B 6 9 7 TTT ? 1 ta I 1 1 1 1 il i YOUNG LADY'S BOOK OF PROSE h Their sedeiiiaiy way of life disposes ihem. lo the domes- quiet amusemeni of reading'.: On Temaie 3iu4.es t Q4 ^ THE YOUNG LADY'S BOOK ii,ii^iv.S¥^ ^mo^iB^ COMPRISING SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS BRITISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS. NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN, 27 DEY STREET. 1853. Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by Key &; Bidijle, in the clerk's office of the district court of the eastern district of Pennsylvania. PREFACE. The design of this little volume is simi- lar to that of " The Young Man's Book of Elegant Prose," — viz. to furnish specimens of a large number of the classical writers of the language, characteristic of their pow- ers, and possessing enough of interest in the subjects, and of beauty and correctness in the style, to render them attractive in themselves, and useful as models of fine writing. Of course, the selection has been made with strict reference to the sex and intel- lectual requisitions of the fair readers for whose use it is prepared, and to whose ser- vice it is respectfully dedicated. 754881 CONTENTS. Aurelia and Fulvia Contrasted Page il A Beau's Head and a Coquette's Heart Dissected 12 The Necessity of Habitual Attention 20 The Power of Imagination 22 Reality Heightened by Imagination 25 Chivalry 26 Benefits resulting from the Crusades 29 Character of Erasmus 32 A Scene at the Prytaneum, at Paris 33 Life of a Lookmg-Glass 35 The Legend of the Saline River 44 The History of Betty Broom 47 Heidelberg 54 Tasso's " Jerusalem Delivered," 59 The Voyage of Magellan 60 Affectation 65 Character of Mary of Guise 71 Death and Character of Mary, Queen of Scots. . . 72 A Scene on the River Spey 79 Florisa...^k.^. 81 The Moon and Stars: a Fable. 86 The Death of Padilla, and Heroism of his Wife 96 VIU CONTENTS. The Blind Woman 100 Tlie Quality Wife 102 The Abdication of Diocletian 107 The Elevated Character of Woman 110 Character of the Empress Eudocia 112 Portrait of a Country Dowager 116 Shakespeare 122 The Talking Lady 128 Modem Rome 135 The Vatican 139 La Roche 142 Lucy 157 The Mexican Princess 169 Confidence and Modesty : a Fable 175 On Female Studies : Letter 1 177 Letter II 181 True Magicians 184 Pic-Nic 193 The Trial 196 Mistaken Kindness 208 Arabella Johnson 216 On Human Grandeur 224 The Hill of Science 228 Fashion 233 TheCucuUos 241 The Thistle-Field 244 The Rough Diamond 250 The Canary-Bird 251 The Hyacinth 252 Interview between Leicester and the Countess at Kenilworth 254 CONTENTS. IX An Autumnal Evening 262 The Storm Ship 264 The Settlement of New England 271 Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin 275 Climate and Scenery of New England 277 On the Picturesque 284 Light 290 Walking 292 Natural Scenery favourable to Devotion 293 Gardens and Gardening 296 Ancient Rome 306 Intellectual Qualities of Milton 309 On the Great Historical Ages 311 The Ladies of Llangollen 316 YOUNG LADY'S BOOK OF PROSE. AURELIA AND FULVIA CONTRASTED. AuRELiA, though a woman of great q^f ^y f^ Ughts in the privacy of pr^atel^^^^ away a great P^^^ ^^^^^^^^TX is her bosom Si^ntc^m^'i^^^^^^^^^^ love with her ever since he knew her. 1 hey Dom repast, employment and diversion that ^t looRs hke n little commonwealth withm itself. They otten L i^Vo company, that they may return with greater delight to one another ; and sometimes live in town, not fo enjoy it so properly, as to grow weary of i^ at they may renew in themselves the relish of a cimitrv life. By this means they are happy m Ta" oCr be Jed by their children, adored by their servants, and are become the envy, or rather the delight, of aU who know them. How different to this is the life of Fulvia ! She considers her husband as her steward and loo^ upon discretion and good housewifery as htt e d^ mestic virtues unbecoming a woman of quaUty. YOUNG LADY 3 She thinks hfe lost in lur own lamily, and fancies herself out of the world, when she is not in the ring, the playhouse, or the drawing-room. She lives in a pci |!ctua] motion of body and restlessness of thouglit, and is never easy in any one place, when she thinks there is more company in another. The missing of an opera the first night would be more afflicting to her tlian the death of a child. She pities all the valuable part of her own sex, and calls every woman of a prudent, modest, and re- served life, a poor unpolished creature. What a mortification would it be to Fulvia, if she knew that her setting herself to view is but exposing herself, and that she grows contemptible by being conspicuous ! Addison. A BEAU'S HEAD AND A COaUETTES HEART DISSECTED. I WAS yesterday engaged in an assembly of Vir- tuosos, where one of them produced many curious observations which he had lately made in the ana- tomy of a human body. Anotlicr of the company communicated to us several wonderful discoveries, which he had also made on the same subject, the help of very fine glasses. This gave birth ti. a great variety of uneomruou remarks, and fur- nished discourse for the rcniaining part of the day. The different opinions which were started on this occasion presented to my imagination so many new ideas, that by mixing with those which were already there, they employed my fancy all the last night, and composed a very wild extravagant dream, I was invited, mcthought, to the dissection of a BOOK OF PROSE. beau's head and of a coquette's heart, which were both of them laid on a table before us. An ima- ginary operator opened the first with a great deal of nicety, which, upon a cursory and superficial view, appeared like the head of another man ; but upon applying our glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what we looked upon as brains were not such in reality, but a heap of strange materials wound up in that shape and tex- ture, and packed together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull. For as Homer tells us, that the blood of the gods is not real blood, but only something like it ; so we found that the brain of the beau is not real brain, but only some- thing like it The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosopliers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence and orange-flower water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mir- rors, which were imperceptible to the naked eye, insomuch that the soul, if there had been any here, must have been always taken up in contemplating her own beauties. We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sin- ciput, that was filled with ribbons, lace, and em- ' , wrought together in a most curious piece ork, the parts of which were likewise im- ^pitible to the naked eye. Another of these antrum.s or cavities was stuffed with invisible billet-doux, love-letters, pricked dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we found a kind of powder, which set the whole company a sneezing, and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The several other cells were stored with commodities of the same kind, of which it would be tedious to give tlic reader an exact in- ventory. There was a larg^e cavity on each side of the head, whicli I must not omit. . That on the right side was filled with fictions, flatteries, and false, hoods, vows, promises, and protestations ; that on the lel^ with oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct from each of these cells, wliich ran into the root of tlie tongue, where both joined together, and passed forward in one common duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads or canals running from the ear into the brain, and took par- ticular care to trace them out through their several passages. One of them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instruments. Others ended in several bladders which were filled either with wind or froth. But the large canal en- tered into a great cavity of the skull, from whence tliere went another canal into the tongue. This great cavity was filled with a kind of spongy sub- stance, which the French anatomists call galima- tias, and the English nonsense. The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and thick, and, what ver\ much surprised us, had not in them any single bWd-vessel that we were able to discover, either with or without our glasses ; from whence we concluded, that the paJ alive must have been entirely deprived of tj ty of blushing. N _^ The OS cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in some places damaged v. ith snuff. We could not but take notice in particular of that small muscle which is not often discovered in dissections, and draws the nose upwards, when it expresses the contempt which the owner of it has upon seeing any thing he does not like, or hearing any thijig BOOK Of PROSE. 15 he does not understand. I need not tell my learn- ed reader, this is that muscle which performs the motion so often mentioned by tlie Latin poets, when they talk of a man's cocking his nose, or playing the rhinoceros. We did not find any thing very remarkable in the eye, saving only, that the musculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into English, the ogling muscles, were very much worn and decayed with use ; whereas on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been used at all. I have only mentioned in this dissection such new discoveries as we were able to make, and have not taken any notice of those parts which are to be met with in common heads. As for the skull, the face, and indeed the whole outward shape and figure of the head, we could not discover any dif- ference from what we observe in the heads of other men. We were informed, that the person to whom this head belonged had passed for a man above five- and-thirty years; during which time he ate and drank like other people, dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, and on particular occasions had acquitted himself tolerably at a ball or an assem- bly ; to which one of the company added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for a wit. He was cut off in the flower of his age. When we had thoroughly examined this head with all its apartments, and its several kinds of furniture, we put up the brain, such as it Avas, into its proper place, and laid it aside under a broa'd piece of scarlet cloth, in order to be prepared, and kept in a great repository of dissections ; our ope- rator telling us that the preparation would not be so difficult as that of another brain, for that he had 16 YOUNG lady's observed several of tlie little pipes and tubes which ran liirough tlic brain were already filled with a kind of mcreurial substance, which he looked upon to be true quicksilver. He applied himself in the next place to the co- quette's heart, whicli he likewise laid open with great dexterity. There occurred to us many par- ticularities in this dissection ; but being unwilling to burden my reader's memory too much, I shall reserve this subject for the speculation of another day. * « X * Our operator, before he engaged in this visiona- ry dissection, told us, that there was nothing in his art more difficult than to lay open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the many labyrinths and re cesses which are to be found in it, and which do not appear in the heart of any other animal. He desired us first of all to observe the pericar dium, or outward case of the heart, which we did very attentively ; and by the help of our glasses discerned in it millions of little scars, which seem- ed to have been occasioned by the points of innu- merable darts and arrows, that from time to time had glanced upon the outward coat ; though we could not discover the smallest orifice by which any of them had entered and pierced the inward substance. Every smatterer m anatomy knows that this pericardium, or case of the heart, contains in it a thin reddish liquor, supposed to be bred from the vapours which exhale out of the heart, and being stopped here, are condensed into this watery sub- stance. Upon examining this liquor, we found that it had in it all the qualities of that spirit wh^ci> in BOOK OF PROSE. 17 made use of in the thermometer, to show the change of weather. Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the company assured us he liiinself had made with this liquor, which he found in great quantity about the heart of a coquette wliom he had formerly dis- sected. He affirmed to us, that he had actually in- closed it in a small tube made after the manner of a weather-g-lass ; but that instead of acquaint- ing- him with the variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qualities of those persons who en- tered the room where it stood. He affirmed also, tliat it rose at tlie approach of a plume of feathers, an embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves ; and that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashionable coat, came into his house : nay, he proceeded so far as to assure us, that upon his laughing aloud when he stood by it, the liquor mounted very sensibly, and immediately sunk again upon his looking se- rious. In sliort, he told us, that he knew very well by this invention whenever he had a man of sense or a coxcomb in his room. Having cleared away the pericardium, or the case and liquor above mentioned, we came to the heart itself Tlie outward surface of it was ex- tremely slippery, and the mucro, or point, so very cold withal, that, upon endeavouring to take hold of it, it glided through the fingers like a smooth piece of ice. The fibres were turned and twisted in a more intricate and perplexed marmer than they are usu- ally found in other hearts ; insomuch that the whole heart was wound up together in a Gordian knot, and must have had very irregular and une- 2 18 YOUNG lady's qual motions, whilst it was employed in its vital function. One thing- we thought very observable, namely, that, upon examining- all the vessels which came into it or issued out of it, we could not discover any communication that it had with the tongue. We could not but take notice, likewise, that se- veral of those little nerves in the heart which arc affected by the sentiments of love, hatred, and other passions, did not descend to this before us from the brain, but from the muscles which lie about tlie eye. Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to be extremely light, and consequently very hol- low, wliich I did not wonder at, when, upon look- ing into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of cells and cavities running one within another, as our historians describe the apartments of Rosamond's bower. Several of these little hollows were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifles, which I shall forbear giving any particular account of, and shall therefore only take notice of what lay first and up- permost, which, upon our unfolding it and apply- ing our microscopes to it, appeared to be a flame- coloured hood. We were informed that the lady of this heart, when living, received the addresses of several who made love to her, and did not only give each of them encouragement, but made every one she con- versed with believe that she regarded him with an eye of kindness ; for whi<;h reason we expected to have seen the impression of multitudes of faces among the several plaits and foldings of the heart; but to our great surprise not a single print of this nature discovered itself till we came into the very BOOK OF TROSE. 19 core and centre of it. We there observed a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses to it, ap- peared dressed in a very fantastic manner. The more I looked upon it, the more I thouglit I had seen the face before, but could not possibly recol- lect either the place or time ; when, at length, one of the company, who had examined this figure more nicely than the rest, showed us plainly by the make of its face, and tlie several turns of its fea- tures, that the little idol wliich was thus lodged in the very middle of the heart was the deceased beau, whose head I gave some accomit of in my last Tuesday's paper. As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved to make an experiment on the heart, not being able to determine among ourselves the na- ture of its substance, which differed in so many particulars from that of the heart of other females. Accordingly we laid it into a pan of burning coals, when we observed in it a certain salamandrine quality, that made it capable of living in the midst of fire and flame, without being consumed, or so much as singed. As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and standing round the heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious sigh, or rather crack, and dispers- ed all at once in smoke and vapour. This imagi- nary noise, which methought was louder than the burst of a cannon, produced such a violent shake in my brain, that it dissipated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an instant broad awake. Addison. 20 YOUNG LADY S THE NECESSITY OF HABITUAL ATTENTION The rule here liinted at should never, on any occasion, be forgotten. It is a matter of no small importance, that we acquire a habit of doing only one thing at a time : by which I mean, that while employed on any one object our thoughts ought not to wander to another. When we go liom homt- in quest of amusement, or to the fields for the sake of exercise, we shall do well to leave all our specu- lations behind : if we carry them v>'ith us, the ex- ercise will fatigue the body without refreshing it; and the amusement, instead of enlivening, will dis- tract the soul : and, both in the one case and in the other, we shall confirm ourselves in those ha- bits of inattention, which, when long persisted in, form what is called an absent man. In conversa- tion too, let us always mind what is saying and doing around us, and never give the company ground to suspect that our thoughts arc elsewhere. Attention is a chief part of politeness. An absent man, provided he is good-natured, may be bonn: with, but never can be agreeable. He may com- mand our esteem, if we knov/ him to be wise and ^^rtuous ; but he cannot engage our love. For in- attention implies negligence, and neglect often pro- ceeds from contempt : if, therefore, we find tlial we are not attended to, we shall fancy that we arc neglected, and to a certain degree despised : and how is it possible to repay contempt with kind- ness I And when unkindness and dissatisfaction prevail in any society, all the comforts of it are at an end. Besides, if we are not strictly obt;ervant of every thing that passes in company, we cannot be either amused by it or instructed ; in other BOOK OF PROSE. 21 words, we deprive ourselves of much innocent pleasure and useful information. For a great deal of our best knowledge is obtained by mutual inter- course : and for the most valuable comforts of life we are indebted to the social and benevolent atten- tions of one another. Let it not be objected, that some great men, as Newton, have been remarkably absent in company. Persons, who are engaged in sublime study, and who are known to employ their time and faculties in adorning human nature by the investigation of useful truth, may be indulged in such peculiarities of behaviour, as in men of common talents neither are, nor ought to be tolerated. For, in regard to the former, we are willing to suppose, that, if they overlook us, it is because they arc engrossed by matters of greater importance : but this is a com- pliment, which we should not think ourselves obliged to pay the latter, at least in ordinary cases. And I scruple not to say, that it would have been better for Newton himself, as well as for society, if he had been free from the weakness abovemen- tioned. For then his thoughts and his amusements would have been more diversified, and his healtli probably better, and his precious life still longer than it was : and a mind like his, fully displayed in free and general conversation, would have been, to all who had the happiness to approach him, an inexhaustible source of instruction and delight. Great, indeed, and many are the advantages of habitual attention. Clearness of understanding, extensive knowledge, and exact memory, are its natural consequences. It is even beneficial to health, by varying the succession of our ideas and sensations ; and it gives us the command of our thoughts, and enables us at all times to act rcadilj", 22 YOUNG lady's and with presence of mind. As they who live re- tired are disconcerted at tiie sight of a stranger ; as he whose body has never been made pliant by exercise cannot perform new motions either grace- fully or easily ; so the man, who has contracted a habit of ruminating uj)on a few things and over- looking others, is fluttered, and at a loss, wlienever he finds himself, as he ollen docs, in unexpected circumstances. He looks round amazed, like one raised suddenly from sleep. Not remembering what happened the last moment, he knows nothing of the cause of the present appearance, nor can form any conjecture with respect to its tendency. If you ask him a question, it is some time before he can recollect himself so far as to attend to you ; he hesitates, and you must repeat your words be- fore he can understand them : and when he has with difficulty made himself master of your mean- ing, he cannot, without an effort, keep out of his usual track of thinking, so long as is necessary for framing an explicit reply. This may look like exaggeration ; but nothing is more certain, than that habits of inattention, contracted early, and long persisted in, will in time form such a charac- ter. Beattie. THE POWER OF IMAGINATION. In a large and uninhabited building, like a church, the wind may howl; doors and windows may clap ; the creaking of rusty hinges may be heard ; a stone, or a bit of plaster, may drop with some noise from the mouldering wall ; the light of the moon may gleam unexpectedly tlirough a cranny, and, where it falls on the broken pave- ment, form an appearance not unlike a human face BOOK OF PROSE. 23 illuminated, or a naked human body, which the peajant, whose chance it is to see it, may readily mistake for a ghost, or some otlier tremendous be- ing-. In the forsaken apartments of an old castle, rats and jack-daws may raise an uproar, that shall seem to shake the whole edifice to the foundatioi>^ Piles of ruins, especially when surrounded with trees and underwood, give shelter to owls and wild cats, and other creatures, whose screaming, redou- bled with echoes, may, to the superstitious ear, seem to be, as Shakspcare says, " no mortal busi- ness, nor no sound that the earth owns." In deep groves, by twilight, our vision must be so indistinct, that a bush may, without enchantment, assume tlie form of a fiend or monster ; and the crashing ol' branches, tossed by the wind, or grated against one another, may sound like groans and lamenta- tions. By the side of a river, in a still or in a stormy evening, many noises may be heard, suffi- cient to alarm tliose, who would rather tremble at a prodigy, than investigate a natural cause : a sud- den change, or increase of the wind, by swelling tlie roar of the far-off torrent, or by dashing the waters in a new direction against rocks or hollow banks, may produce hoarse and unconunon sounds; and the innocent gambols of a few otters have been known to occasion those yells, which the vulgar of this country mistake for laugliing or crying, and ascribe to a certain goblin, who is supposed to dwell in the waters, and to take delight in drown- ing the bewildered travcher. These, and tlie like considerations, if duly at- tended to, would overcome many of those terrors that hamit the ignorant and the credulous, restore soundness to the imagination, and, as Persius says. 24 YOUNG lady's in liis usual rough but expressive manner, " pull the old grandmother out of our entrails." And tlie liabit of encountering such imaginary terrors, and of being otten alone in darkness, will greatly conduce to the same end. The spirit of tree in- <|uiry, too, is in this, as in all other respects, friend- ly to our nature. 13y the glimmering of the moon, I have onee and again beheld, at midnight, tlie ex- act form of a man or woman, sitting silent and motionless by my bedside. Had I hid my head, without daring to look the apparition in the face, I sliould have passed the night in horrors, and risen in the morning with the persuasion of having seen a ghost. But, rousing myself, and resolving to find out the truth, I discovered, that it was no- tliing more than the accidental disposition of my clothes upon a chair. — Once I remember to have been alarmed at seeing, by the faint liglit of the dawn, a coffin laid out between my bed and the window. I started up ; and recollecting, that 1 had heard of such things having been seen by others, I set myself to examine it, and found, that it was only a stream of yellowish light, falling in a particular manner upon the floor, from between tlie window-curtains. And so lively was the ap- pearance, that, after I was thoroughly satisfied of the cause, it continued to impose on my sight as before, till the increasing light of the morning dis- polled it. — These facts are perhaps too trivial to be recorded : but they serve to show, that free inquiry, with a very small degree of fortitude, may some- times, when one is willing to be rational, prove a cure to certain diseases of imagination. Beattie. BOOK OF PROSK. 25 REALITY HEIGHTENED BY IMAGIISTATION. In the beginning- of life, and while experience is confined to a small circle, we admire every thing, and are pleased with very moderate excellence. A peasant thinks the hall of his landlord the finest apartment in the universe, listens with rapture to the strolling ballad-singer, and wonders at the rude wooden cuts that adorn his ruder compositions. A child looks upon his native village as a town ; upon the brook that runs by as a river ; and upon the meadows and hills in the ncighbourliood, as the most spacious and beautiful that can be. But when, after a long absence, he returns, in his de- clining years, to visit once before he die the dear spot that gave him birth, and those scenes whereof lie remembers rather the original charms than the exact proportions, how is he disappointed to find every thing so debased and so diminished ! The hills seem to have sunk into the ground, the brook to be dried up, and the village to be forsaken of its people ; the parish-church, stripped of all its fancied magnificence, is become low, gloomy, and narrow ; and the fields are now only the miniature of what they were. Had he never left this spot, his notions might have remained the same as at first ; and had he travelled but a little way firom it, they would not perhaps have received any material enlargement. It seems then to be from observation of many things of the same or similar kinds, that wc acquire the talent of forming ideas more perfect than the real objects that lie immediately around us: and these ideas we may improve gradually more and more, according to the vivacity of our mind, and extent of our experience, till at last we 26 YOUNG lady's come to raise tliem to a degree of perfection su perior to any thinfr to be found in real life. There cannot, sure, be any mystery in this doctrine ; for we think and speak to the same purpose every day. Thus nothinor is more common than to say, that such an artist excels all wc have ever known in his profession, and yet that wc can still conceive a superior performance. A moralist, by bringin^r together into one view the separate virtues ot' many persons, is enabled to lay down a system of duty more perfect than any he has ever seen ex- emplified in human conduct. Whatever be the emotion the poet intends to raise in his reader, whetlier adniiration or terror, joy or sorrow; and whatever be tlie object he would exhibit, whether Venus or Tisiphone, Achilles or Thcrsites, a palace or a pile of ruins, a dance or a battle, he generally copies an idea of his own imagination ; consider- ing each quality as it is found to exist in several individuals of a species, and thence forming an assemblage more or less perfect in its kind, ac- cording to the purpose to which he means to ap- ply it. Beattie. CHIVALRY. While improvement, so important with respect to the state of society and the administration of justice, gradually made progress in Europe, sen- tirnents more liberal and generous had begun to animate the nobles. These were inspired by the spirit of chivalry, which though considered, com- monly, as a wild institution, the effect of caprice, and the source of extravagance, arose naturally BOOK OF PROSE. 