Chapter IV: Part 4

The following Latin prayer was composed by Mary, Queen of Scots, and repeated by her immediately before her execution.

“O Domine Deus, speravi in te;
O care Jesu, nunc libera me;
In durâ catenâ, in miserâ pœnâ, desidero te.
Languendo, gemendo, et genuflectendo,
A pœnâ desidero te;
Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me.”

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In the year 1429, the same year Margaret of Anjou was born, Jargeau was taken by the Maid of Orleans. The Duke of Suffolk was the governor of the town, and when great part of the garrison was slain, being hard pressed to surrender by William Renaud, the following colloquy passed between them in the breach: “Are you a gentleman?” demanded Suffolk, finding it impossible to escape. “I am,” replied Renaud. “But are you a knight?” rejoined the Earl. “I am not,” answered Renaud. “Kneel down, then,” said Suffolk, “that I may make you one, for I cannot otherwise yield to you.” This was accordingly done, and affords a rich characteristic of the age of chivalry.

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_To the Memory of the gallant Sir Thomas Picton._

“My arm a nobler victory never gained.”

Weep for the brave! yet wherefore weep?
On honour’s bed he laid him down,
Distinguish’d ’mid the mighty heap,
Encircled with the hero’s crown.

Weep for the brave! the tear shall tell
Beyond the sculptor’s proudest art;
Though Picton, gallant Picton fell,
He lives enshrin’d in England’s heart.

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[Sidenote: True Magnanimity.]

Hath any wronged thee? be bravely revenged: slight it, and the work is begun; forgive it, and ’tis finished. He is below himself, that is not above an injury. Was it not Plato who said, that when an injurious speech was offered to him, he placed himself so high that it could not reach him?

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_On a Music Master who after gaining Credit of many, ran away in every
one’s Debt._

His _time_ was short, his touch was neat,
Our gold he freely finger’d;
Alert alike with hands and feet,
His movements have not linger’d.
Where lies the wonder of the case?
A moment’s thought detects it;
His practice has been _Thoro-base_,
A chord will be his exit!
Yet while we blame his hasty flight
Our censure may be rash;
A traveller is surely right
To change his _notes_ for _cash_.

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[Sidenote: The Emperor and the Opera Dancer.]

The insurrection and popular tumult which took place during the first days of the reign of the present Emperor of Russia, Nicolas, are facts well known; yet it may not be uninteresting to relate some of the circumstances attending the substitution of the Grand Duke Nicolas Paulowitsch in place of his brother the Grand Duke Constantine, who had abdicated, as was declared, and renounced his right to the crown in consequence of the marriage which had been in opposition, it was stated, to the opinions of his family, and by them averred, with his own abdication of his rights in favour of his brother Nicolas. After the, to say the least, awfully mysterious death of Alexander, the Archduke Constantine’s abdication was thus explained.

It was towards the end of 1825 that St. Petersburg was the scene of the struggle between the subjects and the sovereign; marked, in the first instance, by the fearless and intrepid exposure of his own royal person, and in the latter, by the terrible vengeance and inflictions with which many of the agents of this revolt were made to suffer by the merciless decree of the new Emperor. Even where life was spared, scarcely preferable to death were the punishments awarded indiscriminately, and without mitigation to age, youth, or sex.

Amongst the nobler victims of the Autocrat’s implacable revenge, was the Prince Troubeitzkoi, a young colonel, but lately married to the daughter of one of the most distinguished members of the diplomacy at St. Petersburg. This unfortunate man had sought a refuge in the house of his father in law; but his retreat being discovered to Nicolas, he was pursued, and with the trembling ambassador carried before the Emperor. The Prince Troubeitzkoi, throwing himself on his knees, implored his clemency, and in tears the wretched parent pleaded his youth and the sincerity of his repentance. Disdaining to reply to the prostrate nobleman, Nicolas turned to the ambassador, saying that, in consideration for him, the life of his son in law was granted, but that his name would be added to those who were sentenced to the _second_ degree of punishment.

“To lay their head on the block whilst reeking with the blood of their accomplices, and afterwards to hard labour for life, in exile: that exile, Siberia!”

Before relating the fate of any of the other conspirators, we will add to the sad story of this young couple, that the wife sued for and obtained leave to follow her husband into banishment; she nobly shared his trials, his privations, and his labours in the mines. Her devotion had no limit; and it was by the trifling produce of her industry that she sustained her family. Five times, in these desolate regions, she became a mother. In the year 1838, she gave her husband a fresh proof of her sublime and unwearying affection. She quitted Siberia, and alone crossing the dreadful country, after a journey of _sixteen hundred leagues_, she threw herself at the feet of the Emperor, and implored his pardon for her husband.

The autocrat was inflexible, and forbade the name of the individual who had dared to conspire against his person, to be mentioned in his presence.

The wretched wife withdrew, and again retrod the desert path to exile and her husband.

Four years subsequently, this hapless victim again resolved to undertake this dreadful journey, and to make another effort to soften the iron will of her sovereign. And this time she succeeded, through the influence of--_an opera dancer!_

* * * * *

Marie Taglioni had by her talent, and her good qualities, acquired the favour and indulgence of the Emperor and the Empress. Whilst none dared to speak in behalf of the miserable exiles, or to utter the suppliant’s cry for mercy, it was suggested, that probably Marie Taglioni would venture to lay the petition at the Sovereign’s feet; she did so, and, aided by the noble intercession of the Empress, the pardon was obtained; and after sixteen years banishment the Prince Troubeitzkoï was released, but on the condition of never approaching the Russian territory.

