Chapter II: Part 2

A few months prior to this melancholy event, I was on board the Scorpion, when its noble commander at the same risk, but with less fatal consequences, rescued from a watery grave two men who had been swept overboard while taking in sail, during what is termed in the West Indies “a white squall.” This intrepid captain without hesitation sprung from the deck into the ocean, and after buffeting with the element to which he was the destined victim, he swam back to his vessel, supporting in each hand a fellow creature, preserved by his courageous exertions. Fadeless is the memory of the Hero, though “The waters have closed upon the passing furrow, and again hold on their accustomed course.”

[Sidenote: On the death of the Hon. John Gore.]

“Peace to thy noble spirit, gallant Gore;
Dried be the tear that steals down sorrow’s cheek;
Soothed be their grief, who thy sad fate deplore;
Stifled the sigh that does that grief bespeak.

Long shall the generous act that brought thee death
Live in the hearts of those who love the brave,
While friendship hallows with its latest breath
The fate that doom’d thee to a wat’ry grave.”

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[Sidenote: Abraham to Isaac on his marriage with Rebecca.]

Prepare thy mind to meet her, and commune with thyself on thy future moments. It is easier to win love than to retain it, and once fled it can never be recalled: be this thy care. Leave to herself the management of her household, and when she is employed therein reward her with kind looks; commend the fruits of her industry, and taste with double relish that which her hands have prepared. Flatter her not in the early days of marriage, neither subject thyself to her smiles or her frowns; for ill-placed obedience cannot long exist. But though thy helpmate must submit to thee, let thy authority fall so lightly, that she may not feel it; so shall thy hours be rich in new springing delights.

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[Sidenote: Zarapha to Rebecca on her marriage with Isaac.]

In all things seek to please him, for by increasing his felicity thou wilt increase thine own. Give way to his voice, and never let it be asked, Which of us twain shall yield? Boast not of thy perfections in his hearing, for if he truly love thee, he will be the first to discover them, and if, which God avert! his affection decrease, vanity will but give birth to disgust, and self-importance to neglect. Behold his faults with compassion, and conceal them from the eyes of thy neighbour. Refrain from frequent weeping; for when thy tears have lost their power, and flow unheeded, then hast thou lost the love of thy husband. But, above all, oh! above all, let thy mind be as open as thy hand, do nothing without his knowledge: deceive him not: Oh! never deceive him; never let even thy best intentions betray thee to act unknown to him.

Go hand in hand through life, and neither strive to linger behind nor gain upon his steps.

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[Sidenote: The Mansion of Rest.]

I talk’d to my flattering heart
And chid its wild wandering ways;
I charg’d it from folly to part,
And to husband the rest of its days.
I bade it no longer admire
The meteors that fancy had drest:
I whisper’d ’twas time to retire,
And seek for a Mansion of Rest.

A charmer was list’ning the while,
Who caught up the tone of my lay;
“O come then,” she cried with a smile,
“And I’ll show you the place and the way.”
I followed the witch to her home,
And vow’d to be always her guest:
“Never more,” I exclaim’d, “will I roam
In search of the Mansion of Rest.”

But the sweetest of moments will fly;
Not long was my fancy beguiled;
For too soon I confess’d with a sigh,
That the syren deceived while she smiled.
Deep, deep, did she stab the repose
Of my trusting and unwary breast;
And the door of each avenue close,
That led to the Mansion of Rest.

Then Friendship enticed me to stray
Through the long magic wilds of romance;
But I found she meant to betray,
And shrunk from the sorcerer’s glance.
For experience had taught me to know,
That the soul that reclined on her breast
Might toss on the billows of woe,
And ne’er find the Mansion of Rest.

Pleasure’s path I determined to try,
But Prudence I met in the way:
Conviction flash’d light from her eye,
And appear’d to illumine my day.
She cried, as she showed me a grave,
With nettles and wild flowers dress’d,
On which the dark cypress did wave,
“Behold then the Mansion of Rest.”

She spoke, and half vanish’d in air,
For she saw mild Religion appear
With a smile that would banish despair
And dry up the penitent tear:
Doubts and fears from my bosom were driven;
And pressing the cross to her breast,
And pointing serenely to heaven,
She showed me the Mansion of Rest.

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[Sidenote: National Taciturnity.]

The taciturnity of the Spaniards is attributed by Voltaire, to their horror of the influence of the Inquisition. Hence, a general jealousy and suspicion took possession of all people; friendship and sociability were all at an end; brothers were afraid of brothers, fathers of their children.

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[Sidenote: Election by Balls.]

The origin of electing members by balls may be traced to the Grecians. When a member was to be elected, every one threw a little pellet of bran, or crumb of bread into a basket, carried by a servant on his head round the table, and whoever dissented flattened their pellet at one side.

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[Sidenote: Anecdote of Robespierre.]

How often does the eye rest unconsciously upon mute inanimate objects, which, had they voices, would utter tales of stirring remembrance, and to some eyes, perhaps, do seem to speak such tales.

I was remarking one evening to a friend of my mother’s, the extreme magnificence in the style of the still beautiful though faded furniture of the apartments she occupied in Paris, and in which, at that moment, a large and gay party were assembled. “True,” replied he, “and I have seen these rooms in all their splendour, whilst their lovely, though frail mistress, dispensed her fascinating smiles upon an admiring circle. This house was fitted up by the celebrated St. Amaranthe, whose fate offers one of the most striking instances of revolutionary despotism.