27 from the state of society at that period, and had a very serious influence in refining the manners of the European nations. The feudal state was a state of ahnost perpetual war, rapine, and anarchy ; during- which the weak and unarmed were exposed to insults or injuries. The power of the sovereign was too limited to prevent these wrongs ; and the administration of justice too feeble to redress them. The most effectual protection against violence and oppression was often found to be tliat which the valour and generosity of private persons afforded. The same spirit of enterprise which had prompted so many gentlemen to take arms in defence of the oppressed pilgrims in Palestine, incited others to declare themselves the patrons and avengers of injured innocence at home. When the final re- duction of the Holy Land under the dominion of infidels put an end to these foreign expeditions, the latter was the only employment left for the activity and courage of adventurers. To check the insolence of overgrown oppressors ; to rescue the helpless from captivity ; to protect or to avenge women, orphans, and ecclesiastics, who could not bear arms in their own defence ; to redress wrongs, and to remove grievances ; were deemed acts of the highest prowess and merit. Valour, humanity, courtesy, justice, honour, were the characteristic qualities of chivalry. To tliese was added religion, which mingled itself with every passion and in- stitution during the middle ages, and, by infusing a large proportion of enthusiastic zeal, gave them such force as carried them to romantic excess. Men were trained to knighthood by a long previ- ous discipline ; they were admitted into the order by solemnities no less devout than pompous ; every person of noble birth courted that honour ; it was 28 YODNG lady's deemed a distinction superior to royalty ; and mo- narchs were proud to receive it from the hands of" private gentlemen. This singular institution, in which valour, gal- lantry, and religion, were so strangely blended, was wonderfully adapted to the taste and genius of martial nobles ; and its effects were soon visible in their manners. War was carried on with less ferocity, when humanity came to be deemed the ornament of knighthood no less than courage. More gentle and polished manners were intro- duced, when courtesy was recommended as the most amiable of knightly virtues. Violence and oppression decreased, when it was reckoned meri- torious to check and to punish them. A scrupu- lous adherence to truth, with the most religious attention to fulfil every engagement, became the distinguishing characteristic of a gentleman, be- cause chivalry was regarded as the school of honour, and inculcated the most delicate sensibili- ty with respect to those points. Tlie admiration of these qualities, together with the higli distinc- tions and prerogatives conferred on knighthood in every part of Europe, inspired persons of noble birth on some occasions with a species of military fanaticism, and led them to extravagant enter- prises. But they deeply imprinted on their minds the principles of generosity and honour. These were strengthened by every thing that can affect the senses or touch the heart. The wild exploits of those romantic knights who sallied forth in quest of adventures are well known, and have been treated with proper ridicule. The political and permanent eftccts of the spirit of chivalry have been less observed. Perhaps, the humanity which accompanies all the operations of war, the refine. BOOK OF PROSK. 29 ments of gallantry, and the point of honour, the three chief circumstances which distinguisli mo- dern from ancient manners, may be ascribed in a great measure to this institution, which has ap- peared whimsical to superficial observers, but by its effects has proved of great benefit to mankind. The sentiments which chivalry inspired had a won- derful influence on manners and conduct during the twelttli, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. Tlie^' were so deeply rooted, that they continued to operate after the vigour and reputa- tion of the institution itself began to decline. Some considerable transactions, recorded in the follow- ing history, resemble the adventurous exploits of chivalry, ratlier than the well-regulated operations of sound policy. Some of the most eminent per- sonages, whose characters will be delineated, were strongly tinctured with this romantic spirit. Fran- cis I. was ambitious to distinguish himself by aJl the qualities of an accomplished knight, and en- deavoured to imitate the enterprising genius of chivalry in war, as well as its pomp and courtesy during peace. The fame which the French mo- narch acquired by these splendid actions, so far dazzled his more temperate rival, that he departed on some occasions from his usual prudence and moderation, and emulated Francis in deeds of prowess or of gallantry. Robertson. BENEFITS RESULTIIVG FROM THE CRUSADES. But from these expeditions, extravagant as they were, beneficial consequences followed, which had neither been foreseen nor expected. In their pro- 30 YOUNG lady's gress towards the Holy Land, the followers of the cross marched throug-h countries better cultivated and more civilized than their own. Their first rendezvous wis commonly in Italy, in which Ve- nice, Genoa, Pisa, and other cities, had begun to apply themselves to commerce, and had made con- siderable advances towards wealth as well as re- finement. They embarked there, and, landing in Dalmatia, pursued their route by land to ConstaH- tinople. Though the military spiril had been long extinct in the Eastern Empire, and a despotism of the worst species had annihilated almost every public virtue; yet Constantinople, having never felt the destructive rage of the barbarous nations, was the greatest as well as the most beautiful city in Europe, and the only one in which there re- mained any image of the ancient elegance in manners and arts. The naval power of the Eastern Empire was considerable. Manufactures of the most curious fabric were carried on in its domini- ons. Constantinople was the chief mart in Europe for the commodities of the East Indies. Although the Saracens and Turks had torn from the Empire many of its richest provinces, and had reduced it within very narrow bounds, yet great wealth flow- ed into the capital from these various sources, which not only cherished sucli a taste for magnifi- cence, but kept alive such a relish for the sciences, as appears considerable when compared with what was known in other parts of Europe. Even in Asia, the Europeans, who had assumed the cross, found the remains of the knowledge and arts which the example and encouragement of the ca- liphs had diffused through their empire. Although the attention of the historians of the Crusades was fixed on other objects than the state of society and BOOK OF PROSE. 31 manners among^ the nations vvhicli they invaded ; although most of them had neither taste nor dis- cernment enough to describe these ; they relate, however, such signal acts of humanity and gene- rosity in the conduct of Salad in, as well as some other leaders of the Mahometans, as give us a very high idea of tlieir manners. It was not possible for the Crusaders to travel through so many coun- tries, and to behold tlieir various customs and in- stitutions, without acquiring information and im- provement. Their views enlarged ; their preju- dices wore otF; new ideas crowded into their minds ; and they must have been sensible, on many occasions, of the rusticity of their own manners when compared with those of a more polished people. These impressions were not so slight as to be effaced upon their return to their native countrres. A close intercourse subsisted between tlie East and West during two centuries ; new ar- mies were continually marcliing from Europe to Asia, while former adventurers returned home and imported many of the customs to which they had been familiarized by a long residence abroad. Ac- cordingly, we discover soon after the commence- ment of the Crusades, greater splendour in the courts of princes, greater pomp in public ceremo- uies, a more refined taste in pleasure and amuse, ments, together with a more romantic spirit of enterprise, spreading gradually over Europe ; and to these wild expeditions, the effect of superstition or folly, we owe the first gleams of light which tended to dispel barbarism and ignorance. Robertson. 32 YOUNG lady's CHARACTER OF ERASMUS. His reputation and authority were so high in Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and his works were read with such universal ad- niirvition, that tiie effect of these deserves to be mentioned as one of the circumstances which con- tributed considerably towards Luther's success. Erasmus, having been destined for the church, and trained up in the knowledge of ecclesiastical literature, applied himself more to theological in- quiries than any of the revivers of learning in that age. His acute judgment and extensive erudition enabled him to discover many errors, both in the doctrine and worship of the Romish clmrch. ISomc of these he confuted with great solidity of reason- ing and force of eloquence. Others he treated as objects of ridicule, and turned against them that irresistible torrent of poj)ular and satirical wit, of which he had the command. There was hardly any opinion or practice of the Romish church which Luther endeavoured to reform, but what had been previously animadverted upon by Eras- nms, and had aftbrded him subject either of cen- sure or of raillery. Accordingly, when Luther first began his attack upon the church, Erasmus seemed to aj>plaud his conduct ; he courted tlic friendship of several of his disciples and patrons, and condemned tlae behaviour and spirit of his ad- versaries. He concurred openly with him in in- veighing against the school divines, as the tcaclicis of a system equally uncdifying and obscure. He joined him in endeavouring to turn the attention of men to the study of the Holy Scriptures, as the only standard of religious truth. BOOK OF rnosE. 33 Various circumstances, liowevcr, prevented Eras- mus from holding- the same course with Luther. The natural timidity of his temper ; liis want of that strength of mind which alone can prompt a man to assume the character of a reformer ; his excessive deference for persons in high stations ; liis dread of losing the pensions and otiier emolu- ments which their liberality had conferred upon him ; his extreme love of peace, iind liopes of re- forming abuses gradually, and by gentle methods; all concurred in determining him not only to re- press and to moderate the zeal with which he had once been animated against the errors of the church, but to assume the character of a mediator between Luther and his opponents. But though Erasmus soon began to censure Ijuther as too daring and impetuous, and was at last prevailed upon to write against him, he must ncvertlieless be considered as his ibrcrunner and auxiliary in this war upon the church. He first scattered the seeds, which Luther cherished and brought to ma- turity. His raillery and oblique censures prepared the way for Lutlicr's invectives and more direct attacks. In this light Erasmus appeared to the zealous defenders of the Romish church in his own times. In this light he must be considered by every person conversant in the history of that period. Robertson. A SCEXE AT THE PRYTANEUM, AT PARIS. I PAID several visits to the Prytanenm. The tirst time, upon my arrival, the gate happened to be shut: the clock was striking one, and tlic pupils 34 YOUNG lady's had just done dinner, when they are at liberty to walk, run, play, and amuse themselves in the court-yards. The porter asked mc whether I would have patienee till play-time was over. I answered, " Yes," and lie conducted me into a parlour, where I expected soon to feel ennui ; but I was mistaken; for here I witnessed a scene which will never escape my memory. It was tiic hour at which tlic widowed mothers visit their sons. Tlie parlour or hall was prepared for this purpose ; round it were placed at least a dozen small green tables, with chairs arranged so as to receive a number of small groups. The mothers were already there before tlie clock struck — for maternal love ever outstrips time. With longing expectation tlicir looks were fixed on the door. One boy after the other was called. Each of them hastily enters, looks round, and mother and son fly into each other's arms. One of them takes her son, a stout boy at least twelve years old, on her lap, and fondles him like an infant at the breast. Another sits down at a table with her darling, to whom she has brought some chestnuts, which he eats with a keen appetite, while she weeps in silence, and every moment secretly dries the tears that trickle from her eyes. A third joyfully re- ceives her cheerful stripling, who has scarcely leaned a moment on his mother's breast, than he begins to weep bitterly. Every mother had brought something in handkerchiefs, baskets, or napkins. Many of the children received these little presents with joy, but with many they could not stop the flood of grief A couple of boys, who probably were completely orphans, sat with a serious look before a table, listening to an old man, perhaps a friend of tlieir deceased parents, who talked very BOOK OF PROSE. 35 kindly to them. Their eyes were constantly stray- ing' towards the favourites caressed by their mo- tliers, and towards those of their comrades who had received presents. Many of the sisters of the pupils, both great and small, had likewise come, but 1 did not observe tliat any of them were affected. Love between brothers and sisters is the work of custom, not of nature. This hour passed away very rapidly. Nobody noticed me ; they were all occupied witli their family concerns. I had free scope for observation. At last the hollov.^ drum sounded ; one more em- brace, and in the twinkling of an eye the parlour is cleared. The apartment is plain, and witli great propriety decorated with the busts of celebrated French heroes, between which hang military plans and sketches, drawn by the pupils, and exhibited by way of reward. KOTZEBUE. LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. It being very much the custom, as I am in- formed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some account of themselves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed imperti- nent for calling your attention to a few particulars of my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of any very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not bo wholly unprofitable to your readers. My earliest recollection is that of a carver and 36 vouNG lady's gilder's workshop, where I remained for many months, leaning with my faee to the wall ; and, liaving never known any livelier scene, I was very well contented with my quiet condition. The first ohject that I remember to have arrested my atten- tion, was, what I now believe must have been a large spider, which, after a vast deal of scampering about, began, very deliberately, to weave a curious web all over ni}^ face. This aftbrded me great anuiseinent, and, not then knowing what far love- lier objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent the indignity. At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and immediately afterwards under- went a curious operation, wliich at the time gave me considerable appreliensions for my safety ; but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; for you will please to observe, that tlic period of which I am now speaking was up- wards of fourscore years ago. Tliis process being finished, I was presently placed in the shop-win- dow, with my face to the street, which was one of the most public in the city. Here my attention was at first distracted by the constant succession of objects that passed before me. But it was not long before I began to remark the considerable degree of attention I myself excited; and how much I was distinguished, in this respect, from the other articles, my neighbours, in the shop- window. I observed that passengers, who appeared to be posting away upon urgent business, would often just turn and give me a friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly gratified to observe, that wliile the old, the shabby, and the BOOK OF PROSE. 37 wretched, seldom took any notice of me, tJie young, the gay, and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment ; and tliat these good-looking people always seemed best ])leascd with me; which I attributed to their superior discernment. I well remember one young lady, who used to pass my master's shop regularly every morning in her way to school, and who never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my life, I was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, from the regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I am not the only individual who has formed miti- taken notions of the attentions he receives in so- ciety. My vanity, however, received a considerable check from one circumstance ; nearly all the goods by which I was surrounded in tlic shop-window (though, many of them, much more homely in tlieir structure, and humble in their destinations) were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the mortification of seeing one after another bargained for and sent away, while I remained, month after month, without a purchaser. At lust, however, a gentleman and lady from the country (who haci been standing some time in the street, inspecting, and, as I perceived, conversing about me) walked into the shop ; and, after some altercation with my master, agreed to purchase me ; upon which I was packed up, and sent olT. I was very curious, you may suppose, on arriving at my laew rpiarters, to sec what kind of life I was likely to lead. I re- mained, however, some time unmolested in my packing case ; and very Jlat I felt there. Upon being, at last unpacked, I found tnyself in the hall 38 YOUNG lady's of a large lone house in the country. My master and mistress, I soon learned, were new-married people, just setting up housekeeping ; and I was intended to decorate their hest parlour ; to which I was presently conveyed ; and, after some little discussion between them in fixing my longitude and latitude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, m an angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the fashion of those times. And there I hung, year after year, almost ij\ perpetual solitude. My master and mistress were sober, regular, old-fashioned people ; they saw no comj)any except at fair-time and Christmas day ; on which occasions, only, they occupied tlie best parlour. My countenance used to brighten up, when I saw the annual fire kindled in tliat ample grate, and when a cheerful circle of country -cou- sins assembled round it. At tliosc times, I always got a little notice from the young folks ; but, those festivities over, and I was condemned to another half year of complete loneliness. Plow familiar to my recollection at this hour is that large, old- fashioned parlour ! I can remember, as well as if I had seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson damask chair-covers and window- curtains ; and those curiously carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one of the stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate ; the rich China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece ; and the pattern of the paper-hangings, which consisted, alternately, of a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess, — a parrot, a poppy, and a shep- herdess. The room being so little used, the window-shut ters were rarely opened ; but there were three holes cut in each, in the shape of a heart, through BOOK OF PROSE. 39 which, day after day, and year after year, I used to watch the long-, dim, dusty sunbeams strcaminir across the dark parlour. 1 should mention, Jiow- ever, that I seldom missed a short visit Irom mv master and mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came down stairs ready dressed for church. I can remember how my mistress used to trot in upon her hiirh-heeled shoes, unfold a leaf of one of the shutters ; then come and stand straiort, which arc of no use to the expl.mation or enforcement of that which they describe or re- commend ; and wJiich, therefore, since they assume them only for the sake of displaying their abilities, I will advise them for the future to forbear, as la- borious without advantage. It is almost a general ambition of those who favour me with their advice for the regulation of my conduct, or their contribution for the assistance of my understanding, to affect the style and the names of ladies : and I cannot always withhold some expression of anger, like Sir Hugh in the comedy, when I happen to find that a woman has a beard. I must therefore warn the gentle Phyllis that she send me no more letters from the Horse- Guards ; and require of Belinda, that she be con- tent to resign lier pretensions to female elegance, till she has lived three weeks without hearing the polities of Batson's coffee-house. I must indulge myself in the liberty of observation, that there were some allusions in Chloris's production, sufficient to show that Bracton and Plow den are her favourite authors; and that Euphclia has not been long enough at home to wear out all the traces of the BOOK OF PROSE. 67 phraseology which she learned in the expedition to Carthagcna. Among all my female friends, tlicre was none who gave me more trouble to dcciplier her true character than Pentliesilea, wliose letter lay upon my desk three days before I could fix upon the real writer. There was a confusion of images, and medley of barbarity, which held me long in suspense ; till by perseverance I disentangled the perplexity, and found that Fenthesilea is the son of a wealthy stock-jobber, who spends his morning under his father's eye in Change-alley, dines at a tavern in Covent-garden, passes liis evening in the playhouse, and part of the niglit at a gaming- table ; and having learned the dialects of these various regions, has mingled tliem all in a studied composition. When Lee was once told by a critic, that it was very easy to write like a madman, he answered, that it was difficult to write like a madman, but easy enough to write like a fool ; and I hope to be excused by my kind contributors, if, in imita- tion of this great author, I presume to remind them, that it is much easier not to write like a man, tlian to write like a woman. I have, indeed, some ingenious well-wishers, who, without departing from their sex, have found very wonderful appellations. A very smart letter has been sent me from a puny ensign, signed Ajax Telamonius ; another in recommendation of a new treatise upon cards, from a gamester who calls himself Scsostris ; and another upon the improve- ment of the fishery, from Dioclesian ; but as these seem only to have picked up their appellations by chance, witliout endeavouring at any particular imposture, their improprieties are rather instances bo YOUXG LADY S • of blunder than of affectation, and arc, therefore, not equally tilled to inflame the hostile passions ; for it is not folly but pride, not error but deceit, wliich the world means to persecute when it raises the full cry of nature to hunt down affectation. The haired which dissimulation always draws Ui)on itself is so jjreat that, if I did not know how much cunning differs from wisdom, I should won- dcr that any men have so little knowledge of their own interest, as to aspire to wear a mask for life ; to try to impose \\\>on the world a character, to which they Icel themselves void of any just claim; and to h izard their quiet, their fame, and even tlieir profit, by exposing themselves to the danger of that reproach, malevolence, and neglect, which such a discovery as they have always to fear will certainly bring upon them. It might be imagined that the pleasure of repu- tation should consist in tiie satisfaction of having our opinion of our own merit confirmed by the suffrage of the public ; and that, to be extolled for a quality which a man knows himself to want, should give him no other happiness than to be mistaken for the owner of an estate, over which he chances to be travelling. But he who subsists upon affectation knows nothing of this delicacy: like a desperate adventurer in commerce, he takes up reputation upon trust, mortgages possessions which he never had, and enjoys, to the fatal hour of bankruptcy, though with a thousand terrors and anxieties, tlie unnecessary splendour of borrowed riches. Affectation is to be always distinguished from hypocrisy, as being the art of counterfeiting those qualities which we miglit, with innocence and safety, be knoun to want. Thus the man who, BOOK OF PROSE. Otf to carry on any fraud, or to conceal any crime, pretends to rig-ours of devotion and exactness of life, is g'uilty of liypociisy ; and his g^uilt is g^reater, as the end, for wliicli lie puts on tlie false ap- pearance, is more pernicious ; but he tiiat, with an awkward dress and unplcasing- countenance, boasts of the conquests made by him among- the ladies, and counts over the tliousands which he mig-ht Jiave possessed if he would have submitted to llie yoke of matrimony, is charg-eablc onl}'- witli af- fectation. Hypocrisy is the necessary burden of villany, atTectation part of the chosen trappings of folly ; the one completes a villain, the other only finishes a fop. Contempt is the proper punisliment of affectation, and detestation the just consequence of hypocrisy. With the hypocrite it is not at present my in- tention to expostulate, thoug-li even he miglit be taug-ht tlie excellency of virtue by the necessity of seeming- to be virtuous ; but the man of affectation may, pcrliaps, be reclaimed, by finding how little he is likely to g-ain by perpetual constraint and incessant vigilance, and how mucli more securely he might make his way to esteem, by cultivating- real, than displaying counterfeit qualities. Every tiling- future is to be estimated by a wise man in proportion to the probability of attaining it, and its value when attained ; and neither of these considerations v/ill much contribute to the encouragement of affectation. For, if the pinnacles of fame be, at best, slipper}', how unsteady must his footing be who stands upon pinnacles without foundation! If i)raisc be made, by the inconstancy and maliciousness of tliose who must confer it, a blessing which no man can promise liimself from the most conspicuous merit and vigorous industry, 70 YOUNG lady's how faint must be the hope of jg^aining it, when the uncertainty is multiplied by the weakness of tlie pretensions I lie that pursues fame with just claims trusts his liappincss to the winds; but he Lliat endeavours afler it by false merit has to fear, not only the violence of the storm, but the leaks of his vessel. Though he should happen to keep above water for a time, by the help of a soft breeze i:nd a calm sea, at the first gust he must inevitably Ibuiidcr, with this melancholy reflection, that if he would have been content with his natural station, he nufrht have escaped his calamity. Affectation may possibly succeed for a time, and a man may, by great attention, persuade others that he really has the qualities which he presuiiies to boast ; but tlie hour will come when he should exert them, and then, whatever he enjoyed in praise, he must sufflr in reproach. Applause and r.dmiration are by no means to be counted among the necessaries of life, and there- fore any indirect arts to obtain them have very little claim to pardon or compassion. There is scarcely any man without some valuable or im- provable qualities, by which he might always se- cure himself from contempt. And perhaps exemp- tion from ignominy is the most eligible reputation, as freedom from pain is, among some philosophers, Uie definition of happiness. If we therefore compare the value of the praise obtained by fictitious excellence, even while the cheat is yet undiscovered, with that kindness which every man may suit by his virtue, and that esteem to which most men may rise by common understanding steadily and honestly applied, we shall find that when, from the adscititious happi- ness, all the deductions axe made by fear and BOOK OF PROSE. 