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A reflection is attributed to the illustrious historian Edward Gibbon, which those who are capable of giving it just value ought more frequently to apply.

“My lot,” he says, “might have been that of a peasant, a slave, or a savage; nor can I reflect without pleasure on the bounty of nature, which cast my birth in a free and civilized country, in an age of science and philosophy, in a family of honourable rank, and decently endowed with the gifts of fortune.”

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Lady Wortley Montague says of the Hervey family, “They were a clever but eccentric race, and of whom it was observed, that the world consisted of men, women, and Herveys.”

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[Sidenote: Coquetry.]

Tacitus remarks of Poppea, the Queen of Nero, that she concealed a part of her face: to the end, that the imagination having fuller play by irritating curiosity, they might think more highly of her beauty than if the whole of her face had been exposed.

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[Sidenote: Charles V.]

Charles V. spoke five languages: the Flemish, the German, the Spanish, the French, and the Italian. He used to say, that to employ the vulgar languages according to the use for which they were most proper, he would speak Italian to the ladies, French to men, German to horses, and Spanish to God. He used also to say, the Portuguese appeared to be madmen, and were so; the Spaniards appeared to be wise, and were not so; the Italians appeared to be wise, and were so; the French appeared to be madmen, and were not such. That the Germans spoke like carmen, the English like simpletons, the Italians like lovers, the French like masters, and the Spaniards like kings.

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[Sidenote: Family MSS.]

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Leycester, Extraordinary
Embassador for his Majesty of Great Britain with the King of France.

My Lord,

I have received a great honour and favour from your Lordship, that you would think upon a servant so far off, which I can but acknowledge, being unable to requite. For news (which is the Embassador’s philosophie), I have so many employments of my vocation, and now so little means to enquire near at hand, as I am utterly ignorant of any thing worth writing; but that I hear your Lordship hath given his Majesty very good satisfaction in his business, and planted in him a great opinion of your abilities. I heartily wish your Lordship may likewise find a proportionable compensation for both at your return. No man, shall be more glad to see your Lordship in the right place of your merit than

Your Lordship’s humble and
faithful servant,
BEN. RUDYARD.

St. James’s Lodge,
20 June, 1637.

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[Sidenote: Man was made to mourn.]

When chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged steps
Seem’d weary worn with care,
His face was furrow’d o’er with age,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?
Began the rev’rend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage?
Or haply prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast begun
To wander forth with me to mourn
The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moors
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty Lordship’s pride;
I’ve seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty years return,
And every time has added proof
That man was made to mourn!

Oh man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time,
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime;
Alternate follies take the sway,
Licentious passions burn,
Which tenfold force gives nature’s law,
That man was made to mourn!

Look not alone on youthful prime,
On manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want--oh, ill-match’d pair!
Show man was made to mourn!

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest,
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh, what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn!

Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame,
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man’s inhumanity to man,
Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor o’er-labour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn!

If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,
By nature’s law design’d,
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had surely ne’er been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

Oh Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best,
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest;
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn,
But oh! a blest relief to those
Who weary laden mourn!

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Two opposite opinions should not lie on the same bolster.

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

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[Sidenote: Sir Thomas More.]

Quod mihi dixisti,
De corpore Christi,
Crede quod edas, et edis;
Sic tibi rescribo
De tuo Palfrido,
Crede quod habeas, ut habes.

This was a witty satire on the zeal of Sir Thomas for the dogma of the Romish church, Transubstantiation.

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It was by Sir Thomas More that Hans Holbein was introduced to King Henry VIII. He resided during three years at his patron’s house at Chelsea. Holbein was born at Augsburgh in 1495 or 8. His father was a citizen of that place, and an esteemed painter. At Basil in Switzerland he became known to Erasmus, who sent him with his introduction to England, to Sir Thomas More.

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[Sidenote: Thought.]

You think me in danger of becoming an unhappy being, from my turn of thought and taste. Young as I am, I feel the truth of your observation. I differ from those I converse with, they mortify and disappoint me, I draw back with disgust; I raise wonder, and perhaps hatred also. Sometimes my reserve is construed into pride and affectation. When I am talkative my ideas are laughed at, as inconsistent with the opinions of the world; my conduct and character are not understood, and I am stigmatized with being romantic, that is, ridiculous. What am I to do? either I must give up the world or my own faculties. Am I born to say, “Yes, certainly,” and “that’s right,” when my conviction impels me to say, “No, I doubt,” and “that’s wrong?”

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_Providence._

Just as a mother, with sweet pious face,
Yearns tow’rds her little children from her seat,
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
Takes this upon her knee, that on her feet;
And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences,
She learns their feeling, and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,
And whether stern or smiling, loves them still.
So Providence! for us high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task;
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,
And e’en if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies, because ’twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or in denying, grants.

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[Sidenote: Cromwell.]

