Chapter III: Letter III (1)

Your obliging promptitude deserved my speedier thanks, but you will excuse me I am sure, my dear sir, when you learn that I have been for several days confined to my chamber by something very like _angina pectoris_. It is the most distressing sensation I ever felt, although not the most painful. It is during a remission of its attack that I take up my pen to put some of my nothings upon paper.

Yesterday was a sore day (as I hear) for the War Department. The official statements from that bureau were exposed in a most mortifying manner, and on the question in committee of the whole to strike out the first section of the obnoxious bill [i.e. to reject it] the court mustered but five or seven affirmatives—and this after the combined exertions of several of the leading members, as they are called, in favor of the motion.

My question to Mrs. B. related to a book that I had lately read with some amusement—Melincourt. It is not new, but I had not happened to meet with it before. I have been trying to read Southey's Life of Wesley for some days. Upon the whole, I find it a heavy work, although there are some very striking passages, and it abounds in curious information. From 279 to 285, inclusive, of the second volume is very fine. Yesterday I was to have dined with Frank Key, but was not well enough to go. He called here the day before, and we {464} had much talk together. He perseveres in pressing on towards the goal, and his whole life is spent in endeavors to do good for his unhappy fellow men. The result is, that he enjoys a tranquillity of mind, a sunshine of the soul, that all the Alexanders of the earth can neither confer nor take away. This is a state to which I can never attain. I have made up my mind to suffer like a man condemned to the wheel or the stake—and, strange as you may think it, I could submit without a murmur to pass the rest of my life “in some high, lonely tower, where I might outwatch the Bear with thrice great Hermes;” and exchange the enjoyments of society for an exemption from the plagues of life. These press me down to the very earth, and to rid myself of them I would gladly purchase an annuity and crawl into some hole, where I might commune with myself and be still.

* * * * *

I am glad that the pretty Mrs. F——h is so comfortably established at Mrs. Kemp's. Do I understand you correctly that the C——'s, Rootes, Gilmer, and Mr. Burwell are of the same party? I should like very much to join it, for (to say nothing of the ladies) R. and G. are two of my favorites. I could be somewhat less miserable there, I am sure, than I find myself here.

* * * * *

If I possessed a talent that I once thought I had, I would try and give you a picture of Washington. The state of things is the strangest imaginable, but I am like a speechless person who has the clearest conception of what he would say, but whose organs refuse to perform their office. There is one striking fact that one can't help seeing at the first glance—that there is no faith among men: the state of political confidence may be compared to that of the commercial world within the last two or three years.

I read Mr. Roane's letter with the attention that it deserves. Every thing from his pen on the subject of our laws and institutions excites a profound interest. I was highly gratified at the manner in which it was spoken of in my hearing by one of the best and ablest men in our house. It is indeed high time that the hucksters and money-changers should be cast out of the Temple of Justice. The tone of this communication belongs to another age; but for the date, who could suppose it to have been written in this our day of almost universal political corruption? I did not read the report on the lottery case. The print of the Enquirer is too much for my eyes: and besides I want no argument to satisfy me that the powers which Congress may exercise where they possess exclusive jurisdiction, may not be extended to places where they possess only a limited and concurrent jurisdiction. The very statement of the question settles it, and every additional word is but an incumbrance of help.

And now, my dear sir, you may be glad to come to an end of this almost interminable epistle. Shut up in my little “chair-lumbered closet” this cold day, without a soul to speak to or a book to read, you have become the victim of my desolate condition. Indeed, if I had a book I could not read it, having exercised my eyes so unmercifully on John Wesley, that I do not see what I am writing—at least not distinctly. My best regards to Mrs. B. I wish I could provoke her to talk. When you see Dudley, tell him I have been trying to write to him for several days; and when you see Mr. Cunningham, present me most kindly to him and _his house_.

Sincerely yours,
J. R. of R.

_Washington, January, 1821_.

TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

BY J. DOGGETT, Jr.

Bright auburn lock! which like the wing
Of some kind angel sweeping by,
Shinest in the sun a glossy thing,
As soft as beams from beauty's eye,
Thou dost recall, sweet lock, to me,
All of the heaven of memory.

Thou once did'st shade a marble brow,
Where beauty raised her polish'd throne;
Methinks I gaze upon it now
And listen to a silver tone—
Which floats from lips in notes as sweet
As angel's greetings when they meet.

Fair lock! I'd rather hold with thee
A silent, blissful, strange commune,
Than join that boisterous gaiety
Which seems of happiness the noon:
For thou dost whisper, shining hair,
Peace comes not, rests not, _is_ not there.

_Philadelphia, June, 1836_.

EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

A fine fashionable mother, one beautiful spring morning, walked forth into the city, leading by the hand a little child of five or six years old. The former was dressed in all the fantastic finery of the times; she had a pink bonnet, ornamented with a bird of paradise, shaded with huge bows of wide ribbon; sleeves which caused her taper waist to appear like lean famine supported on either side by overgrown plenty; her gown was of such redundancy of plaits and folds, that a whole family might have been clothed from its superfluities; and while with one hand she led the little girl along, in the other she held a cambric handkerchief worked with various devices, and bordered with rich lace, reported to have cost fifty dollars. The little child was dressed as fine as its mother, for she unfortunately had light curly hair, and was reckoned a beauty.