71 casualty, there will remain nothing equiponderant to the security of truth. The state of the {asses- sor of humble virtues, to the affector of great ex- cellences, is that of a small cottage of stone to the palace raised with ice by the empress of Russia; — it was for a time si)lendid and luminous, but tlie first sunshine melted it to nothing. Johnson. CHARACTER OF MARY OF GUISE. The queen regent, the instrument, rather than tlie cause of involving Scotland in those calamities under which it groaned at that time, died during the heat of the siege. No princess ever possessed qualities more capable of rendering her administra- tion illustrious, or the kingdom happy. Of much discernment, and no less address ; of great intre- pidity and equal prudence; gentle and humane without weakness ; z.calou.s for her religion, with- out bigotry; a lover of justice, without rigour. One circumstance, however, and that too the ex- cess of a virtue, rather than any vice, poisoned all these great qualities, and rendered her government unfortunate and her name odious. Devoted to the ijiterest of France, her native country, and at- taclied to the princes of Lorrain, her brothers, vvitli most passionate fondness, she departed, in order to gratify them, from every maxim whicli her own wisdom or humanity would liave approved. She outlived, in a great measure, that reputation and popularity which had smoothed her way to tho highest station in tlie kingdom ; and man}' ex- amples of falsehood, and some of severity, in tho latter part of her administration, alienated from 72 YOUNG lady's licr tlic affections of a people who had once placed in her an unbounded confidence. But, even by her enemies, tliese unjustifiable actions were imputed to the Ihcility, not to the malignity of her nature ; and wliile tbey taxed her brothers and French counsellors with rashness and cruelty, they still idlowed her the praise of prudence and of lenity. A few days before her death, she desired an inter- view with the prior of St. Andrew's, the earl of Argyll, and other chiefs of the congregation. To them she lamented the fatal issue of those violent counsels which she had been obliged to follow ; and, with the candour natural to a generous mind, confessed the errors of her own administration, and begged forgiveness of those to whom they had been hurtful ; but at the same time she warned them, amidst their struggles for liberty and the shock of arms, not to lose sight of the loyalty and subjection which were due to their sovereign. The remainder of her time she employed in religious meditations and exercises. She even invited the attendance of Willox, one of the most eminent among the reformed preachers, listened to his in- structions with reverence and attention, and pre- pared for the approach of death with a decent for- titude. Robertson. DEATH A\D CHARACTER OF MARY, aUEEN OF SCOTS. On Tuesday tlie seventh of February, the two earls arrived at Fotheringay, and demanded access to the queen, read in her presence the warrant for execution, and required her to prepare to die next BOOK OF PROSE. 73 morning Mary heard them to tlic end without emotion, and crossina;- herself in the name of the Father, and of tlie Son, and of the Holy Ghost, " That soul," said she, " is not wortliy the joys of licaven, which repines because the body must en- dure tlie stroke of tiie executioner ; and though I did not expect that the queen of Enghmd would sot the first example of violating- the sacred person of a sovereign prince, I willingly submit to thai which Providence has decreed to be my lot ;" and laying her hand on a Bible, which happened to be near lier, she solennily protested that she was in- nocent of that conspiracy which Babington had carried on against Elizabeth's life. She then men- tioned the requests contained in her letter to Eli- zabeth, but obtained no satisfactory answer. Sho entreated witli particular earnestness, that now in her last moments her almoner might be suffered to attend her, and that she might enjoy the conso- lation of those pious institutions prescribed by her religion. Even tiiis favour, which is usually grant- ed to the vilest criminal, was absolutely denied. Her attendants, during this conversation, were bathed in tears, and, tliough overawed by tlie pre- sence of the two earls, with difficulty suppressed their anguish ; but no sooner did Kent and Shrews, bury withdraw, than they ran to their mistress, and burst out into the most i)assionate expressions of tenderness and sorrow. Mary, however, not only retained perfect composure of mind herself, but endeavoured to moderate their excessive grief; and falling on her knees v>'ith all her domestics round her, she thanked Heaven that her sufferings were now so near an end, and prayed that she might be enabled to endure what still remained with decency and with fortitude. The greater part 74 YOUNG lady's of the evening she employed in settling her world- ly affairs. She wrote her testament with her own hand. Her money, lier jewels, and her clothes, she distributed among her servants, according to tlieir rank or merit. She wrote a sliort letter to the king of France, and another to the duke of Guise, full of tender but magnanimous sentiments, and recommended her soul to their prayers, and her afflicted servants to their protection. At sup- per she ate temperately, as usual, and conversed not only with ease, but with cheerfulness; she drank to every one of her servants, and asked their forgiveness, if ever she had failed in any part of her duty towards them. At her wonted time she went to bed, and slept calmly a few hours. Early in the morning she retired into her closet, and employed a considerable time in devotion. At eight o'clock the high sheriff and his officers en- tered her chamber, and found her still kngcling at tlie altar. She immediately started up, and with a majestic mien, and a countenance undismayed, and even cheerful, advanced towards the place of execution, leaning on two of Paulet's attendants. She was dressed in a mourning habit, but with an elegance and splendour wliich she had long laid aside except on a few festival days. An Agmis Dei Imng by a pomander chain at her neck ; her beads at her girdle ; and in her hand she carried a crucifix of ivory. At the bottom of the stairs, the two earls, attended by several gentlemen from the neighbouring counties, received her ; and there Sir Andrew Melvil, the master of her household, who had been secluded for some weeks from her pre- sence, was permitted to take his last farewell. At the sight of a mistress whom he tenderly loved, in such a situation, he melted into tears ; and as he BOOK OF i'ROSE. lO was bewailing her condition, and comijlaining of his own hard fate, in being- appointed to carry the account oi' such a mourntul event into Scotland, Mary replied, " Weep not, good Melvil ; there is at present great cause tor rejoicing. TJiou shalt this day see Mary Stuart delivered from all her cares, and such an end put to her tedious sutFerings, as she has long expected. Bear witness that I die constant in my religion ; firm in my fidelity to- wards Scotland ; and unchanged in my affection to France. Commend me to my son. Tell him I have done nothing injurious to his kingdom, to his honour, or to his rights ; and God forgive all those who have thirsted, witliout cause, for my blood 1" With much dillicalty, and aller many entreaties, slie prevailed on the two earls to allow Melvil, together v.ith three of her men servants and two of iier maid>^, to attend her to the scaflbld. It was erected in the same liall where she had been tried, raised a little above the floor, and covered, as well as a chair, the cushion, and block, with black cloth. Mary mounted the steps with alacrity, be- held all this apparatus of death with an unaltered countenance, and signing herself with the cross, she sat down in the chair. Beale read the warrant for execution with a loud voice, to which she lis- tened with a careless air, and like one occupied in other thoughts. Then the dean of Peterborough began a devout discourse, suitable to her present condition, and offered up prayers to Heaven in her behalf: but she declared that she could not in conscience hearken to the one, nor join with tiie other; and kneeling down, repeated a Latin prayer. When the dean had finished his devotions, she, with an audible voice, and in the English tongue, recommended mito God the alilicted state of the 76 YOUNG lady's church, and prayed for prosperity to her son, and for a loiic of meadow, of the richest verdure, and fringed with an edgijig of bcautilul shrubbery. On the north side rises with precipitate boldness, Craigow, or the Black Rock, the symbol and boundary of the clan who inhabit the valley. It is very black indeed; yet glitters in the sun, from the man}' little streams which descend from its steep, indeed perpendicular, surface. In the face of tliis lolly rock are many apertures, occasioned by the rolling down of portions of the stone, from whicli echoing noises are often lieard. This scene of terror overlooks the soil features of a landscape below, that is sutricient, with this association, to remind us of what has been said of " Beauty sleep- ing in llie lap of Horror." An eminence, as you approach towards the entrance of the strait, appears covered with regularly formed hillocks, of a coni- cal form, and of different sizes, clothed witli a kind of dwarf birch, CAtrcmely hght-looking, and fan- cifuJ, sighing and trembling to every gale, and breathing odours after a calm evening shower, or rich dewy morning. In the depth of the valley, there is a lochan (tiic diminutive of loch) of super- lative beauty. It is a round, clear, and shallow basin, richly fringed with water-lilies, and present- ing the clearest mirror to the steep woody banks on the south, and tJie rugged face of the lofty and solemn rock which frowns darkly to the north. On the summit, scarcely approachable by liuman toot, is the only nest of the goss-hawk now known to remain in Scotland ; and, in the memory of the author, the nearest farm to this awful precipice was held by the tenure of taking down, every year. BOOK OF PROSE. 81 one of the young of tliis rare bird for the lord of the soil. The screaming' of the birds of prey on the sum- mit, the roaring- of petty waterfalls down its sides, and the frequent falls of shivered stone from the surface, made a melancholy confusion of sounds, very awful and incomprehensible to the travellers below, who could only proceed on a very narrow path on the cdgv. of the lake, and under the side of this gloomy rock. — It did not require a belief in fairies to look round ior them -in this romantic scene. If one had merely heard of them, an invol- untary operation of funcy v/ould summon them to a place so suited for their habitation. Mrs. Grant. FLORISA. A poor woman, who lived in the country, was acquainted with a fairy, whom she invited to her lying-in, and was brought to bed of a daug-hter. The fairy immediately took the child in her arms, and addressing herself to the mother, "choose," said slie, "whether your daughter shall have moro beauty tlian the blushing morn, with wit superior to her beauty, and be the queen of a larg^e country, but unhappy ; or whether she shall be ugly, a poor countrywoman like yourself, but contented with her fortune." The countrywoman immediately chose beauty, wit, and a crown, for her daughter, regardless of any misfortune that might befall her. The cliild's growing beauty soon began to eclipse that of other children; her temper was mild, polislied, and insinuating ; she would learn every thing that they could teach her, and in a 6 82 vouNG lady's very little time was more perfect in it than those that tau^rht her. On holidays slic danced upon the tender grass more gracefuily llian all her com- panions ; her voice was more moving than the softest instruments of music, and her songs were of her own composing. At first she was not sen- Bible of her charms ; hut playing with her com- panions one day at the brink of a crystal fountain, she saw what ditfcrcnce there was between herself and tlie others, and she admired herself. The whole country, who came in crowds to gaze upon her, made iier more sensible of her charms. Her mother, who built her hopes on the prediction of the fiiiry, already looked on her as a queen, and by her fond indulgence spoiled her. She would nei- ther sew nor spin, nor tend the flocks, but spent her whole time in gathering flowers to adorn her head, and in singing and dancing in the shady groves. The king of that country was very power- ful, and had an only son, whose name was Rosi- mond, whom he wished to see married ; but the orincc would never so much as hear the least men- tion made of any neighbouring princess, a fairy having assured him tiiat he should one day meet with a country lass more lovely and more accom- plished than all the princesses of the world ; he therefore resolved to have all the country girls under eighteen years of age assembled together, that he might make choice of her who should prove the most worthy of it. They thronged to- gether, but an infinite number of middling beauties were excluded, and thirty of them, who infinitely surpassed the rest, were selected. Florisa (for that vvas the name of our young heroine) found it no difficult matter to be admitted. The thirty lasses were placed in order upon a sort of an amphithea- BOOK OF PROSE. 83 tre in the middle of a spacious hall, wlicrc the king and his son might sec them all at once. Fiorisa in the midst of tlicm appeared like a fine tulip in a marygold hed, or like a flourishing orange-tree in the midst of a thorny hedge. The king cried out that she deserved the crown, and Rosimond thought himself happy in the possession of her. She was stripped of her rural clothes, instead of which, rohcs embroidered with gold were given to her, and in a moment's time she savi' herself covered with pearls and diamonds. A vast number of ladies were employed in serving her ; they made it their whole care to guess her thoughts, and know what could be pleasing to her, that she might have it without the trouble of asking for it. Her lodging was a magnificent apartment of the palace, which, instead of tapestry, was hung with large looking, glasses as high as the room itself, that she might have the pleasure of seeing her beauty reflected from every side, and that the prince, wherever he turned liis eye, miglit admire her. Rosimond gave over hunting, gaming, and all the exercises of the body, that he might be continually near her ; and as the king his father died soon afl;er the marriage, the wise Fiorisa was become queen, and by her prudent counsels governed the whole state. The queen-dowager, whose name was Nigrehna, was jealous of her daughter-in-law ; to her natural ugliness, old age had added deformity, and she resembled one of the Furies. The beauty of Fio- risa made her appear more hideous, and provoked her more and more : she could not bear the thoughts of being a foil to so lovely a creature ; she feared her wisdom, and therefore gave herself wholly up to rage and envy, and would oft;en say to her son, " Where was your spirit when you married a poor 84 YOUNG lady's country gh\, wliom yet you make an idol of? She is as hauirlity as if she was born to tlic tlirone. When tlic king- your tatlier tliouglit of marrying, he proilrrcd mo to everybody else, because 1 was tlie daughter of a monarch equal in power to him, and in this you ought to have tbilowed his exam- ple. Send back your little shepherdess to her vil- lage, and clioosc some princess whose birth may make her worthy of you." llosimond still resisted his motlier's pernicious counsels : but one day Ni- grelina intercepted a letter Florisa had written to Uic king, and in which she had expressed that love she ought in duty to bear him. Nigrelina gave it to a young n&bleman to carry to the king, as a note sent to himself by Florisa. Rosimond, blind- ed by a sadden jealousy, and the destructive coun- sels of tlie old queen, had Florisa locked up in a high tower, built upon the top of a steep rock which stood in the sea : there night and day she wept, not knowing why the king, who loved her dearly, should treat her so unjustly. ' Nobody was allowed to come near her but an old woman, to whom Nigrelina had intrusted her, and who in her prison was perpetually insulting her. Then Florisa recalled to mind her village, her cottage, and all her rural sports. One day, whilst, overwhelmed with grief, she was deploring her mother's blind- ness, who rather chose to make her a beautiful unhappy queen than a deformed contented shep- herdess, the old woman who used her so ill came to tell her tliat the king had sent an executioner to cut oft' her head, and that she must now instantly prepare to die. Florisa answered, that she was prepared to receive the stroke : and the execution- er, with liis axe, stood ready to obey the king's orders, who had been swayed by the persuasions BOOK OF PROSE. 85 of Nigrclina ; when a woman appeared, who pre- tended that she was sent by tlic queen, to speak two words in private to Florisa before her death. The old woman granted it, beHeving her to be one of the ladies of the court : but it was tlie fairy, who, at Florisa's birth, had foretold her misfortunes, and who now had assumed the shape of one of the queen-dowager's ladies. Every body beinjr out of the room, she spoke to Florisa thus : " Will you give up that beauty which has been so fatal to you, with your royal title, to put on your former dress, and return to your village ?" Florisa with joy accepted the offer, and tlie fairy applied an en- chanted mask to her face : immediately her features grew large and uiiproportioiiable, and she became as ugly as she had before been beautiful. In this condition, who could have known her! She passed tlirough tlie midst of those who came to be the witnesses of her execution, and following the fairy, returned to her own country. In vain Florisa was sought for, she was to be found in no part of the prison. The news of her escape was carried to the king and Nigrelina, wlio again, but again in vain had her sought for througliout the kingdom. The fairy returned her to her mother, who, had she not been beforehand acquainted with her change, would never have known her. Florisa was pleased with being ugly, and living poor and unknown in the village, where she tended sheep. Each day she heard her misfortunes related and deplored ; songs ond ballads were written upon them, which made every body weep ; she oflen with her companions diverted herself in singing them, and, like the rest, she wept : but thinking herself happy in her state of a shepherdess, she never would discover to any one who she was. Fenelon S6 YOUNG lady's THE MOOX AXD STARS. A Fable. On the fourth day of Creation, when the sun, after a glorious but solitary course, went down in the evening, and darkness began to gather over the face of. the uninhabited globe, already arrayed in exuberance of vegetation, and prepared, by the diversity of land and water, for the abode of un- created animals and man, — a star, single and beautiful, stepped forth into the firmament. Trem- bling with wonder and delight in new-found exis- tence, she looked abroad, and beheld nothing in heaven or on earth resembling herself But she was not long alone ; now one, then another, here a third, and there a fourth, resplendent companion had joined her, till, light alter light stealing through tlic gloom, in the lapse of an hour, the whole hemi- sphere was brilliantly bespangled. The planets and stars, with a superb comet flaming in the zenith, for a while contemplated themselves and each other ; and every one, from the largest to the least, was so perfectly well pleased with himself, that she imagined the rest only partakers of his felicity, — he being the central luminary of his own universe, and all the hosts of heaven beside displayed around him in graduated splendour. Nor were any undeceived with regard to themselves, though all saw their associates in their real situations and relative proportions, self- knowledge being the last knowledge acquired, either in the sky or below it ; till, bending over tlie ocean in their turns, they discovered what they imagined, at fir.^t, to be a new heaven, peopled with beings of their own species ; but, when they perceived, further that no sooner had any one of BOOK OF PROSE. 87 their company touched ihc horizon than lie in- stantly disappeared, they then recognised them- selves in tlicir individual forms, reflected beneath according- to their places and configurations above, from seeing others, whom they previously knew, reflected in like manner. By an attentive but mournful self-examination in that mirror, they slowly learned humility ; but every one learned it only for himself, none believ- ing what others insinuated respecting their own interiority, till they reached the western slope, from whence they could identify their true images in the nether element. Nor was this very sur- prising : stars being only visible points, without any distinction of limbs, each was all eye, and, though he could see others most correctly, he could neither see himself, nor any part of himself, till he came to reflection ! The comet, however, having a long train of brightness streaming sunward, could review that, and did review it with ineffable self, complacency: — indeed, after all pretensions to precedence, he was at length acknowledged king of the hemisphere, if not by the universal assent, by the silent envy of all his rivals. But the object which attracted most attention and astonishment, too, was a slender thread of light, that scarcely could be discerned through the blush of evening, and vanished soon after night- fall, as if ashamed to appear in so scanty a form, like an unfinislied work of creation. It was the moon, — the first new moon. Timidly she looked around upon the glittering nmltitude, that crowded through tlie dark serenity of sj)aee, and filled it witli life and beauty. Minute, indeed, tliey seem- ed to her, but perfect in symmetry, and formed to siiine for ever; while she was unshapen, incom- 88 YOUNG lady's plctc, and evanescent. In her Immility she was ;,Mad to hide; herself from their keen glances in tiie friendly bosom of the ocean, wishuig for im- mediate extinction. When she was gone, the stars looked one at an- other with inquisitive surprise, as much as to say, •* What a figure I" It was so evident that they all thought alike, and thouglit contemptuously of the apparition, (though at first they almost doubted whether they should not be frightened,) that tlicy soon began to talk freely concerning her ; of course not with audible accents, but in the language of intelligent sparkles, in which stars are accustomed to co"nverse, with telegraphic precision, from one end of heaven to the other, and which no dialect on earth so nearly resembles as the language of the eyes, — the only one, probably, that lias sur- vived in its purity, not only the confusion of Babel, but the revolutions of all ages. — Her crooked form, which they deemed a violation of the order of na- ture, and her shyness, equally unlike the frank in- tercourse of stars, were ridiculed and censured from pole to pole ; for what good purpose such a monster could have been created, not the wisest could conjecture ; yet, to tell the truth, every one, tliough glad to be countenanced in the affectation of scorn by the rest, had secret misgivings con- cerning the stranger, and envied the delicate bril- liancy of her light, while she seemed but the frag- ment of a sunbeam, — they, indeed, knew nothing about the sun, — detached from a long line, and exquisitely bended. AH the gay company, however, quickly returned to the admiration of themselves and the inspection of each other. What became of them, when they descended into the ocean, they could not deter- BOOK OF PROSE. mine ; some imagined that they ccasea to be otliers that they transmigrated into new forms ; while a third party thought it probable, as the earth was evidently convex, that their departed friends travelled through an undcr-archmg sky, and might hereafter reascend from the opposite quarter. In this hypothesis tliey were confirmed by tlic testimony of the stars that came from the oiist, who unanimously asserted, that they had been pre-existent for several hours in a rcjmote region of sky, over continents and seas now mvisible to them ; and, moreover, that, when they rose here, tliey had actually seemed to set there. Thus the first night passed away. But, when tlie east began to dawn, consternation seized the whole army of celestials, each feeling himself fainting into invisibility, and, as he feared, into nothingness, while his neighbours were, one after another, totally disappearing. At length the sun arose, and filled the heavens, and clothed the earth with his glory. How he spent that day belongs not to this history ; but it is elsewhere recorded, that, for the first time from eternity, the lark, on the wings of the morning, sprang up to salute him, the eagle, at noon, looked nndazzled on his splen- s i.er i;U:-l);tnd; and added, witli a irown, that I did not seem to l\Uow wlio slu; was-. I was surprised to be treated tlius, alter such iamiliarilics as had passed between us. But she has since given me to know, that wliatever freedom she may sometimes indulge me in, siie expects in general to be treated with the respect that is due to her birth and quality. Our children liave been trained up from their infancy with so many accounts of their mother's family, that they know the stories of all the great men and women it has produced. Their mother tells them, that such an one commanded in such a sea-engage- ment, that tlicir great-grandfather had a horse shot under him at Edge-hill, that their uncle was at the siege of Buda, and that her mother danced in a ball at court with the Duke of Monmouth ; with abundance of fiddle-faddle of the same nature. I was the other day a little out of countenance at a question of my little daughter Harriet, who asked me with a great deal of innocence, why I never told them of the generals and admirals that had been in my family. As for my eldest son Oddly, he has been so spirited up by his mother, that if lie does not mend his manners I shall go near to disinherit him. He drew his sword upon me be- fore he was nine years old, and told me that he expected to be used like a gentleman ; upon my offering to correct him for his insolence, my Lady Mary ste{)t in between us, and told me, that I ought to consider there was some difference between his mother and mine. She is perpetually finding out the features of her own relations in every one of my children, though, by the way, I have a httlc 106 YOUNG lady's chub-faced boy as like me as he can stare, if I durst say so ; but what most ang-ers iiic, when she sees me playing with any of them upon my knee, she has bcgtfcd mc more tiian once to converse witli the children as little as possible, that they may not learn any of njy awkward tricks. You must farther know, since I am opening my heart to you, tliat she thinks herself my supe- rior in sense, as much as she is in quality, and therefore treats me like a plain well-meaning man, who does not know the world. She dictates to me in my own business, sets mc rig^ht in point of trade, and if I disagree with her about any of my ships at sea, wonders that I will dispute with her, when I know very well that her great-grandfathei was a flag-officer. To complete my suffering, she has teased mc for tliis quarter of a year last past, to remove into one of the squares at the other end of the town, pro- mising for my encouragement, that I shall have as good a cock-lofl as any gentleman in the square; to which the Honourable Oddly Enville, Esq. al- ways adds, like a jackanapes as he is, that he hopes 't will be as near the court as possible. In sliort, Mr. Spectator, I am so much out of my natural clement, tliat to recover my old way of life I would be content to begin the world again, and be plain Jack Anvil ; but, alas ! I am in for life, and am bound to subscribe myself, with great sorrow of heart, your humble servant, John Enville, Knt. Adpison. BOOK OF PROSE. 