Chapter V: Part 5

“The fashions which you used to lead,
So careless are you or so thrifty,
You most neglect when most you need;
A sad mistake, when nearly fifty.”

“Stop! stop!” says Body, “let us pause,
Before you reckon more offences;
Since you yourself may be the cause
Of all these dismal consequences.

“The sword, you know, wears out the sheath;
By steam are broken vessels scatter’d;
And when volcanos rage beneath,
The surface must be torn and scatter’d.

“Have not your passions, hopes, and fears,
Their tegument of clay outwearing,
Done infinitely more than years
To cause the ravage you’re declaring?

“If you yourself no symptom show
Of age--no wrinkles of the spirit;
If still for friends your heart can glow,
Your purse be shared with starving merit;

“If yet, to sordid sins unknown,
No avarice in your heart has started;
If you have not suspicious grown,
Sour, garrulous, or narrow hearted;

“You still are young! and o’er my face,
(Howe’er its features may be shaded)
Shall throw the sunshine of your grace,
And keep the moral part unfaded.

“Expression is the face’s soul,
Of head and heart the emanation;
Insensible to time’s control,
Free from the Body’s devastation.

“If you’re still twenty, I’m no more:
Counting by _years_, how folks have blunder’d;
Voltaire was young at eighty-four,
And Fontenelle, at near a hundred!”

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[Sidenote: Love.]

All that has been written in song, or told in story, of love and its effects, falls far short of its reality. Its evils and its blessings, its impotence and its power, its sin and its holiness, its weakness and its strength, will continue the theme of nature and of art, until the great pulse of the universe is stilled. Arising from the depths of misery, descending from heaven the most direct and evident manifestation of a divine and self-sacrificing spirit, it is at once the tyrant and the slave. Happier as the latter than as the former, for the perfection of love is obedience; the power of obeying what we love is, at all events, the perfection of a woman’s happiness.

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[Sidenote: Wedding Rings.]

The wedding ring was not at first of gold, but of iron adorned with an adamant; the metal hard and durable, signifying the durance and perpetuity of the contract. Howbeit, it skilleth not at this day what metal the ring be made of; the form of it being round and without end, doth import that love should circulate and flow continually. The finger on which the ring is to be worn, is the fourth finger of the left hand, next unto the little finger, because there was supposed a vein of blood to pass from thence unto the heart.

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_Impromptu in a Post-chaise, on seeing some Boys playing at See-saw._

Says Hope to Grief one low’ring day,
“Cast off those looks of sorrow;
Come, dry your tears, and let us play:
All may be well to-morrow.”

“Alas!” cries Grief, “no leisure hour
The Gods assign my fate;
On love or friendship, fame or power,
I’m ever doom’d to wait.”

“Never,” cries Hope, with winning smile,
“Nourish my foe Despair;
Yon hamlet see, let’s join awhile
The boys at see-saw there.”

Now purple lights and balmy gales
Play round the radiant maid;
Her angel look at once prevails,
Grief sigh’d--but still obey’d.

Hope featly pois’d the trembling beam,
Grief made no further pother;
The spectre sat at one extreme,
The fairy at the other.

Then came Despair with low’ring frown,
With scowling eye he gazed;
For lo! the heavier _Grief_ weigh’d down,
The higher _Hope_ was rais’d.

But Mercy, e’en by angels blest,
Smil’d from her starry scope,
To see that Grief, the more deprest,
Looks up the more to Hope!

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[Sidenote: Unjust suspicion.]

It is painful to describe the combat of innocence and unjust suspicion; it is dreadful to represent the possibility of appearances bearing testimony against truth, and melancholy to reflect that innocence may be oppressed by the blind judgment of men, without deriving aid from the enlightened and all-seeing Judge of the universe.

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It is the heartless alone who believe that love can grow old. It is, and remains spring forever! As long as the human faculties retain their vigour--as long as the mind is undegraded by selfish interests, and remains faithful to truth, love, once born, lives in an honest heart, diffusing freshness and vigour, even in old age, over the intellect, the feelings, and the whole existence.

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[Sidenote: Capucine Friars.]

The Capucines touch no money but with a pair of pincers, which conveys it into their cowl or sack to carry it to market.

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_Arms of the House of Medici._

“The house of Medici,” says the author of the Discours merveilleux sur la Vie de Catherine de Medici, “was for a long period hidden amongst the lowest refuse of the people at Florence. It began to rise by means of a collier, who had a son an apothecary, _who took the name of his profession_; and as we in the present day see people taking for devices the emblems of their trade, as tailors their scissors, masons their hammer or trowel, so this doctor adopted _five pills_, as it is their habit to order an odd number to their patients.” This is a singular derivation of the armorial bearings of this celebrated house.

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[Sidenote: Scenes from the Life of Michael Angelo.]

In the year 1474, on Monday the 6th of March, at four o’clock in the morning, was born at the castle of Caprese, in the territory of Areggo, Michael Angelo, son of Ludovico de Lionardo de Buonarotti, Governor of Chiusi and of Caprese, and descended from one of the most ancient families of Tuscany.