They passed a toy-shop, and the child insisted on going in, where she laid out all the money she had in various purchases that were of no use whatever, in spite of the advice of her mother, who alternately scolded and laughed at her for thus wasting her allowance on things so useless. The child seemed to reflect for a few moments, and thus addressed her mother:

“Mother, what is the use of those great sleeves you wear?”

The mother was silent, for the question puzzled her.

“Mother, what is the use of that fine bird on your hat?”

The mother was still more at a loss for a reply.

{465} “Mother, what is the use of having a worked handkerchief, bordered with lace, to wipe your nose?”

“Come along,” cried the mother somewhat roughly, as she dragged the little girl out of the toy-shop, “come along, and don't ask so many foolish questions.”

MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS.

A modest woman dressed out in all her finery is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.—_She Stoops to Conquer_.

Of all the evils which harass the human family, none is perhaps more tormenting or more difficult to be removed, than bashfulness—a feeling sufficient in itself to blast the most promising hopes, and render comparatively useless the most brilliant abilities. To this evil, from earliest recollection, I have been painfully subject, and to its influence upon my character and habits, may be traced the many difficulties I have met with in my passage through life. Gifted by nature with a mind of no ordinary caste, which my modest and retiring disposition, while it precluded me from the enjoyment of society, induced me to cultivate, at an early age I had acquired a large fund of useful and polite information. This circumstance induced my parents to send me to the University of ——, then the most flourishing institution in the country. The first term after my arrival passed off drearily enough, but after becoming familiarized to the habits of my fellow students, and to the customs of the institution, I became better satisfied with my situation. Nothing of importance occurred until the time appointed for the examinations came on. I had applied myself with assiduity and vigilance, and flattered myself that I had completely mastered the exercises appointed for the occasion. Among the candidates for graduation there was an individual whom I shall designate by the name of C——, and whose connection with my narration compels me to mention him. He was the son of a southern planter, of immense fortune, and to a person of almost faultless beauty united great liberality, which his princely fortune enabled him to stretch to its farthest limits. As may be imagined he was quite a lion among the students and ladies.

Towards this individual I conceived a certain feeling of dislike from my first introduction, which a more intimate acquaintance with his character ripened into hatred. He was proud and overbearing in his deportment towards his inferiors, and even amidst his immediate friends and acquaintance he possessed a certain haughty and imperious bearing, indicative of the exalted opinion he entertained respecting his own merits. His mind was not remarkable for strength, nevertheless he had some shrewdness or cunning, which the vulgar are apt to mistake for talents. As I have before observed, the time for the annual examination had arrived, and no culprit in the gloomy walls of Newgate dreaded the fatal toll of St. Sepulchre's bell—the gloomy herald of many a sinner's entrance into eternity—more than I did the arrival of the hour when our exercises were to commence. A large number of ladies and gentlemen had been invited, and among the number was my father.