107 THE ABDICATION OF DIOCLETIAN. Notwithstanding the severity of a very cold and rainy winter, Diocletian letl Italy soon afler the ceremony of his triumph, and began his pro- gress towards the East round tlic circuit of the Illyrian provinces. From tiie inclemency of the weather, and the fatigue of the journey, he soon contracted a slow illness ; and though he made easy marches, and was generally carried in a close litter, his disorder, before he arrived at Nicomcdia, about the end of the summer, was become very serious and alarming. During the wliole winter he was confined to his palace ; his danger inspired a general and unaffected concern ; but the })coplc could only judge of the various alterations in his health, from tlie joy or consternation which tiiey discovered in the countenances and behaviour of his attendants. The rumour of his death was for some time universally believed, and it was sui)posed to be concealed, witJi a view to prevent the troubles that might have happened during the absence of the Cajsar Galerius. At length, however, on the first of March, Diocletian once more appeared in public, but so pale and emaciated, tliat he could scarcely have been rccogniz.ed by those to whom his person was the most familiar. It was time to put an end to the painful struggle, which he had sus- tained during more than a year, between the care of his health and that of his dignity : the former required indulgence and relaxation ; the latter compelled him to direct, from the bed of sickness, the administration of a great empire. He resolved to pass the remainder of his days in honourable repose, to place his glory beyond the reach of for 108 YOUNG lady's tune, and to relinquish the theatre of the world to Ijis younger and more active associate.-. 'I'hc ceremony of Jii.s abdication was pcribrmcd in a spacious plain, about three miles from Nico- mcdia. The emperor a:?cpndcd a lofty throne, and in a speech, full of reason and dignity, declared his intention, both to the people, and to the soldiers, who were assembled on this extraordinary occasion. As soon as he had divested himself of the purple, he withdrew from the gazing multitude ; and tra- versing the city in a covered chariot, j)rocccded, without delay, to the favourite retirement which he had chosen in his native country of Dalmatia- On the same day, which was the first of i\Iay, Maximian, as it had been previously concerted, made his resignation of the imperial dignity at Milan. Even in the splendour of the Roman tri- umph, Diocletian had meditated his design of ab- dicating the government. As he wished to secure the obedience of Maximian, he exacted from him, cither a general assurance that he would submit his actions to the authority of his benefactor, or a particular promise that he would descend from the throne whenever he should receive the advice and the example. This engagement, though it was confirmed by the solemnity of an oath before the altar of the Capitoline Jupiter, would have proved a feeble restraint on the fierce temper of Maximian, whose passion was the love of power, and who neither desired present tranquillity nor future repu- tation. But he yielded, however reluctantl}'-, to the ascendant whicli his wiser colleague had acquired over liim, and retired immediately after his* abdi- cation to a villa in Lucania, where it was almost impossible that such an impatient spirit could find any lasting tranquillity. BOOK OF PROSK. 109 Diocletian, who from a servile ori^rin had raised himself to the throne, passed the nine last years of his life in a private condition. Reason had dic- tated, and content seems to have accompanied, his retreat, in \v'hich he enjoyed for a lon^ time the respect of those princes to whom he had resigned the possession of the world. It is seldom that minds, long exercised in business, have formed any habits of conversing with themselves, and in the loss of power they principally regret the want of occupation. The amusements of letters and of devotion, which aftbrd so many resources in solitude, were incapable of fixing the attention of Diocletian ; but he had preserved, or at least he soon recovered, a taste for the most iimocent as well as natural pleasures ; and his leisure hours were sufficiently employed in building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is de- servedly celebrated. He was solicited by that rest- less old man to resume the reins of government and the imperial purple. He rejected the tempta- tion with a smile of pity, calmly observing, that if he could show ?>Iaximian the cabbages which he had planted with his own hand at Salona, he should no longer be urged to relinquish the enjoy- ment of happiness for the pursuit of power. In his conversations with his friends, he frequently acknowledged, that of all arts, the most difficult was the art of reigning ; and he expressed himself on that favourite topic with a degree of warmth which could be the result only of experience. " How often," was he accustomed to say, " is it the interest of four or five ministers to combine together to deceive their sovereign ! Secluded from mankind by his exalted dignity, the truth is concealed from his knowledge ; he can see only 110 YOUNG lady's vvitli tlicir eye?, he hears nothing but their mis- representations-. He confers the most important offices upon vie ; and weakness, and disgraces the most virtuous and deserving among his subjects. By such infamous arts," added Diocletian, "the best and wisest princes are sold to the venal cor- ruption of their courtiers." A just estimate of greatness, and the assurance of immortal fame, improve our relish for the pleasures of retirement ; but the Roman emperor had filled too important a character in the world to enjoy without alloy the comforts and security of a private condition. It was impossible that he could remain ignorant of the troubles which afflicted the empire after his abdication. It was impossible that he could be indiifercnt to their consequences. Fear, sorrow, and discontent, sometimes pursued him into the solitude of Salona. His tenderness, or at least his pride, was deeply wounded by the misfortunes of his wife and daughter ; and the last moments of Diocletian were embittered by some alFronts, which Licinius and Constantino might have spared the father of so many emperors, and the first author of their own fortune. A report, though of a very doubtful nature, has reached our timeSj that he prudently withdrew himself from their peswfer by u voluntary death. Gibbon. THE ELEVATED CHARACTER OF WOMAN. The influence of the female character is now felt and acknowledged in all the relations of life. I speak not now of those distinguished women, who instruct their age through the public press. BOOK OF PROSE. Ill Nor of those whose devout strains we take upon our lips when we worship. But of a much larger class ; of tJiose whose influence is felt in the rcla^ tions of neighbour, friend, daughter, wife, mother. Who waits at the couch of the sick to adminis- ter tender charities while life lingers, or to perform the last acts of kindness when death comes ? Where shall we look for those examples of friendship, that most adorn our nature ; those abiding friendships, which trust even wlien betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune? Where shall we find the brightest illustrations of filial piety ? Have you ever seen a daughter, herself, perhaps, timid and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and holding out with heroic fortitude to anticipate his wishes, to administer to his wants, and to sus- tain his tottering steps to the very borders of the grave ? But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influence, both immediately and prospectively, as in that of motlicr. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the infant mind. Upon her devolves the care of the first stages of that course of discipline, which is to form of a being, perhaps, the most frail and helpless in the world, the fear- less ruler of animated creation, and the devout adorer of its great Creator. Her smiles call into exercise the first affections, that spring up in our hearts. She cherishes and expands the earliest germs of our intellects. She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifls our little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. She watches over us, like a guar- dian angel, and protects us through all our helpless years, when we know not of her cares and her anxieties on our account. She follows us into the 112 YOLNO LADY S world of men, and lives in us and blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the earth. What constitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do our thoutrhts turn, when our feet are weary with wandc riiifr, and our hearts sick with disappointments? Wlierc shall the truant and for- g-etful husband go for sympathy unalloyed and without design, but to the bosom of her, wlio is ever ready and waiting to sliare in his adversity or his prosperity. And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the follies of a froward child may hope for pardon and forgiveness, this side heaven, that tribunal is the heart of a fond and devoted mother. Finally, her influence is felt deeply in religion. " If Christianity should be compelled to flee from the mansions of the great, the academies of phi- losophers, the halls of legislators, or the throng of busy men, we should find her last and purest re- treat with woman at the fireside ; her last altar would be the female heart ; her last audience would be the children gathered round the knees of the mother ; her last sacrifice, the secret prayer es- caping in silence from her lips, and heard, per- haps, only at the throne of God." Carter. CHARACTER OF THE EMPRESS EUDOCIA. The story of a fair and virtuous maiden, exalted from a private condition lo the imperial throne, might be deemed an incredible romance, if such a romance had not been verified in the marriage of Theodosius. The celebrated Athenias was educat- ed by her father Leontius in the religion and i>e«x or rr.osE. tl3 sciences of the Greeks ; and so advantageous was the opinion which the Athenian philosopher en- tertained of liis contemporaries, that he divided his patrimony between Jiis two sons, beque.itliing to his daug-hter a small legacy of one hundred pieces of gold, in the lively confidence that her beauty and merit would be a sufficient portion. The jeal- ousy and avarice of her brothers scon compelled Athenais to seek a refuge at Constantinople ; and with some hopes, either of justice or favour, to throw herself at the feet of Pulcheria. That saga- cious princess listened to her eloquent complaint ; and secretly destined the daughter of the philoso- pher Leontius for the future wife of the emperor of the East, who had now attained the twentieth year of his age. She easily excited the curiosity of her brother by an interesting picture of the charms of Athenias ; large eyes, a well-proportion- ed nose, a fair complexion, golden locks, a slender person, a graceful demeanour, an understanding improved by study, and a virtue tried by distress. Theodosius, concealed behind a curtain in the apartment of his sister, was permitted to behold tlie Athenian virgin : the modest yovith imme- diately declared his pure and honourable love ; and the royal nuptials were celebrated amidst the acclamations of the capital and the provinces, Athenias, who was easily persuaded to renounce tlie errors of paganism, received at her baptism the Christian name of Eudocia ; but the cautious Pul- cheria withheld the title of Augusta till the wife of Theodosius had approved her fruitfulness by the birth of a daughter, wlio espoused, fifteen years afterwards, the emperor of the West. The brothers of Eudocia obeyed witli some anxiety her imperial summons ; but as she could easily forgive their 8 I 14 YOUNG lady's fortunate unkindncss, she indulg'ed the tenderness, or pcrliaps the vanity, of a sister, by promoting ihcni to the rantt of consuls and prefects. In the luxury of the palace, she still cultivated those in- gcnious arts which had contributed to her great- ncss, and wisely dedicated her talents to the honour of religion and of her husband. Eudocia composed a poetical paraphrase of the first eight books of the Old Testament, and of the prophecies of Daniel and Z ieh;iriah ; a cento of tlie verses of Homer, applied to the life and miracles of Christ, the legend of St. Cyprian, and a panegyric on the Persian victories of Theodosius : and her writings, which were applauded by a servile and superstitious age, have not been disdained by the candour of impar- tial criticism. The fondness of the emperor was not abated by time and possession ; and Eudocia, alter the marriage of her daughter, was permitted to discharge her grateful vows by a solemn pil- grimage to Jerusalem. Her ostentatious progress through the East may seem inconsistent with the spirit of Christian humility : she pronounced, from a throne of gold and gems, an eloquent oration to the senate of Antioch, declared her royal intention of enlarging tlie walls of the city, bestowed a do- nation of two hundred pounds of gold to restore the public baths, and accepted the statues, which were decreed by the gratitude of Antioch. In the Holy Land, her alms and pious foundations ex- ceeded the munificence of the great Helena ; and though the public treasury might be impoverished by this excessive liberiility, she enjoyed the con- scious satisfaction of returning to Constantinople with the chains of St. Peter, the riglit arm of St.. Stephen, and an undoubted picture of the Virgin, painted by St. Luke. But this pilgrimage was the BOOK OF PROSE. 113 fatal term of the glories of Eudocia. Satiated with empty pomp, and unmindlUl, perhaps, of her obli. gations to Pulcheria, she ambitiously aspired to the g-overmncnt of the eastern empire ; the palace was distracted by female discord ; but the victory was at last decided by the superior ascendant of the sister of Theodo'sius. The execution of Pauli- nas, master of the offices, and the disgrace of Cy- rus, praetorian prefect of the East, convinced the public that the favour of Eudocia was not sufficient to protect her most faithful friends ; and the un- common beauty of Paulinus encouraged the secret rumour that his guilt was that of a successful lover. As soon as the empress perceived that the affection of Tlieodosius was irretrievably lost, she requested the permission of retiring to the distant solitude of .Tcrusalcm. She obtained her request; but the jealousy of Theodosius, or the vindictive spirit of Pulcheria, pursued her in her last retreat; and Saturnius, count of the domestics, was direct- ed to punish with death two ecclesiastics, her most favoured servants. Eudocia instantly revenged them by the assassination of the count ; the furious passions which she indulged on this suspicious occasion seemed to justify the severity of Theodo- sius ; and the empress, ignominiously stripped of the honours of Jicr rank, was disgraced, perhaps unjustly, in the eyes of the world. The remainder of the life of Eudocia, about sixteen years, was spent in exile and devotion ; and the approach of age, the death of Theodosius, the misfortunes of her only daughter, who was led a captive from Rome to Carthage, and the society of the holy monks of Palestine, insensibly confirmed the reli- gious temper of her mind. Alter a full experience of the vicissitudes of human life, the daughter of 116 YOUNG lady's tlic philosoplier Lcontius expired at Jcruf?alem, in the sixty-seventh year of her age, protesting-, with her dying breath, that she had never transgressed tiie bounds of innocence and friendship, Gibson. PORTRAIT OF A COUNTRY DOWAGER. Though the prevaiUng incidents of my latter part of life have fixed it almost constantly to a town, yet nobody is more enthusiastically Ibnd of the country than I; and amidst all my banishment from it, I have contrived still to preserve a relish for its pleasures, and an enjoyment of its sports, which few who visit it so seldom arc able to retain. I can still weave an angling-line, or dress a fly, am at least a hit-and-miss-man a shooting, and have not forgotten the tune of a View holla, or the en- rouraging Hark forward ! to a cautious hound. But though these are a set of capacities which mark one's denizcnship to the country, and which tiicrefore I am proud to retain, yet I confess I am more delighted with its quieter and less turbulent pleasures. There is a sort of moral use of the country, which every man who has not lost the rural sentiment will feel ; a certain purity of mind and imagination which its scenes inspire, a simplicity, a colouring of nature on the objects around us, which correct the artifice and interestcdness of the world. There is in the country a pensive vacancy (if the expression may be allowed me) of mind, which stills the violence of passion and the tumult of desire. One can hardly dream on the bank of some nameless brook without making a better and a wiser man. I early took the liberty of boasting BOOK OF PROSE. 117 to my readers, that, as a lounger, I had learned to be idle without guilt, and indolent without incHf- ference. In the country, mctiiinks, I lind this dis- position congenial to the place ; the air which breathes around me, like that which touches the Eolian harp, steals on my soul a tender but varied tone of feeling, that lulls while it elevates, that soothes while it inspires. Not a blade that vvliistles in the breeze, not a weed that spreads its speckled leaves to the sun, but may add something to the ideas of him who can lounge with all his mind open about him. I am not sure if, in the regret which I feel for my absence from the country, I do not raise its enjoyments higher, and paint its landscapes in more glowing colours than the reality miglit afibrd. I have long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair, of transporting myself, without stirring from my parlour, to distant places and to absent friends, of drawing scenes in my mind's eye, and of peopling them with the groups of fancy, or the society of remembrance. When I have sometimes lately felt the dreariness of the town, deserted by my acquaintance ; when I have returned from the coffee-house, where the boxes were unoccupied, and strolled out for my accustomed walk, which even the lame beggar had left, I was fain to shut myself np in my room, order a dish of my best tea (for there is a sort of melancholy which disposes one to make much of one's-self ), and calling up the powers of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed in the country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not wish to be unde- ceived, was the most elysian spot in the world. 118 YOUNG lady's It was at an old lady's, a relation and godmother of mine, where a particular incident occasioned my being Icll during the vacation of two successivo Bcasons. Her house was formed out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of which one tower was still almost entire ; it was tenanted by kindly daws and swallows. Beneath, in a modernized part of tiie building, resided the mistress of the mansion. The house was skirted by a few majestic elms and beeches, and the stumps of several others showed that they had once been more numerous. To the west a clump of firs covered a rugged rocky dell, where the rooks claimed a prescriptive seigniory. Through this a dashing rivulet forced its way, which aller- wards grew quiet in its progress, and gurgling gen- tly through a piece of meadow ground, crossed the bottom of the garden, where a little rustic paling inclosed a washing-green, and a wicker seat, front- ing the south, was placed for the accommodation of the old lady, whose lesser tour, when her fields did not require a visit, used to terminate in this spot. Here, too, were ranged the hives for her bees, whose hum, in a still, warm sunshine, soothed the good old lady's indolence, while tlieir proverbial industry- was sometimes quoted for the instruction of her washers. The brook ran brawling through some underwood on the outside of the garden ; and soon atler formed a little cascade, which fell into the river that winded through a valley in front of the house. When haymaking or harvest was going on, my godmother took her long stick in her hand, and overlooked the labours of the mowers or reap- ers, though I believe there was little thrift in the superintendency, as the visit generally cost her a draught of beer or a dram, to encourage their dili- gence. BOOK OF PROSE. Ii9 Within doors she had so able an assistant, tliat her labour was little. In that department an old man-servant was her minister, the father of my Peter, who serves me not the less faithfully that we have g-athered nuts together in ray godmother's hazel bank. This old butler (I eall him by his title of honour, though, in truth, he had many subordi- nate offices) had originally enlisted with her hus- band, who went into the army a youth, though he afterwards married and bceamc a country gentle- man, had been his servant abroad, and attended him during his last illness at home. His best hat, which he wore a Sundays, with a scarlet waistcoat of his master's, had still a cockade in it. Her husband's books were in a room at the top of a screw staircase, which had scarce been opened since his death ; but her own lil)rary, for Sabbath or rainy days, was ranged in a little book-press in the parlour. It consisted, as far as I can remem- ber, of several volumes of Sermons, a Concordance, Thomas k Kempis, Antoninus's Meditations, the Works of the author of the Whole Duty of Man, and a translation of Boethius ; the original editions of the Spectator and Guardian, Cowley's Poems, Dryden's Works (of which I had lost a volume soon after I first came about her house) Baker's Chronicle, Burnet's History of his own Times, Lamb's Royal Cookery, Abercromby's Scots War- riors, and Nisbet's Heraldry. The subject of the last mentioned book was my godmother's strong ground ; and she could disen- tangle a point of genealogy beyond anybody I ever knew. She had an excellent memory lor anecdote; and her stories, though sometimes long, were never tiresome ; for she had been a woman of great beauty and accom^Ushments in her youth, and had kept 120 YOUNG r^Dv's puch company as made the drama of her stories respectable and interesting. She spoke frequently of such ot' her own family as she remembered vviien a child, but scarcely ever of those she liad lost, thou<^-h one could see she thought of them often. She had buried a beloved husband and four chil- dren. Her 3'oungest, Edward, " her beautiful, her brave," fell in Flanders, and was not entombed with his ancestors. His picture, done when a chil ' an artless red and white portrait, smelling at a nosegay, but very like withal, hung at her bedside, and his sword and gorget were crossed under it. When she spoke of a soldier, it was in a style above her usual simplicity; there was a sort of swell in her language, which sometimes a tear (for age had not lost the privilege of tears) made still more eloquent. She kept her sorrows, like the de- votions that solaced them, sacred to herself. They threw nothing of gloom over her deportment ; a gentle shade only, like the fleckered clouds of sum- mer, that increase, not diminish the benignity of ihe season. She had few neighbours, and still fewer visiters ; but her reception of such as did visit her was cor- dial in the extreme. She pressed a little too much perhaps : but there w^as so much of heart and good will in her importunity, as made her good things Beem better than those of any other table. Nor was her attention confined only to the good fare of her guests, though it might have flattered her vanity more than that of most exhibitors of good dinners, because the cookery was generally directed by her- self Their servants lived as well in her hall, and their horses in her stable. She looked after the airing of their sheets, and saw their fires mended if the night was cold. Her old butler, who rose BOOK OF PROSE. 121 betimes, would never suffer anybody to mount his horse fasting. The parson of the parish was her guest every Sunday, and said prayers in the evening. To say truth, he was no great genius, nor much a scliolar. I beheve my godmother knew rather more of di- vinity than he did ; but she received from him information of another sort ; he told her who were the poor, the sick, the dying of the parish, and she had some assistance, some comfort for them all. I could draw the old lady at this moment! — dressed in gray, with a clean white hood, nicely plaited, (for she was somewhat finical about the neatness of her person,) sitting in her straight- backed elbow-chair, which stood in a large win- dow, scooped out of the thickness of the ancient wall. The middle panes of the window were of painted glass — the story of Joseph and his breth- ren. On the outside waved a honeysuckle tree, which often threw its shade across her book, or her work ; but she would not allow it to be cut down. " It has stood there many a day," said she, " and we old inhabitants should bear with one an- other." Mcthinks I see her thus seated, her spec- tacles on, but raised a little on her brow, for a pause of explanation, their shagreen case laid be- tween the leaves of a silver-clasped family Bible. On one side, her bell and snuif-box ; on the other, her knitting apparatus, in a blue damask bag. — Between her and the fire, an old Spanish pointer, that had formerly been her son Edward's, teased, but not teased out of his gravity, by a little terrier of mine. — All this is before me, and I am a hun- dred miles from town, its inhabitants, and its busi- ness. In town I may have seen such a figure; but the country scenery around, like the tastefiil 122 . YOUNG lady's frame of an excellent picture, gives it a heighten- .ng, a relief, which it would lose in any other situation. Mackenzie. SHAKSPEARE. He was the man who of all modern, and per- haps ancient poets, had the largest and most com- prehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not labo- riously, but luckily : when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning give him the greater commendation : he was naturally learned ; he needed not the spectacles of books to read na- ture ; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat, in- sipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is al- ways great, when some great occasion is presented to him ; no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of the poets. — Q.uantum lenta solent inter viburna capitis. The consideration of this made Mr. Hales, of Eton, say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would produce it much bet- ter done in Shakspcare. Dryden. If ever any author deserved the name of an original, it was Shakspcare : Homer himself drew BOOK OF PROSE. 