“It is well known that even the stern heart of the tyrant Robespierre had felt her power, but this was no security against his atrocious cruelty. He was one of thirteen guests assembled on the preceding night in the _Rue de Gramont_, where he had partaken of the hospitality of the beauteous hostess. The next morning, whilst employed in the duties of his toilette, his Secretary observed to him that he had drunk too freely the night before. ‘What leads you to think so?’ inquired Robespierre, ‘Your unguarded conversation, Citizen, which I do not think passed unobserved, either by St. Amaranthe or her guests.’ ‘It matters not,’ said the tyrant with apparent indifference, ‘they will do me no harm,’ writing at the same moment a note which he dispatched by a servant, and then with the utmost composure continued to shave himself.

“That note conveyed his orders for the arrest of St. Amaranthe and the eleven individuals who had supped with her, one of whom was her son, a boy of thirteen; and on the following day, the only two of the party of fourteen who were not led to the guillotine were _Robespierre_ and _his Secretary_.

“St. Amaranthe dressed herself with peculiar care for her execution, and a person who by chance saw her pass in the fatal cart which conducted her to death, described to me the beauty and elegance of the figure, around which the most tastefully arranged draperies of _yellow_ crape floated on the air.”

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[Sidenote: The Old Woman and her Ass. A Fable.]

In Durham’s venerable spire,
So justly famous for its choir,
Each Sunday, when the organ’s sound
Did from the sacred walls rebound,
A gentleman, some say of note,
Joined with the choristers his throat
To praise the Lord, or show his skill,
I know not; be it as it will,
With open mouth and lifted eye
He made the solemn cadence die;
And when they raised the sacred song,
His voice was heard above the throng.
The cause of all this strange emotion,
Some said was pride, and some, devotion.
One youth with vanity elate
Observed that near a woman sat,
Adown whose ancient wrinkled face
The trickling tears did run apace;
With kerchief clean she wiped her eyes,
And stifled, as they rose, her sighs.
The songster harbour’d not a doubt
How this emotion came about:
He knew his voice had pleas’d each ear,
But ne’er before had drawn a tear;
He knew he oft had charm’d the young,
And joy’d that age now felt his tongue.
The service o’er, the crowd retires,
His pride a secret wish inspires,
To know from Goody what soft part
Of all his song had touch’d her heart.
As from the church she hobbling came,
He thus address’d the ancient dame:
Goody, a word--I won’t detain you,
I think of late I oft have seen you
Melted in tears; do pr’ythee tell
The piteous cause for which they fell.
The dame replied, Some time ago,
The time when first began my woe,
I had an ass in my possession,
For selling brooms is my profession;
He bore my besoms, drew my cart,
And was the darling of my heart:
Each night, I turn’d him to the wood
To browse the bushes for his food.
One night, when all was calm and still,
Some wicked foxes from the hill,
Attack’d the honest, harmless beast,
And of his carcass made a feast.
Excuse me, Sir, if when I hear
Your worship’s voice, I shed a tear:
When it so loud and shrill does rise,
I think I hear poor Cuddy’s cries:
So like his braying is your shake,
My very heart is like to break!

MORAL.

Ye squallers, who for singers wish to pass,
First ask, if e’er your hearers lost an ass!

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[Sidenote: Life a mingled yarn.]

The web of our life is a mingled yarn. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if not redeemed by our nature.

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[Sidenote: Henry VIII. and Francis I.]

At the interview between Henry VIII. and Francis I. which took place at Guisnes, Henry and his English cavaliers wore on their crests the Hawthorn, a cherished though humble badge, from the circumstance of Henry VII. having placed on his head, in Bosworth Field, the crown of England, which had been discovered in a hawthorn bush. It was on this occasion, that when Henry was about to read the articles of the treaty the monarchs had met to execute, that instead of designating himself King of _France_, he stopped abruptly after “I Henry, King of England,” and exclaimed, “No, not the King of France: I should be an impostor if I claimed that title, for the King of France is here!”

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[Sidenote: Anecdote of Torregiano.]

Torregiano, a native of Florence, who came to Seville in 1520, was employed by the Duke of Arcos in making an exact copy of a statue in clay, which had been executed by himself, and which was greatly valued by all connoisseurs. When it was finished, the Duke paid him in maravedes, and the quantity was so great that two men were required to carry it to his lodging.

The artist rejoiced in this liberal payment, as he supposed it, but on opening the bags and ascertaining that they contained copper, and not silver, and that the value was trifling, he became furious, ran to the palace of the Duke, and before his face, broke the statue in pieces. The figure being an image of our Saviour, he was accused of heresy, and consigned to the Inquisition, and that tribunal sentenced him to a severe castigation, which the indignant artist escaped by starving himself to death in prison, previous to the time appointed for the execution of his sentence.

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[Sidenote: Decline of Families.]

Families decline as do empires; each succeeding day some part of life’s ancient honours are lost: the descent that leads to adversity is precipitate and rapid. Children detach themselves from their parents: parents separate themselves from their children. Thus all fades, till the last great scene lets fall the curtain of death and oblivion.

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Il y a des personnes à qui les défauts sient bien, et d’autres qui sont désagréables avec leurs bonnes qualités.

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[Sidenote: Confiance.]

La confiance fournit plus à la conversation, que l’esprit.