At length the University bell tolled the appointed hour, and we were drawn up on a stage in front of the assembly, from which we were concealed by a curtain, as yet down. At a given signal the curtain rose and presented to our view a numerous concourse of both sexes, among whom I distinguished my father seated on the front row of seats, prepared no doubt to witness his son's triumph. A sight of his countenance served to increase the confidence I had in my powers, and to dispel the embarrassment I felt on the occasion. The student at the head of the class answered the question put to him with perfect ease and composure—so did the second. I stood third; as soon as my name was called by the examining professor, I felt the blood rush with such velocity to my face as nearly to cause blindness—my brain reeled—my eyes swam—and although I perfectly understood the question, my confusion was so great as to hinder utterance. The question was passed to the next, who was C——; he answered it. The mingled shame, mortification, and rage I suffered, are indescribable. I retired from the contest, and the prize which I could have gained was awarded to my abominated enemy. I returned home with my mortified father, who persuaded me to endeavor to overcome the painful and unfortunate failing, which he perceived would blight my future prospects, by mixing largely in society. In pursuance of this advice, soon after my arrival in my native town, I determined to attend a large party, at the residence of one of my mother's fashionable friends. I suffered acutely from the time I received the invitation till the appointed night. At length it arrived, and I, attired in my best suit, with no aristocratic touch, rung the door bell. The servant ushered me into a large and splendidly furnished room but partially filled. The courage I had summoned for the occasion, like Bob Acre's, “oozed as it were from the palms of my hands,” and I remained standing in the door-way as immovable as if (instead of the gay and fashionable assembly who were gazing at my strange appearance with so much astonishment,) the Gorgon Medusa had turned upon me her petrifying look. The harmonious note which at that moment stole from Bennett's eloquent cremona, diverted their attention from my person and restored me to something like consciousness. I advanced into the room, and was cordially greeted by mine host and his lady, who were old friends of my family. The dancing now commenced, and the rooms gradually filling placed me in a rather more comfortable situation. I was, however, far from being easy. In order, as I thought, to calm my perturbed spirits, I seated myself on a sofa, situated in a corner of one of the rooms. I had remained there but a short time, when the voice of some one engaged in earnest conversation striking upon my ear, I turned my attention in that direction and perceived my late triumphant enemy C——, conversing in an animated strain with Miss ——, the only daughter of the wealthy and hospitable owner of the mansion in which we were passing the afternoon. Miss —— was evidently much pleased with the subject as well as the manner of the speaker, and he seemed inclined to make the best possible use of the advantage he had gained. They were however joined by a large number of ladies, who in their anxiety to reach Miss —— completely surrounded me. Yes—I who would sooner march to the cannon's mouth, or attempt to scale the fortress of Gibraltar, than face a female, was literally blockaded—totally {466} surrounded by decidedly “the most awful things in nature,” a company of full dressed women. C—— was perfectly at ease, and enjoyed heartily the dismay and confusion under which I labored. Perceiving that the only possible chance of escaping, would be speedy action, I endeavored instinctively to effect a retreat, but in vain. As I arose, I encountered the huge sleeve of a female attired “in all the glaring impotence of dress,” which impeded my egress. On attempting to return, I ran foul of a talkative little creature, and left her minus of about half of her head dress. The little lady was in a rage; however, there was no time for delay—so I gave her no apology. At length I reached my seat on the sofa, on which several ladies had seated themselves. After some time, I endeavored to enter into conversation with the damsel who sat next me, hoping that it would afford me some alleviation; but the attempt was abortive. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and refused to utter whatever ideas I might have had in my brain—through which passed in rapid succession, the last opera—the fancy ball—Shakspeare—Moliere, &c. &c., without affording its wretched owner a theme on which to commence a conversation. In vain I made strenuous exertions to collect my scattered thoughts—the attempt increased my confusion. At last the approach of a servant with a waiter of refreshments opened a passage through which I dashed. The exulting laugh of C—— reached my ear, as I cleared the little crowd collected around him. In my passage through the room I met a servant bearing a freshly opened bottle of Champaigne. Seizing a glass brimfull with the sparkling liquor I tossed it off—another, and another—and then “a change came o'er the spirit of my dream.” I was immediately changed from the bashful and timid character in which I had hitherto appeared, to the bold, impudent, easy man of the world. An almost irresistible desire to make female acquaintances seized me, and I was determined to indulge it. Meeting a friend at the moment, I requested him to give me an introduction to every lady in the house. At this sweeping request my friend was surprised beyond measure, knowing well my former disposition. However, not being able to refuse, he led me up to a fresh, rosy-looking Miss, and gave the necessary introduction. I bowed, and in doing so nearly lost my equilibrium. I, however, succeeded in gaining my footing, and commenced conversing. By this time, I had given such unequivocal indications of the effect my Champaigne potation had produced, as to induce my friend to withdraw me from my fair acquaintance and insist upon my taking leave of the “festive scene.” But what man has been known to take good advice when he is at all inebriated. I refused to retire, and to disprove the suspicions of my friend, I determined to dance the next cotillion. In accordance with this resolve I wended my way through the crowd till I discovered the lady to whom I had been introduced, and solicited the pleasure of her hand. We stood up to a double cotillion, and at that moment the music struck up. The animating and delightful sensations produced by the wine began to subside, and my mind commenced gradually to comprehend the almost insurmountable difficulties of the situation in which my rashness had placed me. I had no more idea of dancing than a bear just caught from the woods, and as for the figure of the dance, I would sooner have attempted to solve the hieroglyphics inscribed upon an Egyptian obelisk. Every moment developed new difficulties, and fresh obstacles were cast in my way by every second's reflection. Oh! how bitterly did I repent the many opportunities I had omitted of learning the trifling (in the abstract, yet important in reality,) accomplishment which I so much needed then. However, it was now too late to retreat, and I was about to dash forth and perform some random capers, when my companion checked me with the information that my time to dance had not yet come on. To increase the awkwardness of my situation, I discovered myself to be corporeally tipsy, though mentally sober. I was therefore afraid to move, lest I should evince my unlucky and disagreeable situation. As a _dernier resort_, I resolved to watch the graceful and easy movements of my companions in the dance, and, if possible, to gain some slight information concerning my unenviable employment. At last my turn came round, and with bent knees and clenched hands I advanced. In attempting to make a flourish which was to have been followed by a bow, I lost my balance, and tumbled at full length upon the floor. The roar of laughter which this feat called forth still rings in my ears, and a recollection of the scene always covers my cheeks with blushes. I arose from my incumbent posture and hastily excusing myself to my partner, rushed from the house, heartily wishing for “a lodge in some vast wilderness.”

MARLOW.

FIRST LOVE.

BY J. C. McCABE.

There is a thought, still beautiful, though years have roll'd along,
Which stirs the wave of memory, and wakes her wonted song—
Which rustles 'mid the heart's dead flowers like midnight's mournful
breeze,
And dove-like spreads its soothing wing o'er passion's stormy seas.
No crime can dim its purity—no cloud obscure its ray;
But like the temple's altar light, its steady beams will play,
All sweetly hovering o'er the soul, like spirit from above——
O, 'tis the thought—the holy thought—of boyhood's early love!

When years have wrinkled o'er his brow, and furrows traced his
cheek,
And his once glad voice is trembling now in lapses faint and weak;
How thoughtful is his glance, as on his slowly rolling tears,
There floats along that fairy form he loved in boyhood's years.
And then—O then, that heart (like harp hung up in ruined hall,
Untouch'd, save when the night-winds sweep along the mould'ring
wall,)
It gives a wild tone from its chords, the pilgrim lone to tell,
Though desolate it still can yield to melody's sweet spell. {467}

Oh, cast him on the stormy sea, when Death rides on the surge,
And sea-nymphs chant around his head a melancholy dirge,
While struggling with the giant waves, from their embrace to flee,
That lov'd one's voice is whispering of halls beneath the sea.
And as far down he swiftly sinks, and billows o'er him foam,
A thousand phantasies appear, and o'er his vision come;
But _one will_ keep its vigil there, though storm and tempest sweep,
Unmoved, though burst upon by all the billows of the deep.