“Cromwell was formed to delude the minds of men. His hypocrisy, a thing far removed from what is ordinarily known by that name, was fervent, and excited sympathy, and created awe in the beholders. The bluntness of his manner, and the occasional familiarity of his deportment, even to the entire emptying himself of all extrinsic and accidental greatness, won the favour of those with whom he had intercourse. There was something deep in his conceptions, that none of his assistants could fathom. He was moderate in his temper, and forbearing in his actions; never allowing himself in violence more frequently, or to a greater extent, than was necessary to his purposes. Add to which the firmness and courage of his spirit, and the greatness of his abilities, whether to procure intelligence, or to overawe the insidiousness and crooked hostility of foreign courts: and we shall own that he was most singularly fitted for the station he filled.”[8]

[8] This character of Oliver Cromwell was drawn by William Godwin, author of the Life of Milton’s Nephews, E. and J. Philips.

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[Sidenote: Spanish Proverb.]

When the child is christened, you may have godfathers enough: when a man’s need is supplied, or his necessities over, people are ready to offer their assistance or service.

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Good Chancellor Van,
(Who’s a very wise man),
Would persuade poor John Bull,
(Who’s a bit of a fool,)
That _paper_, though _rags_,
(This is one of his brags)
Is as good as pure gold.
And yet we are told
He’d entail degradation
On our brave sister nation,
For merely believing _Transubstantiation_.
You’d have reason’d much better,
Dear Van, had you said,
That your wig block, though wood,
Was as good as your head.

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[Sidenote: Hyder Ali Khan.]

In the following extract from the speech of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke, on the subject of the Nabob of Arcot’s debts, the reader is led by all the enthusiasm of characteristic feeling and the ornamental graces of imagination which distinguished that orator, to the contemplation of a great though savage mind, which he so strongly paints as struggling against the toils of oppressive power, and in the operation of determined revenge, _collecting, calculating, and measuring_ the vengeance with which he purposed to visit his oppressors.

“When at length Hyder Ali found that he had to do with men who either would sign no convention, or whom no treaty and no signature could bind, and who were the determined enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed to make the country possessed by these incorrigible and predestinated criminals a memorable example to mankind. He resolved, in the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of such things, to leave the whole Carnatick an everlasting monument of vengeance, and to put perpetual desolation as a barrier between him and those against whom the faith which holds the moral elements of the world together, was no protection. He became at length so confident of his force so collected in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every enemy and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in their common detestation against the creditors of the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction; and, compounding all the materials of fury, havock, and desolation into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains. Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened all their horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down the whole of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatick. Then ensued a scene of woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrors of war, before known or heard of, were mercy to that new havock. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, consumed every house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants, flying from their flaming villages, in part were slaughtered; others, without regard to sex, to age, to the respect of rank, or sacredness of function, fathers torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the goading spears of drivers and the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept into captivity, in an unknown and hostile land. Those who were able to evade this tempest fled to the walled cities; but, escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of famine. The alms of the settlement, in this dreadful exigency, were certainly liberal; and all was done by charity that private charity could do; but it was a people in beggary; it was a nation which stretched out its hands for food. For months together those creatures of sufferance, whose very excess and luxury in their most plenteous days had fallen short of the allowance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient, resigned, without sedition or disturbance, almost without complaint, perished by a hundred a day in the streets of Madras. Every day seventy at least laid their bodies in the streets, or on the glacis of Tanjore, and expired of famine in the granary of India. I was going to awake your justice towards this unhappy part of our fellow citizens, by bringing before you some of the circumstances of this plague of hunger. Of all the calamities which beset and waylay the life of man, this comes the nearest to our heart, and is that wherein the proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing more than he is: but I find myself unable to manage it with decorum; these details are of a species of horror so nauseous and disgusting, they are so degrading to the sufferers and to the hearers, they are so humiliating to human nature itself, that, on better thoughts, I find it more advisable to throw a pall over this hideous object, and to leave it to your general conceptions. For eighteen months, without intermission, this destruction raged from the gates of Madras to the gates of Tanjore; and so completely did these masters in their art, Hyder Ali, and his more ferocious son, absolve themselves of their impious vow, that when the British armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatick for hundreds of miles in all directions, through the whole line of their march they did not see one man, not one woman, not one child, not one four-footed beast of any description whatever. One dead, uniform silence reigned over the whole region. With the inconsiderable exceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few forts, (I wish to be understood as speaking literally; I mean to produce to you more than three witnesses, above all exception, who will support this assertion in its full extent) that hurricane of war passed through every part of the central provinces of the Carnatick. Six or seven districts to the North and to the South (and these not wholly untouched) escaped the general ravage.

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[Sidenote: The Seal.]

The _Seal_ displays a taste for music. They will long follow a boat in which any musical instrument is played, and even a tune whistled has attraction for them.

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[Sidenote: Thought.]

There is perhaps no pang so acute, no sentiment so humiliating to the heart of woman, as the consciousness of awakening distrust, when she most deserved to have inspired confidence.

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[Sidenote: Pride of Birth.]