Although at this period of Florentine history commerce and trade were considered as most honourable pursuits, and indeed to these were ascribed the great power and riches of the state, the father of the little Michael Angelo destined him for his own profession, and already foresaw him a future Governor, nay Ambassador; far from thinking that he was destined to become what he contemptuously termed a mason! But there is a destiny attached to the life of celebrated men; and fate selected for Michael, as his nurse, the wife of a stonemason, and whilst the child throve under her care, and grew strong and robust in the sun and air, his infant hands, hardened by exposure, grasped the chisel and the hammer, and his first cries mingled with the harsh grating of the saw.

It was in vain that the proud parent sought to dissuade the boy, and curb the only inclination he manifested: even at school he contrived to escape the vigilance of the master, and obtained the notice of the artist Ghirlandajo, who said of him, “He is a rising star, that will live to eclipse the brightest planet now shining.” He was even induced to seek Michael’s father, and beseeching him not to oppose the manifest vocation of his son, offered to take him as an apprentice to his art. At this proposal, the Podesta started from his chair in a paroxysm of rage; but after a while he calmly went to a desk, wrote an engagement on the behalf of his son for three years, and with an expression of countenance little less affecting than that with which Brutus signed the death warrant of his son, handed him over to Ghirlandajo. With one bound Michael cleared the staircase, throwing up his cap for joy. He burnt his grammar: true, he was not much more than a servant at Ghirlandajo’s; but what did that matter? he was free to pursue his own tastes, he was happier than a Medicis! He could now bedaub the walls as he chose, he could grind his colours, sketch, or if a morsel of plaster fell in his way, he could mould it to his will, without fearing to have his ears pulled.

Before he had attained the age of thirteen, he was already a great artist, and his success had naturally created jealousy and enmity. A blow from Torregiano, when they as boys worked together, broke the cartilage of the nose, and disfigured that feature for life.

On the other hand, Michael Angelo could not fail to find as many friends, and amongst the most celebrated of the age. Benvenuto Cellini, whose great genius and talents ranked with those of Buonarotti, was his most ardent admirer, and never designated him but as the “divine Buonarotti.”

During the _boy_ artist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinely a view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose.

His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.”

Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!--you!”

“A criticism, if you prefer it.”

“Upon my Faun’s head?”

“Upon your Faun’s head.”

“And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?”

“It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.”

“And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?”

“I will leave the decision to yourself.”

“Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance.

“Was it not your object to make an _old_ Faun laughing immoderately?”

“Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.”

“Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?”

The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day.

“What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily.

“It has been removed by my command,” replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy.

“And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?”

“Follow me, and you shall learn!”

“I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.”

“Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.”

“We shall see.”

“We shall see,” echoed the stranger, and then took the path to the palace, with the same calm demeanour; but on his beginning to ascend the staircase, the boy, seemingly terrified as well as angry, caught his arm, saying, “Where are you going, Sir? You are approaching the apartments of the Prince, and although he may look over an intrusion in the royal gardens, we here run great risk.”

On, proceeded the stranger, the servants rising as he approached, the guards saluting.

Michael was lost in wonder. Even supposing him one of the household (he thought to himself), my Faun belongs to me, and he ought to restore it: my labour is my own, and I can pay him for the marble.

The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whom I have thus cavalierly treated.

The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.

“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”

“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”

The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”

Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactly like those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”

“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”

“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”

Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.

Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himself into his father’s arms.

“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.

“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”

“You would then force me to curse you.”

“I come from the palace.”

“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son--thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”

“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”

“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”

“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “_my_ place is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”

“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.

“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace, that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”

The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage.

At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis.

“Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name.

“In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.”

“My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouring to master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.”

“And for yourself, Sir?”

“For myself, Prince, I ask a trifling situation now vacant in the customs: it can only be given to a citizen of the State; I ask it, because it is a post I feel I can fill with honour.”

“You will never be rich, my dear Buonarotti,” laughingly replied the Medicis, “for, offered any situation you please, you content yourself with a little place in the customs.”

“Enough too--for the father of a _mason_!”

And thus was Michael Angelo de Buonarotti introduced to the patronage of the illustrious Medicis.

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[Sidenote: Sir Sidney Smith.]

Qui a peur du mal a déjà le mal de la peur.
Qui espère le bien a déjà le bien de l’espoir.

The above lines were written on the window of his prison by Sir Sidney Smith, the day of his escape from the Temple; the hand of the hero of Acre threw them on the Cairn.

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[Sidenote: Of Bees.]

It is easy to imagine why they are highly valued. They have always been very numerous in Palestine. Frequent mention is made in the sacred volume of “honey out of the rock.” The Scriptures also speak of honey as forming a part of the presents which it was usual to send to persons of distinction. Canaan is described as a land “flowing with milk and honey.” John the Baptist is said to have lived upon “locusts and wild honey,” and among the articles of food set before our Saviour, when, after his resurrection he ate with his disciples, was a piece of an “honeycomb.”

