coach told the driver to stop at , on the Keizer Gragt. it was then dark, and she was a little surprised to rind the coach had passed through one of the city gates: the sound of a dock awoke bei from a dream. She pulled the check-string but the driver kepi on ■ she railed out, and some on.- behind coach told her, in a suppressed voice, Bhe was a prisoner, and must be still! The shock was severe; she trembled cmp. limb, and was aear fainting with terror tod alarm, when Hie coach entered (he gates of a \< , - betering Huia, •■. here she was doomed to take up her re- Bldl i Tin matron of tic house—a ; !- 228 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. bred person — opened the door; and, calling the lady by In t name, requested her lo alight. " Where am I ? — in God's name, tellme; and why am I brought here?" "You Will be informed of every thing, madam, if you please to walk in-doors." " Where is my husband ?" said she, in wild 'affright ; " sure he will not let me be murdered !" " It was your husband who drove you hither, madam; he is now upon the coaeh-box !" This intelligence was conclusive. All her assurance forsook her. She submitted to be conducted into the house, and sat pale, mute, and trembling ; her face her dress exhibiting the most striking contrast. The husband, deeply affected, first spoke : he told her, " that she had left no other means to save her from ruin, and he trusted the remedy would be effectual ; and, when she quitted that retreat, she would be worthy of his esteem." She then essayed, by the humblest protestations, by tears and entreaties, to be permitted to return ; and vowed that never more whilst she lived would she ever offend him. " Save me," said she, " the mortification of this punishment, and my future conduct shall prove the sincerity of my reformation." Not to let her oft' too soon, she was shown her destined apartment and dress, the rules of the house, and the order for her con- finement during six months! She was completely overpowered with terror, and fell senseless on the floor. When she recovered, she found her husband chafing her temples, and expressing the utmost anxiety for her safety. " I have been unworthy of your affection," said the fair penitent, ft but spare me this ignominious fate; take me back to your home, and never more shall you have cause to reproach me." Her husband, who loved her with unabated affection, notwithstanding all her levity, at last relented; and the same coach drove her back to her home; where not one of the domestics (a trusty man-servant excepted) had the least suspicion of what had occurred. As soon as her husband led her to her apartment, she dropped on her knee, and implored his pardon ; told him the extent of FLOWERS 0i<' LITERATURE. 229 all her debts, begged him to take her to Zutphen for a few weeks, and promised so to rcduee her expenditure as to make good the sums she had so inconsiderately thrown away. Allowing for the excessive terror she had felt when she found, instead of being driven to 's rout, she w as proceeding round the ramparts, outside the city gates, which she could not wholly overcome, she spent the happiest evening of her life with her husband ; and, from that day, she abandoned her former career of dis- sipated lolly, and became all that her husband desired — a good wife and affectionate mother. There have been instances of persons being confined for many year-, in these houses j mostly by coercion, but some voluntarily. An elderly man, who had acquired a competency, after he had retired from business, took to drinking, and that to an excessive degree; during which fits of in- Ue made away with his property, and showed every symptom of spending or wasting all he had. and reducing himself and family to beggary, His wife was advised to place her husband in a Ver- betering Finis; an act for which he thanked her, and acknowledged it was the only means by which he could be restrained from ruining himself. At the end of rive months' discipline, in a house where all his want supplied, and nothing debarred him but intoxicating liquors, he was deemed tu lie suf- d w mi • In 3 bouse. < ■ 1 1 1 • d, as lie hoped, of a rice that he had not acquired in his youthful days. ll<- did not fee] the least anger or re- tmenf j but, On the contrary, told his wife and - >ns, if he should :iL r ain re! •; into that odious vie I I I : d him back . and t here keep him. .i time he maintained his resolution ; hut, b) de Lfieis, In: fell off J and in lev, than a year he iVM he come as bad as ever. I lis family were grieved j bill such was their fondne - of him, tin-, would not again put him info a slat' train! , lest their friends sh,, u ld 2.30 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. reflect upon them, and impute tliejr conduct to sordid motives alone. One day the old gentleman was missed, and the night passed without tidings : the next morning, the mes- senger from the Verbetering Huis arrived with a note, informing his wife and family, " that, feeling his own inability to conquer a propensity that was alike ruinous and unworthy of his age and former character, he had betaken himself to his old quarters, where he was deter- mined to live and die, as he saw no other means of avoiding the ignominy of wasting his property, and making beggars of his family." In Holland, the majority of males is fixed at twenty- tive years ; and if a young gentleman is very in- corrigible, his parents or guardians can place him in one of these institutions ; and the same respecting young Avomen. A tradesman's daughter in the Warmoe's-street, in 1803, formed an attachment to a married man. Her pa- rents, with a view to save her from ruin, placed her in one of these houses for six months. Solitude and re- flection, and the religious lectures read to her by the minister who was appointed to attend, wrought a change of sentiment; but the shock was so great that she died soon after her release, — a victim to her unfor- tunate passion. An English tradesman, who lived in the same street, had a wife who was father too much addicted to drink- ing, and he placed her in one of these houses ; but, whether it was the confinement, or some extraneous causes, the unfortunate woman went raving mad, in which state she died. — It is a curious fact, that, of the English who have been placed in these sort of houses, scarcely a single instance iias occurred of any radical good being effected, further than the restraint imposed by the rules of the place ; whilst, of the native Dutch, in at least one-half the cases that had occurred in 1803, a radical cure had been effected. All these institutions are placed under the super- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 231 intendence of the police ; most of them are provided with dark chambers for the confinement of the refrac- tory, and also a geessel-paal, or whipping-post ; but no one can be confined in the one, or whipped at the other, without an order from the magistrate ; and the latter punishment must be applied in the presence of the visitors, and not by any servant of the house, but by the common executioner} which inflictions are not held as infamous, or even dishonourable ; and many instances have occurred in which the great and opu- lent have had their refractory children punished in this manner. During the prosperity of the Belgic republic, these institutions were very beneficial to the community j bat, after its decline and fall, and the universal poverty and depravity which ensued, they became less an object of •or, as only the rich, and they were few indeed, could rd to pay for t heir relatives, to whom such coercion Blight have been useful. WIT. HOW III !',K<;. Nob reg a, who afterwards acted so conspicuous a part as a missionary in Brazil, was once with a lay- brother in Galicia, preaching and begging his way, after the manner <>f his order. They were in the city of Santiago, and had gained no alms that day; for iu the market-place, where the) probably expected most, a Gallega was amusing himself with preaching a mock ion to ridicule Nobrega, who had an impediment in Ins speech, — so thai they were ashamed t., beg among the noisy congregation. At night, he and his com- panion wenl to the hospital, and got into a room where rge part j of beggars were sitting at table, in high glee, feeding away, and drinking wine. The) were disputing at the ame time, and BJ BOOn as they 'aw 1 1 232 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. strangers, called them in, saying, " Sit down, brothers, and eat, and you shall be judge between us, for wc are disputing which is the best beggar." Nobrega and his companion had had no food the whole day; they sat down among these vagabonds, and played their parts upon wh:it was before them, while their new companions, each in his turn, related the secrets of his trade. The last who spoke was one who had purposely reserved his story, as thinking he had ex- ceeded all the others. " You know nothing at all about begging," said this fellow. "My way is this — I never beg, but go up to a house-door, and give a deep groan, saying, ' blessed be Mary, the mother of God,' or any other saint, according to the place where I happen to be. Out come the people to see what is the matter, and then I say, with as pitiful a voice as I can,. ' Oh, sirs, great are the mercies which our Lord hat!. vouchsafed to show me ! You must know that I was a slave in Turkey, and the dog of a Turk, my master, led me a cruel life to make me renounce Christ : — he used to flog me bloodily, and swear he would kill me, if I did not renounce my faith. But I always answered him, O dog, I will not turn renegado, for our Lady, or Santiago (I name the saint according to the pi I am in) will deliver me. And in fact, brethren, sinner as you see me, even so it came to pass; for one night 1 was in great aiHiction, laden with chains, and in a dark dungeon, and I prayed earnestly to our Lady, — blessed be God's mercy, the next morning at daybreak I found myself in a Christian country. And now J am going in pilgrimage to her church, to return thanks for so great a miracle.' — Every body gives me noble alms then," — and, turning to Nobrega, he said, " what think you, brother, — who's the best beggar V Nobrega meantime had made a good meal, and having satisfied his appetite, thought it no longer necessary to keep his temper. " You are all thieves and enemies of God," he cried ; " you go about stealing the alms which should be for the poor, and deceiving Christian people ; you all ought to be hung, and I will accuse you before the ma- FLOWEKS OF LITER ATTItR. 233 gistrates." Up jumped the rogues, who, till now, had supposed that he was one of the same fraternity, and ran as hard as they could out of the hospital. Pockd Magazine. A RECEIPT FOR BREWING A TRAGEDY. •• Guns, trumpets, blunderbusses, drums, and thunder." Pope. Find a rascal (no difficult thing in this prolific age), give him a blood-stained dagger, and a tolerable head- piece, and throw him into the company of a discreet young gentleman, who admires his romantic qualities- ood-sized iniquity, and spin a page or so of sentiment to salve it over. Pick out an accommodating friend, who will second the villanies of the hero from a principle of the purest affection. Introduce him on the stage* with his eyes raised to heaven, and his hands in breeches-pocketj intimating thereby his scorn for pecuniary sacrifices. Get a pair of scales, and wei : i IT principal interviews in them, viz. between fri and friend, and friend and his mistress. Let them mce well, and shorten whichever weighs heaviest in tlii' scale. The first three acts may be taken up in rigmarole speeches, spiced morality, and sentiment cut and dried for tin; occasion; but in act the fifth It tin: ;: a prison, no matter where — time, no matter what, with the moonlight peering through the danj v. X. B. Nothing can be done w il h ml a moon, nol h il li - tiding tlic statute against lunacy. To proceed: let tin' hero be shown pacing with a i pace aero I he paved floor of his pri ion ; In" . for In >a nice* do not forge! to lei the chains clank now and then, or the audience will nol understand plot. Then let I »f orthodox sentiment gentlj i aud his spirit pour forth b de< i i • \ hark ' the cloi I i ounds tw< FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. — N. B. Let it be a very sulky clock, and it will afford food for mental apostrophe. — Dungeon door opens on its rusty hinges (the hinges must always be rusty), and the mistress of the hero turns in to him like Mr. Cole- ridge's Christabella, " with three paces and a stride." Let her by all means faint in his arms, as it will save a great deal of valuable conversation, which may be trans- ferred to your next farce. Let her gradually recover, and acquaint the audience (at least all those who are awake) that she has come to die with her lover, Don Manuel Griffgruffino. Let them both have a snug touch at the moon. — " O thou sweet moon!" or at each other — "O thou sweet !" When they have finished, it would be advisable that the clock should strike, with all due decorum, and the turnkey enter with the keys. Lady screams — gentleman storms — turnkey swears — hinges creak, and the orchestra strikes up a chorus. Let the next scene change to a gallows — gong bell sounds — muffled drums roll. Enter Jack Ketch with a song; this will have an electrical effect. Let the hero move majestically through the throng, fol- lowed by his mistress, with dishevelled hair, or a wig, whichever is most convenient. Another pathetic fare- well. Hero stations himself on the scaffold, — Lady shrieks, — Jack Ketch approaches with the night-cap. The don nobly repels the insult, tips the executioner a black eye, and then, with true dramatic disinterested- ness, leaves him his breeches as a legacy. Exeunt omnes. Curtain drops, and Don Manuel Griffgruffino pomes like a resurrection-man to announce the repe- tition of the piece. These are the requisites of a true tragedy-maker ; and by a strict adherence to these regulations, with a dig- nified contempt for all sense, nature, and precedent, immortality, or, what is synonymous with it, a few hun- dred guineas, will be obtained ; and the author will take out a patent for a monster, and be shown as such at the west end of the town, until llainoh Samee, or the musical clubs, rival him in geniui and celebrity. Cold's Loudon Magazine. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 235 THE COUNTRY CURATE. 1 agree with you, ray dear friend ; the physician who devotes his days to lengthening those of his fellow- creatures, the warrior who dies in defending his country, the advocate whose eloquence enforces justice, the writer whose genius does honour to his nation, have inde- feasible rights to our esteem ; but without pretending to tix the precise boundary to this sentiment, it is but natural to infer, that they are all stimulated by the hope of a worldly remuneration. Interest, ambition, and glory, are the incentives to their activity: deprive the physician and the advocate of their fees, propose to the soldier and the author no more than barren laurels, let fame drop her trumpet, and posterity re- DCe their gratitude, and you will then perhaps throw a damp on that ardent zeal which urges them for- ward in your service* that unbroken courage which enables them to triumph over death in the hope of immortality. " You think, then, that it is impossible to do a good action, for the mere pleasure which ihc doing of it affords." — " One docs a favour from lily, another from interest; the physician multiplies his visits to restore the health of a great lord, who ■ but slightly indisposed, and neglects the mechanic, who is dying in torture. The advocate measures the ' lit of his memory and the power of his eloquence ording to the means and the promises of his client. The soldier saves the life <>f bis commander to-day, and to-morrow solicits him for promotion. The usurer will lend to a ma n in power, from whom he never expects payment, bat who will every where vaunt his liberality, the looo/. which he refuses to a relation, who would have repaid him without Baying a word. In this age, a ction is done for the highest price that can be got for it. So mail;, people have made their fortunes ta I, that it is not at .ill astonishing people should be unwilling to do good ones for nothing — a man d< well only for bil own lake ' ingratitude, wli 236 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. is always ready to jump at an excuse, lias long vo- ciferated tliis maxim, ' When a kindness done is but <• matter of calculation, gratitude is mere weakness or hypocrisy,' " Such, or to such purpose, were the last sentences of a conversation held the other day with an old friend, ■who is foolish enough to perplex himself about the motive, where he ought to be content with the result. It was in vain that 1 contested his opinion, that I re- cited examples, and adduced names ; I could not con- vince him of the fallacy of Ids reasoning ; lie even went so far as to defy me to produce a man whose conduct could challenge a scrutiny into the secret motives by which it was actuated. Jealous for the honour of my species, I had Jong sought through Paris for an instance which should make a convert of him, when I recol- lected that I possessed a relation in the country, who might probably conquer the prejudices of my friend against the human race. The neighbourhood of a capital savours more or less of the vices which hold their court there ; corruption and the fine arts, intrigue and good breeding, ambition and taste, are not closely conhncd by the barriers. Some villages, however, escape the infection, and still possess a f.'.w obscure inhabitants, whose virtues have not been blasted by the curse of excessive civilisation. I scarcely dared suggest my hopes to Darvis (such was my friend's name)} one can be sure of nothing, and my cousin, whom 1 had not seen for a long time, might have altered in disposition. Frequently it de- pends not on ourselves to retain that which we have laboured to acquire, and so few people confine their views to one object. I contented myself with in- viting Darvis to pass the day with me at the village of Ant , which he agreed to do, for want of better amusement. At seven in the morning we started in a little carriage, intended to hold four, though not very conveniently, in which, though but two, our contact with each other was more forcible than pleasant. I remarked to my friend the civility of the driver, who, i- LOWERS OF LITERATURE. 237 Upon our representation that we were in a hurry, tor- mented both with words and whips a wretch of a horse, much too used to this species of discipline to suffer bis pace to !>e greatly accelerated by it, and who con- sented to increase his speed only, when having passed the harrier, lie found the vehicle contained but half its usual load. I relied upon this instance as somewhat in favour of my opinion, till Darvis stopped my mouth by reminding me of the trifle to drink which the ; million would expect at the end of our journey, and which the good youth himself did not fail to remind me of when we reached the parsonage. I had not told Darvis that my relation was a country curate, and he was pleased to hear it ; no doubt in the expectation that his reverend profession would furnish him with fresh food for sat- re on the duplicity of human pre- tension The good old Monimia, who received us in her master's absence, did the honours of the house with re cordiality than politeness. Darvis amused him- self by asking questions about the principal inhabitants of Ant , and in a few moments we were apprised that the neighbourhood possessed an important per- allied to an illustrious family, a man of great talent, who amused himself with composing dramatic proverbSj which were played at liis house every Tues- day; a manufacture of wax, the proprietor of which enrolled himself amongst the actors of M. dc B. ; a notary who sat down every Sunday in the church- warden's \» w, a retired attorney, who, at the repeated bis reverence, gave away a trifle in alms in ! Q; an infirm old lady, with whom my cousin eningj and two rich landholders, i lived in the country to make the most of their fortunes. Monimia -poke louder in praise of the wax manufactory, in whieii one of her nephews was em- I id. According >•> bei account, it spread affluence tli. ugh the whole district i its influence extended, in her oion, even to the population • Since the period of it- e tablishment, the number of baptisms had doubled, 238 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. which undoubtedly was to be attributed to tlie activity of the manufacture, as the registers of marriage afforded no clue to it. Monimia's observations on this head appeared conclusive ; but we were yet about to contest it, in the view of obtaining some more positive proofs or striking examples, when my cousin returned. ** An- other good work effected!" exclaimed he to himself, rubbing his hands, and desiring Monimia to lead miss Agatha down stairs ; then perceiving us, he welcomed us, begging us to excuse an emotion of joy, which he could not resist. " It is a marriage that I have just concluded," continued he : " the son of a country grocer unfortunately inspired with a passion a young wench of this village, who till that moment had never given to her parents any cause of complaint ; but the free- dom of intercourse enjoyed in the country is not always so innocent as it is reputed, which this poor girl soon found to her cost. She confessed her error to mc, and it would have remained a secret from the world, but for the indiscreet anger of her family, who repulsed her, and refused to see her again ; and Mo- nimia, to whom I believe she is distantly related, had the kindness to receive her. The disproportion of fortune was a serious obstacle to the marriage ; but I nevertheless sought out the young man. He ap- peared affected by the unhappiness he had occasioned, and evinced every disposition to repair it. I wrote to his parents, and had the satisfaction of overcoming all their objections. Last night I received