Go place him in the battle's front, where death and carnage meet,
And his country's flag unsullied is his warrior-winding sheet;
When from his heart is oozing fast the darkly purple tide,
And victory's shout a moment fills his dying eye with pride—
The wild and lingering look he casts, as heaven's own arch of blue,
Like the vision of a summer dream, fades slowly from his view,
Speaks—clearly speaks—of vision'd joys—of home beheld once more—
Of the image of the one-loved form in sorrow bending o'er.

EROSTRATUS.

I.

Early in the afternoon of an autumn day, in the first year of the hundred and fifth Olympiad, the keeper of the light-house which then marked the entrance of the harbor of Ephesus, announced the approach of a vessel, which, from its size and proportions, he decided to be from Corinth or Athens. Crowded, as the port of Diana's favorite city at that time was, with sails from every maritime town in the Mediterranean, where commerce was cultivated, the arrival of a vessel was an event of hourly occurrence, yet the news of the approach of this spread rapidly through the city. The magistrate left the bench, the merchant forsook his warehouse, and the mechanic dropped his tools. All hastened to the quay. It was expected that this vessel brought the news of the results of the Olympic games. With such rapidity the lusty rowers plyed their oars, that the most experienced eye could scarcely decide whether the approaching bark carried three or four banks. The helms-man was singing the prize verses of the games, in which all the oars-men joined at intervals as a chorus. Soon she neared sufficiently for the pilots, who stood upon an eminence, to decide that she was the Sphynx of Corinth. She presently came within speaking distance, and the name of the victor in the poetic contest was demanded. “Leonidas of Mægara,” was the reply. Other questions succeeded until the Sphynx was moored in the harbor, and then followed, amidst the embraces of friends and relatives, more minute inquiries and particular replies touching the events of the games, which then excited an interest in every land where the Greek tongue was spoken, of which the moderns can form but little conception. Preparations for the customary sacrifices to Diana of the Ephesians, Neptune, and the Winds, in grateful return for the prosperous voyage, were quickly made.

II.

The crowds which shortly before covered the spacious quays had nearly all dispersed, when a young man for whom no one appeared to wait, and who had sought no one in the joyful multitude, stepped on shore, bearing all his baggage in a small scrip. His countenance wore an expression of the deepest melancholy, which could not have escaped notice, had not the sighs which broke from his breast, and the half dried tears which stained his cheeks, sufficiently testified that his bosom shared none of the general joy. Instead of seeking his home, he bent his steps along the quays, and shortly gained the suburbs, passing rapidly through which, he sought the open country. Here throwing himself upon the ground, he gave way to the most passionate expressions of sorrow. “Cursed folly” he exclaimed “that induced me to believe that glory was to be obtained by merit, and that the applauses of the crowd could be won by him who has no gold in his purse to purchase their praises. Cursed be the books of the Philosophers which teach”—“Erostratus,” exclaimed a young man who, unobserved, had approached and gazed on him with astonishment, “what mischance has so disordered you, that instead of seeking your friend's house, I find you embracing our mother earth, and outshining our first tragedians? Is this a specimen of some successful drama which you have been composing, or”—“Metazulis,” said Erostratus, “cease these ill-timed pleasantries. I have just returned from the Olympic games”—“I know it,” interrupted Metazulis. “I was from home when the Sphynx arrived, and had I not learned from our neighbor Polisphercon that you and he had been fellow passengers, I should have assured myself that the charms of Corinth had proved stronger than your patriotism. Excuse my interruption, and pardon a friend's inquiring why these tears? why this anguish? Have you returned without that heart, which you once vowed to Diana should never leave your keeping, and without the blue-eyed maiden who has robbed you of it?” “No Metazulis,” replied his friend, forcing a melancholy smile, “my heart is safe as though blue-eyed maidens had never been—but I went to Olympia, puffed up with the senseless expectation of gracing my brow with the wreath of poetry, which now encircles the head of a wealthy churl who feasted the judges. _His_ name is celebrated through the cities of Greece; _mine_ is unmentioned, save as that of the deluded Ephesian who dared to put his doggrel in competition with the rich strains of the rich Leonidas. But I forever forswear”—“Forswear nothing” cried Metazulis. “Be not discouraged by a single failure. The next judges may be honester, and in four years the strengthened wings of your muse will achieve higher flights.” “And Leonidas may become richer,” said Erostratus. “How often, how often,” {468} said Metazulis, “have I had to censure my friend's faint heart, discouraged at the slightest disappointment! Who ever swam a river at a single stroke? Make my house your home. Let poetry continue your study. My sister's lyre shall accompany your odes. We will strive to put off the partiality of friends, and play the critics upon your works. I warrant not a spot shall meet the eye in the next production you lay before the Olympic Judges.” Putting his arm into that of Erostratus, who offered no resistance, he led him to the city.

III.