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[Sidenote: Robert Bruce.]

Bruce, like many other heroes, was an observer of omens, and a singular instance is recorded by tradition.--After he had been four times defeated in his attempts to recover and secure the crown of Scotland, he was on the point of abandoning all future opposition to what appeared to be his fate, and to go to the Holy Land. It chanced that his eyes, as he was thus pondering, were attracted by the exertions of a _spider_, which, in order to fix his web, endeavoured to swing himself from one beam to another above his head. Involuntarily he became interested in the pertinacity with which the insect renewed its exertions after failing six times; and it occurred to him, that he would decide his own course according to the success or failure of that of the spider. At the _seventh_ effort the insect gained its object, and Bruce, in like manner, persevered and carried his own.

Hence, it has been held unlucky and ungrateful, for any one of the name of Bruce to kill a spider!

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[Sidenote: How to meet afflictions.]

Dissipation of mind, and a length of time, are the remedies to which the greatest part of mankind trust in their afflictions; but the first of these works a temporary, the second a slow effect, and both are unworthy of a wise man. Are we to fly from ourselves that we may fly from our misfortunes, and fondly imagine that the disease is cured because we find means to get some few minutes from pain? Or shall we expect from Time, the physician of brutes, a lingering and uncertain deliverance? Shall we wait to be happy, till we can forget we are miserable? and owe to the weakness of our faculties a tranquillity which ought to be the effect of our strength? Far otherwise, let us set all our past and present afflictions at once before our eyes; let us resolve to overcome them, instead of flying from them, or wearing out the sense of them by a long and ignominious patience; instead of palliating remedies, let us use the incision knife and the caustic; search the wound to the bottom, and work an immediate and radical cure.

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[Sidenote: So ho.]

To the north of the Earl of Leicester’s house, from Leicester Square, stood King’s Square, on one side of which was the Duke of Monmouth’s house, after whose execution his friends changed the name to Soho Square; So ho! being the watchword with which he advanced to the fatal battle of Sedgemore.

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[Sidenote: Loss of a Parent irreparable.]

If there are sufferings which, however dreadful in their endurance, are yet susceptible of amelioration, the sorrow which a parent’s loss awakens is not among the number; other ties may be replaced, other affections may be restored, but when death breaks the bond of filial love, nature, honouring the most sacred of her feelings, forbids a sentiment less pure, less strong, succeeding to it; and though the tear which sorrow sheds upon the parent’s grave may be dried by time, the loss which bids that tear to flow can never be replaced by human tenderness or human power.

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[Sidenote: Fruit.]

Physicians, says Petrarch, regard fruit as almost equally poisonous with aconite and henbane; if this be true, surely Nature is a cruel step-mother to have given to fruits such beauty of colouring, such a delightful perfume, and so agreeable a taste, purposely to seduce and draw us into the snare. Would a good mother present poison to her children, covered with honey?

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On parle peu quand la vanité ne fait pas parler.

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[Sidenote: Anecdote of Frederick the Great.]

Frederick the Great, on the death of one of his chaplains, being desirous of replacing him by a man of talent, took the following mode of ascertaining the qualifications of the candidate for the nomination. He told the applicant that he would himself furnish him with a text the following Sunday, from which he was to preach extempore. The clergyman accepted the offer. The whim of such a probationary sermon was spread abroad widely, and at an early hour the Royal chapel was crowded to excess. The King arrived at the close of the prayers, and, on the clergyman’s ascending the pulpit, one of His Majesty’s Aides-de-Camp presented him with a sealed letter. The preacher opened it, and found nothing but a blank paper, yet in so critical a moment he did not lose his presence of mind. “My brethren,” said he, turning the paper on both sides, “here is nothing, and there is nothing; out of nothing God created all things.” And he proceeded to deliver a most admirable discourse on the wonders of the creation.

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On ne se blâme que pour être loué.

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It is a poor wit that jests at poverty.

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[Sidenote: Equity.]

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm;
The frame thy scornful looks deride
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed.

The sun, the moon, the stars he made
To all his creatures free;
And spreads o’er earth the glassy blade
For worms as well as thee.

The crown to awe, the rod to smite,
Is man’s by law divine:
But sacred be each humble right
That clashes not with thine.

Let savage prowlers of the wood,
With thirst or hunger bold,
Let poisonous foes by land or flood,
Let plunderers of the fold,

Let pilferers of the hoarded grain,
To justice victims die;
But injure not the harmless train
That creep, or walk, or fly.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive:
O! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

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[Sidenote: Mussulman.]

The Mussulman law divides into two classes all the inhabitants of the earth: those who profess the faith of Mahomet are called, without distinction of rites, sects, &c. “_Musslem_,” which in Arabic signifies a person resigned to God, the dual of which is Mussulman. The nations who deny the divine mission, and reject the doctrine of the prophet, are confounded under the common denomination of “Keafid,” infidel, or blasphemer; a wretch wandering in darkness, whose eyes are shut to the light of revelation. Thus all infidels form but one people.

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_Matthias, Count Thurnes’, Address to the Feudal Nobles of Bohemia._

There remains now no room for repentance, and no plea for forgiveness. The die is thrown. We must embrace freedom or the scaffold: men of principle, if conquerors, men of conscience, and independent; but if overcome, poor, perfidious beings, perjured and rebellious traitors.

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[Sidenote: Sir Thomas More.]