123 not his art so immediately from the fountains of nature ; it proceeded through Egyptian strainers and channels, and came to him not without some tincture of the learning, or some cast of the mo- dels of those before him. Tlie poetry of Shak- speare was inspiration indeed : he is not so much an imitator as an instrument of nature ; and it is not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. His characters are so mucli nature herself, that it is a sort of injury to call them by so distant a name as copies of her. Those of other poets have a constant resemblance, which shows that they received them from one anotlier, and were but multipliers of tlie saine image ; each picture, like a mock rainbow, is but the reflexion of a reflexion. But every single character in Shakspeare is as much an individual, as those in life itself; it is as impossible to find any two alike ; and such as from their relation and affinity in any respect ap- pear most to be twins, will, upon comparison, be found remarkably distinct. To this life and variety of character, we must add the wonderful preserva- tion of it ; which is such throughout his plays, that had all the speeclies been printed without the very names of the persons, I believe one might have applied them with certainty to every speaker. The power over our passions was never pos- sessed in a more eminent degree, or displayed in so different instances. Yet all along, there is seen no labour, no pains to raise them ; no preparation to guide or guess to the eflfect, or be perceived tc lead toward it : but the heart swells, and the tears burst out, just at the proper places : we are sur prised the moment we weep ; and yet upon rcflec- tion, find tiie passion so just, that we should be 124 YOUNG LADY'a Rurpriscd if we had not wept, and wept at that very moment. How astonishing is it again, tliat the passions directly opposite to these, hiughtcr and spleen, are no less at his command ; that he is not more a master of the great than the ridiculous in human nature ; of our noblest tendernesses, than of our vainest foibles ; of our strongest emotions, than of our idlest sensations ! Nor does he only excel in the passions : in the coolness of reflection and reasoning he is full as admirable. His sentiments are not only in general the most pertinent and judicious upon every sub- ject, but by a talent very peculiar, something be- tween penetration and felicity, he hits upon that particular point on which the bent of each argu- ment turns, or the force of each motive depends. This is perfectly amazing, from a man of no edu- cation or experience in those great and public scenes of life which are usually the subject of his thoughts, so that he seemed to have known the world by intuition, to have looked through human nature at one glance, and to be the only author that gives ground for a very new opinion ; — that tlie philosopher, and even the man of the world, may be horn, as well as the poet. It must be owned, that with all these great ex- cellencies, he has almost as great defects ; and that as he has certainly written better, so he has perhaps written worse, than any other. But I think I can in some measure account for these defects, from several causes and accidents ; with- out which it is hard to imagine that so large and so enlightened a mind could ever have been sus- ceptible of them. That all these contingencies should unite to his disadvantage seems to me al- DOOK OF PROSE. 125 most as singularly unlucky, as tliat so many vari- ous (nay, contrary) talents should meet in one man, was happy and extraordinary. Pope. When the hand of time shall have brushed off his editors and commentators, and when the very name of Voltaire, and even the memory of the languajTc in which he has written, shall be no more, the Apalaehian mountains, the banks of the Ohio, and the jjlains of Sciota shall resound with the accents of this barbarian : in his native tongue he shall roll the genuine passions of nature ; nor shall the griefs of Lear be alleviated, or the charms and wit of Rosalind be abated by time. There is indeed nothing perishable about him, except that very learning which he is said so much to want. He had not, it is true, enough for the demands of tlie age in which he lived, but he had perhaps too much for the reach of his genius, and the interest of his fame. Milton and he will carry the decayed remnants and fripperies of ancient mythology into more distant ages than they are by their own force entitled to extend to ; and the Metamorphoses of Ovid, upheld by them, lay in a new claim to unmerited immortality. Shakspeare is a name so interesting, that it is excusable to stop a moment, nay, it would be in- decent to pass him without the tribute of some admiration. He differs essentially from all other writers : him we may profess rather to feel than to understand ; and it is safer to say, on many oc- casions, that wc are possessed by him, than that we possess him : and no wonder ; — he scatters the seeds of things, the principles of character and ac- tion, with so cunning a hand, and yet with so 126 YOUNG lady's careless an air, and, master of our feelings, submits himself so little to our jud^^nicnt, that every thing seems superior. We discern not his course, we see no connexion of cause and effect ; we are wrapt in ignorant admiration, and claim no kin- dred with his abilities. All the incidents, all the parts, look like chance, whilst we feel and are sensible that the whole is design. His characters not only act in strict conformity to nature, but in strict relation to us ; just so much is shown as is requisite ; just so much is impressed ; he com- mands every passage to our heads and to our hearts, and moulds us as he pleases, and that with so much ease, that he never betrays his own exer- tions. We see these characters act from the min-_ gled motives of passion, reason, interest, habit, and complexion, in all their proportions, when they are supposed to know it not themselves ; and we are made to acknowledge that their actions and senti- ments are, from these motives, the necessary result. He at once blends and distinguishes every thing ; •^vcry thing is complicated, every thing is plajii. I restrain the further expressions of my admira- tion, lest they should not seem applicable to man ; but it is really astonishing that a mere human being, a part of humanity only, should so perfectly comprehend the whole ; and that he should possess such exquisite art, that whilst every child shall feel the whole effect, his learned editors and com- mentators should yet so very frequently mistake or seem ignorant of the cause. A sceptre or a straw are in his hands of equal efficacy ; he needs no selection ; he converts every thing into excel- lence ; nothing is too great, nothing is too base. Is a character efficient like Richard, it is every thing we can wish : is it otherwise, like Hamlet, t BOOK OF PROSE 127 it is productive of equal admiration ; action pro- duces one mode of excellence and inaction another: the chronicle, the novel, or the ballad ; the king or the beggar, the hero or the madman, tlie sot or the fool ; it is all one ; — nothing is worse, nothing is better. The same genius pervades and is equally admirable in all. Or, is a character to be shown in progressive change, and the events of years comprised within the hour, — with what a magic hand does he prepare and scatter his spells ! The understanding must, in the first place, be subdued; and lo ! hov/ the rooted prejudices of the child spring up to confound the man ! The weird sisters rise, and order is extinguished. The laws of naf- ture give way, and leave nothing in our minds but wildness and horror. No pause is allowed us for reflection : horrid sentiment, furious guilt and compunction, air-drawn daggers, murders, ghosts, and enchantment shake and possess us wholly. In the mean time the process is completed. Macbeth changes under our eye, the milk of human kind- ness is converted into gall ; he has supped full of horrors, and his May of life is fallen into the sere, the 3'ellow leaf; whilst we, the fools of amazement, are insensible to the shifting of place and the lapse of time, and till the curtain drops never once wake to the truth of things, or recognise the laws of existence. — On such an occasion, a fellow like Rymer, waking from his trance, shall lift up his constable's staff, and charge this great magician, this daring practiser of arts prohibited, in the name of Aristotle to surrender; whilst Aristotle himself, disowning liis wretched oflicer, would fall prostrate at his feet and acluiowledge his supremacy. M0BQ.« 128 YOUNG lady's THE TALKING LADY. Ben Jonson has a play called The Silent Woman, who turns out, as might be expected, to be no wo- man at all — nothing, as Master Slender said, but " a great lubberly boy ;" thereby, as I appreJiend, discourteously presuming that a silent woman is a non-entity. If the learned dramatist, thus happily prepared and predisposed, had happened to fall in vvitJi such a specimen of female loquacity as I have just parted with, he might perhaps have given us a pendant to his picture in the Talking Lady. Pity but he had ! He would have done her justice, which I could not at any time, least of all now : I am too much stunned ; too much like one escaped from a belfry on a coronation day. I am just resting from the fatigue of four days' hard listen- ing; four snowy, sleety, rainy days — days of every variety of falling weather, all of them too bad to admit the possibility that any petticoated tiling, were she as hardy as a Scotch fir, should stir out, — four days chained by " sad civility" to tliat fire-side, once so quiet, and again — cheering thought I again I trust to be so, when the echo of that visitor's incessant tongue shall have died away. Tiie visitor in question is a very excUcnt and respectable elderly lady, upright in mind and body, with a figure that does honour to her dancing- niaster, a face exceedingly well preserved, wrinkled and freckled, but still fair, and an air of gentiUty over her whole person, wliich is not the least af- fected by her out-of-fashion garb. She could never be taken for any tiling but a woman of family, and perhaps she could as little pass for any other than BOOK OF PROSE. 129 an old maid. She took us in licr \v:iy from lion- don to tlic west of England : and beiiig-, as slit; wrote, " not quite well, not equal to mucli com- pany, prayed that no otlier guest might be admit- ted, so that she might have the pleasure of our con- versation all to herself," — {Ours ! as if it wenj possible for any of us to slide in a word edgewise !) — " and especially enjoy the gratification of talk- ing over old times with the master of the house, her countryman." Such was the promise of her letter, and to the letter it has been kept. All the news and scandal of a large county forty years ago, and a hundred years before, and ever since, all the marriages, deatlis, births, elopements, law- suits, and casualties of her own times, her father's, grandfather's, great-grandfather's, nephew's, ajid grand-nepliew's, has she detailed witli a minute- ness, an accuracy, a prodigality of learning, a pro- fuscness of proper names," a pedantry of locality, which would excite the cnv}' of a county historian, a king-at-arms, or even a Scotch novelist. Pier knowledge is astonishing ; but the most astonish- ing part of all is how she came by that knowledge. It should seem, to listen to h.cr, as if, at some time of her life, she must have listened herself; and yet her countryman declares, that in the forty years he has known her, no such event has occurred ; and she knows new news too I It nmst be intui- tion. The manner of her speech has little remarkable. It is rath(!r old-fashioned and provincial, but per- fectly lady-like, lov/ and gentle, and not seeming so fast as it is ; like the great pedestrians, she clears her ground easily, and never seems to use any exertion ; yet " I would my horse had the speed of her tongue, and go good a continuer." y 130 vou.NG lady's She will talk you sixteen liours a day f^)r twenty days tofjethcr, and not deduct one poor five min- utes for lialts and baiting- time. Talking, sheer talking, is meat and drink and sleep to her. She likes notliing else. Eating is a sad interruption. For the tea-table she has some toleration ; but dinner, witii its clatter of plates and jingle of knives and forks, dinner is her abhorrenee. Nor are the other eommon })arsuits of life more in her favour. Walking exhausts the breath that inight be better employed. Daneing is a noisy diversion, and singing is worse ; she eannot endure any musie, execpt the long, grand, dull concerto, which nobody thinks of listening to. Reading- and chess she classes together as silent barbarisms, unworthy of a social and civilized people. Cards, too, have their faults ; there is a rivalry, a mute eloquence in those four aces, tliat leads av.-ay t!ie attention ; besides, partners will sometimes scold ; so she never plays at cards ; and U[)on the strength of tliis abstinence had very nearly passed for serious^ till it was discovered that she could not abide a long sermon. She always looks out for tlie short- est preacher, and never went to above one Bible meeting in her life. — " Such speeches I" quoth she, " I thought the men never meant to have done. People have great need of patience." Plays, of course, she abhors, and operas, and mobs, and all things that will be heard, especially children ; though for babies, particularly when asleep, for dogs and pictures, and such silent intelligences as serve to talk of and talk to, she has a considerable partiality ; and an agreeable and gracious flattery to the mammas and other owners of these pretty dumb things is a very usual introduction to her miscellaneous harangues. The rhatter of these BOOK OF PHOSE. 131 orations is inconceivably various. Pcrhajis the local and g-enealogical anecdotes, the sort of sup- plement to the history of shire, may be her strong-est point; but she shines almost as much in medicine and housewifery. Her medical disserta- tions savour a little of that particular branch of the science called quackery. She has a specific against almost every disease to which the human frame is liable ; and is terribly prosy and unmer- ciful in her symptoms. Her cures kill. In house- keeping, her notions resemble those of other verbal managers ; full of economy and retrenchment, with a leaning towards reform, though she loves so well to declaim on the abuses in the cook's de- partment, that I am not sure that she would very heartily thank any radical who should sweep them quite aw^ay. For the rest, her system sounds very finely in theory, but rather fails in practice. Her recipes would be capital, only that some way or other they do not eat well ; her preserves seldom keep ; and her sweet wines arc sure to turn sour. These are certainly her favourite topics ; but any one will do. Allude to some anecdote of the neigh- bourhood, and she forthwith treats you with as many i)arallel passages as arc to be found in an air with variations. Take up a new publication, and she is equally at home there ; for though she knows little of books, she has, in the course of an up-and-down life, met W'ith a good many authors, and teazos and provokes you by telling of them precisely what you do not care to hear, the maiden names of their wives, and the christian names of tlieir daughters, and into what families their sisters and cousins married, and in what towns they have lived, what streets, and what numbers. Boswell himself never drew up the table of Dr. Johnson's 132 YOUNG lady's Floet-street courts with greater care, than she made out to me the successive residences of P. P. Esq. author of a tract on the French Revolution, and a pamphlet on the Poor Laws. Tiie very- weather is not a safe subject. Her memory is a perpetual rcj^ister of hard frosts, and long droughts, and high winds, and terrible storms, with all the evils that followed in their train, and all the per- sonal events connected with them, so that if you happen to remark that clouds are come up, and you fear it may rain, she replies, " Ay, it is just such a morning as three-and-thirty years ago, when my poor cousin was married — you remem- ber my cousin Barbara — she married so and so, tJie son of so and so ;" and then comes the whole pedigree of the bridegroom ; the amount of the flettlements, and the reading and signing them over night ; a description of the wedding-dresses, in the style of Sir Charles Grandison, and how much the bride's gown cost per yard ; the names, residences, and a short subsequent history of tho bridemaids and men, the gentleman who gave the bride away, and the clergyman Vv'ho performed the ceremony, with a learned antiquarian digression relative to tlie church ; then the setting out in procession ; the marriage ; the kissing ; the cry- ing ; the breakfasting ; the drawing the cake through the ring; and finally, the bridal excur- sion, which brings us back again at an hour's end to the startmg-post, the weather, and the whole story of the sopping, the drying, the clothes-spoil- ing, the cold-catching, and all the small evils of a summer shower. By this time it rains, and she sits down to a pathetic sec-saw of conjectures on the chance of Mrs. Siiilth's having set out for her daily walk, or the possibility that Dr. Brown may BOOK OF PROSK. 133 have ventured to visit his patients in liis gi^, ai;d tlie certainty that Lady Green's new Jiousemaid would coinc from London on the outside of tho coach. With all this intolerable prosing-, she is actually reckoned a pleasant woman I Her acquaintance in the great manuihcturing town wlicre she usually resides is very large, which may partly account for the misnomer. Her conversation is of a sort to bear dividing. Besides, there is, in all largo societies, an instinctive sympathy which directs cacli individual to the companion most congenial to his luimour. Doubtless, her associates deserve the old French compliment, " lis onl tous un grand talent pour le silence.'''' Parcelled out amongst some seventy or eighty, there may even be some savour in her talk. It is the tcte-d-iete that kills, or the small fire-side circle of three or four, wher« only one can speak, and all the rest must seem to listen — seein ! did I say? — must listen in good earnest. Hotspur's expedient in a similar situa- tion of crying " Hem ! Go to," and marking not a word, will not do here ; compared to her, Owen Glendower was no conjuror. She has tlie eye of a hawk, and detects a wandering glance, an in- cipient yawn, the slightest movement of impa- tiencc. The very needle must be quiet. If a pair of scissors do but wag, she is affronted, draws her- self up, breaks off in the middle of a story, of a sentence, of a word, and the unlucky culprit must, for civiUty's sake, sunnnon a more than Spartan fortitude, and beg the torturer to resume her tor- ments — " That, that is the unkindcst cut of all !" I wonder, if she had happened to have married, how many husbands siie would have tallced to death. It is certain that none of her relations arc 134 YOUNG lady's Iniiirlivcd after she comes to reside with them. Father, motiier, uncle, sister, brother, two nephews, and one niece, all these have successively passed away, though a healthy race, and Avith no visible disorder — except but we must not be unchari- table. They niig-ht have died, though she had been born dumb: — "It is an accident that happens every day." Since the disease of her last nephew, she attempted to form an establishment with a widow lady, for the sake, as they both said, of the comfort of society. But — strange miscalculation I she was a talker too 1 They parted in a week. And we have also parted. 1 am just leturning from escorting her to the coach, which is to con- vey her two Imndred miles westward ; and I have still the murmur of her adieux resounding in my ears, like the indistinct hum of the air on a frosty night. It was curious to see how, almost simul- taneously, tliese mournful adieux sliaded into cheerful salutations of her new comrades, the pas- sengers in the mail. Poor souls ! Little does the civil young lad who made way for her, or the fat lady, his mamma, who with pains and inconvenience made room for her, or the grumpy gentleman in the opposite corner, who, after some dispute, was at length won to admit her dressing-box, little do they suspect what is to befall, them. Two hmi- dred miles ! and she never sleeps in a carriage I Well, patience be with them, and comfort and peace ! A pleasant journey to them ! And to her all happiness I She is a most kind and excellent person, one for whom I would do any thing in my poor power — ay, even were it to listen to her an- other four days. Miss MiTFORD. BOOK OF PROSE. 193 MODERiV ROME. Among the odd traits ob.servable in the Roman [wpulation, is tlicir aversion to two luxuries, espe- cially esteemed in more northern countries, and thoug-h somewhat matters of taste, not altogether unallied to a higher sentiment ; these are flowers and fire. The latter, during winter, is as truly physically requisite as in colder climates ; but lesst surprise should be excited by tliis antipathy among a people whose idea of comfort is so widely differ- ent from our own, and to whom this cheerful in- fluence brings with it none of the domestic asso- ciations which endear it to the denizens of bleaker localities, and the possessors of a better founded enthusiasm. The former distaste is more remark- able, when we consider the proverbial predilections of the Italians for the beautiful ; and yet it is to a surprising extent true, that most are indifferent and many decidedly averse to flowers ; whereas, in Florence, we were ever beset with flower-girls, and tliC Neapolitan peasants are seldom seen with- out a nosegay. I have heard this peculiarity of the Romans ascribed to their very delicate sense of smell, which renders even a mild perfume quite overpowering ; but it is dilBcult to admit a reason which is so inconsistent with their habitual tole- ration of far less geni;il odours, particularly the unwholesome exhalations from the buried aque- ducts and infected campagna. Although the period of my sojourn was con sidered, in some respects, an uncommon season, yet the excellence of the climate of Rome, accord- ing to my best information and experience, ha.s been sadly exaggerated. During winter, a soutli 13fi YOING lady's orly wind, with the usual accompnniment of rain or humidity, or a dry picrcin^^ northerly blast, g-cnc- rally prevail. The brig^ht suiinncr-like days, when the deep azure of the sky and the balmy soilness of ihc breezes recall our cherished imagininj^s of Rome, arc too unfrequent, at least to please the. invalid. Yet one of those beautiful interludes in the capricious shiflings of the weather is, if freely enjoyed, unspeakably renovating-. A promenade upon the Pincian hill or in the Villa Borgehcsp, or an excursion to Tivoli, at such a time, inclines 6ne to forgive and forget all the past waywardness of the elements. In summer, that awful vapoury infection, the malaria, and the extreme heat, are alike deleterious. It is very confidently asserted by individuals who judge from experience, that a vast change has occurred in the climate of Rome witliin the last thirty years, and that, even within a less period, a marked difference, as regards con- stancy and mildness, is observable. The supremacy of the pope and his cardinals, denominated the sacred college, being all but abso- lute, the risk incurred by such a sway renders the government extremely tenacious and jealous, so that of all culprits of whom the law takes cognizance, none are at once more frequently or less deservedly its victims than political offenders. But the chief evil immediately resulting from this condition of things, consists in the concessions which the rulers make to the ruled, in order to maintain their au- thority. IMany of these involve the total subversion of the very principles wliich government is mainly instituted to maintain. Capital crime, for exam- ple, is of all oflences the least liable to retribution by the operation of law in the Roman stales. And such is tlie sanguinary temperament of most of the people, that any severe civil check upon it would BOOK OF PROSE. l37 inflame opposition, and hence render tlicir politinaJ yoke more galling. Of the two evils, therefore, as might be anticipated, government choo;-e that which is morally greatest, and politically least. Conse- quently, the number of personal violences and mur- ders is almost incredible. An incarceration of a lew months for this highest of crimes, is often thi; sole punishment; and even this is dispensed with, if the ollcndcr can effect a pecuniary compromise with the relations of the deceased. Within a short period, the fourth nmrder, under the most atrocious circumstances, alone sufficed to bring a noted cul- prit to the gallows. The present pope, it is believed, in executing plans for the advancement of his own views, is gradually undermining one of the strong-holds of his power. The re-erection of St. Paul's church, in the environs of Rome, in a costly style, and the creation of five new cardinals, both measures in every respect unnecessary, arc among the extrava- gant plans with which he is charged. The means of carrying on these is obtained from extensive loans, for tlie payment of which his most valuable revenues are pledged, and year after year, these are sacrificed to his inability to meet the annual demand. I have heard it confidently estimated, that, adopting the past as a criterion, in the space of thirteen years the resources of the government will be absorbed; and if the ability of the governed to support taxation, at that juncture, is not better than at present, there is no conceivable means of furnishing an ridequate supply to sustain the papal credit* But it is highly i)iobablc that another * Tosti. the present treasurer-t?encrnl, is said to huve adminis- tered the financial department so succc-^fully as to have met tlie annual exifiencies, made up the deficit of the past year, and re tained a surplus. 138 YOUNG lady's and more rapid ag-cncy than the slow depreciation of the treasury will, ere then, have permanently altered the political condition not only of Rome, but of all Italy. The degeneracy of modern Rome is a subject ever forced upon the thoughtful resident, whenever his mind is free to revert to the local and moral circumstances by which he is surrounded. And to one who is in anywise familiar with her past history or susceptible to her present influences, it becomes an almost absorbing theme. Vainly, at times, do the glories of the Vatican allure him ; tlieir delightful enchantments fade before a more impressive reality. He cannot rejoice unreservedly in the splendours of human art, when humanity is a wreck around him; he cannot indulge in stirring retrospection over the sculptured figure of an old Roman, when it serves but to render more promi- nent tlie moral deformity of his descendant. And if a gleam of native enthusiasm excite him, caught from scenes which the supremacy of character has hallowed, or a sentiment of rich gratification steals over him from the midst of material beauty, the idea wliich he most loves to connect with these — the idea of his race brings with it an overpowering sadness. Throughout all that art or antiquity here unfolds, he feels as if wandering in a beautiful gar- den, once blest with a presence which shall know it no more. He feels, in his inmost soul, that it was this non-existent object of his love which lent an hitherto unknown interest to the marble and canvas, to mount and river ; and while ever and anon their silent beauty affords a sad pleasure, they oflener serve but to remind him of the grave which has closed over the l)eloved of his memory. Yet he gradually derives consolation, w^hich BOOK OF PROSE. 