These combined circumstances have doubtless had their share in leading the uninstructed, in nearly all countries and times, to look upon the Bee with a feeling of superstitious reverence.

_Mead_, the produce of the Bee, was the favourite drink, the nectar of the ancient Britons; and their attachment to this extraordinary little insect ascended to a very remote period. According to their belief, the high origin of the Bee is from Paradise, and it was on account of man’s transgression they left it, and then God gave them a blessing. The priests therefore maintained that no _Mass_ ought to be celebrated, except by the light of _wax_.

These extraordinary little insects make the tops and bottoms of their cells of three planes meeting in a point, and the inclinations or angles at which they meet, are precisely those found out by the mathematicians to be the best possible for saving wax and work. Who could dream the Bee was conversant with the highest branch of the mathematics, the fruit of Newton’s most wonderful labour, of the source of which he was himself ignorant; one of his most celebrated followers having found it out in a later age? This little insect works with a truth and correctness which are perfect, and according to the principles at which man has arrived only after ages of slow improvement in the most difficult branch of the most difficult science. But the mighty and all-wise Creator who made the insect and the philosopher, bestowing reason on the latter, and giving skill to the former to work without it, to Him all truths are known from all eternity with an intuition that mocks even the conceptions of the sagest of human kind.

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[Sidenote: Bayonets.]

The word bayonet is derived from the circumstance of this weapon being first manufactured at Bayonne.

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[Sidenote: Hope.]

Farewell! but not for ever, Hope replies,
Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies;
There nothing shall renew our parting pain,
Thou shalt not wither, or I weep again.

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[Sidenote: Oliver Cromwell.]

It is related by Pope, and also by Spencer in his Anecdotes, that on the night after the decollation of King Charles I. his body was placed in a room at Whitehall, and that the Earl of Southampton sat in the room to guard and manifest his respect to the royal corse. About midnight the door opened, and a person so muffled that he could not be known entered; who, after slowly walking to the coffin, looked at the corse some time, and having exclaimed “Cruel necessity!” as slowly retired. Lord Southampton imagined from the figure and voice, that it was Oliver Cromwell!

Supposing this to be the case, it were only consistent with the hypocrisy of his character, that he should assume the appearance of feeling, in order to impress people with a character for humanity.

It is remarked in Walpoliana as a singular fact, that the descendants of Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell intermarried in the fourth degree

By the marriage of my father, Sir Charles Shipley, connected with the “Bradshawes,” by the Rudyerds, and my mother the great granddaughter of the Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II.

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[Sidenote: Origin of the term “Sandwich.”]

To the memory of “Lord Sandwich” belongs the name of that edible. Being during his administration (as was very usual with him), at a gambling house, he had, in the fascination of play, for more than five and twenty hours forgotten fatigue and hunger, when suddenly, feeling disposed to break his fast, though still riveted to the table, he called to bid some one bring him any thing that was to be had to eat, which happened to prove a slice of beef, and two pieces of bread. Placing them together for the sake of expedition, he devoured them with the greatest relish. The most ecstatic encomiums published his discovery, and giving it his name, bequeathed it as a memento to his country, as one of the most important acts of his administration.

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[Sidenote: Catherine II.]

During the splendid progress which the Empress Catherine II. made through her dominions, she was one day expressing her opinion of the various surmises her journey would create, and the different causes that would be assigned for it at the several courts of Europe; adding, “this Cabinet of Petersburgh, which is now floating down the Dneiper, must be considered of great importance, since it affords so much occupation to many others.” “Yes, Madam,” replied the Prince de Ligne, “and yet I don’t know one that is so small; for its whole dimensions are but a few inches, it extends but from one temple to the other, and from the root of the nose to that of the hair.”

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Addison amused himself with inventing fourteen years of the Pretender’s reign. The fourth year has the following passage: “He ordered the Lord High Treasurer to pay off the debts of the crown, which had been contracted since his accession to the throne, particularly a _milk_ score of three years’ standing.”

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[Sidenote: Duke of Monmouth.]

Arguments in favour of the belief that the Duke of Monmouth was _not_ executed, as declared, but suffered to escape; an individual who was under sentence of death having been induced to pass for this unfortunate prince.

Hume says, Après son exécution ses partisans conservaient l’espérance de le revoir à leur tête; ils se flattèrent que le prisonnier qu’on avait exécuté n’était pas le Duc de Monmouth, mais qu’un de ses amis, qui lui ressemblait beaucoup, avait eu le courage de mourir pour lui.

Sainte Foix, in a letter on the subject of the “Masque de Fer,” dated Amsterdam, 1768, says, “Il est certain que le bruit courut dans Londres qu’un officier de l’armée de Monmouth, qui lui ressemblait beaucoup, fait prisonnier et sûr d’être condamné au mort, avait reçu la proposition de passer pour lui avec autant de joie que si on lui avait accordé la vie, et que, sur ce bruit, une grande dame, ayant gagné ceux qui pouvaient ouvrir son cercueil, et lui ayant regardé le bras droit, s’écria, ‘Ah! ce n’est pas le Duc de Monmouth!’”