their consent; I have just apprised the young man of it, who is gone to implore the pardon of Agatha's father and mother, and I am myself about to conduct the damsel to her paternal home, where a cordial reception awaits her." Miss Agatha made her appearance. She was a fine girl of about nineteen; lier complexion a little tinged by the sun, a lively black eye, a mouth too large to be pretty, but yet pleasing, and teeth of a dazzling white- ness, constituted her charms. She blushed on perceiving us, whilst the curate, with a kindness of manner which rendered the dignity of his office yet more venerable, TLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 239 announced to her the double happiness which was now her lot. lit- then gave her some advice as to the new duties which she would have to fulfil in society, which, though simple and touching, was pregnant with meaning and good sense. It resembled none of the harang I had before heard on the same subject; being very short, it was the more easy to remember, an advantage which, to judge by the length of their exhortations, some preachers totally renounce. My cousin then recollected that he had trone out before breakfasting, and now begged us to join him al hi? meal, a request which we did not give him the . trouble of repeating. The table was soon covered with the remains of a pie, a cold fowl, some sweetmeats, presents from the old lady whom Monimia had men- tioned to us, and some fruit which she had gathered in the orchard of the parsonage. The good man him- self went into the cellar to bring up a few bottles of his holiday wine. Monimia, guessing the wishes of her , laid a cover for mi>s Agatha, who, retired in a corner of the eating-room, was drying up the tears of joy which the communication of the curate had drawn from her. Monimia cautiously approaching us, whispered — " I perceive his reverence lias told yon the poor girl's story, but I am sure he has not acquainted you with half what be has done for her — how he has received her — " " No, on the contrary, he said it was yon." " Me! always me — really it puts me in such a - I that do his good actions, and heaven be praised, the catalogue is long!" The angei of Monimia amused Darvis, and when the curate ap- peared , I observed thai he gazed at him with respectful astonishment. " A f< w moments more," said 1 to my- If, " and mj CS ed." Our br» full of pleasantry : the curate in quired the newji of the capital: he seldom visited it miss Agatl had quitted the room, now re-ap- peared. She had put on a pelisse of coloured gauze, a bonnet of mu lin, white cotton stockings, andberdr 240 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. thus neat and simple, added greatly to her attraction ; but nothing embellishes youth so much as happiness. Just as we were about to depart, the door opened, and the father and mother of Agatha threw themselves at the feet of the curate. We raised them, and enjoined silence ; he then placed Agatha in their arms, and, hurrying from their thanks, requested them to repair to the house of M. T. This good curate ! he had thought of every thing; he had been to the notary, and upon the strength of sitting in the churchwarden's pew, M. T. had consented to draw up gratis the mar- riage contract. Every man likes to show his own territory : the curate conducted us to his church. Some few pictures, the de- signs of which only could be praised, decorated its three chapels ; a tapestry, the fruits of many years patient labour of an old lady in the parish, ornamented the altar; the church contained only a few benches, and no chairs, whence it resulted that the service could never be interrupted by any disputes about paying for them; a few bunches of green and purple grapes hung from the neck of a virgin of plaster, placed in the middle of the building, opposite to the pulpit; it was the offering of the vine-dresser of the village, who yearly consecrated the first-fruits of the vintage. The solemn silence which reigned over the place was now interrupted by the sobbings of an old woman, who, bathed in tears, came to beg the curate to bury her hus- band. Her grief had more incentives than one. She leaned towards the pastor's ear, but I thought I could distinguish the words " extreme poverty and expenses of the funeral," in connexion. "Don't be disturbed about that," replied my relation, giving her some small pieces of money ; and he immediately gave orders to prepare for the funeral the same day. The poor wo- man went away half consoled. The garden of the parsonage, the usual promenade of the curate, as well as his little dwelling, was likewise visited by us. I cast an eye over his library; the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 241 Henriade had a place there. He had decorated his parlour with a few paintings, purchased by chance, and which he explained to us in a manner peculiar to himself. Pausanias invoking the shade of Cleonice, was, in his version, the Witch of Endor raising the ghost of Samuel; and the vengeance of the young Ro- man girl, Chiomari, beheading her ravisher, passed with him for Judith despatching Holofernes. Men more skilled on the subject than himself might have made similar mistakes. Whilst we were examining the furniture with a minute attention which gratified our worthy host, a domestic in a showy livery came to beg the attendance of the curate at his master's house, the Castle of H — . Monimia listened to this communication with marked impatience; she was making the most imperative ges- tures to the curate ; but he, without paying any atten- tion to the old housekeeper, promised the messenger that he would follow him without delay. Monimia showed him out, grumbling all the way, and as soon as he was gone, returning hastily to us, she thus addressed her master : "What! and will you then go, sir?'' " Most certainly." " Tpon so haughty an invitation, you go to the house of a man who, whenever you solicit his charity for the poor of the parish, treats you with the utmost coldness!" "Monimia!" "Von quit these gentlemen, with whom you are \erv pleasant, to expose yourself to new humiliations 1" "I know only my duty !" "Ali, that's always it: your duty! that single word would carry you to the end of the world. I can for- give yon tor passing the night with a sick man, though it does affect your health " " Monimia!" " 1 can forgive you for making an annua] allowance to nephews who are richer than yourself " "Monimia!" "I can forgive you the money which you ordered me to give to poor Belborme, and the wine I was io carrv to the widow Bidault, the assistance that " A sharp look from the curate silenced the reproaches of Mo- nimia. " Well, it's enough, yoor reverence*" said she, in a softened tone, presenting lii in bill hat and cane, VOL. III. M 242 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. which she dusted with her handkerchief ; " I liad for- gotten that there were strangers present, and that you permit me to scold you only when wc are alone." My cousin then went out, begging us to await his return, which we promised him i what we had heard excited our interest too powerfully not to induce us to wish to hear more. We resolved to tax the communi- cativeness of Monimia : she wished no better than to place all her resources at our service, and with all possible volubility, she recited to us, in language the original simplicity of which I regret my inability entirely to retain, the following account of her master's daily em- ployments. " My master usually rises with the sun. After hav- ing performed his devotions, he goes into his garden ; he stops before every plant, to admire its progress ; he frees it carefully of any thing that may encumber it, and, with the watering pot in his hand, traverses every walk in the kitchen-garden. This is one of his fa- vourite employments j it is a pleasure so pure, so tranquil, it costs no regrets ; flowers are the chief objects of his care ; he cultivates them with more than ordinary attention : the finest of them serve to decorate the church, the others die on his mantel-piece. At eight o'clock he returns to the house, dresses him- self, and says mass, which is served by a young orphan lad, with whom, in spite of my suggestions, he has en- cumbered himself, and whom he has brought up ever since he was five years old. A few old men whose age is past work, some young ladies, daughters of wealthy parents, children who are preparing for their first com- munion, and a few rich people, who come to pass a few months in the country for the sake of variety, usually assist at the divine office. They are brought together by no extraneous attraction ; it is neither the music of the service, nor the eloquence of the preaching, nor the pomp of the ceremony, which leads them to the church ; they come to pray. Heaven send it were the same every where ! " To work is to pray, says his reverence, who never FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 243 complains of the absence of his parishioners during the week, so long as he enjoys the satisfaction of seeing them assembled on the Sunday. On that day, mass is performed at an hour convenient to all the inha- bitants, and it receives additional splendour only from an increased audience. As there is no man in our village employed both at the church and at the opera, the mass is never delayed whilst the singer is fetched from the opera-house, and half of the vespers is not omitted, to give time to some figurante to reach the theatre before the curtain rises. Neither have we any of those fine musical masses, with duets and trios in the style of operas: and when the collection is to be made, his reverence does not choose the prettiest wo- man, whose beauty might awaken profane thoughts, nor the richest, who might dazzle by the splendour of her attire, but the most discreet, the most modest, who accepts the office with gratitude, and performs it with decency. This honour excites the emulation of all the young damsels in the village, and their very rivalry is an homage to virtue. " And yet I am compelled to confess, and I tell it you in confidence, that some of those, who during the week arc most assiduous in their pious exercises, seem to derive no benefit whatever from it. There is a rich merchant, who never omits to attend mass, and yet cannot get rid of his habit of selling dearer than every one else. At church, his devotio-Q is most edifying, but at home his inattention is so great, that be usually gives short weight. I have been obliged to forsake his shop, and f wafl sorry for it, because he has, through all the country, a much greater reputation for probity than the man with whom 1 now ileal; but the latter sells cheaper and better, — things not to be neglected in an economical household. " The curate seldom omits after mat • to take a walk through the village. Sometime- he endeavours to excite the compaction of bis rich parishioners towards poor people, who have not the confidence to beg for them- selves; sometimes he assists in the parish school; he u 2 244 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. questions the children, and thus satisfies himself at once of their progress and of the fidelity of the master. His visits are not all attended with the same happy con- sequences : wealth has its scruples to avoid charity; some people will not give alms to encourage mendicity; and fear to give in one instance, lest they should be drawn into a habit of it. " But money alone will not always console mis- fortune ; there are griefs which riches cannot remedy, tears which bounty cannot dry up, and his reverence varies his attention as the case requires ; to one he gives, another he consoles, and frequently pours the balm of hope into the rankling wounds of wretched- ness. Indulgent as the religion he professes, he com- passionates both the miseries and the weaknesses of hu- manity : the mild eloquence of his remonstrances have brought back more than one stray sheep to the fold ; and when a hapless victim, whose life has been blasted by the withering breath of scepticism, is about to resign himself to the sleep which he believes eternal, our good curate, appalled by no difficulties, glides softly to his pillow, and by his energetic discourse, his touching and paternal exhortations, infuses conviction and remorse into his soul, which he fosters to a saving repentance. Thanks to his humanity, in this village, even the hardened criminal is not suffered to die in despair. " The burying-ground, which you see there, through the w indow, is also one of his accustomed walks ; it is there principally that he reads his breviary; seated on a tomb, as he says, on the very brink of corruption and of eternity, he meditates on his sermons for the great festivals. I have sometimes listened to him re- hearsing them, and nothing gives him greater pleasure than to find me moved to tears by overhearing them ; it is true, that this is generally the prelude to the whole village doing the same. " Our burying-ground docs not boast the mag- nificence of those of the capital ; our parishioners have not the rage for building fine tombs; they erect dwellings rather for their posterity than for their car- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 245 casses " and as I now pointed out to her one, which seemed at variance with her assertion, she hastened to apprize me, that the two columns of white marble in- dicated the spot where the Baron de Bro — was to have been buried. This rich young nobleman had bought the ground at a dear rate, and after having himself superintended the plan for his last abode, after having directed the work and chosen the decorations, had died on board a frigate on her way to the Indies, and had found a simple grave in the sea. " And thus," observed I to Darvis, " Fortune does not ensure to the man who proposes it, even the occupation of his own tomb." M My master," continued Monimia, " mostly dines at home, but rarely alone. Sometimes he rises from table at the very beginning of his meal, to go to the assistance of some of his parishioners, for he never suffers them to wait for him. I may well scold him, represent to him how injurious it is to his health to do so ; but he excuses himself to his guests, and goes away without answering me. "I recollect one day that I left him, after having served up dinner, and what was my surprise, on my return, to behold a whole family seated at the table, devouring his meal, whilst he, standing behind them, the bottle in his hand, * as filling by turns to the father, the mother, and two children. I was choked by my tears, and could say nothing. The curate, who could not understand w hy I should be so much affected, begged mc to go flown again into the cellar, and I could not help obeying bin. " It is usually in the afternoon that lie examines in the catechism : lie admits all children, of whatever rank, without distinction • he is equally kind to all, and this equal distribution of his favours excites a laudable emulation amongst them ; it gives to smnc a desirable degree of confidence, and imposes on others a neces* ian restraint, both of which have a most beneficial influence on their conduct, lie is of opinion that to inspire children with the love of virtue, \ou must first set them the example* 246 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. " In the evening, he sometimes attends the parties of some of his neighbours, or invites them to join his j and I have always admired his complaisance to acrowd of ori- ginals, to whose caprices and humours he pays an atten- tion that angers me. Piquet and trictrac are the usual games of these parties, and the gains consigned to a box for the benefit of the poor: thus those who lose do good, and the unfortunate mutually assist each other." Monimia, after taking breath, was about to enter on a fresh chapter of her master's culogium, when he abruptly entered, and thus addressed us : " Heaven has sent you here to assist me to perform a good action. The man, from whose house I have just come, is one of those whom fate has loaded with a splendid misery. The foundling of fortune, she has crushed him beneath her favours. Discreet enough to do himself justice, and always surprised at his successes, he trembles to enjoy them. Convinced by hourly observation that money is the representative of every thing that is valuable, he has exchanged part of his wealth for the semblance of love and part for the appearances of friendship. Averse to a lasting tie, he has purchased the shame of giving existence to children, whom he does not permit to call him father. Skilled in affairs of merchandise, he has thrown a golden veil over his errors, and fortune has gratified him with the public esteem. Powerful men have entreated him to grant the honour of his name to their daughters; and his sons, wiser than himself, have formed legitimate alliances. Yet this fortunate man, abandoned by health, which for a long time deceived his age and his wishes, sees, fast approaching, the term of a life, which has been a continued succession of plea- sures and gaiety ; and this man, who could not leave his name to his children, is now anxious to deprive them of their inheritance. I found him dictating to his notary a will, which would be a monument of the most stupid cruelty, lie leaves castles and houses to those who for a moment called themselves his friends ; he pays his servants with annuities, and his flatterers with jewels; and from the list of his legatees he excludes FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 247 only his children. My remonstrances have a little shaken his determination, and I do not doubt that the presence of those whom he is about to disinherit would altogether change his purpose. Hasten then imme- diately in search of them, and if possible bring them hither before night-fall 3 something whispers to my heart that we shall succeed." I immediately took leave of my cousin, and Monimia politely attended us to the place where our carriage waited for us. Darvis said nothing ; what he had seen and heard convinced him that he had too precipitately condemned mankind; and yet I confess 1 should have been very much embarrassed, if he had deferred his conversion till I could have brought forward two more such ex- amples. Just as we were mounting the little vehicle that was to take us to Paris, Monimia twitched mc by the sleeve. " I hope, sir," said she, " that you will not betray my confidence. My master cannot but gain by being known ; but he would never forgive me for having said so much good of him ; and the other persons named perhaps might be hurt by my observations. Every body wishes to be thought otherwise than ridiculous, and they never pardon those who draw back the curtain to expose them to public notice : you may say what you will of their virtues, their talents, their fortunes ; such praises never cure the wounds inflicted on their self-love." 1 calmed Monimia' 8 anxiety as to the consequences of her communicativeness! but I dared not promise her absolute sccrecv, for 1 felt an inward determination to pursue an opposite course. FORTUNE'S PAGEANT. THINS of this world, my friend, as of a show Of antic pageantry, that, round and round, Stalks o'er the Stage of -<>me wide theatre, The gaze of vaeant eyes. Behind tin: scenes, 248 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Fortune, the manager, her subject crew 0[ actors marshalling, assigns to each, As fickle fancy moves, the destined part ; And him she bids to strut, in purple robe, With diadem on brow, and scepter'd hand, A seeming monarch ; scarce he deigns a glance On the base courtier group, that, crouching low, Press on his sweeping train. Behind him walks, Bent with the cares of slate, and shaking oft His empty skull, as if with projects deep Labouring perplcx'd, the sapient minister. Next truncheon'd generals, in warlike pomp, With sword, and scarf, and gorget, march along, A splendid terror to the sons of peace. Nor want there peruked sages of the law, Nor mitred priests their sanctimonious pride In lowly gestures veiling. Gowns of fur, (»old chains and maces, halbcrts, trumpets, flags, Fill up the motley scene ; a rabble rout Follows, with loud huzzas and secret groans. Thus round and round they pace : the sportive dame.. Fortune, meanwhile, surveys her passing train, And oft, as sways the wayward mood, she darts Amid the crowd, and seizing, witli strong hand, Some high rank'd actor, whirls him from his post Down to the rear, and stripping off his spoils, Scarlet or ermine, with the tawdry load Invests some ragged favourite of the throng, And, laughing, leads him up : the wretch displaced, Forgetful that to her his transient state He owed, a puppet of her garish show, Bewails his lot, and loudly speaks his wrongs, While pleased beholders grin malicious scorn. At length the curtain falls — the pageant mask, Kings, satraps, pontiffs, statesmen, warriors, all Drop off, and leave an undistinguish'd mass. Of levell'd nothingness. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 249 PUSS MARTIN 3 A TALE. FROM THE GERMAN OF ARNDT. In the village of Putzanle lived a rich peasant, by name Trine Pipers. She was a young handsome widow, without children, and of course had many suitors, who were desirous of fortune, though purchased with the incumbrance of a wife. But Trine was deaf to all amo- rous propositions ; a circumstance that mightily asto- nished her neighbours, for she was a merry widow, who loved pleasure, and spent her whole time in mirth and feasting, Hut if their wonder was excited by her aversion to matrimony, they were not a jot less asto- nished at this continued splendour. Their surprise, moreover, was strongly seasoned with envy, and they therefore indulged in the only consolation usual under such circumstances, that is, they prophesied a speedy downfall to t lie object that had so much offended them by being happier and merrier than themselves. Some said, that in a few years she would beg her bread from door to door ; while others, who were contented to al- low her the goods of this world, comforted themselves with the idea of her being damned in the other. Nay, they went so far as to protest that she had sold herself to the devil, who would shortly come and bear her off in a whirlwind. Hut somehow or another it happened, that she neither carried a wallet as a beggar, nor was carried off by the devil as a sinner. All went on in its wonted course ; Trine lived merrily like a lusty widow, and the neighbours flattered her to her face, while their ■lander behind her back was in exact proportion to their advlation. In the line cum- nothing was too good for her, in the other nothing was bad enough; and they certainly might be better taxed with any fault than tie' want of invent ion. In this way passed twenty years, when Trine took it into her head to keep a cat, which the fancy of her neighbours immediately converted into a familiar. No- U .". 