139 sometimes brig-htens into happiness, in attaching' himself to sucli mementoes ; and Aviicn tliey recall most stron rels, battles, scandal — nothing came amiss to her. She could have furnished a weekly paper from her own stores of facts, without once resorting for assistance to the courts of law or the two houses of parliament. She was a very charitable reporter too; threw her own sunshine into the shady places, and would hope and doubt as long as either was possible. Her fertility of intelligence was wonderful ; and so early ! Her news hud al- ways the bloom on it; there was no being before- hand with Lucy. It was a little mortifying when one came prepared with something very recent and surprising, something that should have made her start with astonishment, to find her fully ac^ quainted w-ith the story, and able to lurnish you with twenty particulars that you had never heard of. But this evil had its peculiar compensation. By Lucy's aid I passed with every body, but Lucy herself, for a woman of great information, an ex- cellent authority, an undoubted reference in all matters of gossipry. Now I lag miserably behind the time ; I never hear of a death till afier the funeral, nor of a wxdding till I read it i)i the pa- pers ; and, when people talk of reports and ru- mours, they undo me. I should be obliged to run away from the tea-tables, if I had not taken the resolution to look wise and say nothing, and live on my old reputation. Indeed, even now Lucy's 160 YOUNG lady's fund is not entirely exhausted ; tilings have not quite done happening. I knovi nothing new ; but my knowledge of by-gone passages is absolute; I can prophesy past events like a gipsy. Scattered amongst her great merits Lucy had a few small faults, as all persons should have. Slie had occasionally an aptness to take offence where none was intended, and then the whole house bore audible testimony to her displeasure : she used to scour through half-a-dozen doors in a minute for tiie mere purpose of banging them after her. She had rather more fears than were quite convenient of ghosts and witches, and thunder, and earwigs, and various other real and unreal sights and sounds, and thought nothing of rousing half the family in the middle of the night at the first symp- tom of a thunder-storm or an apparition. She had a terrible genius for music, and a tremendously powerful shrill high voice. Oh ! her door-clapping was notliing to her singing ! it rang through one's head like the screams of a peacock. Lastly, she was a sad flirt ; she had about twenty lovers whilst she lived with us, probably more, but upwards of twenty she acknowledged. Her master, who watched with great amusement this vminterrupted and intricate succession of favourites, had the habit of calling her by the name of the reigning beau — Mrs. Charles, Mrs. John, Mrs. Robert; so that she has answered in her time to as many masculine appellations as would serve to supply a large fami- ly with a " commodity of good names." Once he departed from tliis custom, and called her " Jenny Denison." On her inquiring the reason, we showed her " Old Mortality," and asked if she could not guess. " Dear me," said she, "why Jenny Denison had only two I" Amongst Lucy's twenty were three BOOK OF PROSE. 161 one eyed lovers, like the three one-eyed calendars in the " Arabian Nights." They were much about the same period, nearly contemporaries, and one of them had nearly carried oif the fair Helen. If he had had two eyes, his success would have been certain. She said yes and no, and yes again ; he was a very nice young' man — but that one eye — that unlucky one eye ! — and tlie being rallied on her three calendars. There was no getting- over that one eye : she said no, once more, and stood firm. And yet the pendulum might have continued to vibrate many times longer, had it not been fixed by the athletic charms of a gigantic London tailor, a superb man, really : black-haired, black-eyed, six feet high, and larg-e in proportion. He canje to improve the country fashions, and fixed his shop-board in a cottage so near us tliat his garden was only divided from our lawn by a plantation full of acacias and lioneysucklcs, where " the air smelt wooingly." It follov^-cd of course that he should make love to Lucy, and that Lucy should listen. All was speedily settled ; as soon as he should be established in a good business, which, from his incomparable talent at cutting out, no- body could doubt, they were to be married. But they had not calculated on the perversity of coun- try taste ; he was too good a workman ; liis suits fitted over well ; his employers missed certain ac- customed awkwardnesses and redundancies which passed for beauties ; besides, tlie stiffness and tight ness which distinguished the new coat of the an- den regime, were wanting in tlie make of this daring innovator. The shears of our Bond-street cutter were as powerful as the wooden sword of Harlequin ; he turned his clowns into gentlemen, and their brother clod-hoppers laughed at them, n 162 YOUNG lady's and tlicy were ashamed. So the poor tailor lost hus customers and his credit ; and just as Jic had obtained Lucy's consent to the marriage, he walk- ed off one fair morning, and was never heard of more. Lucy's absorbing feeling on this catastrophe was astonishment, pure unmixed astonishment I One would have thought that she considered fickle- ness as a female privilege, and had never heard of a man deserting a woman in her life. For three days she could only wonder ; then came great indignation, and a little, a very little grief, which showed itself not so much in her words, which were chiefly such disclaimers as " I don't care ! very lucky I happy escape !" and so on, as in her goings and doings, her aversion to the poor acacia grove, and even to the sight and smell of honeysuckles, her total loss of jrnemory, and above all, in the distaste she showed to new conquests. She paid her faithless suitor the compliment of remaining loverless for three weary months ; and even when she relented a little, she admitted no fresh adorer, nothing but an old hanger-on ; one not quite discarded during the tailor's reign ; one who had dangled after iier durmg the long court- ship of the three calendars ; one who was the handiest and most complaisant of wooers, always ready to fill up an interval, like a book, v/hich can be laid aside when company comes in, and resum- ed a month afterwards at the very page and line where the reader left off. I think it was an affair of amusement and convenience on both sides. Lucy never intended to marry this commodious stopper of love-gaps ; and he, though he courted her for ten mortal years, never made a direct offer, till afler the banns were published between her and her present husband : then, indeed, he said he was DOOK OF PROSK. 163 Borry — he had hoped — was it too late ? and so forth. Ah ! his sorrow was nothing to ours, and, when it came to the point, notliing to Lucy's. She cried every day Ibr a fortnight, and had not her successor in othce, the new housemaid, arrived, I do really believe that this lover would have shared tlie fate of the many successors to the unfortunate tailor. I hope that her choice has been fortunate ; it is certainly very different from what we all expected. The happy man had been a neighbour, (not on the side of the acacia-trecs,) and on his removal to a greater distance the marriage took place. Poor dear Lucy ! her spouse is the greatest possible contrast to herself; ten years younger at the very least; well-looking, but with no expression good or bad — I don't tliink he could smile, if he would — assuredly he never tries ; well made, but as stiff as a poker; I dare say, he never ran three yards in his life ; perfectly steady, sober, honest, and in- dustrious; but so young, so grave, so dull I one of your " demure boys," as Falstaff calls them, " that never come to proof" You might guess a mile off that he was a schoolmaster, from the swelling pomposity of gait, the solemn decorum of manner, the affectation of age and wisdom, which contrast so oddly with his young unmeaning face. The moment he speaks, you arc certain. Nobody but a village pedagogue ever did or ever could talk like Mr. Brown, — ever displayed such elaborate polite- ness, such a study of phrases, such choice words and long words, and fine words and hard words ! He speaks by the book, — the spelling-book, and is civil after the fashion of the Polite Letter-Writer. He is so entirely without tact, that he does not in the least understand the impression produced by 164 YOUNG lady's iiis wife's delightful manners, and interrupts her perpetually to sjx^eehify and apologize, and explain and amend. He is fond of her, nevertheless, in his own cold slow way, and proud of her, and grateful to her friends, and a very good khid of young man altogether ; only that 1 cannot quite tbrgive him for taking Lucy away in the fir:it place, and making her a school-mistress in the second. She a scliool-mistrcss, a keeper of silence, a maintainer of discipline, a scolder, a punisher ! All I she would rather be scolded herself; it would be a far lighter punishment. Lucy likes her voca- tion as little as I do. She has not the natural love of children, which would reconcile her to the evils they cause ; and she has a real passion for cleanli- ness, a fiery spirit of dispatch, which cannot en- dure the dust and litter created by the little troop on the one hand, or their tormenting slowness and stupidity on the other. She was the quickest and neatest of work- women, piqued herself on complet- ing a shirt or a gown sooner and better than seem- ed possible, and was scandalized at finding such talents degraded to the ignoble occupations of tacking a quarter of a yard of hemming for one, pinning half a scam for anotlier, picking out the crooked stitching of a third, and working over the weak irregular burst-out button-hole of a fourth. When she first went to S , she was strongly tempted to do all the work herself. " The children would have liked it," said she, " and really I don't think the mothers would have objected ; they care for nothing but marking. There are seven girls now in the school working samplers to be framed. Such a waste of silk, and time, and trouble ! I said to Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith said to me." — Tiien she recounted the whole battle of the sam- BOOK OF PROSE. IGo piers, and her defeat; and then she sent for one which, in spite of licr declaration tiiat lur girls never finished any thing', was quite completed (probably with a good deal of her assistance), and of which, notwithstanding her rational objection to its uselcssness, Lucy was not a little proud. Slie held it up with great delight, pointed out all the beauties, selected her own favourite parts, especially a certain square rose-bud, and tlie land- scape at the bottom ; and finally pinned it against the wall, to show the effect it would have when framed. Really, that sampler was a superb thing in its way. First came a plain pink border ; then a green border, zig-zag ; then a crimson, wavy ; then a brown, of a different and more coniplicated ■/ig-zag ; then the alphabet, great and small, in every colour of the rainbow, followed by a row of figures, flanked on one side by a flower, name un- known, tulip, poppy, lily, — something orange or scarlet, or orange-scarlet; on the other by the famous rose-bud ; then divers sentences, religious and moral : — Lucy was quite provoked with me for not being able to read them : I dare say she thought in her heart that I was as stupid as any of her scholars ; but never was MS. so illegible, not even my own, as the print work of that sam- pler — then, last and finest, the landscape, in all its glory. It occupied the whole narrow line at the bottom, and was composed with great regularity. In the centre was a house of a bright scarlet, with yellow windows, a green door, and a blue roof: on one side, a man with a dog ; on the other, a wo- man with a jctrt — this is Lucy's information ; I should never have guessed that there was any difference, except in colour, between the man and the woman, the dog and the cat ; they were in 166 YOUNG lady's form, height, and size, aUke to a thread; the man gray, the woman pink, liis attendant white, and her's black. Next to these figures, on either side, rose two fir-trees from two red flower-pots, nice httle round bushes of a bright green intermixed with brown stitches, which Lucy explained, not to me. — " Don't you see the fir-cones. Sir ? Don't you remember how fond she used to be of picking them up in her little basket at tlie dear old place '' Poor thing, I thought of her all the time that I was working them 1 Don't you like the fir-cones?" After this, I looked at the landscape almost as lovingly as Lucy herself. With all her dislike to keeping school, the dear Lucy seems happy. In addition to the merciful spirit of conformity, which shapes the mind to the situation, wliatcver that may be, slie has many sources of vanity and comfort — her house, above all. It is a very respectable dwelling, finely placed on the edge of a large common, close to a high- road with a pretty flower-court before it, shaded by four horse-chestnuts cut into arches, a sashed window on eitlier side of the door, and on the door a brass knocker, wliieh being securely nailed down, serves as a quiet peaceable handle for all goers, instead of the importunate and noisy use for which it was designed. Jutting out at one end of the court is a small stable ; retiring back at the other, a large school-room, and behind a yard for children, pigs, and poultry, a garden, and an ar- bour. The inside is full of comfort; miraculously clean and orderly for a village school, and with a little touch of very allowable finery in the gay window-curtains, the cupboard full of pretty china, the handsome chairs, the bright mahogany table, the sliining tea-urn, and briUiant tea-tray that de- BOOK OF PROSE. 167 corate the parlour. What a pleasure it is to see Lucy presiding in that parlour, in all the glory of lier honest altcction and her warm hospitality, making tea for the three guests whom she loves best in the world, vaunting with courteous pride her home-made bread and her fresh butter, yet tliinking nothing good enough for the occasion ; smiling and glowing, and looking the very image of beautiful happiness. — Such a moment almost consoles us for losing her. Lucy's pleasure is in her house ; mine is in its situation. The common on which it stands is one of a series of heathy hills, or rather a high table- land, pierced in one part by a ravine of marshy ground, filled witli alder bushes growing larger and larger as the valley widens, and at last mixing with the fine old oaks of the forest of P . Nothing can be more delightful than to sit on the steep brow of the hill, amongst the fragrant heath- flowers, the blue-bells, and the wild thyme, and look upon the sea of trees spreading out beneatJi us ; the sluggish water just peeping from amid the alders, giving brightly back the bright blue sky ; and, farther down, herds of rough ponies, and of small stunted cows, the wealth of the poor, com- ing up from the forest. I have sometimes seen two hundred of these cows together, each belong- ing to a different person, and distinguishing and obeying the call of its milker. All the boundaries of this heath are beautiful. On one side is the hanging coppice, where the lily of the valley grows so plentifully amongst broken ridges and fox-earths. and the roots of pollard-trees. On another are the immense fir plantations of Mr. B., whose balmy odour hangs heavily in the air, or comes sailing on the breeze like smoke across tlie landscape. 168 YocNG lady's Farther on, beyond the pretty parsonage-house, with its short ivcnuc, its fish-ponds, and the inartahlc ! Jlowcver she might deserve punishment, they shrunk from inflicting it ! and they resolved to keep Ann Belson themselves, as they could not recommend her conscientiously to any one else. This was a truly benevolent action ; because, if she continued to sin, they alone were cY{)osed to suffer from her fault. But they virtu- ously resolved to put no further temptation in her way, and to guard her against herself, by unre- mitting vigilance. During tiic lour succeeding years, Ann Belson's honesty was so entirely without a stain, that her benevolent friends were convinced that her peni- tcncc was sincere, and congratulated themselves tJiat they had treated her with such lenity. At this period tlie j>ressurc of the times, and losses in trade, produced a change in the circum- stances of the Melbournes ; and retrenchment be- came necessary. They therefore felt it right to discharge some of their servants, and particularly the lady's maid. The grateful Ann would not hear of this dis- missal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, and in any situation ; nay, she declared her willing- ness to live with her indulgent friends for nothing; but, as they were too generous to accept her ser- vices at so great a disadvantage to herself, especial- ly as slic had poor relations to maintain, they re- solved to procure her a situation ; and having heard of a very advantageous one, for which she was admirably calculated, they insisted on her try- ing to procure it. " But what shall we do, my dear," said the wife U ?W YOUNG lady's to her husband, " conccnung' Ann's cliaractcr? Must wc tell the whole truth ? As slic has been unifonnly honest duriiijiT the last four years, should we not he justified in eoiicealiiinf her limit?" "Yes; I think, at least I hope so," replied he. " Still, as she was dishonest more years than she has now been honest, I really .... I .... it is a very puz- zling- question, Charlotte ; and I am but a weak casuist." A stronjr Christian might not have felt the point so dilBeult. But the Melbournes had not studied serious things deeply ; and the result of tlic consultation was, tliat Ann Belson's past faults should be concealed, if jwssible. And possible it was. Lady Baryton, the young and noble bride who wislied to liire her, was a thoughtless, careless woman of fashion ; and, as she learned that Ann could make dresses, and dress hair to admiration, she made few other in- quiries ; and Ann was installed in her new place. It was, alas ! tlic most improper of places, even for a sincere jjcnitcnt, like Ann I3elson ; for it was a place of the most dangerous trust. Jewels, laces, ornaments of all kinds, were not only continually exposed to her eyes, but placed under her especial care. Not those alone. When her lady returned home from a run of good luck at loo, a reticule, containing bank-notes and sovereigns, was emptied into an unlocked drawer ; and Ann was told how fortunate her lady had been. The first time that this heedless woman acted thus, the poor Ann begged she would lock up her money. " Not I ; It is too much trouble; and why should I?" — " Because, my lady, it is not right to leave money about ; it may be stolen." — " Nonsense ! who should steal it ? I know you must be honest ; the Melbournes gave you such a high character." DOOK OF PROSE. 211 Here Ann turned a\v;iy in ajj-ony and confusion. ''But, my lady, llic other servants," she resumed in a faint vuiee. " Pray, what business liave the other servants at my drawers ? — However, do you lock up the drawer, and keep tlie key." — " No ; keep it ijoitrsclf, my lady." — " What, 1 ^ro about with keys, like a house-keeper ? Take it, I say 1" Then flinirinir the key down, she went sinjriunr out of the room, little thinkintr to what peril, tern- poral and sj)iritual, sl»e was exposing a hiiplcss fellow-creature. For some minutes aflcr this new danger had opened uj)on her, Ann sat leaning' on her hands, absorbed in painful meditation, and connnuning seriously with her own heart ; nay, she even pray- ed for a few moments to be delivered from evil ; but the next minute she was ashamed of her own self-distrust, and tried to resume her business with her usual alacrity. A few evenin{(s afterwards, her lady broupcht her reticule home, and ^ave it to Ann, filled as before. " I conclude, my lady, you know how niuch money is in this purse." — " I did know ; but I have forgotten." — "Then let me tell it." — "No, no; nonsense I" she replied as she left the room: " lock it up, and then it will be safe, you know, as I can trust you." Ann sighed deeply, but n^peated within herself, " Yes, yes; I am certainly now to be trusted ;" but, as she said this, she saw two sovereigns on the carpet, which she had dropped out of the reticule in emptying it, and had locked the drawer without perceiving. Aim felt fluttered when she discovered them ; but, takinjr them up, resolutely felt fur the key to add them to tiie others ; — but the image of her recently widowed sister, and her large destitute family, rose before 212 YOUNG lady's her, and she thought she would not return them, hut ask her lady to give them to the poor widow. But then, her lady liad already been very bountiful to lier, and she would not ask her ; however, she would consider the matter, and it seemed as if it was intended she should have the sovereigns ; for tlicy were separated from the rest, as if for her. Alas I it would have been safer for her to believe tliat they were left there as a snare to try her penitence, and her faith ; but she took a different view of it ; she picked up tiie gold, then laid it down ; and long and severe was the conflict in her heart between good and evil. We weep over the woes of romance ; we shed wellmotived tears over the sorrows of real life, but, where is the fiction, however highly wrought, and where the sorrows, however acute, that can deserve our pity and our sympathy so strongly, as the agony and conflicts of a penitent, yet tempted soul I Of a soul that has turned to virtue, but is as forci- bly pulled back again to vice, — that knows its own danger, without power to hurry from it ; till, -"'"^dseinated by the glittering bait, as the bird by the rattlesnake, it yields to its fatal allurements, re- gardless of consequences ! It was not without many a heartache, many a struggle, that Ann Bel- son gave way to the temptation, and put the gold in her pocket ; and when she had done so, she was told her sister was ill, and had sent to beg she would come to her, late as it was. Accordingly, when her lady was in bed, she obtained leave to go to her, and while she relieved her sister's wants with the two purloined sovereigns, the poor thing almost fancied that she had done a good action I Oh ! never is sin so dangerous as when it has allured us in the sliape of a deed of benevolence. BOOK OF PROSE. 213 It had so allured the Melbcnirnes when they con- cealed Ann's faults from Lady IJaryton ; and its bitter fruits were only too fast preparing. " Ce n''est que le premier pas qui coute ;" says the proverb, or " the first step is the only difficult one." The next time her lady brought her win- nings to her, Ann pursued a new plan ; she insist- ed on telling the money over ; but took care to make it less than it was, by two or three pounds. Not long after, she told Lady Baryton that she must have a new lock put on the drawer that held the money, as she had certainly dropped the key someichere ; and that, before she missed it, some one, she was sure, had been trying at the lock ; for it was evidently hampered the last time she unlocked it. " Well, then, get a new lock," replied her careless mistress ; " however, let the drawer be forced now ; and then we had better tell over tlie money." The drawer was forced ; they told the money ; and even Lady Baryton was conscious that some of it was missing. But, the missintr key, and hampered lock, exonerated Ann from suspicion ; especially as Ann owned that she had discovered the loss before ; and declared that, had not her lady insisted on telling over tlie money, she had intended to replace it gradually ; becauSo she felt herself responsible ; while Lady Baryton, satisfied and deceived, recommended her to be on the watch for the thief, and soon forgot the whole circumstance. Lady Baryton thought herself, and perhaps she was, a woman of feeling. She never rcKsl the Old- Bailey convictions without mourning over the prisoners condemned to death ; and never read an account of an execution without shuddering. Still, from want of reflection, and a high-principled 214 YOUNG lady's sense of what we owe to others, especially to those who arc the members of our own houseliold, she never for one moment troubled herself to remem- ber that she was daily tlirowing temptations in the way of a servant to commit the very faults which led those convicts, whom she pitied, to the fate which she deplored. Alas ! what have those per- sons to answer for, in every situation of life, who consider their dependants and servants merely as such, without remembering' that tliey are, like themsclvcp, heirs of the invisible world to come ; and that, if they take no pains to enlig-hten their minds, in order to save their immortal souls, they should, at least, be careful never to endanger them. In a few weeks after the dialogue given above, Lady Baryton bought some strings of pearls at an India sale ; and having, on her way thence, shown them to her jeweller, that he might count them, and see if there were enougli to make a pair of bracelets, she brought them home, because she could not yet afford proper clasps to fasten them ; and these were committed to Ann's care. But, as Lord Baryton, the next week, gave his lady a pair of diamond clasps, she sent the pearls to be made up immediately. In the evening, however, the jeweller came to tell her that there were two strings less than when she brought them before. " Then they must have been stolen !" she exclaim- ed ; " and now I remember that Belson told me she was sure there was a thief in the house." — " Arc you sure," said Lord Baryton, " that Belson is not the thief herself ?" — "Impossible! I had such a character of her ! and I have trusted her implicitly !" — " It is not right to tempt even the raost honest," replied Lord Baryton; "but we BOOK OF PROSE. 215 must have strict search made ; and all the servants must be examined." They were so ; but, as Ann Bclson was not a hardened offender, she soon betrayed herself by her evident misery and terror ; and was committed to prison on her own full confession ; but she could not help exclaiming-, in the agony of her heart, " Oh, my lady ! remember that I conjured you not to trust me !" and Lady Baryton's heart reproaclied her, at least for some hours. There were other hearts also that experienced self-re- proach, and of a far longer duration ; for the Mel- bournes, when they heard what had happened, saw that the seeming benevolence of their concealment had been a real injury, and had ruined her whom they meant to save. They saw that had they told Lady Baryton the truth, that lady would either not have hired her, in spite of her skill, or she would have taken care not to put her in situations calculated to tempt her cupidity. But, neither Lady Baryton's regrets, nor self-reproach, nor the greater agonies of the Melbournes, could alter or avert the course of justice ; and Ann Belson was condemned to death. She was, however, strongly recommended to mercy, both by the jury and the noble prosecutor ; and her conduct in prison was so exemplary, so indicative of tlie deep contrition of a trembling, humble Christian, tliat, at length, the intercession was not in vain ; and the Mel- bournes Jiad the comfort of carrying to her what was to ihem, at least, joyful news ; namely, that her sentence was commuted for transportation. Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the self-judged Melbournes ; since they had tlie misery of seeing the affectionate nurse of their cliildren, tlie being endeared to tliem by many years of 21 G YOUNG lady's , iiclivc services, torn from all the tender ties of txistcncc, and exiled for life as a lelon to a distant land ! exiled too, for a crime which, had they per- formed their social duty, she might never have committed. But the pain of mind which they endured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown away on them ; as it awakened them to serious reflection ; they learned to remember, and to teach their children to remember, the holy command, " that we are not to do evil, that good may come ;" and that no deviation from truth and ingenuousness can be justified, even if it claims for itself the plausible title of the active or passive ue of benevolkxce. Mrs. Opie. ARABELLA JOHNSON. Lady Arabell.\ Johnson was the daughter of the proud Earl of Lincoln. She was an exceed- ingly beautiful girl, and her father cherished the hope of seeing her united to a nobleman of the first rank. But there had been a different path ap- pointed her ; and it seemed not among the least extraordinary incidents marking her fortune, that her father consented, notwithstanding his ambiti- ous projects, that she should marry Mr. Johnson. He was, to be sure, very rich, and connected with families of high rank ; but he had no title in pos- session or expectancy. Mr. Johnson was naturally of a contemplative character ; serious in his deportment, with an ex- pression of thought on his mild countenance, which people, who for the first time beheld him, termed sadness. Yet his heart was warm and BOOK OF PROSE. 217 frank ; and when, in intercourse with his friends, he threw off the reserve which proceeded more from excess of feeUng than a want of sympathy with his fellow-creatures, few were so agreeable, or so beloved in society, as this amiable man. His wife, the Lady Arabella, on the contrary, was of a joy- ous spirit. It seemed as if no blig-ht of sorrow had ever fallen on her, and that she was happy because she was innocent. Even the most rigid and gloomy Christians never objected to her gaiety ; they ap- peared to feel that her gladness proceeded from a guileless heart. The pensiveness on her husband's brow might sojnetimes seem too deeply shadowed, contrasted, as it was, with the sunshine of her bright face, tc promise pcrtcct congeniality of feeling between the pair ; but, when they spoke to each other, the hearer was instantly aware of the affectionate communion tlieir hearts enjoyed. There was a modulation in their voices which love only can teach ; it was not terms of endearment, — such are easily said ; it was the manner, the tone, the soft, low-brcathcd, and, as it were, watchful sympathy of tone, always chiming in harmony, and making, to the soul of cither, that pleasant music, which no skill in art, no sound in nature, can equal. But the Cliristian can never live for himself. Mr. Johnson, blessed as his lot was, could not feel happy while those pious men, whose tenets he respected, were suffering persecution. It is true, he sometimes regretted tliat they should adhere, with such unbending pertinacity, to those points of their faith which only regarded ceremonials in religion ; but their firmness, under every trial which their vindictive enemies could inflict, gave 318 YOUNG lady's a sacredncss lo the sufFering- cause, which enlisted all his benevolent feelings in their behalf. He had a large estate unincumbered. He had been married to the Lady Arabella ten years, but they had no children ; and it often occurred to him, that it was his duty to employ his wealth in sue- couring the oppressed Puritans. His own mildness and moderation, and the powerful family with which he was connected, had effectually screened him from the persecutions which had followed the obnoxious party he favoured. His moderation did not proceed from timidity, or love of worldly ease, or indifference to the cause he had espoused; — it was the character of the man. He was con- siderate. Such people make less bustle in the world, and, consequently, draw less notice than the ardent and enthusiastic ; but they are, notwithstanding, the stamina of every successful adventure. Such a one will hold on his way when a more fiery spirit is broken or subdued ; and the impetus given to a particular train of events by the latter, would soon cease, were not the motion continued by the cool perseverance of the former. The project of the Puritans, to transport them- selves, their wives and cliildren, to the new world, and tlicre to remain and found a nation, considered only by tlie light of sober reason, was as romantic an undertaking as ever sane men adopted Some were too old to provide for themselves — some were too young to render assistance — and many were too poor to procure necessaries, even for the voyage. But all these must go. No one of the brethren, who wished to join the expedition, must be rejected be- cause he was old or poor. And their little ones, — could they leave them behind ? BOOK OF PROSE. S19 Mr. Jolinson's eyes overflowed with tears, and his lieart throbbed with thick hearings, while he read a letter from one of his friends, describing- the difficulties they were encountering, to prepare for the emigration of the colony. " Oh," thought he, " why do I sit here ? Why, when God has placed the means in my hands, do I not. arise, and offer of my substance to assist his servants ? And why do I not go with tlicm ?" He paused, for the thought of his wife came over his mind. Could she endure the change ? Ought lie to expect it, to wish it ? Should her love to him be tlie means of exposing her delicate form to the dangers of the sea — the perils of a howling wilderness ? Just as he had concluded, that even to think of her making such a sacrifice, was a breach of the protection he liad vowed to her at the altar, she entered the library where he was sitting. " In tears, my beloved ?" said Arabella, advancing, and laying her white hand softly on her husband's shoulder, while the smile that could usually chase away all his cares played on her lips. But, as he raised his eyes to hers, their deep sorrow awed her, and she felt it wf^s no earthly grief that oppressed liim. Slie drew closer to him, sat down by his side, took one of his hands between hers, and for some minutes kept that silence which is tlie surest sign of deep sympathy. But when he had told her the cause why he wept, and read to her the letter, it was wonderful to see how the spirit of that angelic woman awoke to the perception of all that was in his heart. He had spoken nothing of his own thoughts, or wishes, or struggles. But she comprehended them in a moment; and she felt, at the same time, happy that she had at last penetrated the cause why his 230 YOUNG lady's countenance had, for many weeks, worn more than its usual pensivencss, and that it was in lier power to comfort him — to reconcile him to himself — to aid him in the performance of his duty. Every thing was soon arranged, and Mr. Jolm- son and the Lady Arabella joined their names to the list of the emigrants. " It is no cross to me to forsake the world, if I may only keep by your side," whispered Arabella to her husband, while a fashionable friend was expatiating on tlie terrible dangers to be encountered in a pilgrimage to America. And all her conduct was framed to lessen his uneasiness for her ; to take from him every fear that her compliance with his wishes was a sacrifice of her inclination ; indeed, she seemed to enjoy the thought of assisting him to do tlie good he meditated, as a privilege. Mr. Jolmson disposed of the bulk of his property in England, that he might have the power of aid- ing those poor pious persons, who had hearts, but not means, to join the expedition. He provided comforts for many who had none to help them ; and it was chiefly owing to the judicious plans he proposed, and the efficient pecuniary aid he was ever ready to furnish," that the embarkation of so large a company was effected. In all this he was cheered by the approving smiles of her whom he loved more than all the world ; and the more than heroic, the Christian fortitude and cheerfulness with which his wife resigned all the luxuries and blandishments of her high station, and bent her whole heart to aid him in performing what he felt to be his duty, infused into his soul a strength, an ardour, a joy, that made every labour and sacrifice seem a triumph. At length, they embarked; and, during the long^ DOOK OF PROSE. 221 passage, the Lady Arabella displayed the same unshaken eonfidcnce in the success of their ex- pedition. The vivacity of her spirits had, it is true, some- what abated ; but it was only the chastened effect which the deep responsibility of a design so im- portant as that in which she had voluntarily en- gaged, would have on a mind so pure and devoted as hers. Yet there was nothing in her air like the prim gravity with which our imagination is accustomed to invest the Puritans, especially the men. She was habitually cheerful. But the most rigid among that company would unliesitatingly have pointed her out as their example in Christian patience and charity. She was the sunbeam on their dark path ; and not only her husband, but all to whom she was known, regarded her as almost, if not altogether, an angel. They landed at Salem, June 12tii, 1630. The condition in which they found the colony at that place, was most distressing. They had looked on death, and wept over the graves of their friends, till the fountain of their tears seemed dried up ; and they had felt, in their despair, that it was better for them to die than to live. They needed sympathy, aid, comforters. And in those who landed they found all these. The Lady Arabella, especially, exerted herself to soothe the mourners, and presented, with her own hands, many of those delicacies, which her husband had carefully pro- vided for her, to the sick and debilitated among the settlers. And many a blessing was invoked on her head, and many a prayer was breathed for her preservation. But her work was soon done. She was attacked with severe pain in her limbs, the consequence of 222 YOUNG lady's a cold, accompanied by a slow fever ; yet she still maintained her cheerfulness, and even exhibited increasing interest in the plans then agitating among the company, respecting the place where they should make tlicir permanent settlement. Her mind, during her sickness, wliich lasted ten days, appeared wholly intent on promoting the in- terests of pure religion ; and, as connected with tliat end, she, like all the colonists, thought the settlement of New-England essentially necessary. Much of her time was passed in conversing with her husband and those about her, on the future prospects of the colony. And it afterwards mighti- ly encouraged the hearts of those self-exiled people, that the Lady Arabella had always, even in the midst of her suffering, rejoiced that she had shared in the expedition, and declared her conviction, that God would prosper them even beyond their hopes. The night before she died, she endured much, and her husband watched beside her ; but towards morning, she insisted he should retire, and try to sleep. To gratify her, he lay down ; and, contrary to his expectations, — for his mind was tortured with anxiety and pity for his wife, though he still clung to the hope that she would ultimately re- cover, — he fell asleep. He was aroused from a dream, in which he had beheld his Arabella cloth- ed in her bridal array, and resplendent in beauty, just as she looked wlien he led her to the altar — he was roused, and told that she was dying. He started from the bed, and, trembling in every joint, he hurried to the small, though not uncomfortable apartment, which had been provided for her. The sun was just rising, and the cool air of the morning came fresh from the waters ; but it could not revive her. The " mortal paleness" was on her BOOK OF PROSK. 223 cheek, — and her husband saw it; and, for a few moments, he was too much overcome to hstcn to the sweet, comforting^ words that broke from her lips, as if she would impart to his mind a portion of the peace that pervaded hers. " My beloved," said she softly, a faint smile hovering on her white lips — and she extended her cold hand to clasp the one he offered. 'J'he touch seemed to chill his soul — it was death. His limbs became powerless ; and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face, and groaned aloud. She raised her head from the pillow, and gazed on him with eyes in which tenderness and pity seemed strug- gling through the cloud that was slowly, but sure- ly, separating the world for ever from her view. With a strong effort, stic shook off, for a few min- utes, the torpor that was, wlien he entered, steal- ing over her. She strove, by soothing assurance, to calm his grief. Fearing he might regret he had allowed her to accompany him in such a perilous undertaking, she assured him, again and again, how blessed a privilege she considered it to be, that she should die and be buried in a land where God might be worshipped in spirit and in truth. " Do not, my husband," said she, " suffer my death to occupy your mind. We shall meet in heaven. But there is a work here for you to do ; and I feel as if it were a mercy that I should be taken, so that your usefulness may no longer be clogged by your cares for me, I die so happy ! — happy in every thing, but that you will grieve for me. There is no pang in death but leaving you." And then she blessed him for all his kindness to her, and besought him to take courage and per severe in the course he had begun, and assured 224 YOUNG lady's him tliat she felt a confidence in the Lord, even a strong faith shedding light on the dark path she was treading, that the work would prosper, and that a mighty nation would arise from their feeble beginnings, who would be worshippers of the true God Ladies' Magazine. ON HUMAN GRANDEUR. An alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war pulled down his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he changed her therefore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia, who may probably be changed, in turn, for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. In this manner the great are dealt out, one after the other, to the gazing crowd. When we have sufTiciently wondered at one of them, he is taken in, and another exhibited in his room, who seldom holds his station long : for the mob are ever pleas- ed with variety. I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vul;^ar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit wliich raises their shout: at least I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it ; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown thi^ BOOK OF PROSK. 225 day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole. As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in tlie neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the towns- men busy in the market-place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to represent himself. There were some also knock- ing down a neighbouring statue of one of the Or- sini family, with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possible a man who knew less of the world would have condemned the adulation of those bare-faced flat- terers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal ; and turning to Borgia, his son, said wuth a smile, " Vidcs, mi fili, quam leve discrimen, pati- bulum inter et statuam." " You see, my son the Bmall difference between a gibbet and a statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands : for as popular applause is ex- cited by what seems like merit, it as quickly con- demns what has only the appearance of guilt. Popular glory is a perfect coquette : her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; and, perhaps, at last, be jilted for their pains. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense ; her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great anxiety, for they are sure, in tlie end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swifl used to appear in public, he generally had the mob shouting at his train. "Pox take these fools," he would say, "how much joy might all this bawling give my lord- mayor !" We have Bcen those virtues which have, while 15 1226 YOUNG lady's living', retired from llic public eye, g'cncrally trans- rniltcd to posterity, as the truest objects ofadmira- tion and praise. Perliaps the character of the late duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that of his more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues are far superior to those vulgarly called the great ones. I must be pardoned for this short tribute to the memory of a man who, while living, would as much detest to receive any thing that wore the ap- pearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten road of common-place, except by illus- trating^ it, rather by the assistance of my memory than judgment ; and, instead of making reflections, by telling a story. A Chinese, who had long studied the works of Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read a great part of every book that came into his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and observe the customs of a people which he thought not very much inferior even to his own countrymen. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led him to a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Xixofou. The bookseller assured him he had never heard the book mentioned before. " Alas I" cries our traveller, " to what purpose, then, has he fasted to death, to gain a renown which has never tra- velled beyond the precincts of China !" There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one imiversity, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the designs of a prince, who would tyran- BOOK OF PROSE. 227 nically force his subjects to save tlicir best clothes for Sundays; the puny pedant, who finds one un- discovered quaUty in the polype, or describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole ; and whose mind, like his microsco})e, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer, wlio makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination, when he should only speak to our hearts ; all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, phi- losopher, and poet, arc sliouted in their train. " Where was there ever so much merit seen ! no time so important as our own ! ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder and applause I" To such music the important pigmy moves forward, bust- ling and swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm. I have lived to see generals who once had crowds hallooing after them wherever they went, who were bepraised by news-papers and maga- zines, those echoes of tlie voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring-fishery employed all Grub- street ; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present^ we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold that I can learn; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations a herring- fishery. Goldsmith. 228 YOUNG lady's THE HILL OF SCIENCE. In that season of the year when the serenity of the sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, tlie discoloured foUage of the trees, and all the sweet, but fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dispose it for con- templation, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat me down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss, where the rust- ling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity, and sleep insensi- i/Iy stole upon me, as I was indulging the agree- able reveries which the objects around me natural- ly inspired. I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It v/as covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed forwards with the liveliest expression of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in many places steep and difficult. I observed, that those, who had but just begun to climb the hill thought themselves not far from the top ; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view, and the summit of the highest they Could before discern seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to lose itself in the clouds. As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, my good genius suddenly appeared : The mountain before thee, said he, is the Hill of Science. On the BOOK OF PROSE. 229 top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of lier votaries ; bo silent and attentive. I saw that tlie only regular approach to the mountain was by a gate, called the gate of Lan- guages. It was kept by a woman of a pensive and thoughtful apjx^arance, whose lips were con- tinually moving, as though she repeated something to herself. Her name was Memory. On entering this first enclosure, 1 was stunned with a confused murmur of jarring voices, and dissonant sounds; which increased upon me to such a degree, that I was utterly confounded, and could compare the noise to notliing but the confusion of tongues at Babel. The road was also rough and stony ; and rendered more difficult by heaps of rubbish con- tinually tumbled down from the higlicr parts of the mountain ; and broken ruins of ancient build- ings, which tlie travellers were obliged to climb over at every step; iiipomnch that many, disgusted with so rough a beginning, turned back, and at- tempted the mountain no more ; while others, having conquered this difficulty, had no spirits to ascend farther, and sitting down on some frag- ment of the rubbish, harangued the multitude be- low with the greatest jnarks of importance and self-complacency. About half-way up the hill, I observed on each side the path a thick forest covered with continual fogs, and cut out into labyrinths, cross alleys, and serpentine walks, entangled with thorns and briars. This was called the wood of Error : and I heard the voices of many who were tost up and down in it, calling to one another, and endeavouring in vaiji to extricate themselves. The trees in many 230 YOUNG lady's places shot their bouglis over the path, and a thick mist often rested on it ; yet never so much but that it was discernible by the light which beamed from the countenance of Truth. In the pleasantest part of the mountain were placed the bowers of the Muses, whose office it was to cheer the spirits of the travellers, and en- courage their fainting steps with songs from their divine harps. Not far from hence were the fields of Fiction, filled with a variety of wild flowers springing up in the greatest luxuriance, of richer scents and brighter colours than I had observed in any other climate. And near them was the dark walk of Allegory, so artifically shaded, that the light at noon-day was never stronger than that of a bright moon-shine. This gave it a pleasingly romantic air for those who delighted in contempla- tion. The paths and alleys were perplexed with intricate windings, and were all terminated with the statue of a Grace, a Virtue, or a Muse. After I had observed these things, I turned my eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep ascent, and observed amongst them a youtli of a lively look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in all his motions. His name was Genius. He darted like an eagle up the mountain, and left his companions gazing after him with envy and admiration : but his progress was unequal, and interrupted by a thousand ca- prices. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned to- wards the precipice, he ventured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths ; and made so many excursions from the road, that his feebler companions often out-stripped him. I observed that the Muses beheld him with partiali- BOOK OF PROSE. 231 ty ; but Truth often frowned, and turned aside her face. While Genius was tlius wasting his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a person of a very dill ferent appearance, named Application. lie crept along with a slow and unremitting i)ace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently remov- ing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw most of those below him who had at first derided his slow and toilsome progress. Indeed there were few who ascended the hill with equal and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, beside the difii- culties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when they had once complied with, they became less and less able to resist ; and thougli they often re- turned to the pati), the asperities of the road were more severely felt, the hill appeared more steep and rugged, the fruits which were wholesome and refreshing seemed harsh and ill-tasted, their sight grew dim, and their feet tripped at every little ob- struction. I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose business was to cheer and encourage those who were toiling up tlie ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed away at the call of the Passions ; they ac- companied them, however, but a little way, and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled tlu?ir chains upon the unhappy captives, and led them awa}', without resistance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the man- sions of Misery. Amongst the innumerable se- ducers, who were endeavouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, there was one, so little formidable in her appearance, -232 YOUNG lady's and so gentle and languid in her attempts, that I Kliould scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with iier chains. Indolence (for so she was called) far from proceeding to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their teet out of the path, but contented herself with retarding their progress; and the pur- pose she could not force them to abandon, she per. suadcd th'Sm to delay. Her touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which withered the strength of those who came within its influence. Her un- happy captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to slide from beneath tlieir feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, before they suspected they had changed their place. The placid serenity which at first appeared in their coun- tenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy lan- guor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the stream of Insignifi- cance; a dark and sluggish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls ijito a dead sea, where startled passengers are awakened by the shock, and the next moment bu- ried in the gulf of Oblivion. Of all the unhai)py deserters from the path of Science, none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite and Passion could often seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape ii"om their enchantment ; but the dominion of In- dolence was constant and unremitted, and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain. After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilarating, the path BOOK OF PROSE. 