During his confinement in the Tower, Sir Thomas wrote the following lines on the wall of his prison chamber, with a coal, for ink he was not allowed.

“Ey, flatterynge fortune, looke you never so fayre,
Nor never so pleasantly begin to smyle,
Although thou wouldst my ruynes all repayre,
During my life thou shalt not me beguyle;
Trust, I shall, God, to enter in a while
Thye haven of heaven, sure and uniforme,
Ever after thie calme, looke I for noe storme.”

Of the several foreigners entertained and patronised by Sir Thomas More, Erasmus was the most esteemed: but he was irritated and offended by an epigram addressed to him from Holland, to which place Erasmus had taken a horse of Sir Thomas More’s, sent for the purpose of conveying him to the coast.

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[Sidenote: The Key to Happiness.]

A susceptibility to delicate attentions, a fine sense of the nameless and exquisite tenderness of manner and thought, constitute in the minds of its possessors the deepest under current of life: the felt and treasured, but unseen and inexpressible richness of affection. It is rarely found in the characters of men, but it outweighs, when it is, all grosser qualities. There are many who waste and lose affections by careless and, often, unconscious neglect. It is not a plant to grow untended; the breath of indifference, or rude touch, may destroy for ever its delicate texture. There is a daily attention to the slight courtesies of life, which can alone preserve the first freshness of passion. The easy surprises of pleasure, earnest cheerfulness of assent to slight wishes, the habitual respect to opinions, the polite abstinence from personal topics in the company of others, unwavering attention to his and her comfort, both abroad and at home, and above all, the careful preservation of those proprieties of conversation and manner which are sacred when before the world, are some of the secrets of that rare happiness which age and habit alike fail to impair or diminish.

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[Sidenote: The Pelhams.]

John de Pelham, knighted by Edward III. was the person who first laid hold of the French King’s belt, when he surrendered at the battle of Poictiers; and it is from that circumstance the descendants of Sir John Pelham, and Dukes of Newcastle, who are lineally so, wear the buckle of a belt as a badge in their armorial bearings.

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_A Prayer on the Prospect of Death._

O Thou unknown, Almighty cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence in an hour
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun,
As _something_ loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done,

Thou knew’st that thou hast framed me
With passions wild and strong,
And listening to their winning voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human _weakness_ has run short,
Or _frailty_ stept aside,
Do thou, _All Good_, for such thou art,
The shades of darkness hide.

Where with _intention_ I have err’d,
No other plea I have
But _thou art good_, and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

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L’experience du monde brise le cœur, ou, le bronze.

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[Sidenote: Whitehall.]

The old Palace of Whitehall occupied a considerable space along the banks of the Thames, contiguous to where Westminster Bridge now stands; commencing at the present Privy Gardens, and ending near Scotland Yard. It extended also from the River to St. James’s Park, along the boundary of which, including the Cockpit and Spring Gardens, many of its buildings were situated. Hubert de Burgh, Justiciary of England in the reign of Henry III. who was its first owner, left it in 1242 to the Monastery of Black Friars, Holborn, who selling it to Walter Gray, Archbishop of York, it subsequently became the property of succeeding prelates, and was the York House more than once mentioned by Shakespeare. Henry VIII. taking a fancy to it, Wolsey, as Archbishop of York, found it prudent to dispose of the Palace to that arbitrary monarch, from whose time it became the residence of the sovereigns of England till 1695, when it was consumed by fire; and Queen Anne in consequence removed to St. James’s. Henry VIII. threw a gallery across the street to the new Park of St. James’s, which was formed about the same time from the grounds of a dissolved monastery of this name, and erected on that side of the way a Cockpit, a Tennis Court, &c. Many of Cromwell’s letters about this time are dated from the Cockpit, whilst his subsequent ones are usually dated Whitehall. The Banqueting House, now commonly called Whitehall, which was built by James I. in the room of an old building devoted by Elizabeth to a similar purpose, alone escaped the fire; and still remains a monument of the purer taste introduced by Inigo Jones. It was the only part of the intended new structure built by him. The roof was painted by Rubens, 1629, who received from Charles I. three thousand pounds and knighthood for his labour.

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[Sidenote: Adieu.]

“The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,
Loses its meanness in the parting hour.
When long neglected worth seems born anew;
The heart that scorns earth’s pageantry and power,
May melt in tears, or break, to quit a flower.”

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[Sidenote: Indifference.]

It is easier to still the wave of passion than to break the dead Sea of indifference, which, like the Lake Asphaltes, destroys the energies of all that approach it, until, like the birds who are said to drop lifeless on its dull surface, the heart sinks to rise no more.

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Nothing is more touching than unrequited love, and unreturned friendship. I can go through all the sorrow and the sadness it must excite--the heart thrown back, the hand rejected. There is then but one shelter, one repose; it turns in upon itself, and stings that self to death!--to death? yes, the heart to death--cinder powder! and the poor frame walks about, a wonder and a speculation to its neighbour.

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[Sidenote: The Cross.]

The holy ensign of the Cross was often used in dress in order to command a homage the wearer would not otherwise have received. In 1363, the father of the Doge of Venice preferred always going bareheaded to pulling off his cap to his son, until the Doge thought of placing a golden cross in front of his cap. The father then re-assumed his cap, and when he met his son pulled it off, saying, “It is not him I salute, but the cross;” and from that time the cross became an ornament of the ducal cap.