250 flowers of literature. thing, indeed, could be more plain. Trine was old, there- fore she was a Mitch ; Trine kept a cat, therefore she was a witch ; and what was a witch without a familiar? And what form so fit for a familiar as that of a spotted cat? Besides, none could tell whence this cat came from, so the thing was clear beyond a question. The widow, however, only laughed at these wise conclusions, and seemed to become more attached to puss in proportion to the clamour of her neighbours. The fact was, that Trine grew old and solitary ; she had no children, no relations ; the cat was the only thing on earth that really loved her ; and the heart that age had closed to all else, was yet open to this single ob- ject of affection. Mow could it be otherwise ? But amongst the ignorant and superstitious peasantry of a remote village the report was fatal. The charge of witchcraft, like the imputation of madness, is sure to confirm itself; actions, which in others would not be noticed, are so many proofs of the accusation with those who have been blighted by its fatal mildew. And so it was with Trine : her familiarity with the cat ; the animal's three colours ; the white speck on its foot ; all were so many tokens of the witch. Her friends dropped off, her servants fled in terror. Incapacitated by age from superintending her affairs, her property was en- trusted to the dregs of mankind — to knaves and profli- gates ; for who else would serve the witch ? None that had a character to lose would come within her circle. Ruin followed ; her farm was neglected, her wealth plundered, and in two years poverty had extinguished the fire on her hearth. One morning the widow Wft9 found dead, and the faithful cat beside her. YOUTH BETRAYED. A few years ago, the green of a rich bleacher in the north of Ireland had been frequently robbed at night to a very considerable amount, notwithstanding the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 251 utmost vigilance of the proprietor and his servants to protect it, and without the slightest clue being fur- nished for the detection of the robber. Effectually and repeatedly baffled by the ingenuity of the thief or thieves, the proprietor at length offered a reward of 100/. for the apprehension of any person or persons detected robbing the green. A few days after this proclamation, the master was at midnight raised from his bed by the alarm of a faith- ful servant, '•' there was somebody with a lantern cross- ing the green." The master started from his bed, flew to the window, —it was so: he hurried on his clothes,, armed himself with a pistol ; the servant flew for his loaded musket, and tliey cautiously followed the light. The person with tlie lantern (a man) was, as they ap- proached, on tip-toe, distinctly seen stooping and groping on the ground ; he was seen lifting and tum- bling the linen. The servant tired; the robber fell. The man and master now proceeded to examine the spot. The robber was dead; he was recognized to be a youth about nineteen, who resided a few fields off. The linen was cut across ; bundles of it were tied up ; and upon searching and examining farther, the servant. in the presence of his master, picked up a penknife, with the name of the unhappy youth engraved upon the handle. The evidence was conclusive, for in the morn- ing the lantern was acknowledged by the afflicted and implicated father of the boy to be his lantern. De- fence was dumb. The faithful servant received the hundred pounds re- ward, and u:is In ides promoted to be the confidential overseer of the establishment ■ This faithful servant, this confidential overseer, was ihortly after proved to have been himself the thief, and was banged at Dnndalk for the murder of the youth whom he bad Cruelly betrayed. It appeared, upon the Clearest evidence, and by the dying confet ion and d< icription of the wretch himself, that all this circumstantial evidence was pre-concerted 252 FLOWERS OF LITERATUKK. by him, not only to screen himself from the imputa- tion of former robberies, but to get the hundred pounds reward. The dupe, the victim he chose for this diabolical purpose, was artless, affectionate, and obliging. The boy had a favourite knife, a penknife, with his name engraved upon its handle. The first act of this fiend was to coax him to give him that knife as a keepsake. On the evening of the fatal day, the miscreant prepared the bleach-green, the theatre of this melancholy tra- gedy, for his performance. He tore the linen from the pegs in some places, he cut it across in others ; he turned it up in heaps ; he tied it up in bundles, as if ready to be removed, and placed the favourite knife, the keepsake, in one of the cuts he had himself made. Matters being thus prepared, he invited the devoted youth to supper, and as the nights were dark, he told him to bring the lantern to light him home. At supper, or after, he artfully turned the conversation upon the favourite knife, which he affected with great concern to miss, and pretending that the last recollection he had of it was using it on a particular spot of the bleach- green, described that spot to the obliging boy, and begged him to see if it was there. He lit the lantern which he had been desired to bring with him to light him home, and with alacrity proceeded upon his fatal errand. As soon as the monster saw his victim was com- pletely in the snare, he gave the alarm, and the melan- choly crime described was the result. Could there have been possibly a stronger case of circumstantial evidence than this ? The young man seemed actually caught in the fact. There was the knife with his name on it ; the linen cut, tied up in bundles, and the lantern acknowledged by his father. The time, past midnight. The master himself present, a man of the fairest character ; the servant, of un- blemished reputation. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 253 DESCRIPTION OF THE LAND CRAB. TnE cancer ruricola, land crab, or violet crab, with a smooth entire thorax, and the two last joints of the feet armed with spines, inhabits the Bahama islands, as well as most lands between the tropics, and feeds upon vegetables. These animals live not only in a kind of orderly society in their retreats in the mountains, but regularly once in a year march down to the sea side in a body of some millions at a time. As they multi- ply in great numbers, they choose the month of April or May to begin their expedition ; and then sally out by myriads from the stumps of hollow trees, from the clefts of rocks, and from the holes which they dig for themselves under the surface of the earth. At that time the whole ground is covered with this band of ad- venturers ; there is no setting down one's foot without treading on them. The sea is their place of destina- tion, and to that they direct their march with right- lined precision. No geometrician could send them to their station by a shorter course ; they neither turn to the right nor the left, whatever obstacles intervene ; and even if they meet with a house, they will attempt to scale the walls to keep the unbroken tenor of their way. But though this be the general order of their route, they, upon other occasions, are obliged to con- form to the face of the country; and if it is intersected with rivers, they are then seen to wind along the course of the stream. The procession sets forward from the mountains with the regularity of an army under an ex- perienced commander. They are commonly divided into three battalions, of which tin' first consists of the Strongest and boldest males, u ho, like |iioneers, march forward to clear the route, and face the greatest dangers. They are often obligCd to halt lor want of rain, and to go into the most convenient encampment till tin; wea- ther changes. The main liody of the army is composed of females, which never leave the mountains till tin- rain is set in for some time, ami then descend in re- gular battalia, being formed into columns of fifty paces 254 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. broad, and three miles deep, and so close that they al- most cover the ground. The rear guard follows, three or four days after ; a straggling undisciplined tribe, consisting of males and females, but not so vigorous as the former. The night is their chief time of proceed- ing j but if it rains by day, they do not fail to profit by the occasion ; and they continue to move forward in their slow uniform manner. When the sun shines, and is hot on the surface of the ground, they make an uni- versal halt, and wait till the cool of the evening. When they are terrified, they march back in a confused dis- orderly manner, holding up their nippers, with which they sometimes tear off a piece of the skin, and then leave the weapon where they inflicted the wound. They even try to intimidate their enemies ; for they often clatter their nippers together, as if to threaten those that disturb them. But though they thus strive to be formidable to man, they are much more so to each other ; for they are possessed of one most unsocial property which is, that if any of them by accident is maimed in such a manner as to be incapable of proceeding, the rest fall upon and devour it on the spot, and then pursue their journey. When, after a fatiguing march, and escaping a thousand dangers (for they arc sometimes three months in getting to the shore), they have arrived at their destined port, they prepare to cast their spawn. The peas are yet within their bodies, and not excluded, as is usual in animals of the kind, under the tail 5 for the creature waits for the benefit of the sea water to help the delivery. It has no sooner reached the shore, than it goes to the edge of the water, and lets the waves wash over its body two or three times. This seems only a preparation for bringing the spawn to maturity; for without further delay, they withdraw to seek a lodg- ing upon land. In the mean time the spawn grows larger, is excluded out of the body, and sticks to the barbs under the flap, or more properly the tail. This bunch is seen as big as a hen's egg, and exactly resem- bling the rocs of herrings. In this state they once more seek the shore for the last time ; and shaking off their FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 255 spawn into the water, leave accident to bring it to ma- turity. At this time whole shoals of hungry fish are at the shore in expectation of this annual supply; the sea to a great distance seems black with them ; and about two-thirds of the crabs' eggs are immediately devoured by these rapacious invaders. The eggs that escape are hatched under the sand, and soon after millions at a time of these little crabs are seen quitting the shore, and slowly travelling up to the mountains. The old ones, however, are not so active to return ; they have become so feeble and lean, that they can hardly creep along, and the flesh at that time changes its colour. Most of them, therefore, are obliged to continue in the flat parts of the country, till they recover, making holes in the earth, which they cover at the mouth with leaves and dirt, that no air may enter. There they throw off their old shells, which they leave quite whole, the place where they opened on the belly being unseen. At that time they are quite naked, and almost without, motion for six days together, when they become so fat as to be delicious food. They have then under their stomachs four large white stones, which gradually de- crease in proportion as the shell hardens, and, when they come to perfection, are not to be found. It is at that time that the animal is seen slowly making its way back, which is commonly performed in six weeks. This animal, when possessed <>f its retreats in the mountains, is impregnable ; for, only subsisting on vegetables, it seldom ventures <>ut ; and its habitation being in the most inaccessible places, it remains for a great part of the season in perfect security. It is only when im- pelled by the desire of bringing forth its young, and when compelled to descend into the flat country, that it is taken. At that time the natives wait for its de- scent in eager expectation, and destroy thousands'; but, disregarding their bodies, they only seek for that small Spawn Which lies On each side of the stomach within the shell, of about the thick , of a man's thumb. They are much more valuable upon their return after 256 LOWERS OF LITERATURE. tlicy have cast their shell ; for, being covered with a skin resembling soft parchment, almost every part ex- cept the stomach may be eaten. They are taken in the holes by feeling for them with an instrument ; they are sought after by night, when on their journey, by flam- beaux. The instant the animal perceives itself at- tacked, it throws itself on its back, and with its claws pinches most terribly whatever it happens to fasten on. But the dexterous crab-catcher takes them by the hinder legs in such a manner that the nippers cannot touch him, and thus lie throws them into his bag. Sometimes also they are caught when they take refuge in the bot- toms of holes in rocks by the sea side, by covering the mouth of the hole to prevent them getting out ; and then, soon after, the tide coming, enters the hole, and the animal is found, upon its ebbing, drowned in its retreat. These crabs are of various sizes, the largest about six inches wide ; they walk sideways, like the sea crab, and are shaped like them. Some are black, some yellow, some red, and others variegated with red, white, - and yellow mixed. Some of these are poisonous ; and several people have died by eating them, particularly the black kind. The light-coloured are reckoned the best, and, when full in flesh, are very well tasted. In some of the sugar islands they are eaten without danger; and are no small help to the negro slaves, who, on many of these islands, would fare very hardly without them. WAR-SONG OF OUTALISSI, ONE OF THE CHARACTERS IN GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. " And I could weep ?" — th' Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun : " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son ! Or bow this head in woe; FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 257 For by my wrongs, and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heav'n with storms of death), Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foemau's blood, the avenger's joy ! To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, Ah ! w hither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home? — The hand is j^one that cropp'd its flowers : Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs ! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! Or shall wc cross you mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd j And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah ! there in desolation cold, Tin: desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mould' ring bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are deal li-like old. Then seek we not their camp — for there The silence dwells of my despair ! But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears •. I'.v'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears, Amid t the clouds that round ns roll • lb- bids my SOU] l"r battle thirst — He bid- me di j the last — 1 1 e fii t — 258 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief." Campbell. THE HUSBAND, WIFE, AND FRIEND. In the city of Sienna in Italy, famous for its sweet voices and pleasant air, lived a sprightly and accom- plished young man of the name of Cialgano, who had long loved in vain the wife of one signor Stricca. He knew nothing of the husband, except that he was what we call a respectable man ; and something or other in his mind prevented him from making his acquaintance ; but he contrived to meet the lady wherever he could at other men's houses, and to let her know the extent of his admiration. He wore her colours at tournaments. He played and sung to the mandoline under her window, when her husband was away. He was always of her opinion in company, partly because he was in love, and partly because their dispositions were so alike that he really thought as she did. One evening, as a party sat out on a large wide balcony full of orange-trees, listen- ing to music that was going on inside of the house, madonna Minoccia (such was the lady's name) dropped a small jewel in one of the trees ; and as he was help- ing her to find it, her sweet stooping face and spicy- smelling hair appeared so lovely among the polished and graceful leaves, that he could not but steal a kiss upon one of her eyelids, adding, in a low and earnest voice, " Forgive me, for I could not help it." Whether the sincere and respectful manner in which these words were uttered had any influence upon the lady'6 mind, we cannot say ; but neither on this nor on future occasions, when he sent her presents and letters, did she return any answer, kind or unkind ; nor did she show him a different countenance when- FLO WEES OF LITERATURE. 259 ever they met. She only dropped her eyes a little more than usual when he spoke to her; but whether again this was owing to a wish to avoid looking at him, or to some little feeling of self-love, perhaps unknown to herself, aud produced by the recollection of that irre- pressible movement on his part, is not to be ascertained. Some ladies will say, that she ought to have made a complaint to her husband, or spoken to the people whom be visited, or looked the man into the dust at once ; and doubtless this would have settled the matter on all sides. But madonna Minnoccia was of so kind a disposition, that she could not easily find it in her heart to complain of any body, much less of a man who found such irresistible gentleness in her eyelids. Besides, whatever may be thought of her vanity in this score, she was really so good, and innocent, and modest, that we know not how much it would have taken to con- vince her fully of any one's being really in love with her, or admiring her more than any other ladies, for qua- lities which she thought so many of them must have in common. In short, madonna, though innocent, was not ignorant that gallantry was very common in Sienna. Her husband, who was a very honest, sincere-hearted man, had told her that all unmarried young men had their vagaries ; and, as for that matter, many very grave- looking married people too; and she thought, that if a husband, whom she loved, and whose word she could rely on, set her an example nevertheless of conjugal fidelity, she could not do better than do her duty quietly and without ostentation, and think of these odd pro* cecd ; n<_!s both as good-naturedly and rarely as possible. Unfortunately for Galgano, this kind of temper was the worst thing in the world to make him leave off his love. Id had habitually got a common notion of gal- lantry from the light in which it was generally re- garded; bul this instinct was better. The subtlety of low made him discover what was passing in Minoccia's mind j and a - he had the elements of true modesty in him M well as herself, and would waul much to he con- vinced that a Woman really loved him, whatever might 260 FLOWERS OV LITERATURE. be his affection for her, or rather in proportion to the sincerity of it, he thought that she only treated him as she would any other young man who had paid her un- welcome attention. Jiut then to see how kind she still was — to observe no change in her, for all his unwel- comeness, but only such as might be construed into a gentle request to him to forbear — in short, to meet with a woman who neither showed a disposition to gal- lantry, nor resentment against the manifestation of it, nor a coldness that might he construed into natural in- difference, all this made him so much in love, that he thought his very being failed him, and wanted replenish- ing, if he was a day without seeing her. He took a lodging opposite signor Stricca's house ; and in order to indulge himself in looking at her without being dis- covered, filled the window of his room with orange trees. At times, when every thing was still, and the windows were open in the warm summer-time, he heard her voice speaking to the servants. " It is the same kind voice," said he, " always." At other times, he sat watching her through his orange trees, as she read a book, or worked at her embroidery ; and if she left off, and happened to look at them (which he often moved about with a noise for that purpose), it seemed to him as if her face was coming again among the leaves. Then he thought it would never come, and that he should never touch it more ; and he felt sick with im- patience, and said to himself, " This is the way these virtuous people are kind, is it ?" It chanced that signor Stricca took a house at a little distance from Sienna, where his wife, who was fond of a garden, from that time forth always resided. Gal- gano, who was like a bird with a string tied to his >eg, be sure flew after them. He found a room in a cottage just pitched like his former one. The orange trees were removed, and he recommenced his enamoured task, fully resolved besides to get intimate with signor Stricca, and try what importunity could do in the coun- try. " I think," said madonna Minoccia to her maid- servant, looking out of the window, " I can never turn FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 261 my eyes any where but I see beautiful orange-trees." — <" Ah," sighed Galgano, "the turning of those eyes ! They ought always to light upon what is beautiful." " I could swear," said madonna, " if my husband would let me, that those were the very same oranges which belonged to our invisible neighbour at Sienna, only he must be too old a bachelor to change his quarters." And she began to sing a canzonet that was all over the country : " Arancie, belle arancie, Pienotte come guancie,"— Here she suddenly stopped, and said, " I am very giddy to-dav, to sing such lawless little rhymes ; but the skies are so blue, and the leaves so green, they make me chant like a bird. I can see my husband now with a bird's eye. There he is, Lisetta, coming through the olive trees. Go and get me my veil, and I'll walk and meet him like a fair unknown." — " The invisible neighbour ?" thought Galgano: — " is this coquetry now, or is it sheer innocence ami vivacity? and the song of the oranges ! I'll try, however — I'll look at her above the leaves." \n\\ the reader must be informed that Galgano him- self was the author of this canzonet, both words and music, and was generally known as such. Whether Minoccia knew it, we cannot determine ; but Galgano thought that she could hardly have quite forgotten the adventure of the orange tree, especially as the song was calculated to call it to mind. The whole of the words amounted to this : f)li orange*, nreet oranges, Plumpy cheeki tri.tt peep in trees, The crabbed'at churl in all the south Would li;ir»Uy let a thirsty mouth i • i/e at ye, and long to taste, N'T grant one golden kiss at last. La, l.i. la. la si.l f.i mi • .My lady lcxik'd through the orangc-trec. Y. t cluck then arc vet checks there arc, Sweeter — <) good Goo, bow far! — 262 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. That make a thirst like very death Down to the heart through lips and breath ; And if we ask'd a taste of those, The kindest owners would turn foes. O la, la — la sol fa mi — My lady's gone from the orange-tree. Galgano, full of this modest complaint against hus- bands, and of Minoccia's knowledge of it, suddenly raised his head over the orange-pots, and made a very bold yet courteous bow full in madonna's astonished face. For it was astonished : — there was, unfortunately, no doubt of that. She resumed herself, however, with the best grace she could, and staying just long enough to drop one of her kindest though gravest courtesies, walked slowly from the window. After that he never saw her there again. Galgano tried all the points of view about the house, but could only catch an occasional glimpse of her through the garden trees. He could not even meet with signor Stricca, to whom he meant under some plausible pretext to introduce himself. At length, how- ever, a favourable opportunity occurred. His dog, in scouring hither and thither, had darted into the front gate of tiie house, and seemed resolved not to be hunted out till he had made the full circuit of the grounds. "My master, sir," said one of the servants, " bade me ask you if you would choose to walk in and call the dog out yourself?" " I thank you," answered Galgano, who seemed to feel that he could not go in, precisely because he had the best opportunity in the world ; " I will whistle him to me over those palings there." He did so, and the dog presently appeared, followed by signor Stricca and his household. The animal, in leap- ing to his master over the palings, hurt his log ; but nothing could induce Galgano to enter the house. " Minoccia, my love," cried the host, " why do you not come up, and entreat signor Galgano to favour our home with his presence ?" The lady was approaching, when Galgano, lapping up the wounded dog in his cloak, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 263 hurried off, protesting that he had the rascalliest busi- ness in life to attend to, and that — and that he would take the very earliest opportunity of repaying himself for his loss. " There now," said Stricca, to a coxcom- bical-looking fellow, who was on a holiday visit to him, " there is one of the most accomplished gentlemen in all Italy, and yet he does not disdain to wrap up his bleeding dog in his silken coat. "That," continued he to his wife, " is signer Galgano, one of the finest wits in Sienna, and what is better, one of the most ge- nerous of men. But you must have seen him before?" " Yes," replied madonna, but I knew nothing of his ge- nerosity." Her husband, like one generous man speak- ing of another, related twenty different instances in which Galgano had manifested his friendship and libe- rality in the most delicate manner ; so that Minoccia, at last, almost began to feel the kiss in the orange-tree stronger upon her eyelids than she did when it was stolen. Galgano soon made his appearance in signor Stricca's house, and could not but perceive that the lady suffered herself to look kinder at him than when he bowed to her out of the cottage window. He was beginning to congratulate himself, after the fashion of the young gallants among whom he had been brought up ; but what perplexed him was the extremely affectionate at- tention she paid her husband ; and his perplexity was not diminished by the very great kindness shown him by the husband himself. Indeed, the kindness of both seemed logo band in hand; so that our hero, having never yet been taught that a lady to whom a stranger had shown attention could do anything but favour him entirely, or laugh at or insult him, was more than ever bewildered between his respect for the husband and in- creasing passion for the wife. Galgano, though not in so many words, pressed bis suit in B manner that grew wanner every day. Mi- iii n med more and more distressed at it ; and yet her kindness appeared to increase in proportion. At length, one afternoon, as the] sat together in a sum- 264 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. incr-housc, Galgano, seeing her stoop her face into an orange-tree, was so overcome with the recollection of the first meeting of their faces, that he repeated the kiss, changing it however from the eyelids to the lips ; and it struck him that she did not withdraw as quickly as before, nor look by any means so calm and indif- ferent. He accordingly took her hand in order to kiss it with a passionate gratitude, when she laid her other hand upon his, and looking at him with a sort of ap- pealing tenderness in the face, said, " Signor Galgano, I respect you for numberless generous things I have heard of you ; and knowing as I do how little what is called gallantry is thought of, I cannot deny but that your present attentions to me and apparent wishes do not hinder me from letting my respect run into a kinder feeling towards you. Perhaps, so sweet to us is flattery from those we regard, they have even more effect upon me than I ought to allow. But, sir, there are always persons, whether they act justly or unjustly them- selves, who do think a great deal of this gallantry, and who, if the case applied to themselves, would be ren- dered very uncomfortable j and, signor Galgano, I have one of the very best husbands in the world ; and if I show any weakness towards another unbecoming a grateful wife, I do beseech you, sir — and I pay you oue of the greatest and most affectionate compliments under heaven — that rather than do or risk any thing the know- ledge of which should pain him, you w ill help me with all the united strength of your generosity against my very self; otherwise" (here she fell into a blushing passion of tears) (i it may be a hard struggle for me to call to mind what I ought respecting the happiness of others, while you are saying to me things that make me frightfully absorbed in the moment before me." ^'e leave the reader to guess how Galgano's atten- tion to the appealing part of this speech was divided and hurt by the tenderness it avowed, and the oppor- tunity it seemed to offer him. He passionately kissed the hand of the gentle Minoccia, and she did not hinder him, only she looked another way, drying up her tears; FLOWERS OF LITERAlTfiE. 2G5 and he thought the turn of her head and neck never looked so lovely. " And if it were possible," asked he, " that the opinions of good and generous men could be changed on this subject (not that it would become me to seek to change those of the man I allude to) — but if it were possible, and no bar were in the way of a small share ofMinoccia's kindness, might I indeed then hope that she would not withdraw it ?" " Is it fair, signor Galgano," said Minoccia, in a low but kind voice, " to ask me such a question, after the words that have found their way out of my lips ?" — " And who then was the kindest of men or women — next to yourself, dearest Minoccia, — that told you so many handsome and over- coloured tilings of your worshipper?" "My husband him- self," answered she ; " he has long had a regard for your character, and at last he taught me to share it.'' — "Did he so?" exclaimed Galgano; "then by heavens " He broke off a moment, and resumed in a quieter tone : — " You, madame Minoccia, who have a loving and affectionate heart, and who confess that you have been moved to some regard for me by qualities which you know only by report, will guess what pangs that spirit must go through which has been made dizzy by looking upon your qualities day after day, and yet must tear itself from a happiness in which it would plunge headlong. But by the great and good God, which created all this beauty around us, and you the most beautiful of all beautiful things in the midst of it, I do love the generosity, and the sincerity, and the harmony that keeps them beautiful, so much more than my own uill, that although I think the happiness might be greater, it shall never be said that Galgano made il less ; and that he made it less too, because the gene- rosity trusted him, and the kind sincerity leaned him for support.— One embrace, or I hall die." An.! Galgano not onlj gave, but received an embrace almosl as warm as what he L r :i\ e ; and Minoccia kissed his eyelids, and then putting her hand over them and pressing them as if not to Jet him see. i addenly took it off, and disappeared. VOI-. in. 266 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. W'c know not how signor Stricca received the ac- count of this interview at the time ; for inadame Mi- noccia certainly related it to him ; but it is in the re- cords of Sienna, that years afterwards, while she was yet alive, her husband became bound for signor Gal- gano in a large sum of money, as security for an office which the latter held in the state ; and it appears by the dates in the papers, that they were close neighbours as well as friends*. Indicator THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. — Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death j And the boldest held his breath For a time. — But the might of England fluah'd To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. • This story (with the usual difference of detail) is from the Italian novelists, and had been told in Painter's Palace of Pleasure, one of the store-houses of our great dramatic writers. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 267 " Hearts of oak !" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havock did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back j— Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail ; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.— Now joy, old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light. And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinorc!— Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, — With the gallant good Kiou : Soft sign the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glorj to the Bonis Of the brave!— ' •■< pbell. N 2 -?'i v FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. THE SACRIFICE. The Italians, it is well known, arc as remarkable for the enthusiasm with which they prosecute either vice or virtue, as for the constitutional warmth of passion, which converts even their better qualities into ministers against them. From whatever cause this national tem- perament may proceed, whether from the influence of the climate, the effects of irregular education, or the prejudices of a bigoted devotion, it is pregnant with innumerable evils, and productive of infinite detriment, both to the individuals themselves, and to society in its more enlarged bearings. The count Uberto was a powerful Italian nobleman, who po-sessed, in an eminent degree, the peculiar cha- racteristics of his nation. Proud in his disposition, liberal in his establishment, but revengeful in his nature ) his temper was perpetually ruffled, from the want of that amiable propensity which induces its possessor to regard the petty failures of mankind as objects rather of pity than disgust. Though naturally high-spirited, and even magnanimous when his pre- judices did not interfere to thwart his better feelings, he was subjected to occasional fits of the darkest male- volence ; and the dereliction of his favourite daughter, Marion, who had placed her affections upon an object infinitely beneath the count's consideration, had in- flamed his mind to a state of irritation that bordered upon frenzy. Rankling with the remembrance of her last interview, when with tears and burning blushes she con- fessed her attachment, he called her into an apartment remote from the intrusion of strangers, and imprecated on her head the bitterest anathemas of revenge, if for an instant she withheld her compliance of discarding her lover for ever from her sight. Terrified at the menaces of her father, and shrinking from the malicious expressions of his dark countenance, the poor girl knew scarcely what reply to make. The thoughts of the young Juan Sbogarro came across her imagination j she FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 269 recalled bis last looks — the insinuating tenderness of his voice — the respectful deference of his attachment ; and the reflection inspired her with additional courage. In a voice faltering with emotion, and with eyes bent towards the earth, she endeavoured to mitigate the frenzy of her indignant parent; but when she found that even the tears of a favourite child were not proof against the pride of a father, she refused to comply with his request, and left the apartments with the im- precations of the count Uberto haunting her imagina- tion as she withdrew. On crossing the threshold of the great palace wall, she was addressed by Juan, who eagerly inquired what success she had met with from her father. When informed of his barbarity, and the cruel request that accompanied it, he pressed his be- loved still closer to his bosom, and as she conjured him by all that he held most dear upon earth, to avoid the palace of her father as he would the resort of an enemy, promised implicit obedience, and with a soul deeply lace- rated with the fears of eternal separation, reluctantly withdrew. Time, that soother of affliction, rolled on, but brought no balm to the distressed spirits of Marion. She had received no intelligence of Juan ; and her desponding fancy, saddening every thing with its own gloomy colours, suggested the probability of his departure. Her family, cool and indifferent to her happiness or misery, provided her marriage brought with it an ac- cession of wealth and honour, were but ill calculated to wean her from the can; that hung around her; and a.- the count, whenever he addressed her, spoke with tin voice and command of a tyrant, her situation soon be- came irretrievably wretched. Such was the state of he: mind, when one morning, while the rest of the famii\ were employ ed is their different occupations, a message was delivered to Marion, commanding ber immedi attendance in the library of her father, On entering the room, the discovered pirn seated in moody sternnesi by the window. He scarcely noticed her on her en- trance^ but motioned With his band to a seat. Aft< -70 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. sliort pause, he again addressed her on the subject of tlieir late interview, and with more softness than he had hitherto used, gently seized her hand, and besought her compliance with his wishes. " Discard that base- born churl, my Marion," he exclaimed, " and the heart of a father will be satisfied. To-night you will be intro- duced to the only son of the powerful duke di Aranza, and remember" — his countenance darkened as he con- tinued, — " and remember, Marion, I expect that you should receive him as your husband. He is noble, chivalrous, and patriotic, and has condescended to ho- nour our family with the offer of his alliance. Accept him, and the blessings of an affectionate parent, and the gratitude of a fond family, will shower eternal hap- piness on your head ; but dare for an instant to refuse, and take with you in your exile from the house — for no rebellious ingrate shall ever lodge under the same roof with Uberto — the deepest curses of your father ; and of that father, whose existence the ingratitude of his child will bow to the tomb. But no, my Marion, I cannot, will not believe, that the murder of a parent can be per- petrated by his child ; your averted countenance, your tearful eyes, read a tale of softness ; and to confirm the favourable impression, to restore a daughter to her duty, the proud, the haughty Uberto, whose knee was never yet bent to mortal man, now humbly suppli- cates obedience from his child. See, on his knee, he sues" » - " Father, dearest father," frantically exclaimed Marion, " bend not thus to me j I cannot — will not bear it j I am wholly yours, — make of me what you please ; for my widowed heart has no more to lose, and life no more to offer. I will discard Juan ; and, great as is the struggle, will accept di Aranza for my husband. Have you any further sacrifice to exact? Speak ! and I will perform it all. But oh, dearest, dearest father, author of my being, and all that life holds sacred, rise from that suppliant posture, and let a daughter sue for forgiveness, and humbly implore compassion." " Now, my Marion ! you arc indeed the daughter of FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 271 Uberto," be replied, as be folded ber affectionately in his embrace ; " and tbus let me seal our re-union with a kiss. But swear to tbe fulfilment of your promise; for duty, my love, is but a feeble barrier, when the sensibility of nature is opposed to it." Tremblingly, and with eyes filled with tears, the poor girl sealed the penance that tore her for ever from Juan ; and, with a soul racked with anguish, retired to the solitude of her chamber. In tbe evening she was introduced to him who was henceforth to be her husband. He was conciliating and gallant ; but oh ! how unlike that softness, tempered with manly dignity; that generosity, regulated by reason, tbat delighted her in the disposition of Juan. In spite of her endeavours to the contrary, comparisons detri- mental to Aranza were perpetually rising in her mind ; and while she dwelt on her lost love and blighted pro- spects, her fair and delicate form sunk daily beneath the struggle. Her eye lost its brightness, and her heart its native elasticity; she was never happy but when alone, and when alone was ever in tears. She bad borne much, but the reflection that cut her to the heart was the apparent desertion of her lover. To leave her, and at such a moment too, when friends, relatives, and even her own family had all conspired to neglect her, — the thought was wormwood, and sowed the first seeds of that disorder which death alone could terminate. 1'oor misguided woman, the child of innocence, the nursling of loveliness ! man little thinks when lie courts thee in thy hour of pride, that thou hast a heart that can feel, and a mind that can inspire attachment. !!> woos thee as the wanton zephyr that frolics with tli. summer rose, and then leaves it to wither mi it- stem and when he has inspired thee with the sentiments of love, consigns them to perish uimv they bloomed. Hi little thinks that, the cheek which i- unblenched -it hit appp.arh, the heart that is indifferent to liis attentions, the hand that relaxes in his map, may he united wit', a love that is entwined with tin heartstrings, though the pride of virgin modesty prevents itsavowal. L<>. 