233 shaded with laurels and other cvcrprccns, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of tlie god- dess seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. Happy, said I, are they who are permitted to as eend the mountain! — but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncommon ardour, I saw- standing beside me a form of diviner features and a more benign radiance. Happier, said she, are those whoni Virtue conducts to tlie mansions of Content ! What, said I, docs Virtue then reside in the vale ? I am found, said she, in the vale, and 1 illuminate the mountain : I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my induence; and to him that wishes for mo I am already present. Science may raise you to eminence, but I idone can guide you to felicity ! — While the goddess was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her with a vehemence which broke my slumbers. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened homeward, and resigned the night to silence and meditation. Aikin's Miscel. FASHION. A VISION. Young as you are, my dear Flora, you cannot but have noticed the eagerness with which ques. tions, relative to civil liberty, have been discussed in every society. To break the shackles of oppres. sion, and assert tlie native rights of man, is esteemed 234 YOUNG lady's by many among- the noblest efforts of heroic vir tue ; but vain is the possession of political liberty, if there exists a tyrant of our own creation, who, without law or reason, or even external force, exer- cises over us the most despotic authority ; whose jurisdiction is extended over every part of private and domestic life ; controls our pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, fills our lives with vain cares and restless anxiety. The worst slavery is that which we voluntarily impose upon our- selves ; and no chains are so cumbrous and gall- ing- as those which we are pleased to wear by way of g-race and ornament. Musing- upon this idea, gave rise to the following dream or vision : Methought I was in a country of the strangest and most singular appearance I had ever beheld : the rivers were forced into jet-d'eaus, and wasted in artificial water-works ; the lakes were fash- ioned by the hand of art; the roads were sand- ed with spar and gold-dust; the trees all bore 'the marks of the shears, they were bent and twisted into the most whimsical forms, and connected to- gether by festoons of ribbon and silk fringe : the wild flowers were transplanted into vases of fine china, and painted with artificial white and red. The disposition of the ground was full of fancy, but grotesque and unnatural in the highest de- gree ; it was all highly cultivated, and bore the marks of wonderful industry ; but among its va- rious productions I could hardly discern one that was of any use. My attention, however, wa§ soon called off from the scenes of inanimate life, by the view of the inhabitants, whose form and appearance were so very preposterous, and, indeed, so unlike any thing BOOK OF PROSE. 235 human, that I fancied myself transported to the country of "The Anthropophagi, and men whose heada Do grow beneath their shoulders:" for the lieads of many of these people were swelled to an astonislung size, and seemed to be placed in tlie middle of tlieir bodies. Of some, the ears were distended till tliey hung upon tlie shoulders ; and of others, the shoulders were raised till they met the ears: there was not one free from some deform- ity, or monstrous swelling-, in one part cr other ; either it was before, or behind, or about the hips, or the arms were puifed up to an unusual thick- ness, or the throat was increased to the same size with the poor objects once exhibited under the name of the monstrous Craws: some had no necks ; others had necks that reached almost to their waists ; the bodies of some were bloated up to sucli a size, that they could scarcely enter a pair of fold- ing doors ; and others had suddeidy sprouted up to such a disproportionate height, tliat they could not sit upright in their loftiest carriages. Many shocked me with the appearance of being nearly cut in two, like a wasp ; and I was alarmed at the sight of a {c\\\ in whose faces, otherwise very fair and healthy, I discovered an eruption of black spots, which 1 feared was the fatal sign of some pestilential disorder. The sight of these various and uncouth deform- ities inspired me with much pity; which, however, was soon changed into disgust, when I perceived, with great surprise' that every one of these unfor- tunate men and women was exceedingly proud of his own peculiar deformity, and endeavoured to attract my notice to it as much as possible. A 236 YOUNG lady's lady, in particular, who had a swelling" under her throat, larger than any goitre in the Valais, and wiiicli, I am sure, by its enormous projection, pre- vented her from seeing the path she walked in, brushed by me with an air of the greatest seli' complacency, and asked nie if she was not a charming creature ? But by this time I found myself surrounded by an immense crowd, who were all pressing along in one direction ; and I perceived that I was drawji along with them by an irresistible impulse, which grew stronger every moment. I asked whither we were hurrying with such eager steps ? and was told that we were going to the court of Queen Fashion, the great Diana whom all the world wor- shippeth. I would have retired, but felt myself impelled to go on, though without being sensible of any outward force. When I came to tlie royal presence, I was as- tonished at the magnificence I saw around me. The queen was sitting on a throne, elegantly fash- ioned in the form of a shell, and inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl. It was supported by a came- leon, formed of a single emerald. She was dressed in a light robe of changeable silk, which fluttered about her in a profusion of fantastic folds, that imitated the form of clouds, and like them were continually changing their appearance. In one hand she held a rouge-box, and in the other one of those optical glasses which distort figures in length or in breadth, according to the position in which they are held. At the^ foot of the throne was displayed a profusion of the richest produc- tions of every quarter of the globe, tributes from land and sea, from every animal and plant; per- fumes, sparkling stones, drops of pearl, chains of BOOK OF PROSE. 237 gold, webs of the finest linen ; wreaths of flowers, the produce of art, which vied with tlio most deli- cate productions of nature; forests of feathers wav- ing their brilliant colours in the air and canopying the throne ; glossy silks, network of lace, silvery ermine, soft folds of vegetable wool, rustling paper, and shining spangles; — the whole intermixed with pendants and streamers of the gayest tinctured ribbon. All these together made so brilliant an appear- ance that my eyes were at first dazzled, and it was some time before I recovered myself enough to observe the ceremonial of tlie court. Near the throne, and its chief supports, stood the queen's two prime ministers, Caprice on one side, and Vanity on the other. Two otfieers seemed cliiefly busy among the attendants. One of them was a man with a pair of shears in his hand and a goose by his side, — a mysterious emblem, of which I could not fathom the meaning: he sat cross-legged, like the great lama of the Tartars. He was busily employed in cutting out coats and garments ; not, however, like Dorcas, for the poor — nor, indeed, did they seem intended for any mortal whatever, so ill were they adapted to the shape of the human body. Some of the garments were extravagantly large, others as preposterously small : of others, it was difficult to guess to what part of the person they were meant to be applied. Here were cover- ings, which did not cover ; ornaments, which dis- figured ; and defences against the weather, more slight and delicate than what they were meant to defend ; but all were eagerly caught up, without distinction, by tlie crowd of votaries who were waiting to receive them. The other officer was dressed in a white sue- 238 vouNG lady's cinct linen grvrmcnt, like a priest of the lower order. He moved in a cloud of incense more highly scented than the breezes of Arabia; he car- ricd a tull of t;;c whitest down of the swan in one hand, and in the other a small iron instrument, heated redhot, which he brandished in the air. It was with infinite concern I beheld the Graces bound at the foot of the throne, and obliged to offi- ciate, as handmaids, under the direction of tliese two officers. I now began to inquire by what laws this queen governed lier subjects, but soon found her admin- istration was that of the most arbitrary tyrant ever known. Her laws are exactly the reverse of those of the Medes and Persians ; for they are changed every day, and ever}'^ hour : and what makes the matter still more perplexing, they are in no writ- ten code, nor even made public by proclamation : they are only promulgated by whispers, an obscure sign, or turn of the eye, which those only who have the happiness to stand near the queen can catch with any degree of precision : yet the small- est transgression of the laws is severely punished ; not indeed by fines or imprisonment, but by a sort of interdict similar to that which in superstitious times was laid by the Pope on disobedient princes, and which operated in such a manner that no one would eat, drink, or associate with the forlorn cul- prit, and he was almost deprived of the use of fire and water. This difficulty of discovering the will of the god- dess occasioned so much crowding to be near the throne, such jostling and elbowing of one another, that I was glad to retire and observe what I could among the scattered crowd : and the first thing I took notice of was various instruments of tortvu^ BOOK OF PRUSE. 239 which everywhere met my eyes. Torture has, in most other jL,'-overnments ot" Europe, been abolished by the mild spirit of the times ; but it reigns here in full force and terror. I saw officers of this cruel court employed in boring- holes with rcdhot wire?, in the cars, nose, and various parts of the body, and then distending them with the weight of metal chains, or stones, cut into a variety of shapes : some had invented a contrivance for cranqjing the feet in such a manner that many arc lumcd b}' it ibr their whole lives. Others I saw, slender and delicate in their form and naturally nimble as the young antelope, who were obliged to carry con- stantly about with them a cumbrous unwieldy machine, of a pyramidal form, several ells in cir- cumfcrenee. * But the most common and one of the worst in- struments of torture, was a small machine armed with fish-bone and ribs of steel, wide at top but extremely small at bottom. In this detestable in- vention the queen orders the bodies of her female subjects to be inclosed : it is then, by means of silk cords, drawn closer and closer at intervals, till the unhappy victim can scarcely breathe ; and they have fouud tlie exact point that can be borne with- out fainting-, which, however, not unfrequently hap- pens. The flesh is often excoriated, and the very ribs rent by this cruel process. Yet what aston- ished me more than all the rest, these sufferings are borne with a degree of fortitude which, in a better cause, would immortalize a hero or canonize a saint. The Spartan who suffered the fox to eat into his vitals, did not bear pajn with greater reso- lution : and as the Spartan mothers brought their children to be scourged at the altar of Diana, so do the mothers here bring their children — and chiefly 240 TOLNG lady's those whose tender sex one would suppose excused tlicm from such exertions, — and early inure them to this cruel discipline. But neither Spartan, nor Dervise, nor Bonze, nor Carthusian monk, ever exercised more unrelentingf severities over their bodies, than those young z( alots : indeed, the first lesson they arc taucrht, is a surrender of tlicir own inclinations, and an implicit obedience to tlie com- mands of the g-oddcss. But they have, besides, a more solemn kind of dedication, something- similar to the rite of confirm- ation. When a young woman approaches the mar- riageable age, she is led to the altar ; her hair, which before fell loosely about her shoulders, is tied up in a tress, sweet oils drawn from roses and Bpices are poured upon it; she is involved in a cloud of scented dust, and invested v.'ith ornaments under which she can scarcely move. After this solemn ceremony, which is generally concluded by a dance round the altar, the damsel is obliged to a Htill stricter conformity than before to the laws and customs of the court, and any deviation from them is severely punished. The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered liim by carrying their heads on one side, because he had the misfortune to have a wry neck ; but all adulation is poor, compared to what is practised in this court. Sometimes the queen will lisp and stammer, — and then none of her attendants can speak plain : sometimes she chooses to totter as she walks, — and then they are seized with sudden lameness: according as she appears half-undressed, or veiled from head to foot, her subjects become a procession of nuns, or a troop of Bacchanalian nymphs. I could not help observing, however, iliat those who stood at the greatest distance from BOOK OF PROSE. 241 the throne were the most cxtrava^rant in tlicir imi- tation. I was by this time tlioroughly dipo-iistc d with the character of a sovcreig-n at once so hg-ht and 60 cruel, so fickle and so arbitrar}', when one who stood next me bade me attend to still greater con- tradictions in her character, and such as might serve to soften the indignation I had conceived. He took me to the back of the throne, and made me take notice of a number of industrious poor, to whom the queen was secretly distributing bread. I saw the Genius of Commerce doing her homage, and discovered the British cross woven into the insignia of her dignity. While I was musing on these things, a murmur arose among the crowd, and I was told that a young votary was approaching. I turned my head, and saw a light figure, the folds of whose garments showed the elegant turn of tlie limbs they covered, tripping along with tlic step of a nymph. I soon knew it to be yourself: — I saw you led up to the altar, — I saw your beautiful hair tied up in artifi- cial tresses, and its bright gloss stained with co- loured dust, — I even fancied I beheld produced the dreadful instruments of torture ; — my emotions in- creased : — I cried out, "O spare her I spare my Flora !" with so much vehemence that I awaked. Mrs. Barbauld. THE CUCULLOS. Last evening, amidst the usual sports of the twi- light hour, on the hatey of the plantation, which is tlie square on which the buildings stand, I could not help wishing that you were present to enjoy '16 243 vouNG lady's the scene, the natural ^fire-works of the country, as I may call the appearance and Ihght of the cucul- los. I had scarcely arrived in the island (Cuba) before this splendid insect was mentioned by all my young- acquaintances, in terms, as I thought, of enthusiasm and extravagance natural to their age. But I observed that the elder and more se- date were almost as unmeasured in the terms of their description. The season lor them has come. One or tw^o made their appearance the first evening, and were hailed like the first notes of birds in tlie spring. A few more cheered the second evening; and after a lapse of a week, and the fall of a heavy shower, they are innumerable. Their sportive hour com- mences with twilight. Out sallies the family, old and young, from the mansion, to gaze. The cucul- los dart in all directions, like so many brilliant stars or comets, over the tops of plantations and trees, now soaring, and again descending. Sud- denly they wheel from one direction to another, pursuing and pursued, and playing their circles round each other with a sort of magical enchant- ment. Our glow-worm and fire-fly are not to be men- tioned with the cucuUos. The light which these give is not a flash, but steady, emitted through two large eyes, always visible, except when they are flying from you ; and it is a light of uncommon whiteness and purity, not like the red glare of a lamp, not like the fiery radiance of Mars, but the - soft, beams of Venus, the morning and evening star. The swiftness and irregularity of their flight, the distance at which they can see and be seen, the diameter of the circle in which they are seen to attract each otlier, and the ardour with which they BOOK OF rROSK. 243 concentrate to a meeting, and whirl round a com- mon centre, delight the spectator; and old and young are alive with pretty equal glee. The children often use a lamp as a decoy, and the distant cucullo is attracted and taken. One cucullo is exhibited to attract others ; and hundreds fall into the snare, and become prisoners, and are kept in cages prepared for them, or in baskets co- vered with a cloth. They are apt to pine in con- finement, and, without great skill and care, they die. It is usual to feed them with cain and plan- tain; and it is necessary carefully to bathe thera in water, and dry them in the sun. They love the dews of evening and showers of rain, and to bask in the sun ; and that management which best com- bines the elements of their comfort, is most likely to preserve them alive. While the family is amused on the batey, the negroes are playing an active game in the avenues, and taking as many of these splendid captives as possible. The negro mothers use them as their nursing lamps. The Creoles are seen running about with them in their hands, aad sometimes with a half-dozen of them cruelly strung on a spire of grass. This inhumanity to so beautiful an insect ought to be rebuked by their masters; but, in many cases, it would be done with an ill grace, as young ladies, I am told, adorn their persons, for evening assemblies, with a string of cucullo brilliants, dis- posed on their necks or frocks, wherever they may appear to the best advantage ; willing, it seems, to lose some of their moral charms, to display their persons in the greater lustre, and to the better ad- vantage. In apology for this feminine custom, it is said that there is a part of the cucullo v' ' ' 244 YOL'NG lady's pierced without suffering to the insect. The pre- cise amount of its sufferings with tliis kind of usage, the insect has no tongue to exj)lain. With the tenderest treatment they expire by hundreds when in confinement. Out of three hundred at- tempted to be carried to the United States, by an acquaintance of mine, half-a-dozen only survived the voyage. A distinguished Spaniard, whom I know, was more successful, and reached New- Fork with fifty ; and, being something of a hu- mourist, he gave them their hberty in Broadway, in a fine evening for the purpose, and was suffi- ciently diverted by the astonishment of the citizens, and the eagerness of a thousand boys in pursuit of the sparkling fugitives. Your curiosity to see the cucullo is, I doubt not, sufficiently roused ; yet I know you too well to believe that you would de- sire that pleasure at the expense of the pining and death of nineteen in twenty, in leaving their own balmy climate. The cucullo is about an inch and a half long, and one-fourth of an inch broad. It resembles the snapping-bug of our country, though a little longer. In the day-time it is sleepy ; but it gives a light of a considerable brilliancy when shaken. In the night, they give light enough for the purposes of the nursery ; and young eyes can see to read by them. Dr. Abbot. THE TIXSTLE FIELD. There was a man, a day-labourer he had been; but, having saved a little money from his earnings, tie had now a small cottage of his own. Ambition, BOOK OF PROSE. S45 like many other things, enlarges in the feeding; and, for ten years past, his enjoyment of the cot- tage had been disturbed by desire for a field that lay beside it. The time came — the savings amount- ed to exactly the right sum, and the good man bought the field. It was a small stony field ; it nad produced nothing yet, and did not look as if it intended to. One day, as I passed, T asked the good man what he meant to plant- He said, " it was to grow wheat by and by ; but, being fallow ground, it would want a good deal of cultivating ; it would be some time first;" and so, indeed, I thought; more particularly as he had expended all his sub- stance in purchasing the field, and had not money left to buy a load of manure, or scarcely a spade to dig it. He did dig it, however, for I saw him often at the work ; whether he sowed it, I cannot say — most likely not, for nothing came up. Possession, still, is great enjoyment, as many a one knows, who has property that makes no returns ; and, for the first year, he was quite happy in the conscious- ness of having a field. At the beginning of the second year, seeing him stand thoughtful on the path, " Friend," I said, "do you sow your field this year V " Why, likely, I might," he answered, " otherwise than that I have nothing to sow it with ; and it would be lost grain, besides ; the ground is not rich enough for com. In a few years, I shall be able to buy manure for it ; then you shall see a crop !" and the good man's eye lightened at the thought of garnersfull to come. It was during the same summer, that, passing through the ground, a scene of unusual activity presented itself; man, wife, and child, were all in 1^ field, and all were busy. 246 YouxG lady's ** What now, good friend ?" I said ; " this is no month for sowing corn ; and I cannot say your lap-full looks like it." Hodge answered, " It is ill sowing corn upon a fallow field; but I ara tired of looking at it as it is. Till the time that I can make it useful, I have a mind to make it pretty ; and so we are planting it all over with these this- tles." "Thistles!" I exclaimed. "Why, yes," said Hodge, with the look of a man who has solid reasoning on his side. " I was walking, the other day, upon the common, thinking, as one may do, upon my fallow field, and how much money I wanted of enough to buy manure for it, when my eye was taken by some tall, red flowers, growing in plenty on the waste. They looked very beauti- ful. The fine broad leaves lay gracefully folded upon the turf; their fringed heads shone in the sunbeams, with colovu-s that might have shamed the rainbow. "■ Thistles are of no use, I know ; but then my ground will bear nothing better at present : they will look pretty from the window^ and will do no harm for a year or two : so here we are all at work. I have fetched them from the common — seed, roots and all — and next summer we shall see." " Friend,'* said I, " I have seen many men dig up thistles, but I never thought to see a man planting them." " But, perhaps," said Hodge, with a conscious su- periority of wit, "you have seen them plant things not half so pretty." " But your corn — how is youi- future crop to grow, if you fill the ground with thistles ?*• " Bless your heart," said Hodge, with a look of contempt, " why, tlien, to be sure, we caii dig them up again — time enough yet — may be you a'nt used to digging." It was in vain to resist the good man*s last argu- BOOK OF PROSE. 247 merit, with all the hidden meaning's with which liis tone invested it, viz. that I had better mind my own business ; that I was talking about what I did not understand ; that I never had a field ; and that, if 1 had, I should, in waitings, plant it over with this- tles : — therefore I passed on. So did summer heats and winter's cold, and blithely the thistles grew. The common never bore a finer crop ; and, with all my prejudice, I was obliged to own the flowers looked very pretty. Meantime the good man's store increased ; the funds were forthcoming; the field was ploughed and sown ; the wheat came up — and so did the thistles. A chancer^ suit could not have ejected them aflcr so long possession. They had all the advantage ; for, while the M'heat was to be sown afresh for each succeeding year, the thistles came up of themselves. Tlien they wxre goodly and tall : they lifted their heads to the sunbeams, and scattered their seeds in the breeze, while the sickly wheat lay withering in their shade, I did not ques- tion him of his crops. Every spring I saw him rooting up thistles, and every summer I saw the thistles blow ; and for every one he left, there next year came up twenty. Whether, as years ad- vanced, they became less numerous, or whether he lived to see them exterminated, I cannot say ; I have left tliat part of tlie country. Do my readers not believe my story ? Is my good man's folly too impossible ? Let them con- sider a little ; for I have seen other labourers than he, who sow a harvest they would be loath to reap, and trust to future years to mend it. Of those who doubt the sanity of my good man, Hodge, many may thoughtlessly be doing the same thing ; whe- ther they be parents, whose fondest charge is tlic 248 YOUNG lady's education of their children, and their fondest hopes its produce ; or whetlier their one small field be the yet unsettled character of their own youthful mind. I have seen a father encourage his boys to fight out an amateur battle, for the right of possession to the merest toy, and yield it to the victor, — and when 1 asked him if he intended his boys should in after life take possession, by force, of what they could not prove a right to, he said, " No, but boy must learn courage ; they would know better than to fight for what does not belong to them, when they v/ere men." I have seen a mother take her daughters to a dancing-school, to be taughtf;very fashionable ma- ncEuvre of the ball-room ; and when I asked her if she meant her dauglitcrs should be introduced to amusements she did not herself approve, she said, " She hoped not ; the principles she laboured to instil would, she trusted, prevent it ; but, till they were of an age to feel their influence, she must let them do as others do : there was no harm in chil- dren's dancing." I have seen a teacher bring tears and blushes upon the cheeks of a pains-taking booby, by show- ing him the achievements of his brother, assuring him, that, while the younger brother was sent to college, he, for his stupidity, must go behind the coimter. I asked him if he wished, that, when that boy became a man, he should be pained by the superiority of others, or ashamed of the station to which Providence assigned him. He answered me, " No ; but emulation is the finest thing in the world — it is impossible to make any thing of boys, without the stimulus of rivalry." I have asked a lady, whose children I saw every evening playing at cards for halfpence, and vehe- BOOK OF PROSE. 249 mcntly contending for success, wliethcr she was bringing- them up to be gamesters, or to waste their hours in frivolous pursuits and unwholesome excitement of temper and feeling. Half laughing and half angry, as at a foolish question, she said, " Of course not ; but it did not signify how chil- dren amused themselves." Of another, who was cramming her children's minds with most perni- cious nonsense in the form of books, I asked if she meant that they should be weak, ill-judging, and romantic women. She, too, said, " No ; but chil- dren do not understand sensible books. She was glad to get them to read at all, and should givo them better books when they were older." A few times in my life, I have seen parents take — no, not take, (for they would themselves have been ashamed to be seen there,) but send — their children to the theatre, and other public places, which they had taught them to consider inconsistent with the spiritual requirements of the gospel, and the safe conduct of a corruptible nature through a corrupting world — alleging, that it is de- sirable,