Henceforth the streets of Ephesus rarely echoed to the footsteps of Erostratus. Immured in the house of the friendly Metazulis, his whole soul was occupied with the ardent hope of gaining the prize for poetry at the next Olympic games. The encouragement of Metazulis and Lesbia, had fanned into a flame the spark of ambition not to be extinguished in his breast. Every day did his impatience increase, and nightly, upon retiring to his couch, would he reckon that a day less was between him and immortal glory. The poems and odes which fell from his pen, fell not faster than they were wedded to music by the enthusiastic Lesbia. Unhappy Lesbia! it was not in thy nature to behold such kindred genius and remain unmoved! A fire was in thy breast, bright and unquenchable, save by death! Poor Lesbia! Her admiration of the poet blinded her to the most glaring defects of the poetry, and the living Erostratus, whom she daily saw, seemed to her superior to all the poets who had sung since the days of Deucalion.

Four years rolled by in poetry, music, and, though neither seemed conscious of it, in—love. The hymn to Ceres, upon which Erostratus now builds his hopes, is completed, and pronounced perfect by Metazulis, and Lesbia. Lesbia gives her brother and his friend the parting embrace, and with her scarf, waves them again and again farewell from the terraced roof. She is not to see Erostratus again until his brows are shaded with the crown of victory. Prosperous winds wafted on their course Erostratus and his friend, who had left his home and his sister, to share with his adopted brother the first triumphs of success. A few days were spent in luxurious Corinth by the travellers, and postponing a more ample view until their return, they departed for Olympia, where they arrived after a journey, which to Erostratus seemed to occupy an age.

IV.

With the usual ceremonies the games were opened, and the first, second, and third days devoted to chariot races and the athletic exercises. The fourth day was assigned to the claimants of the palm for poesy. Erostratus was the first competitor who rose. His feelings at first overpowered him, but a look from Metazulis, a burst of applause from the countless multitude, and more than all, a thought of the moment when he should lay the meed of victory at the feet of Lesbia, encouraged him. His voice was at first low and indistinct, but as the plaudits increased, he became more animated, and towards the close, the delivery was worthy of the poem. The hymn being ended, the lengthened shouts dispelled all fear of failure from his mind, and he fancied he already felt the olive wreath upon his temples. A single competitor appeared to contest with him the prize, many having withdrawn upon the conclusion of his ode. Cratinus of Platæa arose, as soon as the applause began to subside. Four times had the crown been decreed to Cratinus, and he now aspired the fifth time to that honor. The hitherto unconquered Cratinus began, and scarcely had he recited twenty lines, when even Metazulis admitted in his heart the superiority of this poem to that of his friend. Cratinus was loudly cheered, and in justice would have been more so, had not a large proportion of the audience been prepossessed in favor of Erostratus. Applause well merited followed the conclusion of the Judgment of Paris, (such was the theme of Cratinus) and then a breathless silence succeeded, whilst the judges compared their opinions. We cannot describe the anxiety of Erostratus in this interval. He trembled, a cold sweat bedewed his body, and leaning upon the breast of his friend, his life seemed to hang upon the decision. The presiding judge at length arose and delivered the award. The crown was decreed to Cratinus; and Erostratus fell senseless in Metazulis' arms. For a long time he remained insensible, and his friend was beginning to fear that his hopes and his life had terminated together, when he began to revive; but having murmured “the crown, the crown,” he fell into a second swoon. So great an effect had the destruction of his long cherished hopes produced upon him, that for some days there appeared scarcely a possibility of his recovery. During this time Metazulis wrote to his sister the following letter.

“Weep with me Lesbia. Our friend has failed, Cratinus, of Platæa has obtained the prize, Erostratus is dangerously ill. The physicians bid me hope—I have none. Should he recover from the fever which now threatens to terminate his life, what a life will be his! If, contrary to my expectations, he should survive this shock, may our love to him be redoubled! Let it be our care to smooth his path to the grave, which, broken hearted as he is, can be but short. Farewell.”

V.

The medical attendants were not disappointed. A month having elapsed, Erostratus left the couch of sickness; but another passed by before Metazulis thought his strength sufficient to warrant his proposing their return. Erostratus made no opposition. The love he felt for Lesbia, (with which the ravings of his delirium had acquainted Metazulis,) urged his return, although he felt that he scarcely dared appear before her. The task of diverting his mind from the sad recollections which occupied it, was painful and difficult. Metazulis proposed visiting the curiosities of nature, and the celebrated works of art, which lay contiguous to their route. To this Erostratus made no objection, but his eye, ones so delighted with all that was beautiful and sublime, now gazed upon them without pleasure. Metazulis left Corinth in the first vessel which departed, anxious to see his sister, and to bear his friend from Greece, where every thing conspired to bring to his mind his failures. Far different were the feelings with which Erostratus had entered Corinth, and now bade it a final farewell. They reached Ephesus. Metazulis found none of his domestics awaiting his return; but what was their anxiety, their horror, upon finding the house closed, and the door-posts marked with the insignia of death! They hastily opened the door. All is silence and desolation. Erostratus rushes to the sitting room, where he had {469} parted from Lesbia. Mctazulis following, arrives to see him fall senseless upon the couch, whereon reposed the dead body of his sister, at whose head sat the motionless domestics, murmuring the prayers for the departed.

VI.