272 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. but misguided woman ! the tear that has never yet been shed for man, can glisten in the eye, while it recalls the memory of thy worth, thy beauty, and thy sorrows. Hard indeed must be the heart that can inflict on thee, who art so lovely and so gentle, one pang of remorse, one sentiment of anxiety ; but harder still the disposition of that seducer, who can deface by his unholy passion the most beautiful work of God. It was evident from the depression of her spirits, and the increasing languor of her frame, that the poor girl was gradually dying away. Her constitution took its tone of action from her mind, and their united operation hurried the lovely victim insensibly to the tomb. With her family she was ever quiet and uncomplaining, and it was only when left alone in the solitude of her room that she wept for the desertion of her lover. Her former fa- vourite amusements were neglected with a sigh, or con- tinued with indifference} but she would stand for hours in the shrubbery where she had last met Juan, and listen as the night-wind moaned among the trees, and the twi- light crept over the face of the landscape. Each cir- cumstance of their former love was then recalled, and with it the galling reflection, that they had parted to meet no more. The evening before her intended marriage with di Aranza, while the palace rang with the sounds of festivity, and the light tones of music echoed from a numerous bridal assembly, she hastened from the scene of gaiety, and retired to her favourite summer-house, that terminated the shrubbery, where she loved so much to wander. It was a clear, cloudless night, sparkling in all the beauty of an Italian sky, and studded with a million tints of richness. The nightingale had com- menced her song of melancholy, and the evening breeze, as it wafted on its wings her distant notes of softness, struck with a sensation of death to the widowed heart of the mourner. She recalled the past with a sigh, and remembered when, hanging fondly on the arm of Juan, she had discoursed with him on the silvery loveliness of the night landscape. But hark ! a well known voice FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 273 arrested her attention ; the sound of approaching foot- steps was heard, and in an instant her lover was at the feet of his Marion. ff And did you think," lie passion- ately exclaimed, as he kissed the starting tears from her eyes, " did you think, sweetest girl, that Juan could desert you? He retired indeed for a time, but it was only to return with honour and satisfaction. The death of an uucle has left him the uncontested heir of a title and estate, and the noble count Juan Sbogarro sues for the honour of an alliance with the beautiful daughter of Uberto." " Juan, my beloved," replied Marion, " it must not — cannot be : — an oath of horrid import has been sworn, and to-morrow must the penance be fulfilled. Another possesses the rights that I have so often promised should be yours only; and though my heart will be for ever thine, my person must belong to di Aranza. But he will not retain it long; for if there is truth in my dying words, the hour of my detested nuptials will be the liour of my decease." — " Marion, deceitful Marion !" replied Sbogarro, as his countenance glowed with indig- nation, "is this the reward you promised me, when last we met and parted ? Is this the gratitude I expected, when I gave up life, and fame, and Lope ; and all for you. — Cruel, deceitful woman, we here meet for the last time to converse in the accents of kindness. Me you will see no more. I shall roam to other climes ; and, in the presence of other women, may forget the one who baa deceived me." " Stab mc — annihilate inc — forget me — fly from me forever. But let us part at least in kindness. Oh! Juan, dearest Juan, did you know the arts that h;i\e l>een practised to wean me from thy side; a father kneeling at my feet, and tiling for obedience, — yo i would pity, but you would not condemn me, And musl pajt 10 Wger here, even here, where we have BO often met in fondue'-, j Look around, my beloved* and gaze oft the icene - of our former happine here is the sweet shrubbery where we first met, and here is the 2/4 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. terrace where we last parted. Here, too, is the summer- house that first echoed with the transports of our af- fection, and replied to the sound of our despair." "Yes! here indeed they are," rejoined Sbogarro, softened by this appeal to his affection ; " and here will they ever remain, mute emblems of the inconstancy of woman. The moon still rolls unchanged through the firmament ; the breeze still sighs amid the slumbering acacias; the stars still shed their mild influence on the night season; but the heart of Marion is changed, and the sweetness of her love hath departed." — " Oh, do not speak so cruelly !" replied Marion; "\ am thine — for ever thine. The moon may change in her course of brightness; the summer-breeze may fly far away to the hills of the west, and return to us no more — but my heart will be still unchanged — true in life as death.*' — " Then rove with me, Marion, to some more beautiful clime ; where, removed from the scenes of our affection, we will forget that we ever were sorrowed, and live alone for love." "'Tis a cruel struggle, Juan, but it will be over soon — I have not long to live, and my closing moments must not be sullied by disobedience. Farewell — forgive — forget me if possible, and, in the arms of some happier woman, think no more of Marion. But if you should ever recall her to your mind, speak of her with fond- ness, and say that she died to serve you. I have now but a few words to add, and shall then quit you for ever. Stay, then, dearest Juan ! 'till the days of your poor Marion are numbered, and her form is beheld no longer ; then follow her to the grave, and let the flowers she loved in life wave over her in death. Let the rose be planted on my tomb, for it was the first flower you gave me — and as it withered on my breast, you tore it from my grasp — and flung it to the earth for its transient bloom. Tis a trifling circumstance, but well I can remember it. And now once again farewell — fain would I delay this part- ing moment, and cling in fondness to the lover I shall see no more. — But hark! the lights are in the garden FLOWERS OF LITF.RATURE. 275 — and the absence of Marion is discovered. Fly, Juan, fly, and be this fond, this parting kiss, the last I shall ever imprint on your lips." She ceased, and sprung in agony from the form that encircled her in its embrace ; the lights meantime ad- vanced nearer, and Juan had but sufficient time to effect his escape, when the pale-featured girl was discovered, and conveyed in a senseless condition to the crowded hall of the palace. Night waned, morning dawned upon the upland hills of the Italian scenery, and already the shouts of the peasantry, and the merry peals that rung out from the palace of Uberto, announced the commencement of the bridal preparations. The hour of the ceremony ap- proached, and encircled in the embrace of the gay duke di Aranza, and accompanied by a gorgeous train of equipages and liveried attendants, the poor victim was borne in triumph to the chapel. The organ peeled out its solemn echoes as she entered, and the priest was stationed at the altar, with the young couple standing motionless by his side. The ceremony in the meantime proceeded, interrupted only at times by the stifled sighs of the victim, and the half-suppressed whispers of con- gratulation that passed from mouth to mouth. When the awful part of the service commenced, that irre- vocably unites man to woman, and joins them till death dissolves the bond, a slight shudder passed across the face of Marion, and her eyes filled with tears. I Fncon- sciously she raised them to express, by look, her tacit approbation of the nuptials, when they rested, as if by instinct, on a dark figure muffled in a Spanish cape, that was leaning against the pillars. The stranger ob- served that he was recognised, and with a deep groan, that thrilled through the whole assembly, rushed from the chapel The ceremony was now concluded, rmd Marion was the wife of di Aianza. As the party Were preparing to quit the chapel, she motioned them to Btavj and ad- dressing her father with solemnity, exclaimed, " Dear< I author of my being ! the promise is fulfilled, and the '270 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. victim may retire with honour ! I have performed your wishes — I have married di Aranza; but there is a stronger power that claims me," she faintly continued, pressing her wan hand to her bosom, " and tells mc I am the bride of death. Speak to me, then, while yet I can listen to your voice, and reply in the words of fondness. No ! 'tis too late ! the slender chord that bound me to existence is snapped, and the hour of fate is approaching." She ceased, and casting on her father one look of the most resigned expression, dropped life- less at his feet. They raised her from the ground, but her gentle heart was broken, and her pure spirit had passed away. There is a voice of wailing in the gay palace of Uberto, and the spirits of its lord are for ever quenched. The life-blood that once coursed cheerly through his veins will never quicken again, but stagnate in the chill of apathy. High waves the black plume in his halls — heavily sounds the bell of death — but his heart is heavier still. In the midst of pomp and grandeur, music and torchlight, that attends the grave of the murdered Marion, his heart is lonely still, and he can rind none who will pity his afflictions. He has given his daughter a splendid monument and pompous in- scription, while she, poor girl, sleeps heedless of all ; but if her spirit is yet alive, it will miss the roses that should have been planted on her grave. Where is the fondest object of her youthful love — the noble, gallant- minded Juan Sbogarro ? He was never afterwards seen ; but when many years had elapsed, a stranger arrived at the lone palace of Uberto, and was heard to say, that in his travels through the remotest parts of Greece he had seen a simple tomb rising in a foreign land, bearing on its tablet the simple but time-worn inscription of — .Juan Sbogarro. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 277 OUTRAGED NATURE AVENGED. In queen Anne's reign, a soldier belonging to a marching regiment, that was quartered in the city of W , was taken up for desertiqn, and being tried by a court martial, was sentenced to be shot. The colonel and lieutenant-colonel being both in London, the command of the regiment had devolved in course to the major, who was accounted a very cruel and obdurate man. The day of execution being come, the regiment, as usual upon those occasions, was drawn up to witness it ; but when every one present who knew the custom at these executions, expected to see the corporals cast lota for the ungracious office, they were surprised to find it fixed by the major upon the prisoner's own brother, who was also a soldier in the regiment, and was at the moment taking his last leave of the un- fortunate culprit. On this inhuman order being announced to the brothers, they both fell down upon their knees ; the one supplicated in the most affecting terms that he might he spared the horror of shedding a brother's blood ; and the other brother, that he might receive his doom from any other hand than his. But all their tears and supplications were in vain j the major was not to be moved. He swore that the brother, and the brother only, should be the man, that the example might be the stronger, and the execution the more horrible. Several of the i attempted to remonstrate; with him, hut to no purpose;. The brother prepared to obey. The prisoner having gone through the usual service with the minister, kneeled down at the place appointed to re- ceive the fatal shot. The major stood by, saw the afflicted brother load his instrument of death, and, this being done, ordered him to observe 'he third signal with hi. cane, and af that instant to do hi-- office, and despatch the prisoner. Bat behold the justice of Pro- 278 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. vidence ! When the major was dealing his fatal signals for the prisoner's death, at the last motion of his cane, the soldier, inspired by some superior power, suddenly turned about his piece, and shot the tyrant in a moment through the head. Then throwing down his piece, he exclaimed, " He that can show no mercy, no mercy let him receive. Now I submit ; I had rather die this hour, for this death, than live a hundred years, and give my brother his." At this unexpected event nobody seemed to be sorry; and some of the chief citizens, who came to see the execution, and were witnesses of all that passed, prevailed with the next commanding officer to carry both the brothers back to prison, and not to execute the first prisoner until farther orders, pro- mising to indemnify him for the consequences, as far as their whole interest could possibly go with the queen. This request being complied with, the city corporation, that very night, drew up a most pathetic and moving address to their sovereign, humbly setting forth the cruelty of the deceased, and praying her majesty's clemency towards both the prisoners. The queen, upon the perusal of this petition, which was presented to her majesty by one of the city representatives, was pleased to promise that she would inquire a little further into the matter. On doing so, she found the truth of the petition confirmed in all its particulars ; and was gra- ciously pleased to pardon both the offending brothers, and discharge them from her service. " For which good mercy in the queen," says a chronicle of that period, "she received the very grateful, and most dutiful address of thanks from her loyal city." FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 279 THE OLD WAISTCOAT— A TALE. BY 3. P. NEWMAN. CHAPTER I. " Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other ; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm." Coleridge'' i ChrUtabeUe, In the small village of Wcasenhain there lived an honest hard-working artisan, named Caleb Nicholson, a man rather advanced in years, and whose countenance bore marks of considerable hardship, being in hue not much unlike a copper tea-kettle. Caleb was what is genteelly called a translator; — not, however, of lan- guages, but of shoes, or what is more generally and vulgarly known by the name of cobbler. His family consisted of his wife, Margaret, called for brevity Madge, and a daughter, named after her godmother, Louisa. Although Caleb had been employed for upwards of forty years in repairing the soles of the good people of Wcasenhain, be had never acquired more than sufficient property to keep his own body iu daily repair, and con- sequently both his wife and daughter were early taught that neither idleness nor luxury were to be residents or visitors at Caleb's dwelling. Louisa, however, had found a patroness in the wife of the minister, and to this truly good woman was she indebted for gaining a knowledge of reading, writing, and various other useful acquire- ments, which neither Caleb's means nor ideas would otherwise have provided for her. In fact, her lather had been heard to boast that he had got through Ids ycar6 of toil without being aide either to form a letter him- self, or to read those whii h others had Completed, and 280 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. was also often heard to regret, that so much good leather should be wasted in binding what he was pleased to style "a parcel of good-for-nothing little books." Her mother, good soul, what with binding shoes, scrubbing the house, and cooking the dinners, had not the time, even had she possessed the ability, to instruct her daughter in any gcntecler accomplishment than cleaning the stairs or polishing the saucepans, and was even illiterate enough to grudge the time which she spent with her patroness, although her fear of offending the great lady prevented her murmurs from proceeding any further than her lips, whence all egress was com- pletely stopped. Louisa possessed great quickness of apprehension, and the progress of her education afforded much gra- tification to her instructress. The appearance of Louisa was much in her favour. She was just in her eighteenth year, finely formed, with a pair of sparkling jet eyes, teeth regular and of the purest white, with dark waving hair, which nature had carelessly curled to fall over her shoulders. With such a person it was no wonder that she attracted the notice of the youths of the village. All vied who should pay her the greatest attentions ; her looks were watched and her wishes anticipated. Of the group of suitors one had been selected as the chosen of Louisa. Arthur Harrington, the only child of a small farmer in the neighbourhood of the village of Weasenham, who had come from London at the express desire of hi8 in- dulgent mother, to receive her expiring blessing, had borne away the heart of the maiden, and plighted to her his affection. Harrington was possessed of great good- ness of heart, of a warm, sanguine, and somewhat thought- less temper ; he was one who was more his own enemy than the enemy of others. The suit was approved of by all parties ; a place was always reserved for Arthur at Caleb's fire-side ; he was a constant visitor at the honest translator's cottage, and every one regarded Louisa as irrevocably engaged to be the wife of Harrington. An FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 281- apparently trivial accident however chased away the vision of happiness, and wrung the hearts of the lovers with misery. Among Arthur Harrington's propensities was an irresistible one for practical jokes. Caleb Nicholson, among the other articles of his scanty wardrobe, was possessed of an old cloth waistcoat, which formed, in fact, his working jacket, and it had become proverbial in the village of Weasenham, when it was intended to convey an air of particular antiquity to any object, to say " it is as old as Caleb's waistcoat." What colour the waistcoat had originally been, the oldest villager would not venture to decide. Many had recollected seeing it fifteen, eighteen, and twenty years back ; but its colour was then as indiscernible as at the present moment. One presumptuous wight had dared to fix it at a Yorkshire gray ; but when it was understood that he had not known it more than two-and-twenty years, his tale was universally discredited. It was a custom with the youth of the village of Weasenham, on the 5th of November, to commemorate the day by a sort of auto-da-fe, in which a figure, meant to represent that arch-conspirator Guy Fawkes, was offered at the shrine of Vulcan. It chanced, during the period of Arthur's wooing, that this long expected day arrived, and great exertions were made to equip in a creditable manner the traitorous effigy. At the head of the committee fur conducting this important ceremony was Arthur Harrington, and all the apparel jhad been with difficulty collected except a jacket, without which it would !>'■ discreditable for even a traitor to be burnt. In an evil moment a thought entered the brain of Harrington, that Caleb's waistcoat would make an Hi nt out warn 1 garment for the rebel figure. He had long intended making Caleb some present, and now thonght that, by destroying the <>ld garment, Caleb might accept tnai as an equivalent which his pride might urLT<- lii iti to rcfiisr u a gift. With this idea Ik: went to honest Caleb's cottage, and found means sccn-tly to obtain ]>'• |i ion "I' tin,' old waistcoat, 282 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. which had been carefully put away in Caleb Nichol- son's little old-fashioned chest of drawers. The figure was speedily equipped, the fire was piled with faggots, and the devouring element, amidst the cracking of fire- works, soon destroyed all trace of the old waistcoat of Caleb Nicholson and the motley effigy of Guy Fawkes. CHAPTER II. " * And I to Denham, sir, belong ;' And then, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; And all was for her tatter'd cloak." Wordsworth, On the following day, long before Caleb had risen to resume his daily labours, Arthur went to the nearest town, and having purchased a decent-looking plain brown jacket, he returned in high spirits to the village, and without further delay proceeded to the cottage of Nicholson, with his new purchase. On opening the door, he was surprised and alarmed to find Louisa in tears. Half stifled with sobs, the afflicted girl told the wondering Arthur that, by the command of her father, she must break with him for ever — must see him — love him no more ! The destruction of the old waistcoat had been the destruction of the hopes of Arthur. In the lining of the apparently worthless rag had been sewn the hard gained earnings of forty years. Caleb, with the true spirit of illiterate avarice, had been accustomed to deprive himself of almost even the necessaries of life to hoard in private. The fruits of his savings he regu- larly changed into notes, as soon as the amount per- mitted, and with a miser's dread, fearing to entrust it to the keeping of others, had concealed it in the much despised old waistcoat, so long the ridicule and con- tempt of the inhabitants of Wcascnham. The rage of Caleb, when he discovered his loss, was that of a mad- man. He cursed his only child, if ever she again com- muned with Harrington. It was in vain that the almost frantic youth offered his trifling all— in vain his father sought by the offer of a division of property to calm the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 283 rage of Caleb. Their offers were treated with con- tempt. Their wealth united could not equal the loss of the poor cobbler, Caleb Nicholson. Arthur was for- bidden the house for ever. The interdiction, however, of the visits of love could not be strictly acted up to. The lovers often met, and Harrington as often besought her to be his, to plight at the altar her troth. Overcome by his fears, affected by his entreaties, Louisa at length consented to become the wife of Arthur, conditionally that he would not compel her to quit her father's house. She would not lie under a parent's curse, she would not brave a fa- ther's anger, nor leave him in his poverty to want and sorrow. It was under this promise that Louisa became the wife of Arthur. The banns were duly published in a neighbouring town, and the promise of a double fee having given the worthy clerk a violent fit of hoarse- ness, which contiuued precisely three weeks, the names of " Arthur Harrington, bachelor, and Louisa Nichol- son, spinster," passed unnoticed. It was a custom of Mistress Margery to gain a trifling addition to her " pin-money," by occasionally vending at the neighbouring market certain useful ar- ticles called eggs and poultry. On the morning of her wedding, Louisa, having obtained the liberty of accom- panying her, took the opportunity, while the old lady was violently, if not eloquently, endeavouring to obtain an extra penny for her ware, to bestow her hand on him who had long possessed her teudcrest affections. The ceremony was soon completed, and Louisa Har- rington returned without her absence ha\ing been per- ceived by her calculating mother. It seemed, however, that fortune, while she favoured Harrington with one hand, was determined to destroy liiiu with the other. The elder Harrington, possessed of a generous and feeling heart, had become the surety <»f a villain, for a sum Of money which it Swallowed up 'lie whole of his possession-, to replace, when ;i bicach of that honour which, between man arifl man, ought to be sacred for 284 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. ever, rendered such