It is the present fashion to consider the pride of descent as an empty pretension, but it cannot be denied that it is a pretension which has been regarded in every country, in all ages. There are many sound philosophical arguments in favour of a regard to birth, which pretenders to deeper reasoning do not appear to be aware of. It is a counteraction to the undue influence of wealth and mere brutal power. It is impossible to prevent the accumulation of wealth in the basest of the people, at least in a free country! The easiest paths to wealth are the meanest and least virtuous. However, the most current opinion is that _wealth is wealth_, and that he who can spend the most is the most important man; and that it is idle and childish to pay any attention as to how and whence he got it. But true aristocracy knows its own place, and holds firm to it; and various are the effects it has on the mind which cannot be analysed by language. It has a tendency to create a lofty sort of sentiment, rather than a low and selfish gratification, as the guide of the thoughts and the conduct. It would find a thousand ideal comforts in adversity and obscurity, which new families, thrown back into poverty, cannot command.

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[Sidenote: The Pretender.]

James II. of England married the Princess Maria d’Este, the sister of Francis, Duke of Modena, who was as beautiful as she was unfortunate. The Queen having been married some time without having children, when this event did take place, malice, falsehood, envy, and intrigue were active in declaring the heir thus born to be “a supposititious Prince of Wales.” This tissue of forgery and falsehood still farther tended to affect the popularity of the king, and bring his person and throne into disrepute. However, upon the whole mass and evidence of history that is presented, the only conclusion to be drawn was this, and only this, that the Prince of Wales, so far from being “supposititious,” was royally and legally born the lawful successor of his father’s throne and realms.

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“That prattling Cloe fibs,” forsooth,
Demure and silent Cynthia cries;
But falsely! for can aught but truth
Flow from a tongue that _never lies_.

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[Sidenote: Thought.]

Ah! how can a wife, she who bears his name, and shares, or ought to share, his lot, how can she ever be entirely effaced from the recollection of an honest man?

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[Sidenote: Duke of Buckingham.]

George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, the dissolute favourite of Charles II. is thus described by Dryden in his poem of Absalom and Achitophel.

“A man so various, that he seem’d to be,
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
His every thing by starts, and nothing long:
But in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art,
Nothing went unrewarded, but desert:
Beggar’d by fools, when still he found too late,
He had his jest, and they--had his estate.”

At the time of King Charles’s death, he went into the country, and on the 16th of April, 1688, he died at a servant’s house at Rickby Meerside, from a cold caught by sitting on the ground after fox-hunting.

Pope in his Epistle to Lord Bathurst, thus alludes to his death.

“In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half hung,
The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung;
On once a flock bed, but repaired with straw,
With tape tied curtains, never meant to draw;
The George and Garter dangling from that bed,
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies. Alas! how chang’d from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim.”

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[Sidenote: A Portrait.]

Strong intellect, perception quick and clear,
Talents more prone to dazzle than to warm,
Virtues which serve those talents to endear,
Feelings which lend a fascinating charm;
A winning countenance and glowing soul,
Insinuating manners soft and mild,
Genius, submitting to the proud control
Of Judgment, Reason’s best and favourite child:
Nature design’d this creature to be great,
But _Vanity_ behind the matron stole,
And ere she closed the volume of his fate,
Wrote her own name, and propertied the whole.

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[Sidenote: Churchyards in Denmark.]

It is customary in Denmark to surround each grave with doleful or cheerful shrubs, at the fancy of the survivors: thus alternate thickets of roses and of cypress, of lilacs and of juniper, give the air of a garden to every churchyard.

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_Machiavelli._

Machiavelli naquit à Florence le 9 Mai 1469, d’une noble famille Italienne. Il entra aux affaires en 1494, à 24 ans. En 1498 il était Secrétaire du Conseil des Dix, et pendant 14 ans employé dans les plus graves négociations. Machiavelli a acquis une grande réputation parmi les hommes, surtout comme auteur du _Prince_, ouvrage qu’il écrivit après la chute de la république de Florence. Il mourut en 1527, le 22 Juin, de douleur d’entrailles. Le Grand Duc Leopold a fait placer cette épitaphe très remarquable sur son tombeau: _Tanto nomini, nullum par elogium_. Machiavelli était doué d’une incroyable perspicacité. Il était tout esprit, et tout étude; le plus grand observateur des faits; il a prodigieusement travaillé et pratiqué le mécanisme social, et le caractère humain.

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[Sidenote: Dante.]

This famous Italian poet of the thirteenth century lived at Verona, on a pension from Prince Scaliger,[9] but so moderate, that poor as he was, he could scarcely exist.

[9] From whom Julius Cæsar Scaliger, the great critic, pretended to be descended, and from the princes of Verona of the same name. He had been a Cordelier, but left his monkish habit for the world. To conceal his real origin he sojourned in France.

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Translation of the petition sent by the wife of Almas Ali Cawn, who was lately seized and put to death for political purposes in India.

To the High and Mighty Servant of the most powerful Prince George,
King of Great Britain, his most lowly and humble slave comes praying
for mercy for the father of her children.

Most mighty Sir,

May the blessing of thy God ever await thee!

May the sun of glory shine round thy head!

May the gates of plenty, honour, and happiness be always open to thee and thine!

May no sorrows distress thy days!

May no grief disturb thy nights!

May the pillow of peace kiss thy cheek!

The pleasures of imagination attend thy dreams!

And when length of time makes thee tired of earthly joys, and the curtain of death gently closes round the last sleep of human existence,

May the angels of thy God attend thy bed, and take care that thy expiring lamp of life shall not receive one wide blast to hasten its extinction.