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[Sidenote: Solitude.]

Solitude is the nurse of all that is good within us. The world stains what it touches, and the more we withdraw from it the better we are.

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[Sidenote: Voltaire’s Prayer.]

O Dieu! qu’on méconnait, O Dieu! que tout annonce,
Entends les derniers mots que ma bouche prononce:
Si je me suis trompé, c’est en cherchant ta loi;
Mon cœur peut s’égarer, mais il est plein de toi.
Je vois sans m’alarmer l’Eternité paraître,
Et je ne puis penser qu’un Dieu qui m’a fait naître;
Qu’un Dieu qui sur mes jours versa tant de bienfaits,
Quand mes jours sont éteints me tourmente à jamais.

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_Method of obtaining the figure of a Plant._

A piece of paper is to be rubbed over with powdered dragon’s blood, in the manner practised by engravers, and then the small branch or leaf of which the design is required, is to be laid upon it. By means of slight friction it soon takes up a small quantity of the powder, and being then laid upon moistened paper, an impression is taken in the manner practised for lithography without a machine.

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[Sidenote: Misfortune a crime.]

Misfortune was his crime.--_Success_ would have silenced censure.

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[Sidenote: Grecian Tablets.]

Les Tablettes des Grecs étaient des tables de bois, minces et deliées, et enduites de cire. On y écrivait avec un petit stylet de cuivre, de fer, ou d’or, pointu d’un côté, et plat de l’autre: ce dernier bout servait à effacer. Les Grecs portaient à la ceinture un étui nommé _graphiarium_ où étaient renfermés le stylet et ses tablettes.

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[Sidenote: Christmas Day.]

The feast of our Saviour’s nativity was undoubtedly celebrated in the early ages of Christianity. It is named _Christmas-day_ from the Latin “Christi missa,” the mass of Christ, and thence the Roman Catholic liturgy is called their Missal, or Mass book. About the year 500 this day became generally observed in the Catholic church.

_Christmas Boxes._ The mass was called Christmas, the box, Christmas-box, for the collecting money that the priests may say masses to the Saints for those who presented them.

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[Sidenote: George IV.]

Mr. Croker asked the king why he was styled “George the _Fourth_.” His Majesty replied, because his father was George III. Not at all, observed Mr. Croker, it is because Your Majesty is king of England, France, and Ireland, and _so forth_.

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[Sidenote: Ton of the French.]

This is the ton of the French nation--if they lose a battle an _epigram_ consoles them; if they are loaded with a new impost, a ballad indemnifies them. They are enlivened with a song, and the most simple and native style is always seasoned with something sarcastic and biting.

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[Sidenote: Frederick the Great.]

Frederick was endowed with great self-possession and coolness: these were in one instance displayed, when the guards, having been promised an augmentation in their pay, which had not been attended to; they rose in a mutinous spirit, and marched towards the palace in order to obtain redress from the king himself. His Aide-de-Camp, alarmed at their approach, came to inform his royal master of the circumstance. Frederick, who was quietly writing at his desk, ordered his hat and sword, and went to the palace yard to meet them; without manifesting the least surprise he drew his sword, placing himself at their head, at the same moment giving the word of command, “_Linksum kehrt euch marsch_,”--To the left, wheel, march. Surprised by the sudden appearance of their royal master, and electrified by the energy with which this order was given, the men actually obeyed the word of command, and returned quietly to their barracks.

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_The Widow of Barnevelt imploring the Mercy of Maurice, Prince of
Nassau, for her Son._

“I could not ask mercy for my husband--_he_ was innocent--but I implore it for my son, who _is_ guilty.” This was the observation of the widow of Barnevelt to Maurice of Nassau, when interceding for her son, who in 1624 had engaged in a conspiracy to revenge his father’s death.

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[Sidenote: Filial Love.]

Filial love; much more, the affection of a son to a mother, where love loses its awe, and veneration is mixed with tenderness! Filial love! the _morality of instinct_, the _sacrament of nature and duty_; or rather miscalled a _duty_, for it flows from the heart without effort, and is its delight, its indulgence, its enjoyment. It is guided, not by the slow dictates of reason; it awaits not encouragement from reflection or from thought; it asks no aid of memory; it is not innate, but active consciousness of having been the object of a thousand tender solicitudes, a thousand waking watchful cares, of meek anxiety and patient sacrifices, unremarked and unrequited by the object. It is a gratitude founded upon a conviction of obligations, not remembered because conferred before the tender reason could acknowledge, or the infant memory record them: a gratitude and affection which no circumstances should subdue, and which few can strengthen. A gratitude in which even injury from the object, though it may blunt regret, should never breed resentment--an affection, which can be increased only by the decay of those to whom we owe it; and which is then most fervent when the tremulous voice of age, resistless in its feebleness, inquires for the natural protection of its cold decline.”

“Aliens from nature! apostates from humanity! is there a crime more fell, more foul, is there any thing worse than a wilful persecutor of his mother? Guilty, by the general verdict of human kind!”

Lacretelle, the late member of the Academie Française, beautifully says--

“Je désire pour ami, le fils qui n’a jamais résisté aux larmes de sa mère.”

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[Sidenote: Politeness.]

Politeness, that cementer of friendship and soother of enmities, is no where so much required and so frequently outraged as in family circles: in near and dear connections it is continually abandoned, and the result is, that all the illusions of life are destroyed, and with them, much of its happiness.