sacrifice necessary. The old man sunk under this unexpected blow, and, in one short week after his nuptials, Harrington had to mourn the loss of an only parent and of his sole inheritance. Caleb Nicholson, with the petty feeling of a narrow and mistaken mind, rejoiced at the ruin of the ill-fated family of Harrington j thinking not how nearly fate had allied them to him. After the interment of his father, Arthur obtained from Louisa her reluctant consent that he should quit for a time his native laud, and seek in the Indian realms that fortune of which circumstances and crime had de- prived him. Louisa was the more willing to accede to this separation, from the hope that absence would weaken the hatred of Caleb towards Harrington, and that his forgiveness would enable her to follow her husband, to share his dangers, or partake his prosperity. After some little preparation the hour of departure ar- rived. Louisa clung to the breast of her husband — the tears of sorrow streamed from her eyes — he tore him- self from her embrace — and, hurrying to the vessel in which he was to sail, bade a farewell to the land of his fathers — and as the shores faded on his view, he felt that he was indeed an exile. " O melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! O music, music, breathe despondingly ! O echo, echo, on some other day From Isles Lethean sigh to us — oh sigh ! Spirits of grief sing not your ' well-a-way,' For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die, Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet." Keats. CHAPTER III. " Poor girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands; To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, And the next day will be a day of sorrow." Keats. Some months had now rolled away, and still no tid- « FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 285 ings of Harrington had reached Louisa. To this my- sterious silence was added another circumstance, which doubly increased the misery of separation. This was no other than a new suitor for that hand which she had already bestowed. He was a person possessing a small estate in the neighbourhood, of depraved habits and dissolute disposition, who had long watched the growing charms of Louisa, and, aware that illicit prof- fers would be received with abhorrence, had resolved to offer her his hand. He was strenuously supported by Caleb Nicholson, more with a view of placing his daughter for ever beyond the reach of Harrington, than from any particular partiality to the person of her new admirer. It was in vain Louisa repelled his advances, in vain she implored her father to put an end to the persecution to which she was subjected. Caleb was obstinate, and opposition only served to make him more stedfast to his purpose. He commanded her, in a voice of thunder, to become the wife of Oliver, or cease to be his daughter. He heaped the bitterest im- precations on her head, if she dared oppose his will ; and thrust her from him with the fury of a demon. His hapless daughter sunk upon the threshold, while her obdurate parent, after having summoned her mother to her assistance, rushed in a fit of passion from the dwell- ing. It was then that the astonished Margery dis- covered the important secret ; — fastened round the neck <>f her danghter was the ting which at the altar she had received from Harrington. The good lady was still more astonished when she found Louisa was about to become B mothl r ; and when her half fainting daughter threw herself on the bosom of her parent, and sobbed out tin mysti rj , the good Margery's astonishment was complete. The heart of Margery Nicholson was not made of adamant ; she conld not see the tears and ob- ierv< the distress of ber daughter without feeling the mother's heart yarn towards her. She promised to in- tercede, uit'i Caleb for his forgiveness of her offence. In this she wai an oca isful. All who were witnesses of 286 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. the mood in which Caleb received her communication thought that to the loss of his waistcoat he would have added the loss of his senses. He swore, on his knees, that he would never more enter his dwelling while it was " polluted" by the presence of his wretched daugh- ter. In this dilemma Margery applied to the lady of the minister, who had been the early patroness of Louisa. To her the tale was confided. With the true spirit of pure benevolence she ordered an apartment to be pre- pared for the outcast daughter, for the widowed wife ; and mingling her tears with hers, strove by sympathy to soothe her sorrows, and by kindness to alleviate her misery. Still no tidings had been received of Harrington, and Louisa had to mourn the neglect of her husband, and the curses of her angry father. That hour so dear to mothers, that hour of pleasure and of agony, when the pledge of affection in the midst of groans first sees the light of the world, was fast ap- proaching, and the frame of Louisa, worn out by an- xiety and unnatural strife, seemed unequal to the con- flict of nature. It came — the hour came — a boy, which seemed the miniature of Harrington, was ushered into life. But death demanded a victim— the destroyer was triumphant in the hour of pain, and Louisa Harrington blessed the babe of her bosom, breathed forth a prayer for her husband, and expired. It was then, when the hour was past, when the mo- ment had flown for ever, that the mound which anger had raised round the heart of Caleb Nicholson was broken by death. He flew to the bed of his daughter ; he hung over her lifeless form, he tore his gray locks, and cursed himself for his barbarity. It was with dif- ficulty that those who were present prevented the wretched childless father from committing self-destruc- tion. But the babe ? It lived — and Caleb, as he clasped it FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 287 in his arms and blessed it, determined to repay the off- spring for the ills which he had rendered to its pa- rents. The morning of interment came. The once bloom- ing form of the youthful bride was borne to the se- pulchre, followed by every inhabitant of the little vil- lage. The group of followers, when bending over the grave, formed a subject for the purest of nature's painters. Every eye was dimmed with the tear of sym- pathy } the old and the young, the grave and the gay, mourned the loss of her who had been their playmate or their conductress. The man of God breathed over the remains of mor- tality the parting prayer ; the grave was filled up with kindred dust, and the mourners returned to their se- veral homes, impressed with the scene which they had witnessed, and filled with sorrow that one so young, so lovely, and 60 virtuous, should perish in the spring of existence. " Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, , Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame." CHAPTER IV. •• lie comes at last in sudden loneliness, And whence they know not, why they need not guess: They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, Not that he came, but came not long before." At the Red Lion, the only public-house, or (as the owner styled it) inn, in the village of Weasenham, about eight o'clock in the evening, when the worthy Boniface and his deputy, the pot-boy, were sociably taking a pint of " half and half" together) a post-chaise roiled i ri to the little yard at I he side of the house, and a gentleman, wrapped in a travelling cloak, alighted and entered the 'lean sanded parlour. The humble and leqnioni landlord, with a multiplicity of bows, fol- lowed his new guest, who, throwing off his enveloping 288 FLOWEItS OF LITERATURE. cloak, discovered to his astonished host the person of Arthur Harrington. With breathless anxiety he asked of Louisa: — the tale of death was told him — told him abruptly — his eye became as glazed — his lip was pale — the colour of his cheek faded away — Arthur Harrington became as a statue, pale — cold — and motionless. In a distinct though hurried voice he asked for the grave— a guide pointed it to him — he cautioned him to secrecy, and bade him leave him. The host was also silenced, and none others knew that Arthur had returned to his birth-place. During a period of four days no tidings of Harring- ton reached the astonished publican. On the fifth, when the two lonely tenants of Caleb's cottage were retiring to rest, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a pallid emaciated figure staggered in. He gazed anxiously around till his eye met the sleeping cherub of the departed Louisa — he threw himself beside it. Tears, the first which he had shed since her death, fell on the face of the slumbering innocent — yet it slumbered on. — " My sleep," said the stranger, " my sleep will soon be as sound — as undisturbed."— Caleb started — " I should know thai voice," said the old man, as he sunk beside Arthur. " I should know that voice," he repeated, as he flung himself into the outstretched arms of Harring- ton. " Do you — can you forgive me ? — Arthur— my son — can you forgive me, wretch that I am r — for it was / who killed her — I drove her from my door, — J made her an outcast — I destroyed her, and the curse has fallen on mine own head." Harrington shuddered — he paused — he pressed the hand of Caleb to his heart — he gazed once again on his sleeping infant — he would have spoken — the words faded on his lips — his head sunk on his breast — a slight convulsion passed over his features — and the soul of Harrington, the once gay and happy Harrington, had fled for ever. The groans of Caleb, the piercing screams of his alasrned wife, aroused their rustic neighbours. The minister was sent for, and the person of Harrington searched to discover some clue to his unexpected arrival. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 2b0 A paper at length was found ; and, standing by the corse of Arthur, the worthy minister read to Caleb Nicholson the narrative of the ill-fated youth. " How vain are the visions of life ! How weak are the hopes of human-kind ! A moment can blast the speculation of years, — a second destroy the fabric of a century. I came the minister of joy to cheer the heart that had loved me ; I came the messenger of happiness to breathe in the ear of affection the gladdening tale. But that heart is cold and still, and throbless — that ear can hear not the breathing of love — the eye that has beamed on me — the voice that has sung to me — are dim and still for ever : and yet there is a spirit beckoning me away. I see it as the sun sets — I see it on its beam of gold — I sec it floating on the gray mist of evening, and in the darkness of the night it flics before me. I come — spirit of the dead — I come — my soul is linger- ing out its last adieu — to quit this world for ever. But my son — my child — the child of my Louisa shall know the tale of my Borrows, and in after years weep for my memory. " I left the land of my fathers fur the eastern shores, to seek for riches. The vessel Boated on the bosom of the deep, and England, my native England, faded on my vision. Vet dreams of death haunted me, and the gloom of despair insensibly stole over my soul. I thought of the young defenceless being whom I had left behind roe, and mj heart shuddered, and was chill. In this mood I avoid) alio. Like myself, were hound for the Indian clime. In the daj I gazed on the reced- ing billow; in the stilly night I thought of my Louisa. Five months had passed over me, and we still floated on the waters of the deep blue g< ; .. in another we hoped reach the destined port, and all hearts were joyful. Even mine expanded, for tin- unchangeable scene of waters was lickening and satiating. It •.-. i dark night; I was resting io my little conch, and thi > the days gone past, when I felt idden, a violent — COnd — a third, — I heard iin ofhorr r — t he w ild ci j of agony — the hoai VOL. Ml. (I 2'JV FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. its of despair. I rushed to the deck— it was a scene of horror — the vessel had struck on a rock — she had bilged, and the remorseless waves were dashing 1 over us, savagely anticipating their prey. I heard a crash as of thunder — the vessel had parted. I stood on the stern. I saw it reel from the splintering rock. 1 saw the wide waters open to receive it. I heard one scream, one loud and piercing scream — the waters whelmed us — the wave dashed over us — I heard the ' bubbling cry of ngony,' and my recollection faded be- fore the horrors of the scene. " Returning senses found me on a lodging of the rock, on which the vessel had struck. I gazed around ; I thought the past had been a dream j but the floating fragments of wreck, the pallid and sea-drenched bodies of my late companions, spoke the dread reality. On a portion of the vessel near me I still saw a fellow- ercr clinging, and buffeting, but alas ! with unequal force, with the heavy surge around him. I hesitated not — I plunged into the wave to succour him. He sunk — I dived after him, and with difficulty bore him senseless to the rock. Well might he sink ! he was a lucre-loving wretch — his girdle was heavy with gold — his wealth had borne down his remaining strength, and life had been bartered for wretched, though much coveted dross. 1 wrung from his hair the briny element. I chafed his temples, and the companion of my solitude showed re- turning life. — Father of Mercies ! how wonderful art thou in thy retribution ! " You, Caleb Nicholson, will hear the tale of my sor- rows, and you will remember Henderson, Alie Hender- Qj the pretended friend of my father. You will re- member the man whose disappearance, and forfeiture of bond and oath, robbed my father of his inheritance, and sent ' his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.' — This wretched culprit Mas the man / saved ! I sprung from him as from a scorpion. I shrunk from his polluting touch, as though it were the adder's sting. Yet I gazed on his pale cheek ; I saw his half-closed eye, and I could not curse him ;— no ! not even he who had deprived FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. me of father — of home — of all. I could not curse, though lie lay before mc with the wages of sin in his girdle. — They were the wages of sin and of death. Be- neath their weight had he sunk until outraged nature gave up the struggle. Yet in the moment of expiring life he knew me — he muttered something sounding like repentance — he threw into my hand the cursed wealth — he trembled — 1 held his head upon my breast — he trembled more — he gave a shriek — a fiendlike shriek — convulsively sprung from my arms, and roiled into the yawning depth beneath. I heard the splash of the wa- ters ; I saw the billowy sepulchre rent in twain ; it re- ceived the scarce cold body of the criminal, and closed on the guilty Henderson for ever. '* For three days I lived on the food cast on the rock by the beating waves. On the fourth, a vessel bound for England discerned my signal of distress, and brought me off. I now felt happy ; I had n covered, mira- culously recovered wealth : the wreck of others' hopes had been the fulfilment of mine. I vainly thought so then. — I landed.oncc more on my native shores ; I came once more to my native village; I came, and I found it the home of death — destruction ! ! she is gone ! — she is fled for ever ! — no, not for ever ! — I follow her ! Shade of my fiOiiisa, I come — the spirit beckons again — I will not ]iaiiM: — my BOul expands to meet her — hut my b Caleb, be a father to htm — my wealth is his ; guard him, Caleb, guard bim for i he memory of thy departed Louisa. Spirit of the dead, I conic." Beneath a small tablet of stone, iu the churchyard of the village of Weasenham, repose the remain Arthur and Louisa Harrington. The rustic v hallow the spot, and cherish their memory, and pas L iiiL r stranger listens to tlnir tale of sorrow, dr' mpal hi ling 1 ir mi ifortanes. Pocket Magazine 292 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. THE HAUNTED SHIPS. Though my mind's not Hoodwink'd with rustic marvels, I do think There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood, Yea, and the charnell'd earth, than what wise man, Who walks so proud as if his form alone Fill'd the wide temple of the universe, "Will let a frail maid say. I'd write i' the creed O' the sagest head alive, that fearful forms, Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels ; That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o'er The murderer's dust, and for revenge glare up, Even till the stars weep fire for very pity. Along the coast of Solway, romantic on the Scottish side, with its woodlands, and bays, and cliffs, and head- lands ; and interesting on the English side, with it.' many beautiful towns with their shadows on the water, rich pastures, safe harbours, and numerous ships; there .still linger many traditional stories of a maritime nature, most of them connected with superstitions singularly wild and unusual. To the curious these tales afford a rich fund of entertainment, from the many diversities of the same story; some dry and barren, and stripped of all the embellishments of poetry ; others dressed out in all the riches of a superstitious belief and haunted ima- gination. In this they resemble the inland traditions of the peasants ; but many of the oral treasures of the (.ahvegian or the Cumbrian coast have the stamp of tlie Dane and the Norsemen upon them, and claim but a remote or faint affinity with the legitimate legends of Caledonia. Something like a rude prosaic outline of several of the most noted of the northern ballads, the adventures and depredations of the old ocean kings, still lends life to the evening tale ; and, among others, the story of the Haunted Ships is still popular among the maritime peasantry. One fine harvest evening I went on board the shallop of Richard Faulder, of Allanbay; and, committing our- selves to the waters, we allowed a gentle wind from the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 293 east to waft us at its pleasure towards the Scottish coast. Wc passed the sharp promontory of Siddick ; and skirt- ing the land within a stone cast, glided along the shore till we came within sight of the ruined Abbey of Sweet- heart. The green mountain of Crieffell ascended beside us j and the bleat of the flocks from its summit, to- gether with the winding of the evening horn of the reapers, came softened into something like music over land and sea. We pushed our shallop into a deep and wooded bay, and sat silently looking on the serene beauty of the place. The moon glimmered in her rising through the tall shafts of the pines of Caerlavcrock, and the sky, with scarce a cloud, showered down on wood, and headland, and bay the twinkling beams of a thou- sand stars, rendering every object visible. The tide too was coming with that swift and silent swell ob- servable when the wind is gentle ; the woody curves along the land were filling with the flood till it touched the green branches of the drooping trees ; while in the centre current the roll and the plunge of a thousand pellocks told to the experienced fishermen that salmon were abundant. As we looked, we saw an old man emerging from a path that winded to the shore thro a grove of doddered hazel ; he carried a halve-nct on his back, while behind him came a girl, bearing a small har- poon, with which the fishers are remarkably dexterous in striking their prey. The senior seated himself on , large L r ray stone which ovcrlook.'d the hay, laid a his bonnet, and submitted I DO and neck to the refreshing sea breeze; and I ikii g bia harpoon from attendant, sat with the gravity and composure of i spirit of the flood, with lo- ministering nymph behind him. We pushed our -i 'lore, and stood at their side. "This is old Mark Macmoran, the mariner, with hie grand-daagb aid Richard Fanlder, in a whisper thai bad of fear in it; " he know en i !,, :. and qui* ksand in Solway, — has seen tie' spectre h mind thai Imiints the [lie of Man; has heard him bark, and al every barV seen a ship --ink; and he li en, tooj the haunted 294 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. ships in full sail ; and, if all talcs be true, he has sailed in them himself ; — he's an awful person." Though I perceived in the communication of my friend something lie superstition of the sailor, I could not help think- ing that common rumour had made a happy choice in singling out old Mark to maintain her intercourse with the invisible world. His hair, which seemed to have refused all intercourse with the comb, hung matted upon his shoulders ; a kind of mantle, or rather blanket, pinned with a wooden skewer round his neck, fell mid- down, concealing all his nether garments as far as a pair of hose, darned with yarn of all conceivable colours, and a pair of shoes, patched and repaired till nothing of the original structure remained, and clasped on his feet With two massy silver buckles. If the dress of the old man was rude and sordid, that of his grand-daughter was gay, and even rich. She wore a boddice of fine wool, wrought round the bosom with alternate leaf and lily, and a kirtle of the same fabric, which, almost touching her white and delicate ankle, showed her snowy feet so fairy-light and round that they scarcely seemed to touch the grass where she stood. Her hair, a natural ornament which woman seeks much to im- prove, was a bright glossy brown, and encumbered rather than adorned with a snood, set thick with marine productions, among which the small clear pearl found in the Solway was conspicuous. Nature had not trusted to a handsome shape, and a sylph-like air, for young Barbara's influence over the heart of man ; but had bestowed a pair of large bright blue eyes, swimming in liquid light, so full of love, and gentleness, and joy, that all the sailors from Annan- water to far Saint Bees acknowledged their power, and sung songs abont the bonnie lass of Mark Macmoran. She stood holding a small gaff-hook of polished steel in her hand, and seemed not dissatisfied with the glances I bestowed on her from time to time, and which I held more than requited by a single glance of