O! hearken to the voice of distress,

And grant the petition of thy servant:

Spare, oh! spare the father of my children, the partner of my bed, my husband, my all that’s dear.

Consider, oh! consider, he did not become what he is by iniquity, and that what he possesses was the inheritance of a long line of flourishing ancestors,

Who, in those smiling days, when the intruders of Great Britain were not heard of in the fertile plains of Indostan, reaped their harvest in quiet, and enjoyed their patrimony unmolested.

Think, oh! think, that the God whom thou worshippest delighteth not in the blood of the innocent; remember thy own commandment, “_Thou shalt not kill_,” and obey the order of Heaven.

Give me back my Almas Ali Cawn, and take all our wealth.

Strip us of our jewels and precious stones, of our gold and silver, but take not away the life of my husband.

Innocence is sealed on his brow,

And the milk of human kindness flows round his heart.

Let us wander through the deserts, let us become tillers and labourers on the delightful spot of which he was once the master:

But spare, oh! mighty Sir, spare his life!

Let not the instrument of death be lifted against him, for he has committed _no crime_.

Accept those treasures from gratitude, which at present thou takest by force; we will remember thee in our prayer, and forget we were once rich and powerful.

My children, the children of my Almas Ali, send up their petitions for the life of him who gave them life.

They beseech from thee the author of their existence.

By that humanity we are told glows in the breasts of Europeans;

By the tender mercy of enlightened souls of Englishmen;

By the honour, virtue, and maternal affection of thy great Queen,

Whose numerous offspring are so dear to her; the miserable wife of thy prisoner beseeches thee to save her husband’s life, and restore him to her arms.

Thy God will reward thee:

_They_ will thank thee:

And the now petitioning, will pray for thee, if thou grantest the prayer of thy humble vassal

ALMASSA ALI CAWN.

It is painful to reflect that such an appeal was vain. The petition of the wretched Almassa was presented to the great man in power. It was disregarded, and her husband met his fate.

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[Sidenote: Volcanos.]

There is great probability that Mount Vesuvius near Naples, and Mount Etna in Sicily, are the different parts of the same continuation of one chain of mountains, which passes under the sea, and the Isle of Lipari; for every time that one of these mountains breaks forth in flames, the other is seen on fire, and the volcano in the Isle of Lipari burns more fiercely than usual.

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[Sidenote: Saint George.]

Saint George, a soldier saint of great eminence, both in the Eastern and Western churches, known also by the particular name of Tropheophorus, suffered martyrdom at Lyddea in Palestine, under the persecution of Dioclesian, A. D. 302. He is supposed to have been interred at Lyddea, or Diospulia.

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’Tis is a sweet flower, the late, late rose,
That decks the sallow autumn;
And those, the dearest beams of joy,
That burst when least we sought ’em.

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_On Lady Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia._[10]

_By Sir Henry Wootton._

You meaner beauties of the night
That weaklie satisfie our eies,
More by your number than your lighte,
Like common people of the skies,
What are yee, when the moone doth rise?

Ye violettes that first appeare,
Your pride in purple garments showne,
Takeing possession of the yeere
As if the spring were all your owne,
What are you when the rose is blowne?

Ye glorious trifles of the East,
Whose lustres estimations raise,
Pearles, rubies, saphires and the rest,
Of precious caskets, what’s your praise
When the diamond shows his rayes?

Ye warblinge chanters of the wood,
That fill the eares with nature’s laies,
Thinkinge your passions understood
By weaker accents, what’s your praise
When Philomell her voice doth raise?

Soe when my princesse shall bee seene,
In sweetness of her lookes and mynde,
By vertue first, then choice a queene,
Tell mee if shee were not design’d
The eclipsinge glorie of her kynde?

The rose, the violettes, the whole springe,
For sweetness to her breath must runne;
The diamond’s darken’d in the ringe;
If shee appeare the moon’s undonne,
As with the presence of the sunne.

[10] This amiable daughter of Charles I. supported her unhappy situation with great dignity, and showed, amidst the most distressing poverty, an illustrious example of magnanimity. In bequeathing her portrait to her nephew, Sir Henry Wootton thus expresses himself:

“I leave to the most hopeful prince, the picture of the elected and crowned Queen of Bohemia, his aunt, of clear and resplendent virtues through the clouds of her fortune.”

Sir Henry Wootton died Dec. 1639, aged seventy-two. He retained the Provostship of Eton to his death, and was buried in the chapel of the college.

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[Sidenote: Thought.]

As a material of human happiness or misery, temper is infinitely more important, because so much oftener brought into use, than high-mindedness; opportunity for a generous action may occur perhaps once in a year, while temper is actively at work for good or evil during every hour of our existence.

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In 1623 fire fell from heaven, which threw all Germany into consternation.

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[Sidenote: Origin of Coats of Arms.]

Their origin is not prior to the twelfth century, that is to say, the time of the crusades. As noblemen from all the various nations of Europe were collected in the Holy Land, and as they had no names but their baptismal ones, they agreed, in order to distinguish each other, to assume armorial ensigns, which in general expressed the name and title of the bearer, as John de la Tour, by a tower, &c.

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[Sidenote: Lord Bacon.]