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[Sidenote: Submission to Providence.]

Pain and pleasure, good and evil, come to us from unexpected sources. It is not there, where we have gathered up our brightest hopes, that the dawn of happiness breaks. It is not there, where we have glanced our eye with affright, that we find the deadliest gloom. _What should this teach us?_ To bow to the great and only Source of light and life humbly, and with confiding resignation.

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[Sidenote: A Gentleman.]

To constitute a perfect gentleman, the best attributes of the heart and head must be combined. He who would indeed deserve that proud epithet, must be devout, courteous, and accomplished, gentle, generous, and brave; pure in word and deed, disinterested, philanthropic, and, above all, incessant and intrepid in charitably succouring the weak, the lowly, and the poor. It was once affirmed with a pious fervour almost bordering on profanation, that our _Saviour_ was the first true gentleman that ever lived.

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[Sidenote: Love silent.]

Silence in love, bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne’er so witty,
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
Deserveth double pity.

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[Sidenote: Note concerning the Wandering Jew.]

The story of the Wandering Jew is of considerable antiquity. It is told by Matthew Paris, who heard it from an Archbishop of Armenia, who _knew the man_. His original name was Calaphilus, Pontius Pilate’s Porter, who when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the Judgment Hall, struck him on the back, saying, “Go faster, Jesus, go faster--why dost thou linger?” upon which Jesus looked upon him with a frown, and said, “I am indeed going, but thou shalt tarry till I come.” Soon after he was converted, and took the name of Joseph. He lives for ever, but at the end of every _hundred_ years falls into a fit or trance, from which, when he recovers, he returns to the same age as he was when our Saviour suffered, being then about thirty years. He always preserves the utmost gravity of deportment. He was never seen to smile. He perfectly remembers the death and resurrection of Christ.

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[Sidenote: Statues.]

The origin of the introduction of statues instead of columns, in architecture, is thus related. “Carya, a city of Peloponnesus, sided with the Persians against the Grecian States. When the country was freed from the invaders, the arms of the Greeks were turned against the Caryans. Upon the capture of the city, the males were put to the sword, and the women led away captives. The architects of the age, in order to perpetuate the ignominy of this people, introduced statues of their women instead of columns in the porticos of their buildings; the ornaments and drapery were faithfully copied from the attire of the women, the mode of which they were never permitted to change.

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_Charles, Prince of Wales_,[4]

_By Lope de Vega._

Carlos Estuardo soy,
Que, siendo amor mi guia,
Al cielo de’España voy
Per ver mi estrella Maria.

Charles Stuart I am,
Whom love has guided afar;
To the heaven of Spain I came
To see Maria my star.

[4] Sung in Spain during the romantic expedition of Charles to that country, whilst his marriage with the Infanta was in agitation.

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Afflictions are sent us by Providence to teach us to recollect our ways.

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_Philadelphia, City of William Penn._

This is a _planned_ town: built according to the rectangular plan of its illustrious founder, the great and good William Penn. He who had received from his Sovereign an absolute title to the lands on the wilful subterfuge of Christian and heathen rights to the soil--but who, acting upon the principle of “uniform justice,” never would invade a foot of territory which he had not before purchased from the Indians. Penn considered immemorial occupancy superior to all other tenure, that this right of the Red-man was founded in nature, that this tenure was the free gift of Heaven, which no king, no pope, no man had a right to question, or any equitable pretence to destroy; and therefore his principles required him to commence with justice to the natural occupant of the soil. With the founder of Pensylvania, the measures he adopted, and his demeanour towards the aborigines were wise, and so happy that it became a maxim among them “never to lift the tomahawk against the race of William Penn.” The country of William Penn was called “the Poor Man’s Paradise;” poverty was unknown in all its borders.

With reference to the name given to the colony, it is stated by Penn on the 5th Jan. 1681: “This day, after many waitings, watchings, solicitings, and disputes in Counsel, my country was confirmed to me under the Great Seal of England, with large powers and privileges, by the name of Pensylvania, a name the king would give it in honour of my father. I chose _New Wales_, being a hilly country; and when the Secretary, being a Welshman, refused to call it New Wales, I proposed Sylvania, and they added _Penn_ to it, though I much opposed it, and went to the king to have it struck out. He said it was past, and would take it upon him. I feared it should look like a vanity in me, and not as a respect of the king to my father, as it really was.”

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[Sidenote: Calumny.]

As I have myself felt the arrows of calumny, I should be inexcusable if I readily believed what is said of others. What I have suffered ought to regulate my conduct with regard to those who may be in like manner traduced. When I have the evidence of my senses that what is said of such a one be true, I must then examine my heart, to see if I cannot discover an excuse for errors that may have been the result of weakness; and in no case ought I to pronounce a decided judgment.

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[Sidenote: Constancy.]

Remember--never to divest the person of your wife of the diversity with which your imagination clothed it while she was your mistress, and be sedulous yourself in the preservation of every attraction as well of the person, as of the heart.

Recollect--that it is vacuity which requires the charm of novelty: keep the soul replete with genuine bliss, and the desire of change will never make head against the power of pure and mutual love. The cooling of the heart towards the object once adored, proceeds in general from the weakness of unoccupied hours, and the inaction of sensibility. Kind attentions mutually kept up, will always endear even indifferent persons to each other; and will not the very name of husband, and wife, lead to those attentions, to those endearments? The flame of love once raised, will burn long if fanned by both the votaries; but will inevitably expire if left only to the care of one.