Enfin, Sainte-Foix, qui cherche à prouver que le Masque de Fer n’était autre que le Duc de Monmouth, cite un passage d’un ouvrage par Pyms, et dans lequel on dit, “Le Comte Danby envoya chercher le Colonel Skelton, qui avait eu ci-devant la Lieutenance de la Tour de Londres, et à qui le Prince d’Orange l’avait otée pour la donner au Lord Lucas. ‘Skelton,’ lui dit le Comte Danby, ‘hier au soir en soupant avec Robert Johnston, vous lui dites, que le Duc de Monmouth était vivant et enfermé dans quelque chateau en Angleterre.’ ‘Je n’ai point affirmé cela, puisque je n’en sais rien,’ dit Skelton, ‘mais j’ai dit, que, la nuit d’après la prétendue exécution du Duc de Monmouth, le Roi, accompagné de trois hommes, vint lui-même le tirer de la Tour, et que le Duc fut emmené par lui.”

Sainte-Foix cite encore une conversation du père Tournemine, et ajoute:

“La Duchesse de Portsmouth dit au père Tournemine et au Confesseur du Roi Jacques, qu’elle reprocherait toujours à la mémoire de ce Prince l’exécution du Duc de Monmouth après que Charles Second, à l’heure de la mort, et prêt à communier devant l’hostie, que Haldeston prêtre catholique avait secrètement apportée, avait fait promettre au Roi Jacques (alors Duc d’York), que quelque revolte, que quant au Duc de Monmouth, il ne le ferait jamais punir de mort. _Aussi le Roi Jacques ne l’a-t-il pas fait mourir_, repondit le père Sanders.”

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[Sidenote: Death.]

Strange, that we can live so constantly with that threatening hand hung over us, and not think of it always! How difficult it is to realise death! how difficult to believe that the hand with whose every vein you are familiar will ever lose its motion and warmth! That the quick eye will settle and grow dull. It is at first hard to believe that we _must die_; harder still to believe the repulsive circumstances that follow this terrible change! It is a bitter thought, at the lightest. There is little comfort in knowing that the sense and the mind, that feel and measure suffering, will be gone. The separation of soul and body is too great a mystery to satisfy fear: it is the body that we know; it is this material frame in which the affections have grown up. The spirit is a thought, a presence, that we are told of, but do not see. The idea of existence is connected indissolubly with the visible body, and its pleasant and familiar scenes. We talk of, and rest our belief on the soul’s ascent to its Maker; but it is not ourselves, it is not our own conscious breathing identity, that we, in imagination, send up through the invisible air; we do not understand, we cannot realise the wondrous thought.

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[Sidenote: Origin of the Title of Earl.]

During the government of the Anglo-Saxons _Earldoms_ of counties were not merely dignities of honour, but officers of justice; each person having the charge and custody of the county of which he was Earl; and for their assistance in the discharge of this duty, they had also deputies, or _vicecomes_, as they were denominated, appointed, which office still continues to be executed by the Sheriffs annually chosen for the different counties of England and Wales. The _Earls_, in recompense for their travelling expenses, and other charges incidental to the affairs of this important office, had originally a salary derived from the profits of the third penny of the county[14] granted to them; and this custom continued for a long time after the conquest, and was formerly inserted as a princely benevolence in their patents of creation. These salaries were at a later period changed into pensions for the better support of their dignity, as appears by many ancient records. The word Earl, by the Saxons was called _Erlig_, or Ethling; by the Germans, _Grave_, as Landgrave, Margrave, &c. and by the Dutch, Eorle: but upon the conquest of England by William, Duke of Normandy, in 1066, and the subsequent settlement of the Normans in this country they were called _Comes_, or _Comites_, and for consequence in State affairs were usually styled _Comes Illustres_. Formerly Kings were addressed by the title of _Your Grace_. Henry VIII. was the first, says Houssaie, who assumed the title of _Highness_; and at length _Majesty_. It was Francis I. who began to give him this last title, in their interview in the year 1520.

[14] Third part of fines arising from law-suits, the other two going to the King.

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Il est des âmes que le malheur peut abattre, mais qu’il n’avilit jamais.

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[Sidenote: James II.]

The Diary of James II. which from his earliest youth he had kept, he, at the time of his abdication, as one of his last acts, confided to the Count of Therese, by whose means the papers were sent to Italy; and afterwards found their way to the Scotch College at Paris. About the beginning of the French revolution, the original MSS. were sent to St. Amiens, secreted in a cellar, afterwards buried in a garden of a country house, and it is supposed were taken up and destroyed; but copies were previously taken and formed into a life of James II. which, with other papers termed the “Stuart Manuscripts,” were published.

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Heureux celui qui sait quitter l’état qui le quitte, et rester heureux en dépit du sort.