In a month after the ashes of Lesbia had been consigned to the tomb, those of Metazulis were laid beside them. The wealth of Metazulis was now the property of Erostratus, but could gold purchase peace for his anguished soul? Never was he seen to smile, and his solitary hours (and how few of his hours were not solitary?) were passed in grief and lamentation. The love of immortality remained inextinguishable in his breast, and he resolved upon an achievement which should give his name a place in the page of history; and in the moments of his phrenzy, he imagined that the name of Lesbia would appear in the record with his, and that this would be accepted by her shade as an atonement on his part, for the fate in which her love for him had involved her. In the middle of a dark and tempestuous night, he applied a torch to that temple, the boast of Ephesus, the wonder of the world! The Greek historians of after days asserted that the goddess was in Macedon attending to the birth of Alexander. Her fane was destroyed and reduced to a mass of blackened ruin. Erostratus unhesitatingly avowed himself the incendiary, and the rack could force no reply from him but the cry “I did it for immortality.” He was condemned to be burnt to death, and expired in the most dreadful torture, with a smile upon his countenance and the name of Lesbia upon his lips. The magistrates, lest his desire of an immortal memory should be gratified, denounced death upon all who should pronounce his name, that it might be blotted out forever.

* * * * *
* * * * *

About twenty years subsequently, a citizen of Ephesus, and his friend from Athens, were walking upon the shore of the sea, a few miles from the former city. There were a number of young Ephesians exercising themselves in athletic sports upon the sands, at whom they looked for a while, and then passed on. After a few steps they stopped to examine something over which the sea was breaking near the shore. A few human bones blackened and mouldering met their gaze. “Near this spot,” said the Ephesian, “we burnt Erostratus.” “Who was he?” replied the Athenian, “I do not remember to have ever heard of him.” The Ephesian made no reply but hurried his friend on board a small fishing boat, and put to sea. It was long before the Athenian could obtain an explanation of this singular conduct from his agitated friend. The Ephesian at length reminded him of the edict, and avowed that the forbidden name had escaped his lip, and been overheard by the youths who were near them. A vessel bound to Greece picked them up. The Ephesian settled in Attica, never daring to return to his native country. The greater portion of the incidents recorded above were communicated by him to his friend, and the tale, corroborated by others, became well known throughout Greece; but at Ephesus, no one for centuries dared to utter the forbidden name of Erostratus.

BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, _The Belles of Williamsburg_, and the _Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg_, both written and circulated in that place in 1777. These pieces are believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or to have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however, assign to each his due share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to mention their names—which (although the authors in question are now no more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]

THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe
The gay, delightful, silken tribe,
That maddens all our city;
Nor dread, lest while you foolish claim
A near approach to beauty's flame,
Icarus' fate may hit ye.

With singed pinions tumbling down,
The scorn and laughter of the town,
Thou'lt rue thy daring flight;
While every miss with cool contempt,
Affronted by the bold attempt,
Will, tittering, view thy plight.

Ye girls, to you devoted ever,
The object still of our endeavor
Is somehow to amuse you;
And if instead of higher praise,
You only laugh at these rude lays,
We'll willingly excuse you.

Advance then each illustrious maid,
In order bright to our parade,
With beauty's ensigns gay;
And first, two nymphs who rural plains
Forsook, disdaining rustic swains,
And here exert their sway.

Myrtilla's beauties who can paint?
The well turned form, the glowing teint,
May deck a common creature;
But who can make th' expressive soul
With lively sense inform the whole,
And light up every feature.

At church Myrtilla lowly kneels,
No passion but devotion feels,
No smiles her looks environ;
But let her thoughts to pleasure fly,
The basilisk is in her eye
And on her tongue the Syren.

More vivid beauty—fresher bloom,
With teints from nature's richest loom
In Sylvia's features glow;
Would she Myrtilla's arts apply,
And catch the magic of her eye,
She'd rule the world below.

See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,
Through all the mazes of the dance,
With light fantastic toe; {470}
See laughter sparkle in her eyes—
At her approach new joys arise,
New fires within us glow.

Such sweetness in her look is seen,
Such brilliant elegance of mien,
So jauntie and so airy;
Her image in our fancy reigns,
All night she gallops through our veins,
Like little Mab the fairy.

Aspasia next, with kindred soul,
Disdains the passions that control
Each gentle pleasing art;
Her sportive wit, her frolic lays,
And graceful form attract our praise,
And steal away the heart.

We see in gentle Delia's face,
Expressed by every melting grace,
The sweet complacent mind;
While hovering round her, soft desires,
And hope gay smiling fan their fires,
Each shepherd thinks her kind.

The god of love mistook the maid,
For his own Psyche, and 'tis said
He still remains her slave;
And when the boy directs her eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
Not age itself can save.

With pensive look and head reclined,
Sweet emblems of the purest mind,
Lo! where Cordelia sits;
On Dion's image dwells the fair—
Dion the thunderbolt of war,
The prince of modern wits.

Not far removed from her side,
Statira sits in beauty's pride,
And rolls about her eyes;
Thrice happy for the unwary heart,
That affectation blunts the dart
That from her quiver flies.

Whence does that beam of beauty dawn?
What lustre overspreads the lawn?
What suns those rays dispense?
From Artemisia's brow they came,
From Artemisia's eyes the flame
That dazzles every sense.

At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze,
The feeble muse no more essays
Her picture to complete;
The promised charms of younger girls,
When nature the gay scene unfurls,
Some happier bard shall treat.

SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade,
Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade,
The Heliconian spring—
Who bend before Apollo's shrine,
And dance and frolic with the nine,
Or touch the trembling string—

And ye who bask in beauty's blaze,
Enlivening as the orient rays
From fair Aurora's brow,
Or those which from her crescent shine,
When Cynthia with a look benign,
Regards the world below—

Say, why, amidst the vernal throng,
Whose virgin charms inspired your song
With sweet poetic lore,
With eager look th' enraptured swain,
For Isidora's form in vain,
The picture should explore.

Shall sprightly Isidora yield,
To Laura the distinguished field,
Amidst the vernal throng?
Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays
From Leonella snatch the bays,
The tribute of the song?

Like hers I ween the blushing rose,
On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows,
And hers the velvet lip,
To which the cherry yields its hue,
Its plumpness and ambrosial dew
Which even Gods might sip.

What partial eye a charm can find,
In Delia's look, or Delia's mind,
Or Delia's melting grace,
Which cannot in Miranda's mien,
Or winning smile or brow serene,
A rival beauty trace?

Sweet as the balmy breath of spring,
Or odors from the painted wing
Of Zephyr as he flies,
Brunetta's charms might surely claim,
Amidst the votaries of fame,
A title to the prize.

What giddy raptures fill the brain,
When tripping o'er the verdant plain,
Florella joins the throng!
Her look each throbbing pain beguiles,
Beneath her footsteps Nature smiles,
And joins the poet's song.

Here even critic Spleen shall find,
Each beauty that adorns the mind,
Or decks the virgin's brow;
Here Envy with her venomed dart,
Shall find no vulnerable part,
To aim the deadly blow.

Could such perfection nought avail?
Or could the fair Belinda fail
To animate your lays?
For might not such a nymph inspire
With sportive notes the trembling lyre
Attuned to virgin praise?

The sister graces met the maid,
Beneath the myrtle's fragrant shade,
When love the season warms;
Deluded by her graceful mien,
They fancied her the Cyprian queen,
And decked her with their charms. {471}

Say then why thus with heedless flight,
The panegyric muse should slight
A train so blythe and fair,
Or why so soon fatigued, she flies
No longer in her native skies,
But tumbles through the air.

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. I.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.[1]

[Footnote 1: Translated from a number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.]

The chambers in which the British Parliament are accustomed to assemble, have nothing of the theatrical aspect of the halls for political exhibition built in France for the representations of its representative government.

Let us enter the chamber of the Commons. Here you see no amphitheatre for the ladies, no boxes for the Peers, nor for the _corps diplomatique_. A narrow gallery, only, is reserved for the reporters, and another, more spacious, is open to the public. Here are no costly marbles, no statues, no gilding. It is truly nothing but a chamber—a vast apartment, of greater length than width, without ornaments of any sort—indeed, perfectly naked.

Conceive that we are looking from the public gallery.

Directly before us, at the bottom, is a sort of sentry-box, surmounted by the royal arms. There, in an arm chair covered with green leather, sits the speaker, in his black robe and greyish mittens, solemnly dressed out in an immense wig, the wings of which fall to his waist.

At his feet is a narrow table, at which the principal clerk is seated, supporting on his two hands a large face, smiling impurturbably under a little _perruque_ that hangs over his head in the form of a horse-shoe.

The benches on which the members sit, are ranged rectilinearly in different divisions, to the right and left, and in front of the speaker. Every one places himself in the position that is most agreeable to himself, and sits, or stands, at his pleasure. Every member wears his hat, except when addressing the speaker. Every one speaks from the place in which he finds himself at the moment. It is not to the house, however, but to the speaker that they must address themselves.

The simple and country-like habits of the house are well suited to the character of representatives of the people. It proves that the Commons meet not to take part in a show, but to discharge the business of the country.

At three o'clock the speaker enters the chamber, preceded by the chief of the ushers, the mace on his shoulder, and followed by a sergeant-at-arms, with a sword at his side, and dressed in black after the French fashion. Arrived at his chair, the speaker first counts the members present. If there be forty, the session is opened, and the chaplain repeats his prayers, to which every member listens, standing and uncovered, with his face towards the back of his bench.

Generally the first hours are consumed in matters of minor importance. Local and private bills are discussed. The benches begin to be filled between eight and nine in the evening. The house is rarely full before midnight. From this period till two in the morning, they discuss great questions, such as are likely to bring on an important vote.

Such are the English. They distrust, beyond all reason, the frivolity of their own minds. They consider it always dangerous to embark in grave affairs, if their dinner has not been stored away to serve as ballast. It is indispensable that they should meditate and mature their opinions and their eloquence, while engaged in drinking their wine and grog.

When simple Mr. Brougham (the period of his greatest glory) Lord Brougham never came to the House of Commons until he had emptied three bottles of Port. It was at the bottom of his glass that he found calmness, wisdom, and discretion. But since his elevation to the House of Lords, his lordship is forced to speak fasting. It is in consequence of this change that he is now always intoxicated. The sobriety of his stomach produces the intemperance of his tongue and of his brain.

The invariable prolongation of its sittings late into the night, is the cause that the House of Commons never assembles on Saturday. Encroachment on the Sabbath would otherwise be an inevitable legislative sacrilege; and we must admit, that it would be with but bad grace that the Parliament alone should violate the Puritanical laws which it so rigorously maintains, and which prescribe, during the twenty-four hours of that sacred day, the most absolute and universal idleness.