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_The Baths of Schlangenbad._

Schlangenbad, a short distance from Mayence: the effect of the Schlangenbad waters on the skin is really wonderful; it seems like exaggeration or fancy on the part of those who have described them already, to say that one quarter of an hour’s luxurious lying under their clear soft surface, should be able to produce such an impression. Yet so it is, in sober earnest. I think it was two days at least before the effect of even one bath went off; and when, forgetting what manner of man or woman we had become in it, we afterwards happened to pass our hands over our foreheads, either for want of thought, or in search of some stray thought that had made its escape, the agreeable contact waked us suddenly to the sense of the soothing, softening influence of the waters.

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[Sidenote: Traditions.]

In the thirteenth century the two chief meals were dinner and supper, the first at nine in the morning, the supper at five in the afternoon. The greatest luxury and magnificence were displayed at those repasts, and the side tables were highly ornamented, and covered with various fermented liquors, as mead, ale, beer, and, above all, rich wines of English growth. At the celebration in London of the marriage of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and Cincia, daughter of Redmond, Earl of Provence (A. D. 1243), there were above thirty thousand dishes served at the marriage dinner.

An unlimited hospitality reigned in the castles of great barons: their gates were ever open to strangers of condition, as well as their own vassals, friends, and followers. It is evident that the immense halls to be seen in the remains of ancient structures, were built to accommodate vast numbers of guests of all ranks; and the little window above, opening from a recess of the state apartment, was evidently intended in order that the guests should be seen assembling, before the lord of the mansion and persons of dignity went down to the common repast. In the middle of each table stood a large salt-cellar, and it was a mark of distinction whether a person sat above or below the salt. Particular care was taken to place the guests according to their rank.

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[Sidenote: Serenades.]

It has been wittily said of the Sicilians, that no person could pass for a man of gallantry who had not got a _cold_, and was sure never to succeed with his mistress unless he made love in a _hoarse voice_. This arose from the custom of serenading the object of preference during the hours of the night, by the execution of vocal and instrumental music under their balconies. The Sicilians are a nation of poets; and the lover who cannot celebrate his mistress’s charms in verse, would be thought unworthy of her attention.

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[Sidenote: Ancient Poetry.]

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou would’st as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words:
The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamel’d stones;
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage:
And so by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course;
I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love:
And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

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[Sidenote: The Hottentots.]

Among the Hottentots, if a widow marries again, she is obliged to cut off the joint of a finger for every husband she marries after the first: this she presents to her new husband on her wedding day, beginning at one of the little fingers first.

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[Sidenote: Sir Charles Sedley.]

The painter’s art is done, the features hit,
Of Sedley’s face. No art can show his wit.

He appeared in public about the year 1667, and is to be considered as one of the first among the men of genius who adorned that age. Charles II. used to tell him, that nature had given him a patent to be Apollo’s viceroy. However, he knew as well how to conceal his own excellencies with modesty, as the rest of the world knew how to value them. It was at the acting of his play called _Bellamira_, that the roof of the play-house fell down. But it was singular, that very few were hurt except himself. His merry friend, Sir Fleetwood Shepherd, told him, “there was so much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, house, and all.” He replied, “No! The play was so heavy, it broke down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish.”

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_To a Gentleman, on his complaining of having lost his Gold Watch._

Grieve not, my friend, or peevish say
Your luck is worse than common,
For “GOLD takes wings, and flies away,”
And “TIME will stay for no man.”

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_Lines by Lord Erskine, on being asked whether he preferred great
Sensibility or Indifference._

The heart can ne’er a transport know,
That never felt a pain;
That point thus settled long ago,
The present question’s vain.

Who’d wish to travel life’s dull round,
Unmov’d by pain or pleasure?
’Tis reason’s task to set the bound,
And keep them all in measure.

The Stoic who with false pretence
Each soft emotion stifles,
Thinks want of feeling shows his sense,
Yet frets and fumes at trifles.

And he, who vainly boasts the heart
Touch’d by each tale of woe,
Forbears to act the friendly part
That tender heart to show.

Th’ unfeeling heart can never know,
By cold indifference guarded,
The joy, the transport, that will flow
From love and truth rewarded.

True sensibility we find
Shares in another’s grief;
And pity yields the generous mind
From sympathy relief.

The point discussed, we find this rule,
A rule both true and sad;
Who feels too little is--a fool;
Who feels too much--runs mad.

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“_L’amicale persévérance_,” was the term by which the _Countess de Lichtenau_ designated her connection with Frederick William II. King of Prussia. In speaking of the attachment of our Henry VIII. to the Lady Elizabeth, wife of Sir Thomas Boleyn, and mother to Anne, afterwards his Queen, Lloyd says, she was _his solace, not his sin_.

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_Epigram on reading an article in the Newspapers, stating that the
Garrison of Dantzic had eaten their last Horse._

By the newsmen we’re told, and believe it of course,
That the people of Dantzic had eat their last horse;
In resources, how much should we Dantzic surpass
Could we only hold out, till we eat our last _ass_.

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_To the May Fly._

Thou art a frail and lively thing
Engender’d by the sun;
A moment only on the wing,
And thy career is done.