The Lord Chancellor of England was the greatest genius of his age, and endued with extraordinary talents and inclination to promote the cause of literature. He died at the age of sixty-six, and so poor, that there remains a letter of his to the king, praying his bounty, “lest he, who had only wished to live to study, might be obliged now to study to live.” He was born to instruct others, and to set them in the right way to be teachers themselves.

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[Sidenote: Bells.]

Bells were first brought into use by St. Paulinus, Bishop of Nola, in the Campania of Rome: hence a bell was called Nola, or Campagna.[11] At first they were called saints: hence toc-saint, or tocsin.

[11] In the Italian language.

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[Sidenote: Arthur’s Round Table.]

Arthur, King of the Britons, who flourished about 516 A. D. whose valour was so great that the accounts of it appear fabulous rather than real, having vanquished the Saxons and effectually driven them out of his kingdom after twelve successive battles (in one of which, fought at Caerbadon in Berkshire, it is asserted he killed no less than 440 of the enemy with his own hand), and also conquered Norway, Sweden, the principal part of France, was crowned at Paris. On his return home in great splendour, a vast concourse of foreign princes and valiant knights flocked from all parts of the world to his court; the king, unwilling to create controversies amongst his noble guests, by seeming to give precedence to one more than another, caused an immense round table to be erected in the great hall at Winchester, where he then held his court, at which it was so managed that no person could take place of another. He selected a fraternity of four and twenty, and elected it into an order of knighthood, dignifying the knights whom he chose companions with the title of “Knights of King Arthur’s round table,” himself to be their chief. These princely meetings were annually held with great pomp at Winchester.

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_By Sir Walter Raleigh, in the unquiett rest of his last sickness._[12]

Eternal Mover, whose diffused glory
To shew our groveling reason what thou art,
Infoldes itself in cloudes of restless story,
Where man (the proudest creature) acts his parte;
Whom yett, alas! I know not why, we call
The world’s contracted sunn, the little all.

For what are wee, but lumpes of walking clay?
What are our vaunts? whence should our spirits rise?
Are not brute beasts as strong, and birds as gay;
Trees longer liv’d, and creeping thinges as wise?
Onlie our Soules recieve more inward light,
To feel our weakness, and confess thy might.

Lett these pure noates ascend unto thie throne,
Where majestie doth sitt with mercy crown’d;
Where my redeemer lives, in whome alone
The errors of my wandringe life are drown’d.
Where all the quire of heaven resound thi fame,
That none but thine, thine is the saving name.

Therefore my Soule, Joye in the midst of paine,
That Christ, that conquer’d Hell, shall from above
With greater triumphs yett returne againe,
And conquer his own justice with his love;
Commandinge earth and Seas to render those
Unto his bliss, for whome hee pay’d his woes.

Nowe have I doune, now are my joies at peace,
And now my joies are stronger than my griefe;
I feele those comforts that shall never cease,
Future in hopes, but present in reliefe.
Thy words are true, thy promises are just,
And thou wilt knowe thy marked flock in dust.

[12] Raleigh was born in 1552, and executed 29th October, 1618, to the eternal disgrace of the reign of James I.

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The Emperor Sigismund, of Germany, made a solemn offering of the _holy heart_ of St. George, the tutelary Saint of England, upon the altar of St. George’s chapel at Windsor, during his visit in 1416 to Henry V.

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[Sidenote: Duelling.]

At Malta, duelling is permitted by _law_, but under this curious restriction; the duellists are enjoined on the severest penalties, to desist and put up their swords at the desire of a _priest_, a _woman_, or a _knight_.

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_Delight in disorder._

A sweet disorder in the dresse,
Kindles in cloaths a wantonesse,
A lawne about the shoulders throwne,
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there,
Enthral the crimson stomacher;
A cuffe neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to fly confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tye,
I see a wilde civility,
Does more bewitche me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

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_Lord Strafford’s Meditations in the Tower. MSS. (Harl.)_

Go, empty joys,
With all your noise,
And leave me here alone,
In sad sweet silence to bemoan
The fickle worldly height,
Whose danger none can see aright
Whilst your false splendors dim the sight.

Go, and ensnare,
With your trim ware,
Some other worldly wight,
And cheat him with your flattering sight!
Rain on his head a shower
Of honour, greatness, wealth, and power,
Then snatch it from him in an hour.

Fill his big mind
With gallant wind
Of insolent applause;
Let him not fear the curbing laws,
Nor king, nor people’s frown;
But dream on something like a crown,
Then, climbing upwards, tumble down!

Let him appear
In his bright sphere
Like Cynthia in her pride,
With star-like troops on every side;
For number and clear light,
Such as may soon o’erwhelm him quite,
And blind them both in one dead night!

Welcome, sad night,
Grief’s sole delight!
Thy mourning best agrees
With honor’s funeral obsequies.
In Thetis’ lap he lies,
Mantled with soft securities,
When too much sun light dims his eyes.

Was he too bold
Who needs would hold
With curbing reins to sway,
And make Sol’s fiery steeds obey?
Therefore as rash was I,
Who with ambitious wings did fly
In _Charles’s Waine_ too hastily!

I fall! I fall!
Whom shall I call?
Alas! shall I be heard,
Who now am neither lov’d nor fear’d?
You, who have vow’d the ground
To kiss, where my blest steps were found,
Come, catch me at my last rebound!