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La solitude est certainement une belle chose, mais il y a plaisir d’avoir quelqu’un à qui on puisse dire: La solitude est une belle chose.

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Peut-on se consoler de la perte d’un enfant! ce malheur, le plus poignant de tous, semble tellement opposé à la nature, que la douleur qu’il produit doit durer toujours.

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[Sidenote: Sea-fire.]

The phenomenon called by sailors _Sea-fire_, is one of the most beautiful and interesting which is witnessed in the Hebrides. At times the ocean appears entirely illuminated around the vessel, and a long train of lambent corruscations are perpetually breaking upon her sides, or pursuing her wake through the darkness. These phosphoric appearances, concerning the origin of which naturalists are not agreed in opinion, seem to be called into action by the rapid motion of the ship, through the water being saturated with _fish_ and _spawn_, and other animal substance.

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“_Lisez et Croyez._”

A Device on a Lady’s Seal.

Quelques censeurs peu délicats,
Oubliant ce qu’on doit aux femmes,
Ont dit, en parlant de ces dames,
“Lisez-les, ne les croyez pas.”
Ces messieurs ont fait leur histoire:
Jugeons-les par ce qu’ils ont dit.
Pour vous, Iris, quand on vous lit,
On admire autant votre esprit
Qu’on a de plaisir à vous croire.

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_A la même, en lui annoncant mon départ._

De mon bonheur le sort jaloux
A ne vous plus revoir me condamne peut-être.
Ah! je devais ne jamais vous connaître,
Ou rester toujours près de vous.

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[Sidenote: Troubadours.]

The Troubadours were the ancient wandering poets, supposed to originate in Provence, and who composed and sung their own verses. The Trombe, or Trompe, was an instrument of the trumpet kind, from which it is believed the word “Trombadour,” or “Troubadour,” is derived; it being to this instrument they sung their poems. Several princes and nobles were among the number of these bards: Richard I. of England was of the former. The Italian poets are said to have borrowed their best pieces from the Troubadours; they flourished in Europe about two hundred and fifty years, from 1120 till the year 1382.

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S’occuper, c’est savoir jouir;
L’oisiveté pèse et tourmente;
L’âme est un feu qu’il faut nourir,
Et qui s’éteint, s’il ne s’augmente.

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Je ne vous parle point d’amis, car je sais combien cette denrée là est rare: mais je vous parle des connaissances agréables. Avec un bon soupé on a qui on veut: et si on le juge àpropos, on se moque encore après de ses convives.

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Etre avec les gens qu’on aime, cela suffit. Rêver, leur parler, ne leur parler point, penser à eux, penser à des choses indifférentes; mais auprès d’eux, tout est égal.

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[Sidenote: Pride and Humility.]

On the marriage of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, with Mary the sister of King Henry VIII. and widow of Louis XII. of France, he appeared at the tournament given in honour of his bride, with an ingenious device, delicately alluding to the event which had brought him within the pale of royalty. To the trappings of his horse, which were one half of cloth of gold, and the other of cloth of freize, was appended the following motto.

Cloth of gold, do not despise,
Though thou art match’d with cloth of freize;
Cloth of freize, be not too bold,
Though thou art match’d with cloth of gold.

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Les convalescences de l’âme sont comme celles du corps: on en sent bien mieux le prix que celui de la santé.

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Les louanges les plus flatteuses, et les plus énivrantes, sont celles que l’on reçoit unanimement devant l’objet qu’on aime.

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[Sidenote: Voltaire.]

Those who proclaim Voltaire to be an atheist, only evince their ignorance of his real sentiments, and the beautiful principle by which he was influenced; his every act tended to acquit him of the charge of atheism. Besides, it never did, never can exist! Were it possible our lips could deny this truth, our hearts must witness to it; and however strongly the wretched atheist would assert the nonexistence of the power he denies, the very faculties, the reasoning, the subtle arguments which he employs, are these not so many attributes derived from a power, Almighty, though indefinite, Omnipresent, though invisible? The command of language, the superiority of talent he proudly displays, give the lie to his own system; whilst common sense declares beyond all doubt, the existence of that wonderful chain of creation, of which man is the first link, formed by a Divine intelligence, foreseeing and pre-ordaining all things. Alas! it must be admitted, that Voltaire denied the _Divinity_ of our Saviour, although his virtues were those of a Christian; so often evinced in acts of the purest benevolence and philanthropy, rejecting all sectarian intolerance, affecting no uncharitable jargon. How to be regretted that such virtues were not guided and supported by belief!

Happy they who rely on the eternity of the soul, who believe as the loved fall, one after one, from their side, that they have returned to their native country, that they await the Divine reunion; who feel that each treasure of knowledge they attain, they carry with them through illimitable being; who see in virtue the essence of the element of that world they are to inhabit, and to which they but accustom themselves betimes; who comfort their weariness amidst the storms of time, by seeing far across the melancholy seas the haven they will reach at last; who deem that every struggle has its assured reward, and every sorrow its balm; who know, that however forsaken or bereaved below, they never can be alone, and never deserted; that above is the protection of Eternal power, and the mercy of Eternal love.