those eyes which retained so many capricious hearts in subjection. The tide, though rapidly augmenting, had not yet FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 295 filled the bay at our feet. The moon now streamed fairly over the tops of Caerlaverock pines, and showed the expanse of ocean dimpling and swelling, on which sloops and shallops came dancing, and displaying at every turn their extent of white sail against the beam of the moon. I looked on old Mark, the mariner, who, seated motionless on his gray stone, kept his eye fixed on the increasing waters with a look of seriousness and sorrow in which I saw little of the calculating spirit ol a mere fisherman. Though he looked on the coming tide, his eyes seemed to dwell particularly on the black and decayed hulls of two vessels, which, half immersed in the quicksand, still addressed to every heart a tale of shipwreck and desolation. The tide wheeled and foamed around them j and creeping inch by inch up the side, at last fairly threw its waters over the top, and a long and hollow eddy showed the resistance which the liquid ele- ment received. The moment they were fairly buried in the water, the old man clasped his hands together, and said, "Blessed he the tide that will break over and bury ye far ever! Sad to mariners, and sorrowful to maids and mothers, has the time been you have choked up this deep and bonnie bay. For evil were you sent, for evil have you continued. Every season finds from you its song of sorrow. and wail, its funeral processions, and its shrouded corses. Yv'oe to the land where the wood grew that made ye! Cursed be the axe that he ye on the mountains, the hands that joined ye toj the bay that ye first swam in, and the wind that wafted ye here n times have ye put my life in peril, thre< fair SODS !:ave ye swept from my side, and two bonnie grand-bairns ; and now, even now, your waters foi and flasll for my destruction, did I venture my inl limb- in qnest <>f food in your deadly bay. i that ripple and that foam, and hear by the sound singing of the surge, thai ye yearn for another but it shall not be me nor mine." Even as the mariner addressed hill ' he wreel I ships, B young • tl outbern extremity of the bay, hold- ing his halve- net in I 296 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. current. Mark rose, and shouted, and waved him back From a place which, to a person unacquainted with the dangers of the bay, real and superstitious, seemed suf- ficiently perilous : his grand-daughter too added her voice to his, and waved her white hands ; but the more they strove the faster advanced the peasant till he stood to his middle in the water, while the tide increased every moment in depth and strength. "Andrew, Andrew," cried the young woman, in a voice epiavering with emotion, " turn, turn, I tell you : O the ships, the haunted ships !" but the appearance of a fine run of fish had more influence with the peasant than the voice of bonnie Barbara, and forward he dashed, net in hand. In a moment he was borne off his feet, and mingled like foam with the water, and hurried towards the fatal eddies which whirled and roared round the sunken ships. But he was a powerful young man, and an expert swimmer ; he seized on one of the projecting ribs of the nearest hulk, and clinging to it with the grasp of de- spair, uttered yell after yell, sustaining himself against the prodigious rush of the current. From a shceling of turf and straw, within the pitch of a bar from the spot where we stood, came out an old woman bent with age, and leaning on a crutch. "I hear the voice of that lad Andrew Lanimie : can the chield be drowning that he skirls sae uncannilie V said the old woman, seating herself on the ground, and looking earnestly at the water. " Ou aye," she continued, " he's doomed, he's doomed ; heart and hand can never save him ; boats, ropes, and man's strength and wit, all vain ! vain! he's doomed, he's doomed !" By this time, I had thrown myself into the shallop, followed reluctantly by Richard Faulder, over whose courage and kindness of heart superstition had great power; and with one push from the shore, and some exertion in skulling, we came within a quoit-cast of the unfortunate fisherman. He stayed not to profit by our aid ; for when he perceived us near, he uttered a piercing shriek of joy, and bounded towards us through the agitated clement the full length of an oar. I saw him for a second on the surface of the FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 297 water ; but the eddying current sucked him down ; and all I ever beheld of him again was his hand held above the flood, and clutching in agony at some imaginary aid. I sat gazing in horror on the vacant sea before us : but a breathing-time before, a human being, full of youth, and strength, and hope, was there : his cries were still ringing in my ears and echoing in the woods ; and now nothing was seen or heard save the turbulent expanse of water, and the sound of its chafing on the shores. We pushed back our shallop, and resumed our station on the cliff beside the old mariner and his de- scendant. " Wherefore sought ye to peril your own lives fruitlessly?" said Mark, "in attempting to save the doomed. Whoso touches those infernal ships never survives to tell the talc. Woe to the man who is found nigh them at midnight when the tide has subsided and they arise in their former beauty, with forecastle, and deck, and sail, and pennon, and shroud. Then is seen the streaming of lights along the water from their cabin windows, and then is heard the sound of mirth and the clamour of tongues, and the infernal whoop and halloo, and toiig, ringing far and wide. AVoc to the man who comes nigh them !" To all this my Allanbay companion listened with a breathless attention. I felt something touched with a superstition to which I partly believed I had seen one victim offered up; and I inquired of the old mariner, " How and when came these haunted ships there? T<> me they seem but the melancholy relics of some unhappy VOyagers, and much more likely to warn people f" ihufl dot ruction, than cut ice ami delude them to it." "And SO," said the old man with a smile, which had more Of SOITOW in it than of mirth, " and so. young man, these black and shattered hulls- seem to the eve of the multitude. Hut tlii. not, what the\ seem that water, a kind and Convenient SCTVant to the want of man, which Beemfl BO smooth, and so dimpling, and SO gentle, has swallowed up a human soul even now ; and the place which it i fair and so level, is a faithless quicksand, oul of which none escape. Thin are otherwise than they seem. Had yon lived as long 298 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. as I have had the sorrow to live ; had you seen the storms, and braved the perils, and endured the dis- tresses which have befallen me ; had you sat gazing out on the dreary ocean at midnight on a haunted coast ; had you seen comrade after comrade, brother after brother, and son after son, swept away by the merciless ocean from your very side ; had you seen the shapes of friends, doomed to the wave and the quicksand, appear- ing to you in the dreams and the visions of the night ; then would your mind have been prepared for crediting the maritime legends of mariners ; and the two haunted Danish ships would have had their terrors for you, as they have for all who sojourn on this coast. Of the time and the cause of their destruction I know nothing certain : they have stood as you have seen them for un- counted time ; and while all other ships wrecked on this unhappy coast have gone to pieces, and rotted, and sunk away in a few years, these two haunted hulks have neither sunk in the quicksand, nor has a single spar on board been displaced. Maritime legend says, that two ships of Denmark having had permission, for a time, to work deeds of darkness and dolour on the deep, weje at last condemned to the whirlpool and the sunken rock, and were wrecked in this bonuie bay, as a sign to seamen to be gentle and devout. The night when they were lost was a harvest evening of uncommon mildness and beauty: the sun had newly set; the moon came brighter and brighter out ; and the reapers, laying their sickles at the root of the standing corn, stood on rock and bank, looking at the increasing magnitude of the waters, for sea and land were visible from Saint Bees to Barnhourie. The sails of two vessels were soon seen bent for the Scottish coast ; and, with a speed outrunning the swiftest ship, they approached the dangerous quicksands and headland of Borranpoint. On the deck of the fore- most ship not a living soul was seen, or shape, unless something in darkness and form resembling a human shadow could be called a shape, which flitted from ex- tremity to extremity of the ship, with the appearance of trimming the sails and directing the vessel's course. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 29'J But the decks of its companion were crowded with human shapes j the captain, and mate, and sailor, and cabin boy, all seemed there ; and from them the sound of mirth and minstrelsy echoed over land and water. The coast which they skirted along was one of extreme dauirer ; and the reapers shouted to warn them to be- ware of sand-bank and rock ; but of this friendly counsel no notice was taken, except that a large and famished dog, which sat on the prow, answered every shout with a Long, loud, and melancholy howl. The deep sand- bank of Carsethorn was expected to arrest the careei • these desperate navigators ; but they passed, with th< celerity of waterfowl, over an obstruction which i wrecked many pretty ships. "Old men shook their heads and departed, saying, ' We have seen the fiend sailing in a bottomless ship let us go home and pray:' but one young and wilful man said, ' Fiend ! I '11 w arrant it's nae fiend, but dono. Janet Withershins, the witch, holding a carouse with kf of her Cumberland cummers, and mickle red wint will be spilt atweeu them. Dod, I would gladly have a toothfu' ! I'll warrant it's nanc o" your cauld sour slae- watcr like a bottle of Bailie Skrinkie's port, but ri drap-o'-iuv-heart's-blood stuff that would waken a body out of their last linen. I wonder where the cumm will anchor their craft?' ' And I'll vow,' said anothei tic, 'the wine they quaff is none of your visionan drink, such as a drouthie body has dished out to h lip-, in a dream; nor is it shadowy and unsubstantial like the Is they Bail iii, which are made out of . cockle-shell or a cast-off-slipper, or the paring of a sea- man's right thumb-nail. 1 OUCe got a hansel out • I witch's quaigfa myself — auld Marion Mathers of Dnstie* footj whom they tried to bury in the auld l;iik-\;u Dunscore, but the cummer raise as fast as they laid her down, and nae where else would she lie but in t lie In mi ni green kirk-yard of Kier, among douce and sponsible fowk. So I'll vnw that the wine of a witch's cup i fell liquor r did a Kindly turn to a poor man's heart; and lie the; i they witches* if they ha 300 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. red wine asteer, I'll risk a drouket sark for ae glorious tout out.' ' Silence, yc sinners,' said the minister's son of a neighbouring parish, who united in his own person his father's lack of devotion with his mother's love of liquor. ' Whisht ! — speak as if yc had the fear of some- thing holy before ye. Let the vessels run their own way to destruction : who can stay the eastern wind, and the current of the Sol way sea ? I can find ye scrip- ture warrant for that : so let them try their strength on Blawhooly rocks, and their might on the broad quick- sand. There 's a surf running there would knock the ribs together of a galley built by the imps of the pit, and commanded by the Prince of Darkness. Bonnilie and bravely they sail away there ; but before the blast blows by they'll be wrecked ; and red wine and strong brandy will be as rife as dyke- water, and we'll drink the health of bonnic Bell Blackness out of her left-foot slipper.' The speech of the young profligate was ap- plauded by several of his companions, and away they ilew to the bay of Blawhooly, from whence they never returned. The two vessels were observed all at once to stop in the bosom of the bay, on the spot where their hulls now appear: the mirth and the minstrelsy waxed louder than ever 5 and the forms of maidens, with in- struments of music and wine-cups in their hands, thronged the decks. A boat was lowered 5 and the same shadowy pilot who conducted the ships made it start towards the shore with the rapidity of lightning, and its head knocked against the bank where the four young men stood, who longed for the unblcst drink. They leaped in with a laugh, and with a laugh were they welcomed on deck ; wine-cups were given to each, aud as they raised them to their lips the vessels melted away beneath their feet ; and one loud shriek, mingled with laughter still louder, was heard over land and water for many miles. Nothing more was heard or seen till the morning, when the crowd who came to the beach saw with fear and wonder the two Haunted Ships, such as they now seem, masts and tackle gone ; nor mark, nor sign, by which their name, country, or FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 301 destination could be known, was left remaining. Such is the tradition of the mariners ; and its truth has been attested by many families whose sons and whose fathers have been drowned in the haunted bay of Blawhooly." "And trow ye," said the old woman, who, attracted from her hut by the drowning cries of the young fisher- man, had remained an auditor of the mariner's legend, " And trow ye, Mark Macmoran, that the tale of the Haunted Ships is done r I can say no to that. Mickle have mine ears heard ; but more mine eyes have wit- nessed since I came to dwell in this humble home by the side of the deep sea. 1 mind the night weel : it was on Hallow mass eve : the nuts were cracked, the apples were ate, and spell and charm were tried at my fire-side; till, weaned with diving into the dark waves of futurity, the lads and lasses fairly took to the more visible Idessings of kind words, tender clasps, and gentle courtship. Soft words in a maiden's car, and a kindlie kiss o' her lip, were old world matters to me, Mark Macmoran ; though I mean not to say that 1 have been free of the folly of daunering and daffin with a youth in my day, and keeping trystc with him in dark and lonely places. However, as I say, these times of enjoyment were passed and gone with me; the mair's the pity that pleasure should (ly sae fast away— and as I could nae make sport I thought I should not mar any; so out. I Banntered into the fresh cold air, and sat down behind that old oak, and looked abroad on the wide sea. I had my Bin Bad thoughts; ye may think, at the time: it was in that very hay my blythe good-man perished, with seven more in his company, — and on that very bank where ye Bee the waves leaping and foaming, I saw seven 1,1. I;. corses Wrecked, hut the dearest was the eighth. It was a woeful sight to me, a widow, with four bonnie boys, « i'li nought to Bupporl I hem but these twa hands, and God's blessing and a cow's grass. I have never liked to li\ ht of this hay since that time; and mony's the moonli it I sit looking on the ry mountains and these wasti shores; it does my heart good, whatever it may do to my head. So ye 302 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. see it was Hallowmass night ; and looking on sea and land sat I ; and my heart wandering to other thoughts soon made mo forget my youthful company at hame. It might be near the howe hour of the night : the tide was making, and its singing brought strange old world stories with it ; and I thought on the dangers that sailors en- dure, the fates they meet with, and the fearful forms they see. My own blythe good-man had seen sights that made him grave enough at times, though he aye tried to laugh them away. Awecl, atween that very- rock aneath us and the coming tide, I saw, or thought I saw — for the tale is so dream-like that the whole might pass for a vision of the night — I saw the form of a man : his plaid was gray; his face was gray; and his hair, which hung low down till it nearly came to the middle of his back, was as white as the white sea-foam. He began to howk and dig under the bank ; an' God be near me, thought I, this maun be the unblessed spirit of auld Adam Gowdgowpin, the miser, who is doomed to dig for shipwrecked treasure, and count how many millions are hidden for ever from man's enjoyment. The form found something which in shape and hue seemed a left-foot slipper of brass ; so down to the tide he marched, and placing it on the water, whirled it thrice round ; aud the infernal slipper dilated at every turn, till it became a bonnie barge with its sails bent, and on board leaped the form and scudded swiftly away. He came to one of the Haunted Ships ; and striking it with his oar, a fair ship, with mast, and canvjis, and mariners, started up : he touched the other Haunted Ship, and produced the like transformation ; and away the three spectre ships bounded, leaving a track of fire behind them on the billons which was long unextinguished. Now was nae that a bonnie and a fearful sight to see beneath the light of the Hallowmass moon ? JJut the tale is far frae finished ; for mariners say, that once a year, on a cer- tain night, if ye stand on the Borranpoint, ye will see the infernal shallops coming snoring through the Sol- way; ye will hear the same laugh, and song, and mirth, and" minstrelsy, which our ancestors heard ; see them FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 303 bound over the sand-banks and sunken rocks like sea- gulls., cast their anchor in Blawhooly bay, while the shadowy figure lowers down the boat, and augments their numbers with the four uuhappy mortals to whose memory a stone stands in the kirk-yard, with a sinking ship and a shoreless sea cut upon it. Then the spectre ships vanish, and the drowning shriek of mortals, and the rejoicing laugh of fiends are heard, and the old hulls are left as a memorial that the old spiritual kingdom has not departed from the earth. But I maun away, and trim my little cottage fire, and make it burn and blaze up bonnic, to warm the crickets, and my cold and crazy bones, that maun soon be laid aneath the green sod in the eerie kirk-yard." And away the old dame tottered to her cottage, secured the door on the inside, and soon the hearth-flame was seen to glimmer and gleam through key-hole aud window . " I '11 tell ye what," said the old mariner, in a sub- dued tone, and with a shrewd and suspicious glance of eve after the old sibyl, "it's a word that may not very well be uttered, but there arc many mistakes made in evening stories if old Moll Moray there, where she lives, knows not inickle more than she is willing to tell of the Haunted Ships and their unhallowed mariners. She lives cannilie and quietly; no one knows how she ■ >r supported; but her dress is aye whole, her Cottage ever smokes, and her table lacks neither of wine, white and red, nor of fowl aud fish, and white bread and brown. It was a dear scoff to Jock Matheson, when he called old Moll the uncannie carline of Blaw- [y : his boat ran round and round in the centre of the Soluay, — every body said it was enchanted, — and down it went head Ion most : and had nae .lock been a swimmer equal to a sheldrake he would have led the I. h ; — but I'll warrant it sobered the lad's speech; and be ii'M r i d aims* If safe till he made auld Moll the present Of B !".w Irirtle and B stone of cheese." <) father/' said his grand-daughter Barbara, "ye Barely wrong j oor old Mary Moray i what use could it be to an old woman like her, who has no WTOUgS to re- 304 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. dress, no malice to work out against mankind, and no- thing to seek of enjoyment save a cannie hour and a quiet grave — what use could the fellowship of fiends and the communion of evil spirits be to her ? I know Jenny Primrose puts rowan-tree above the door-head when she sees old Mary coming ; I know the good wife of Kittlcnaket wears rowan-berry leaves in tlie head- band of her blue kirtle, and all for the sake of averting the unsonsie glance of Mary's right ee; and I know that the old laird of Burntroutwater drives his seven cows to their pasture w ith a wand of witch-tree, to keep Mary from milking them. But what has all that to do with haunted shallops, visionary mariners, and bottomless boats ? I have heard myself as pleasant a tale about the Haunted Ships and their unworldly crews as any one would wish to hear in a winter evening. It was told to me by young Benjie Macharg, one summer night, sitting on Abrigland bank : the lad intended a sort of love meeting ; but all that he could talk of was about smearing sheep and shearing sheep, and of the wife which the Norway elves of the Haunted Ships made for his uncle Sandie Macharg. And I shall tell ye the tale as the honest lad told it to me. Alexander Macharg, besides being the laird of three acres of peat- moss, two kale gardens, and the owner of seven good milch cows, a pair of horses, and six pet sheep, was the husband of one of the handsomest women in seven parishes. Many a lad sighed the day he was brided j and a Nightsdale laird and two Annandale moorland farmers drank themselves to their last linen, as well as their last shilling, through sorrow for her loss. But married was the dame ; and home she was carried, to bear rule over her home and her husband, as an honest woman should. Now ye maun ken that though the flesh and blood lovers of Alexander's bonnie wife all ceased to love and to sue her after she became another's, there were certain admirers who did not consider their claim at all abated or their hopes lessened by the kirk's famous obstacle of matrimony. Ye have heard how the devout minister of Tinwald had a fair son carried away, FLOWERS OF LITERATURE- 305 and bedded against his liking to an nnchristened bride, whom the elves and the fairies provided : ye have heard how the bonnie bride of the drunken laird of Soukitup was stolen by the fairies out at the back-window of the bridal chamber, the time the bridegroom was groping his way to the chamber door ; and ye have heard — but why need I multiply cases ? such things in the ancient days were as common as candle-light. So ye '11 no hinder certain water elves and sea fairies, who some- times keep festival and summer mirth in these old haunted hulks, from falling in love with the weel-faured wife of laird Macharg5 and to their plots and con- trivances they went how they might accomplish to sunder man and wife, and sundering such a man and such a wife was like sundering the green leaf from the summer, or the fragrance from the flower. So it fell on a time that laird Macharg took his halve-net on his back, and his steel spear in his hand, and down to Blawhooly bay gade he, and into the water he went right between the two haunted hulks, and, placing his net, awaited the coming of the tide. The night, ye maun ken, was mirk, and the wind lowne, and the sing- ing of the increasing waters among the shells and the peebles was heard for sundry miles. All at once lights began to glance and twinkle on board the two Haunted Ship- from every hole and seam, and presently the sonnd as of a hatchet employed in squaring timber echoed far and wide. But if the toil >*\ these unearthly workmen amazed the laird, how' much more was his amazement ina when a sharp shrill v. ice called out, 'H<»! brother, what are yon doing now-' A voice .still shriller p I from the other Haunted Ship, 'I'm making a wife to Sandie Marharg!