Two words of personal statistics at present.

The House of Commons contains four hundred and seventy-one members for England, twenty-nine for Wales, fifty-three for Scotland, and a hundred and five for Ireland—in all, six hundred and fifty-eight. On important occasions, very few fail to appear at their posts. Six hundred and twenty-two voted, at the commencement of this session, on the election of the present speaker. Mr. Abercromby, elected by the opposition, obtained a majority of but eight votes over Sir Charles Manners Sutton, the candidate of the then ministry.

You observe that the chamber is divided into two parts, almost equal in size. On one side, the ministry and the reformers; on the other, the conservatives, forming the present opposition.

Each of these grand divisions may perhaps be subdivided. Among the reformers or whigs, radical reformers, pure radicals, and repealers;[2] among the conservatives, the old tories and the demi-conservatives. Such subdivisions, however, are useless. It is no easy thing to distinguish these different shades of opinion. Besides, they are every day becoming gradually less distinct, and will soon present but two parties.

[Footnote 2: The _repealers_ are Irish members advocating the repeal of the union between Ireland and England.]

In the first place, are there any whigs? Are the whigs a party? I answer, no. There are some great noblemen, some minister-lords, whose ancestors were whigs, but they themselves are not. To continue the leaders of a true political party, they have been forced to become radicals, and to make themselves interpreters and advocates of the popular wants. What has been {472} the result? The whigs and the radicals are absorbed, the one in the other. Seeing so many liberal concessions obtained by England, the Irish Catholics have followed the example of the liberals; they have put off their extreme demands; they have ceased to contend for the repeal of the union. Under the orders of O'Connell, they march behind the ministerial troops, and sustain them so as to prevent their falling back, come what may.

In the camp of the opposition there is the same fusion. Sir Robert Peel has dressed all the tories in the uniform of conservatives. Even the little irresolute batallion of Lord Stanley, has recently, with its chief, assumed the new livery of the defenders of the church and of the throne. The _tiers-parti_ has not been more successful on the side of the Manche than on the Parisian.

The question, then, is simply and plainly raised. It is the great question that is to be decided between the old society and the new, the same that was raised in France in 1789; only, if the throne is wise, here the whole war may be finished on the floors of Parliament.

The field of battle is now before the reader. You have the army of reformers and that of the conservatives in the presence of each other—each recognizing but one watchword, but one standard; the first, stronger and bolder, but having too many leaders, and a rear guard more impatient to arrive in action than the principal body; the second, more compact, better disciplined, and more obedient to its only chief.

Great as may be the exasperation on each side, you will rarely ever observe the belligerent parties, even in their hostilities, depart from their habits of chivalrous loyalty.

There is a sort of Parliamentary law of nations established in the house.

The opposition never takes advantage of the absence of a minister to interrogate his colleagues on matters foreign to their own departments.

Nor will a minister ever introduce a bill without notice; the courtesy, in this respect, is extremely great between the two parties. Challenges are regularly exchanged; the day and the hour are both fixed. If any member mentions his inability to attend at the appointed time, the motion is hurried or delayed to suit his convenience.

If the question should be one of importance, and the decision doubtful, whatever urgent business may call a member away, he will not desert his post, unless he is enabled to find among his adversaries some one equally desirous to absent himself. They make an arrangement then that both shall stay away, and this double contract is always held sacred.

In their struggles, though often violent, the blows are always generous, and aimed in front. However, the noise of the interruptions by which approbation or discontent is expressed, would astonish and terrify a stranger—above all, one unaccustomed to the discordance of English pronunciation. The sound is unusual, striking, and the more astonishing, as at first you are unable to tell whence it proceeds. There are six hundred men, seated, uttering savage cries of joy or anger, their bodies all the while remaining immovable, their features preserving their usual phlegmatic and calm expression. These tumults produce quite a fantastic effect. _Hear! hear!_ is the cry of satisfaction and encouragement. Listen to the speaker!—his discourse penetrates and touches the soul of the question; let us listen to him—hear him. _Spoke!—spoke!_ indicates impatience, ennui, lassitude. You abuse your privilege—you have said enough—you have spoken! This reproach is imperative—it is rarely resisted. _Order! order!_ is the call to order; it is a summons to the speaker to notice and reprimand the offending member who has passed the boundaries of propriety—for, to the speaker alone belongs the right to pronounce judgment on such occasions.

The speaker centres in himself the omnipotence of the chamber of which he is the representative. His authority is supreme, within as well as without the walls of the Parliament house. His situation renders him a personage of very high importance. He has his official palace, he holds his _levees_, to which none are admitted unless in court dress. Singular inconsistency! the very same Commoners who enter booted, spurred, with their over-coats and their hats on, into their own hall, would find the doors of their own speaker closed against them, if they should present themselves without ruffles and dressed _à la Française_. This rigorous particularity is unreasonable. Mr. Hume, however, in a recent attack upon this absurd etiquette, found himself unable to succeed against the powerful prejudice by which it is upheld. The sound sense of his objections only passed for radical folly. Thus it is that with the English the ancient forms of etiquette have deeper root than even their old abuses. You may be certain that they will have reformed the church, the aristocracy, and perhaps the crown itself, before the grotesque wigs of their magistrates. Their entire revolution will have been completed, while their new liberty will be still distinguished by the manners and dress of the _ancien regime_.