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[Sidenote: Antipathies.]

The Princess de Lamballe fainted, if a nosegay of violets was in the room.

A celebrated Counsellor of Parliament at Douai, if he saw an apple not cut with a knife, but broken, would rise from table, and scarcely be able to totter to the door; whereas, the apple cut in the usual manner, he would have felt no ill effect.

The celebrated Lord Bolingbroke had an insurmountable horror of a cat: he frequently visited the Marechale de Mirepoix, and always waited in the anti-room till he was assured that all the cats, of which she possessed several of a famous Angora breed, had been turned out. These animals were so sociable, that they would sit on the large Loto table, and whenever a counter rolled near them, they would play with it with their paws in their usual graceful manner. I have often been fortunate enough, says M. de Levis, to be of their party without ever having to complain of them. One day, when the valet de chamber, after carefully searching every where, believed there could not be a cat in the apartment, Lord Bolingbroke came in, but immediately screamed and rushed back; the next day it was discovered that one of the cats had been accidentally shut up in a closet.

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[Sidenote: Anne of Austria: a Sketch.]

Anne Maurice was daughter of Philippe III. King of Spain, and of Margarette of Austria; she was born at Valladolid, on Saturday the 22nd of September, 1601; married to Louis XIII. King of France, called “the Just,” the 9th of November, 1615, and not till after twenty-three years became a mother, giving birth first to Louis XIV. and next to Philippe of France, Duke of Orléans, who married the Princess Henrietta of England, daughter of the unfortunate Charles I. and of Henrietta sister of Louis XIII. At the death of this monarch, his son being only _nine_ years of age, he declared Anne of Austria Regent, and during the period of her administration, to that in which she surrendered the direction of his kingdom, at the majority of Louis XIV. she fully justified the election; her great strength of mind and justice of conduct never giving way, though intestine dissention and foreign wars rendered her task not a little arduous. More than once the Queen Regent abandoned her capital during the tumult of the parliamentary faction, supported by the Duke of Orléans,[15] the late King’s brother. The spirit of discontent gave the ministry of Cardinal Mazarin as its source, but it was long before the Queen would yield her predilection for, and support of this minister. His eventual exile restored peace at home, but it was not of long duration, and the Cardinal returned to negotiate the marriage of his sovereign with the Infanta of Spain, niece to the Queen Regent. This amiable Princess was not only chosen by Anne of Austria as the means of restoring peace between Spain and France, but also as interesting to her by the ties of maternal affection, being her brother’s daughter.

Till the death of Mazarin, Louis was little conspicuous in the administration of his government, and so much had he felt the evil consequence of the authority and patronage assumed by the Italian Cardinal, that he resolved to keep the reins in future wholly in his own hands. Mazarin had been brought forward by the minister Richelieu, and raised from obscurity; he died possessed of incalculable riches, after having made the fortunes of all his family.[16]

The anxious affection of the Queen for her sons, was marked to the last hour of her life; her watchful solicitude not only desired their temporal grandeur but their moral conduct and eternal salvation, to which her prayers were ever directed. She suffered much disquietude from the dissipation of Louis, and though wisely endeavouring to conceal or excuse his infidelities in the eyes of the Queen, she remonstrated with the King on several occasions with the zeal of a Christian, and the love of a parent; and though they failed of all the wished for effect, the affection and duty of the King steadily accompanied his mother to her grave. Her patience and fortitude, during a lingering and painful disease, could not be surpassed. She died of a cancer in the breast at sixty-five years of age; preserving, almost unimpaired, the beauty which had rendered her in youth the subject of universal admiration. Her attractions made her as naturally the object of calumny as of applause, for this is the tax they ever pay. That she had many lovers is beyond doubt, but whether she observed the rigid propriety of conduct asserted by Mde. de Motteville, or whether she was culpable of the indiscretions ascribed to her by less partial authors, it is at least certain that her virtues were _great_; and if she had faults, the neglect of her husband at the period when all Europe bent before her perfections, gives an undisputed apology. The cold and apathetic neglect of the gloomy Louis afforded encouragement to less lawful admiration; and of the number of her suitors none were more conspicuous than the accomplished English Duke of Buckingham. Mons. Regnault Warin does not scruple to make him the father, and Anne of Austria the mother, of the mysterious “Masque de Fer:” yet it is hardly credible to human feeling, that a mother’s tenderness could so far give way to state policy, as to sanction the long and cruel imprisonment of the being to whom she gave life but to be a curse. Yet this contradiction exists in the Memoires of the “Masque de Fer.”