Now each admires
Heaven’s twinkling fires,
Whilst from their glorious seat,
Their influence gives light and heat.
But oh! how few there are,
(Though danger from the act be far,)
Will run to catch a falling star!

O! wer’t our fate
To imitate
Those lights, whose pallidness
Argues no inward quietness!
Their course is one way bent,
Which is the course, there’s no dissent
In Heaven’s High Court of Parliament.

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[Sidenote: Time.]

Every year steals away something from us. In one we lose a relation, in the next a friend; health grows more precarious, and pleasure less alluring, till by degrees the whole little mass of happiness we had been gathering drops from us insensibly, and that grave, which we had once looked on with so much horror, becomes at last our refuge and shelter.

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[Sidenote: Selfish to lament.]

When fate relentless makes the good man die,
Why flows the bitter tear, why heaves the sigh?
Short is his passage to the realms of rest,
O! then, how selfish ’tis to mourn the blest!
Lamented _father_! how few can truly feel
The ardent charity, the friendly zeal
That strove in thee, through life, with active power:
And more--that hope, which cheer’d thy parting hour.
To know thee thus, we dry the falling tear,
And ill-timed sorrow were unseemly here:
The mortal yields to God his parting breath;
The Christian’s soul’s great triumph is in death.

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Pour ceux qui pensent, il n’y a point de langue étrangère.

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_From the Spanish of George de Montemayor._

Here on the cold clear Egla’s breezy side
My hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,
She proffered now the lock, and now denied,
With all the baby playfulness of love.
Here the false maid with many an artful tear,
Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;
And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,
Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.
One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,
The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,
And with her finger traced upon the sand
Death for Diana--not inconstancy.
And Love beheld us from his secret stand,
And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;
To see me trust a writing traced in sand;
To see me credit what a woman told me.

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[Sidenote: Phrenology.]

Those ingenious gentlemen, the metaphysicians, who have enlightened the world by explaining away the fundamental doctrines of religion, and the principles of human actions and convictions, among other startling discoveries, have introduced a theory on good and evil actions, exceedingly applicable, comfortable, and welcome to all mankind; as it does away with conscience and duty, and makes virtue and vice affairs of physical temperament or organization--in other words, that a man’s merit or demerit is not, as they hold, to be estimated by his deeds, but by the amount of inclination with which he commits them. Men, according to those philosophers, are born with particular inclinations, which lead them insensibly and directly to particular vices or virtues, or, with some peculiar organizations, to all the vices or all the virtues. By this reasoning it appears that it is as difficult for one man to commit a certain crime, as for another to forbear; and, as a natural consequence, that since a man is not accountable for his inclination, the guilt incurred by committing it, is of very unequal account; and that if a man be not praiseworthy for abstaining from a crime towards which he has no inclination, neither is a man blameable for committing it, if he is strongly inclined to it. Nature, not man, ought to be blamed or commended; and the being able to lay the sin of vice or crime to the account of organization, will materially facilitate the completion of it.

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Stoves, in Germany, produce on one the effect of living in company with a person blind.

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[Sidenote: Christina, Queen of Sweden.]

In the year 1657, these walls (Fontainebleau) were polluted by a crime which had no parallel in the records of modern times. The murder of Monaldeschi, and all its particulars, as related so naïvely by Le Père Lobel, are too well known to make it necessary to detail them: but the letter that the haughty Christina wrote to the minister Mazarin, when the king’s displeasure was signified by him to her, is less frequently quoted. It is a masterpiece of effrontery and insolence; yet, a fortnight after receiving it, both the king and cardinal paid a solemn visit of reconciliation to the royal murderess.

_Letter of Christina, Queen of Sweden to Cardinal Mazarin._

“Monsieur Mazarin,

“Those who have detailed to you the affair of Monaldeschi, my equerry, were very ill-informed. I think it strange that you should compromise so many people in order to inform yourself of a fact which does not concern you. I ought not to be astonished at your conduct, however absurd it may be; but I could have scarcely credited, that either you or your proud young master, would have dared to exhibit towards me any marks of resentment.

“Learn, all of you, valets and masters, great and little, that it was my pleasure to act as I have done: and that I neither am obliged, nor will render an account of my actions to anybody, be they who they may; above all, to a _braggadocio_ like you. You give yourself singular airs for a personage of your rank; but whatever reasons you may have had to write to me, I do not care enough about them to concern myself on the subject for a single instant. I desire you to know, and to repeat it to whomsoever it may concern, that Christina is totally indifferent to the opinion of your court, and still less to yours; that I have no occasion, in order to compass my own vengeance, to have recourse to your formidable power.

“My honour required what was done; my will is a law which it is your part to respect: to be silent is your duty; and there are many persons for whom I have no more regard than for yourself, who would do well to learn how to conduct themselves towards their equals, before they venture to make more disturbances than is requisite.

“Know further, Monsieur le Cardinal, that Christina is a Queen, wherever she may chance to reside; and in whatever place it is her pleasure to live, the persons who surround her, cheats, though they may be, are better than you and your confederates. The Prince de Condé was right, when he exclaimed, at the time when you kept him prisoner so inhumanly, at Vincennes, ‘This old fox will never cease to outrage all the good friends of the state, until, at last, the parliament shall turn off, or severely punish, this illustrious rascal of _Piscena_.’ Take my advice then, Jules; conduct yourself in a manner to merit my favour; it is a study to which you cannot too much apply. God preserve you from ever daring to utter the least word against me; for, were I at the other end of the world, I should be aware of your proceedings. I have friends and courtiers in my service, who are as adroit and as watchful as any you can boast of, although they may not be so well bribed.”