* and a loud quavering laugh running from ship to ship, and from bank to bank, told the joy they expected from their labour. Now the laird, besides being a devout and a iring man, was ibrewd and hold ; and in plot, ami contrivance, and skill in conducting bis designs, fairly an overmatch for any dozen land elves: but water eh ea are far more i nbtle \ . their 306 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. haunts and their dwellings being in the great deep, pursuit and detection is hopeless if they succeed in carrying their prey to the waves. Hut ye shall bear- Home flew the laird, — collected his family around the hearth, — spoke of the signs and the sins of the times, and talked of mortification and prayer for averting calamity ; and finally taking his father's Bible, brass clasps, black print, and covered with calf-skin, from the shelf, he proceeded without let or stint to perform do- mestic worship. I should have told ye that he bolted and locked the door, shut up all inlet to the house, threw salt into the fire, and proceeded in every way like a man skilful in guarding against the plots of fairies and fiends. His wife looked on all this with wonder ; but she saw something in her husband's looks that hindered her from intruding either question or ad- vice, and a wise woman was she. Near the mid hour of the night the rush of a horse's feet was heard, and the sound of a rider leaping from its back, and a heavy knock came to the door accompanied by a voice, saying, ' The cummer drink's hot, and the knave bairn is ex- pected at laird Laurie's to-night ; sae mount, good- wife, and come.' e Preserve me !' said the wife of Sandie Macharg; ' that's news indeed ; who could have thought it ? the laird has been heirless for seventeen years ! Now Sandie, my man, fetch me my skirt and hood.' But he laid his arm round his wife's neck, and said, ' If all the lairds in Galloway go heirless, over this door threshold shall you not stir to-night; and I have said, and I have sworn it : seek not to know why nor wherefore — hut, Lord, send us thy blessed morn-light.' The wife looked for a moment in her husband's eyes, and desisted from further entreaty. ' But let us send a civil message to the gossips, Sandie; and had nae ye better say I am sair laid with a sudden sickness; though it's sinful-like to send the poor messenger a mile agate with a lie in his mouth without a glass of brandy.' ' To such a messenger, and to those who sent liim, no apology is needed,' said the austere laird, ' so let him depart.' And the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and the muttered im- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 307 precations of its rider on the churlish treatment he had experienced. 'Now Sandie, my lad,' said his wife, laying an arm particularly white and round about his neck as she spoke, ' are you not a queer man and a stern ? I have been your wedded wife now these three years ; and, beside my dower, have brought you three as bonnie bairns as ever smiled aneath a summer sun. O man, you a douce man, and fitter to be an elder than even AVillie Greer himself, I have the minister's ain word for 't, to put on these hard-hearted loots, and gang waving your arms that way, as if ye said, < I winna take the counsel of sic a hcmpie as you,' your ain leal wife ; I will and I maun have an explanation.' To all this Sandie Macharg replied, ' It is written — ' wives, obey your husbands 5' but we have been stayed in our devotion, so let us pray;' and down he knelt; his wife knelt also, for she was as devout as bonnie ; and beside them knelt their household, and all lights were ex- tinguished. 'Now this beats a',' muttered his wife to herself ; ' however, I shall be obedient for a time; but if I dinna hen what all this is for before the morn by sunkot-tiinc, my tongue is nac longer a tongue, nor my hands worth wearing.' The voice of her husband in prayer interrupted this mental soliloquy; and ardently did he beseech to be preserved from the wiles of the 6end9 and the snares of Satan ; from witches, ghosts, ins, elves, fairies, spunkics, and watei -kelpies ; from tfa re shallop of Solway ; from spirits visible and invisible; from the Haunted Ship; and their un- I ; from maritime spirits that plotted agai ry men, and fell in love with their wives — ' : Nay, but his 1 r us!' said his wife, in 8 may. ' God guide my gude-man's wits : [ never heard such a prayer from human lips before, odie, my man, lord e ! what fearful lighl - — barn, and byre, and stable, maun he in blase; and 11. I . Doddie, and Cherrie, and Damson-plum, will I ored with reek, and ched with flam . ad b Hood of light, but not so gross as a common fire, which cended to heaven and iOS FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. filled all the court before the house, amply justified the good wife's suspicions. But to the terrors of fire Sandie was as immoveable as he was to the imaginary groans of the barren wife of laird Laurie ; and lie held his wife, and threatened the weight of his right hand — and it was a heavy one — to all who ventured abroad, or even unbolted the door. The neighing and prancing of horses, and the bellowing of cows, augmented the horrors of the night ; and to any one who only heard the din, it seemed that the whole onstead was in a blaze, and horses and cattle perishing in the flame. All wiles, common or extraordinary, were put in practice to entice or force the honest farmer and his wife to open the door 5 and when the like success attended every new stratagem, silence for a little while ensued, and a long, loud, and shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic efforts of the night. In the morning, when laird Macharg went to the door, he found standing against one of the pilasters a piece of black ship oak, rudely fashioned into some- thing like human form, and which skilful people de- clared would have been clothed with seeming flesh and blood, and palmed upon him by elfin adroitness for his wife, had he admitted his visitants. A synod of wise men and women sat upon the woman of timber, and she was finally ordered to be devoured by fire, and that in the open air. A fire was soon made, and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed from the prongs of two pair of pitchforks. And the blaze that arose was awful to be- hold ; and hissings, and burstings, and loud cracklings, and strange noises were heard in the midst of the flame ; and when the whole sunk into ashes, a drinking cup of some precious metal was found ; and this cup, fashioned no doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless by the purification with fire, the sons and daughters of Sandie Macharg and his wife drink out of to this very day." London Magazine* FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 309 LANGUISHING LYRICS ; OR THE LAMENTABLE LOVES OF THE LACHRYMOSE LORD AND THE LL'UUBRIOUS LADY*. " The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow." Shakspcarc. A damsel there was, and her surname was Thrope, And her christian name was Ann ; — Few lovers had she for her favours to hope, For she was a hater of man ; — And heartily she detested the sex, I her only amusement was to vex, And every thought of pleasure perplex — ■ I hropi ! Ann Thrope ! Miss Ann Thrope !) On the penscrosa plan. This sorrowful damsel, Miss Ann Thrope, Thought laughter a mortal sin ; As bood in the morn as her eyes did ope, weep they did begin. F<>r her highest Luxury was to grieve, And in company to cry in her sleeve; And as Ion ■'-■■ lengthen' d at eve — < I Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! <> Miss Ann Thrope !) Shi are to lengthen her chin. entimentality Mi Ann Thrope all would admii he si udied to mumble, mump, and mope Like a cat by the kitchen | • Wt need t the folloi n learned nobleman, who bai acquired great fame b 310 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. The joys of the world she turn'd into woes, And whenever she stoop'd to pluck a rose, She took care to scratch her unfortunate nose — (0 Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) By smelling too near to the briar. Sure nobody else but Miss Ann Thrope In sorrow would waste the day, And go out of their road for griefs to grope, When so many are in the way. — But she in a tombstone made her bed, And epitaphs all night she read, And with dying speeches bother'd her head — (0 Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) Till she sent her brains astray. When my lord came wooing to Miss Ann Thrope, He was just a Childe from school ; He paid his addresses in a trope, And called her pretty Bul-bul. But she knew not in the modern scale, That a couple of Bulls was a nightingale; So full in his face she turn'd her tail (0 Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) As sweet as a fresh-blown Gul. Then he sent a love-sonnet to Miss Ann Thrope, Four stanzas of elegant woe ; The letters were cut in a comical slope, With Zwv) \>,& cas ayazsuj. 'Twas all about rivals, and ruins, and racks ; The bearer was dress'd in a new suit of blacks ; The paper was sable, and so was the wax — (O Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope! ) And his pen was the quill of a crow. Whatqueer-looking words, thought Miss Ann Thrope, To tag at the tail of a distich ! So she clapp'd her eye to a microscope, To get at their sense cabalistic. FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 311 He swore in the Hellespont he'd fall, If she would not go with him to Istambol ; But all she would answer was, tol de rol lol — (0 Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thropc !) To his lordship's rhymes Hellenistic. Then the peer he said — O Miss Thrope, Since life is a fading flower, You'll do me the favour to elope With your own dear faithful Giaour. And as for your father, and mother, and aunt, The family all I will enchant, Bv reading of a Romaic romaunt — (0 Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) Till they shed of tears a shower. His lordship he read : — and Miss Ann Thrope Was obliged to praise his wit ; But as the poetry seemed rather sop- urine, she dozed a bit. Till, quite overwhelm'd with slumber and sorrow, A yawn or two she begg'd leave to borrow — And said if he'd call again to-morrow — (O Thrope ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) He might read a second Fytte. He read till he wept ; — but Miss Ann Thropi Declared it tras all in\ eye ; She call'd him a Jew, and wish'd the pope Had his 1 1 u lody. Says my lord — "I l»e^ you will caD it ce; "And as whilom you have listened nc, " I'll be off to the Payninu beyond the sea — ("OThrope! AnnThropel Miss Ann Thrope!) And leave yon ejUoons t<> die." Ah ! who COuld n ist ■ — Not Miss Ann Thrope — A ( loi sair hove in - : L r 1 1 1 | — My lord !<<• bid him throw out a ropOj \nd hold it fast and tiirht. 312 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. So then they put it to the vote ; He tipp'd the lozel a one pound note, And tliey jump'cl together into the boat — (O Thropc ! Ann Thrope ! O Miss Ann Thrope !) And bid her papa good night. Anonymous. MERCIFUL SOVEREIGNS. In the year 17/5, Mr. Wraxall, the traveller, visited the curious rock called Mont St. Michel, on the coast of Normandy, which, in situation and appearance, as in name, bears a close resemblance to St. Michael's Mount, on the coast of Cornwall. " Desirous (says he) to visit the celebrated Mont St. Michel, I hired two horses, and set out early yesterday morning. It is about twenty miles from Granville, and the road lying along the sea-shore renders it very pleasant. I got to Genet, a little village, before noon. From hence it is only a league to the Mount ; but as it lies entirely across the sands, which are only passable at low tide, it becomes indispensably requisite to procure a guide. I did so, and arrived there about one in the afternoon. " This extraordinary rock — for it is no more — rises in the middle of the bay of Avrancb.es. Nature has completely fortified one side by its craggy and almost perpendicular descent, which renders it impracticable for courage or address, however consummate, to scale or mount it. The other parts are surrounded by walls, fenced with semilunar towers, in the Gothic manner, but sufficiently strong, superadded to the advantages of its situation, to despise all attack. At the foot of the mountain begins a street or town, which winds round its base to a considerable height. Above are chambers where prisoners of state are kept, and other buildings intended for residence ; and on the summit is erected the abbey itself, occupying a prodigious >pace of ground, and of a strength and solidity equal FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 313 to its enormous size, since it has stood all the storms of heaven, in this elevated and exposed situation, during many centuries. I spent the whole afternoon in the different parts of this edifice, and as the Swiss, who conducted me through them, found he could not gratify my curiosity too minutely, he left no apartment or chamber unseen. "The 'Salle de Chevalerie,' or Knights' hall, re- minded me of that at Marienbourg, in Polish Prussia. It is equally spacious, but more barbarous and rude, be- cause some hundred years prior in its erection. Here the knights of St. Michael used to meet in solemn con- vocation on important occasions. They were the de- fenders and guardians of this mountain and abbey, as those of the Temple and of St. John of Jerusalem were to the Holy Sepulchre. At one end is a painting of the archangel, the patron of their order ; and in this hall Louis the Eleventh first instituted, and invested with the insignia of knighthood, the chevaliers of the order of St. Michael. " We passed on, through several lesser rooms, into a loi aire, n madame de Maintenon and Louis the Fourteenth. Some mouths after, he was in- duced, by a person Bent I Ij for that purpose, to make a tour into French Flanders. The instant lie VOL. III. P 314 FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. " had quitted the Dutch territories, he was put under nit st, and immediately, by his majesty's express com- mand, conducted to this place. Here he lived upwards of three-and-twenty years, and here he at length ex- pired. During the long nights of winter,' continued the man, ' no candle or fire was allowed him. He was not permitted to have any book. He saw no human face except the gaoler, who came once every day to present him, through the hole in the wicket, his little portion of bread and wine. No instrument was given him with which he could destroy himself; but he found means at length to draw out a nail from the wood, w ith which he cut or engraved on the bars of his cage certain fleurs de lis, and armorial bearings, which formed his only employment and recreation.' — These I saw, and they are indeed very curiously performed with so rude a tool. " As I stood within this dreadful engine, my heart sunk within me. I execrated the vengeance of the prince, who, for such a trespass, could inflict so dispro- portionate and tremendous a punishment. I thought the towers and pinnacles of the abbey seemed to shake, as conscious of the cruelty committed in their gloomy round, and I hastened out of this sad apartment, im- pressed with feelings of the deepest pity and indigna- tion. " ' It is now fifteen years,' said the Swiss, ' since a gentleman terminated his day6 in that cage ; it was be- fore I came to reside here ; but there is one instance within my own memory. Monsieur de F , a person of rank, was conducted here by the command of the late king (Louis XV.) ; he remained three years shut up in it. I fed him myself every day j but he was al- lowed books and candle to divert his misery ; and at length the abbot, touched with his deplorable calami- ties, requested and obtained the royal pardon. He was set free, and is now alive in France. " 'The subterranean chambers,' added he, ' in this mountain are so numerous, that we know them not ourselves. There are certain dungeons, called Oub- FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 315 liettes, into which they were accustomed anciently to let down malefactors guilty of very heinous crimes : they provided them with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and then they were totally forgotten, and left to perish by hunger in the dark vaults of the rock ! This punishment has not, however, been inflicted by any king in the last or present century.' " THE BRIDAL. BY. MR. NEWMAN. And so they bade farewell, — and lip press'd lip As though they never meant to part ajrain : 1 was loves rich luxury . — that honied sip The pen of poesy would trace, — in vain ! They parted — but her eye betray'd a tear — They parted — but her check was pale with fear. They parted — but they vow'd to meet again, Even on the morrow, when the sun went down, H hen gentle Evening fust begins her reign, And Love demands that witching hour his own ; When all the bustle of the day is o'er, And noise and traffic 'tun the car no more. And the — the loveliest form thi I ev< r press'd With fairy loot the silver dew of night. Departed — but her soul was sore distress'd. And much she wish'd return of morning light A something tveigh'd upon her mind — though what dark foreboding fancy whisper'd not. \nd he — the other — bent his tedious way Through devioi d through * - • i > I dreai rhrough wilds scarce trod even in the light of day, And ihunn'd with horror when tin night is near And human eyi i Id carcely trace Tin path that led from that dark forest pi I 'I 3 It) FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. Onward he went — yet once he turn'd and thought He heard low whispers 'neath the circling trees ; And fancied once his watchful ear had caught The sound of voices borne upon the breeze : He turn'd again, and sought, with noiseless tread,— But all around was silent as the dead. And still he forward press'd, and reach'd the stream Whose hollow murmurs long had been his guide. Soon on its banks is heard the loud death-scream, And something splashes in its silver tide ; Anon is heard a groan — a bubbling yell — Retreating footsteps ! — 'twas a deed of hell !— Then came the wish'd-for morrow, and the hours Flew upon leaden wings till evening came j And when the dew had cool'd the fainting flowers She sought the well-known spot. It was the same On which they met at even-tide before. They parted then — and they will meet no more. And there she tarried till the moon was high, And threw on all around its silver light, Illumining with delicate ray the sky, And shining forth the beacon of the night ; And there she waited with impatient air, But 'twas the hot impatience of despair. Yet he appear'd not — and she backward trod Along the river bank her weary way. " Ah me ! what sight is there ? — Almighty God !" — A corse upon the floating waters lay — A bloody corse — a gash upon its head — The certain token of the murder'd dead ! " 'Tis his !" and then she raised it from the flood, And sever'd from the head a streaming lock, And, gazing on the poor drench'd body, stood As pale and moveless as the sculptured block ; FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. 317 And then she started, and her soul seem'd freed, She mutter'd " He, 'twas he that did this deed." The time pass'd on — tlie corse was in the grave— The story, too, was spoken of no more. It seem'd as if 'twas vanish'd with the wave, Which once upon its breast the victim bore j And other lovers came — and there was one Whom she before was wont to frown upon. And much all marvell'd that the maid should choose The being who before had sued in vain ; And some, in serious mood, began to muse, And think her mad — that she should thus retain As husband one who ever used to be Her murder'd lover's direst enemy. And still the maid was calm, although no smile Beam'd on that face where smiles so oft had shone Nor could the merriest ditty e'er beguile The lady of her fix'd and mournful tone : She moved mechanical, — as though design'd To gain some hidden purpose of the mind. And the day came — the bridal hour drew nigh — The bride is at the altar — and the priest — And he — the bridegroom — waits triumphantly To breathe the vow, and lead Iter to the feast. — The vow is rcgister'd — and all is o'er, And rival spirits haunt his paths no more. And onward moves the lengthen' d bridal train Of friends, of kind] I, and there ; The gaestfl M8< mble, and in merry vein t with the bridegroom and the wedded fair Still the bride .smiles not — all pronounce it si And BUUTe] when li Min air will i Hei a dulness o'er the f< oat, I ler stately - ado