The dislike of the Queen Marie de Médicis and of the minister De Richelieu of Anne of Austria (though some pens declare this crafty statesman to have been also the slave of her charms), greatly strengthened the indifference of the King towards his Queen: indeed, so much was it considered a miracle when the heir to the crown was born, that he was surnamed the “Gift of God.”[17] It was the King’s own act to nominate the Queen, Regent, after his death; and his confidence in her integrity and wisdom was fully justified by her exercise of this power. She was free from all spirit of revenge, never seeking it, even of her worst enemies; and this was greatly evinced in her consideration of the Queen Mary of Médicis, after she had incurred the displeasure of Louis XIII. as well as her kind reception of the persecuted Queen of England, when driven for refuge to the court of France. When Princess of France, Henrietta had been often by the influence of her mother, Mary de Médicis, guilty of acts of unkindness to her brother’s Queen; but this never appeared in the behaviour of the latter towards the Queen of England, whose sorrows she in every manner sought to alleviate, and furnished her with money to send to her captive husband, till the sad termination of his fate. The Duchess of Orléans was only a few days old when her royal brother fled from England; and brought up in the family of the French monarch, she was very dear to the Queen Mother, and chosen by her as the wife of her second son, afterwards Duke of Orléans.

[15] Likewise the Grand Condé.

[16] Louis was however, till the death of Mazarin, as well as the Queen Mother, bound by the chain of influence and power the latter lived to regret having allowed to the Cardinal.

[17] Dieu-donné.

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[Sidenote: The MSS.]

My friend, I’ve been robb’d!
“How I pity your grief!”
All my manuscripts gone!
“How I pity the thief!”

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Let your courage be as keen, but at the same time as polished, as your sword.

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[Sidenote: The Nursing of Love.]

Lapt in Cythera’s golden sands,
When first true Love was born on earth,
Long was the doubt, what fost’ring hands
Should tend, and rear the glorious birth.

First Hebe claim’d the sweet employ;
Her cup, her thornless flowers, she said,
Would feed him best with health and joy,
And cradle best his cherub head.

But anxious Venus justly feared
The tricks and changeful mind of Youth;
Too mild, the seraph Peace appeared;
Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth.

Next Fancy claimed him for her own;
But Venus disallowed her right;
She deem’d her Iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.

To Youth, awhile, the charge was given,
And well with Youth the cherub throve;
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian friend and nurse of Love.

Pleasure grew mad with envious spite,
When all preferred to her she found;
She vow’d full vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown’d.

The trait’ress watch’d a sultry hour,
When pillow’d on her blush rose bed,
Tired Innocence to slumber’s power
One moment bow’d her virgin head.

Then Pleasure on the thoughtless child
Her toys, and sugar’d poisons press’d;
Drunk with new joy he heav’d, he smil’d,
Reel’d, sunk, and died upon her breast!

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[Sidenote: An Opera.]

The first composer who tried his hand at setting an opera to music was Francisco Bamirino, an Italian artist; and the piece to which he lent the charm of a melodious accompaniment, was the “Conversion of St. Paul,” which was brought out at Rome in 1460.

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[Sidenote: Calumny or Detraction.]

The strongest, brightest light will always offend a weak, vitiated sight; and the lowest vermin will prey upon the fairest fruit. Thus _detraction_ comes from the envious, and the base, and low-minded.

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[Sidenote: Goût and Gout.]

How is’t the French in all they do
Have goût, while we’re without?
Nature, who gives them simply goût,
Has changed our goût to _gout_!

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[Sidenote: Les Lazzaroni de l’ancien tems.]

Les Lazzaroni ont trop souvent été confondus avec la vile populace de Naples, race dégradée. On ignore s’ils descendent de l’une des colonies grecques, qui, dans des temps reculés, vinrent s’établir dans cette riche et belle contrée; ou s’ils appartiennent à une famille latine; ou s’ils sont les descendans de quelqu’une des races Germaniques, qui, sous le nom d’Hérules, Lombards, ou d’Ostrogoths, vinrent successivement y planter leurs tentes. On l’ignore; mais il est certain que les Lazzaroni forment une famille bien distincte de celles des autres habitans du royaume de Naples. Ces sont des hommes grands et forts, laborieux et sobres; leur union pourrait balancer la puissance du gouvernement, aussi respecte-il leur privilèges, et fait-il tous ses efforts pour se les attacher. Le Lazzarone aime cette terre où il vit, mais ne cherche pas à sortir de la classe dans laquelle il est né. Ils ont l’extérieur remarquable par la mâle beauté des formes. Un lien fraternel semble unir les Lazzaroni; ils ne subissent point les lois du Royaume quand elles paraissent contraires à leurs traditions, qu’ils savent faire respecter. Seuls ils sont libres sur cette terre d’esclaves, et ont le droit incontesté de s’assembler publiquement et en grand nombre, sans que le gouvernement songe à les troubler dans ces nobles manifestations de la dignité de l’homme. Le Capo-Lazzaroni est le chef suprême de toute la famille; il est élu par ses frères, et il exerce sur eux une autorité qui rappelle le tribunat des Romains. Si le Capo n’est point entouré des insignes de la royauté, au moins en a t-il une autorité réelle, et pas moins efficace. Le Capo est chargé de faire respecter les droits de sa caste. Il a une place réservée aux cérémonies où assiste la Cour, qui s’étudie surtout en public a lui montrer beaucoup d’égards. C’est le Capo qui a le droit de vérifier le sexe de l’enfant dont la Reine vient d’accoucher, et c’est lui qui le montre au peuple du haut du balcon royal.