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[Sidenote: Sir Benjamin Rudyerd.]

Mr. Gifford, in his edition of Ben Jonson’s works, says “There is a beautiful and touching sublimity in the second of these Epigrams, which cannot be too highly prized.” And it may with justice be added, that it will remain a lasting memorial of the worth and excellence of Sir Benjamin Rudyerd.

_To Benjamin Rudyerd._

Epigram CXXI.

Rudyerd, as lesser dames to great ones use,
My lighter, comes to kiss thy learned muse;
Whose better studies while she emulates,
She learns to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the office not to be despised,
If only love should make the actions prized;
Nor he for friendship can the thought unfit,
That strives his manners should precede his wit.

_To the same._

Ep. CXXII.

If I would wish for truth, and not for show,
The aged Saturn’s age, and rites to know;
If I would strive to bring back times, and try
The world’s pure gold, and wise simplicity,
If I would virtue set, as she was young,
And hear her speak with one and her first tongue;
If holiest friendship naked to the touch
I would restore, and keep it ever such,
I need no other arts but study thee,
Who prov’st all these were, and again may be.

Not the less flattering to the talents and judgment of Sir Benjamin is the following--

Ep. CXXIII.

_To the same._

Writing thyself, or judging others’ writ,
I know not which thou’st most, candour or wit;
But both thou hast so, as he who affects the state
Of the best writer and judge should emulate.

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[Sidenote: King of Prussia’s Guard.]

When Frederick the Great was forming his Regiment of Royal Guards, it is said, that the monarch was so anxious to obtain tall men, that his corporals often took them by force, wherever they could find them. On one occasion they carried the wish of their sovereign so far, that they took the “heyduc” of the French ambassador, the moment he had quitted his carriage to attend the levee. However, on a complaint from the ambassador, the servant was restored to his master.

It is also related of this ambassador, that on his first audience he came highly perfumed; the great Frederick, who was more accustomed to the smell of gunpowder than of musk, could not refrain from very visibly showing his dislike. The ambassador observed it, and felt much embarrassed. The day being stormy, “De quel côté, sa Majesté croit-elle,” said he, “que le vent vient?” The king abruptly replied, “De France, votre Excellence.”

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[Sidenote: Premature Judgment.]

Never judge harshly from appearances, or pertinaciously form a decided opinion, unless there is sufficient demonstration to prevent future regret.

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Benvenuto Cellini arrived in France in 1537, but, offended by the cold reception of Il Rosso,[13] he resolved, notwithstanding the _gracious welcome_ of Francis I. to return to Italy almost immediately, where he was imprisoned in the castle of St. Angelo. By the generous intervention of Francis, he was at length released, and returned to France, where he was most royally provided for; nevertheless, his pride, and jealousy of Primatice, kept him in constant agitation, and at length wearied out the king, whose inclination was always obliged to yield to his caprice; and at last he abandoned the greatest advantages which ever were offered to an artist, and quitted France for ever--a step he never ceased to regret. On one occasion, he went to St. Germains with a vase of silver-gilt, destined for the Duchesse d’Etampes, and was so irritated at the loss of time which he was obliged to submit to before he could be admitted to her presence, that he hurried away, and in the height of his indignation offered the vase to the Cardinal de Lorraine as a present.

Another instance of his furious temper is sufficiently remarkable. He tells, in his confessions, that one of his models, a beautiful French girl, named Catherine, who sat to him for thirty sous a day, having offended him, “Giving way entirely to my rage, I seized her by the hair, and dragged her about the room, _kicking and beating her till I was quite fatigued_. She swore she never would come near me again; but the next morning at day-break, she came, threw herself on my neck, covered me with kisses, and asked if _I was still angry with her_.”

[13] A Painter of fresques.

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Sadi, poëte Persan, dit, “que la sagesse est de jouir--la bonté de faire jouir.”

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_Mind and Body._

Says Mind to Body t’other day,
As on my chin I plied my razor,
“Pray tell me, does that glass pourtray
Your real phiz, or cheat the gazer?

“That youthful face, which bloom’d so sleek,
As Hebe’s, Ganymede’s, Apollo’s,
Has lost its roses, and your cheek
Is falling into fearful hollows.

“The crow’s fell foot has set its sign
Beside that eye, which dimly twinkles;
And look! what means that ugly line?
Gadzooks, my friend, you’re getting wrinkles!

“That form which ladies once could praise
Would now inspire them with a panic;
Get Byron’s belt, or Worcester’s stays,
Or else you’ll soon be aldermanic.

“At sight of that dismantled top,
My very heart, I must confess, aches;
Once famous as a Benter’s crop,
You now are balder than Lord Essex.

“Since Waites’ decease, your teeth decline,
Finding no beautifier near them;
Time’s tooth has mumbled two of thine,
Well may they call him _Edax rerum_.

“Behold, your cheeks are quite bereft
Of their two laughter loving dimples;
And pretty substitutes they’ve left,
(Between ourselves) a brace of pimples!