Thou sportest in the evening beam
An hour--an age to thee--
In gaiety above the stream
Which soon thy grave must be.

Although thy life is like to thee,
An atom--art thou not
Far happier than thou e’er could’st be,
If long life were thy lot?

For then deep pangs might wound thy breast,
And make thee wish for death;
But as it is thou’rt soon at rest,
Thou creature of a breath!

And man’s life passeth thus away,
A thing of joy and sorrow;
The earth he treads upon to-day
Shall cover him to-morrow.

“As the sun declines the misnamed ‘May-fly’ is to be seen emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a time till its wings are dried for flight. Escaping after a protracted struggle of half a minute from its watery birth place, it flutters restlessly up and down over the same spot during its whole era of a summer evening, and at last dies as the last streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. Yet, who shall say, that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between _its_ four hours, and _our_ fourscore years?”

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[Sidenote: From my Mother.]

When shall those hours whose loss I dread,
Return to soothe my aching heart?
Ah! never more; for stifled sighs
Announce that soon, too soon, we part.
Maternal cares, and anxious fears,
Alternate fill my sorrowing breast;
And many a sigh, and many a tear,
Moisten my pillow, and impede my rest.
Supported by affections dear,
The casual frowning of the world I brave;
’Tis only where I truly, fondly love,
That disappointment can my peace invade.
My children are my treasures, whence I draw
All I can know of happiness below:
And O! how rich, if certain there to find,
Not wealth of gold, but sterling wealth of mind.
’Twas you, my Jane, who were my first fond hope,
And smiling, told the blessing you had brought.
Though years on years have passed since that glad hour,
A mother’s memory still retains the power
To bring thy infant image to her view,
Such as it was, and such as since it grew.
Matured in education, and in life,
I view thee now a mother and a wife.
Grant that these duties with thy pleasures blend,
The wife at heart, not only wife, but friend.
These sacred ties, these precious gifts of heaven,
The first of human comforts to be given,
Cherish with care; and let affection bring
Thy share of love to make it ever spring.
Nourish the sentiments thy principles approve,
And put thy trust and confidence in God.

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[Sidenote: To revive a fading Flower.]

Cut the stalk, and hold it a few moments in the flame of the candle, and then set the flower again in the cold water, when it will recover its strength almost visibly after this violent assistance, and blossom immediately.

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[Sidenote: Scenes from the Life of Titian.]

Titian Vecelli was born in 1477, at the Chateau of La Pieve, on the frontiers of Friuli, one of the seven Communes of Cador. He was by birth a gentleman, his father was Gregorio Vecelli, and his ancestors were traced to the twelfth century.

Here may be corrected an absurdity often committed in designating him as “_Le_ Titien,” _that_ being his baptismal name; as well say _the_ Raphael--or _the_ Michael Angelo. The artist may certainly be denominated “_The Vecelli_.”

Titian was not six years of age when he first gave notice of the great art in which he was to shine so bright a star: and even then, may be traced his transcendent genius in the power of colouring. The infant artist took his tints from nature. The fields, the gardens were his palettes; it was his custom to gather flowers, from which he expressed the juices; he required no pencil, no pen, to sketch his designs, he had discovered the fresco; instinct perfected his work; the perfume of the flower was unheeded by this wonderful child, but he would fall in extacies at the whiteness of the lily, the carnation of the rose, the purple of the iris.

Titian was united in a band of most intimate friendship with Giorgione, who had arrived from Castel-Franco, to study under Bellini, (Titian’s master) and who called himself simply “George.” He soon became the friend, the brother, the model of Titian; and when, in after years, his jealousy of Titian’s talent went to such lengths as to separate them, the latter left Venice, not being able to endure a residence in the same city, with Giorgione thus alienated from him, nor did he ever return to Venice till after the death of Giorgione.

In 1514, Alphonso d’Este, the reigning Duke of Ferrara, called Titian to his court, which at that period was considered the most brilliant and magnificent in Italy. Poets, Painters, every artist of celebrity was there admitted, and honoured in proportion to his talents. Titian’s long cherished dream of ambition and well earned fame, were now about to be realized, and his glorious talent to be estimated as it deserved. Although poor in fortune, there was no gentleman at the court of Alphonso who could vie with him in the good taste and elegance of his appearance. His manners were those of a high bred man: his conversation full of charm. The Prince soon felt the superiority of his new guest, and treated him with peculiar courtesy.

“Signor Titian,” said Alphonso, “consider our house as your own, and be at perfect ease and freedom: my dearest wish is to render it so agreeable to you, as to induce you to remain with us. It shall be our care that your residence at Ferrara may lessen your regret at quitting your beautiful Venice! Recollect though, that here pleasure takes the precedence of business; however, if in your leisure hours you should take up your pencil, we know too well how to appreciate your reputation and your talent, not to recollect at proper seasons that our court is honoured by the presence of the first painter in Venice.”

Alphonso’s conduct towards Titian fully bore out his professions, and his favour, by giving to the artist the full scope of his enthusiasm in his art, left to Titian nothing to desire. His sojourn at this court was terminated by an event which not only proves the estimation with which the duke honoured him, but gives also some idea of the morals of the period of which we speak.

Alphonso, thinking the favour which he had bestowed on Titian entitled him to make the request, one day entreated the great artist would gratify him by taking the portrait of Dona Laura Eustochio d’Este, the reigning Duchess of Ferrara.