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[Sidenote: Louis XVIII.]

Although the perpetrator of the daring attempt was never discovered, it is well known that the late Louis XVIII. of France, narrowly escaped assassination whilst at Dettingen. The King was standing at the window of an hotel, when a pistol was fired at him, the ball of which lodged in the window frame. One of the persons standing near to the King, alarmed at his sovereign’s very narrow escape, exclaimed, “Oh, Sire! had the aim been one inch lower--” “Why then,” (interrupted the intrepid monarch, with the utmost presence of mind) “the King of France would have been styled Charles the Tenth.”

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_Directions to the Porter._

Thou faithful guardian of these peaceful walls,
Whose jealous care protects thy master’s gate,
If any stranger at this mansion calls,
I’ll tell thee who shall enter, who shall wait.

If Fortune (blindfold goddess) chance to knock,
Or proud Ambition lure thee to her arms,
Shut, shut the door! good John, quick turn the lock,
And shield thy master from their syren charms.

If sober Wisdom hither deigns to roam,
Nor let her in, nor send her quite away;
Tell her at present I am not at home,
But hope she’ll call again some other day.

If at my door a beauteous boy be seen,
Whose little feet have oft my threshold trod;
Thou know’st the offspring of the Cyprian queen,
His air, without his bow, bespeak the god.

His gentle smiles admittance ever win,
Though oft deceived, I prize the fond deluder;
Morn, noon, and night be sure to let him in
With welcome--Love is never an intruder.

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[Sidenote: Origin of the title of “Sforza.”]

James Sforza, the father of Francis the first Duke, was the founder of the house of Sforza, which gave six Dukes to Milan, and was allied with almost every sovereign in Europe during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. He was born in 1369, at Catignuola, near Faenza; his father, according to tradition, was a day labourer, and to others, a shoemaker, but probably wrought as both. Perceiving some soldiers pass, he was struck with the desire of bearing arms. “I will go,” said he to himself, “and dart my hatchet against that tree, and if it stick fast in the wood I will immediately become a soldier.” The hatchet stuck fast, and because, says the Abbot of Choisi, he threw the axe with all his force, he assumed the supposed fortunate name of Sforza, as his real name was Giacomuzzo, or James Attendulo.

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[Sidenote: Duke of Calabria.]

The Duke of Calabria, father of the unfortunate Joanna, Queen of Naples, was buried in the church of St. Claire, founded by his father in 1310. The sculpture of his monument is beautifully emblematical of his known protection of defenceless innocence: from a Conch shell at his feet, a lamb slakes its thirst, regardless of the fierce wolf drinking at the same fountain.

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[Sidenote: Love and Reason.]

’Twas in the summer time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers were both in season,
When, who of all the world should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
Whilst Reason talk’d about the weather:
The morning, sooth, was clear and bright,
So on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew;
Whilst Reason like a Juno stalk’d,
And from her portly figure threw
A lengthen’d shadow as they walk’d.

No wonder Love, as on they pass’d,
Should find the sunny morning chill;
For still the shadow Reason cast
Follow’d the boy, and cool’d him still.

In vain he strove his wings to warm,
Or find a pathway not so dim;
For still the maid’s gigantic form
Would pass between the sun and him.

“This must not be,” said little Love,
“The sun was made for more than you.”
So, turning down a myrtle grove,
He bade the portly nymph “Adieu.”

Now gaily roves the laughing boy
O’er many a mead, through many a bower,
In every breeze inhaling joy,
And drinking bliss from every flower.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,
He cull’d the many sweets they shaded;
He eat the fruits, and smelt the flowers,
Till taste was gone, and odour faded.

Now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Rose high above the parched plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,
And fever thrill’d through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow,
No more with vivid bloom he smil’d;
Ah! where was tranquil _Reason_ now,
To cast her shadow o’er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,
His foot at length for shelter turning;
He saw the maid reclining calm,
With brow as cool as his was burning.

“Oh take me to your bosom cold!”
In murmurs at her feet he said,
And Reason oped her garment’s fold,
And flung it round his feverish head.

He felt her bosom’s icy touch,
And soon it lull’d his pulse to rest;
But ah! the chill was quite too much,
And Love expir’d on Reason’s breast.

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[Sidenote: Clocks.]

The first Clock seen in Europe was a present from Haroun Alraschid to Charlemagne; and in the fourteenth century, _Dondi_ of Padua was raised to the peerage for making one of an improved construction. The title, “Marquis Dondi del Orologio,” descended to the eighteenth century, and probably still exists.

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[Sidenote: Tea and Coffee.]