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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 strai<rlit be-
fore me; then turn half round to tiic rii^ht and left;
never failing- to see if the corner of her well-
starchcu handkerchief was pinned exactly in the
middle. I think I can see her now, in her favour-
ite dove-coloured lustring, (whicJi she wore every
Sunday in every summer for seven years at least,)
and her long, full ruffles and worked apron. Then
followed my good mas-tcr, wlio, though his visit was
somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle
his Sunday wig before me.
Time rolled away ; and my master and mistress,
with all that appertained to them, insensibly suf-
fered from its influence. When I first knew them,
they were a young, blooming couple as you would
wish to see ; but I gradually perceived an altera-
tion. My mistress began to stoop a little ; and ray
master got a cough, which troubled him more or
less to the end of his days. At first, and for many
years, my mistress's foot upon the stairs was light
and nimble; and she would couie in as blithe and
as brisk as a lark ; but at last it was a slow, heavy
step ; and even my master's began to totter. And,
in tliese respects, every tiling else kept pace with
them: the crimson damask, that I remembered so
fresh and bright, was now faded and .worn ; the
dark polished mahogany was, hi some places,
worm-eaten; the parrot's gay plumage on tlic
40 YOUNG lady's
walls grew dull; and I myself, tliough long uncon-
scious of it, partook of tliu universal decay.
Tlio dissipated Uiste I accjuired, upon my first
introduction to society, iiad long since subsided ;
and the quiet, sombre life I led, gave me a grave,
meditative turn. Tlie cbange which I witnessed
in all things around me, caused me to reflect mucli
on tlicir vanity ; and when, upon the occasions
before mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming
laces of the young saluting me with so much com-
placency, I would fain have admonished them of
the alteration they must soon undergo, and have
told them how certainly their bloom also must
fade away as a flower. But, alas I you know, sir,
looking-glasses can only reflect.
After 1 had remained in this condition, to the
best of my knowledge, about forty-five 3'ears, I
suddenly missed my old master ; he came to visit
me no more ; and, by tlie change in my mistress's
apparel, I guessed what had happened. Five years
more passed away ; and then I saw no more of
her ! In a short time after this, several rude
strangers entered my room ; the long, rusty screw,
which had held me up so many years, was drawn
out; and I, together with all the goods and chattels
in the house, was put up to auction in tliat very
apartment which I had so long peaceably occupied.
I felt a good deal hurt at the very contemptuous
terms in wliich 1 was spoken of by some of the
bidders; for, as I said, I was not aware that I had
become as old-fashioned as my jjoor old master
and mistress. At last I was knocked down for a
trifling sum, and sent away to a very different
destination.
Belorc going home to my new residence, I was
sent to a workman to be refitted in a new gilt
BOOK OF PROSK. 41
frame ; which, althougli it completely modernized
my appearance, I nmst conicss, at iirst sat very
uneasily upon me. And now, although it was not
till my old age, I, lor the first time, became ac-
quainted with my natural use, capacity, and im-
portance. My new station was no other than the
dressing-room of a young lady, just come from
school. Before I was well fixed in the destined
spot, slic came to survey me, and with a look of
such complacency and good will, as I had not
seen tor many a day. I was now presently initiated
in all the mysteries of the toilet. O, what an end-
less variety of laces, jewels, silks, and ribbons ;
pins, combs, cushions, and curling-irons ; washes,
essences, powders, and patches, were daily spread
before me ! If I had been heretofore almost tired
with the sight of my good old mistress's everlasting
lustring, I really felt still more so with this profu-
sion of ornament and preparation.
I was, indeed, favoured with my fair mistress's
constant attentions ; they were so unremitting as
perfectly to astonish mc, after being so long accus-
tomed to comparative neglect. Never did she enter
her room, on the most hasty errand, without vouch-
safing me a kind glance ; and at leisure hours I
was indulged with much longer visits. Indeed, to
confess the truth, I was sometimes quite surprised
at their length. But I don't mean to tell tales.
During tlie hour of dressing, when I was more
professionally engaged with her, there was, I could
perceive, nothing in the room — in the house — nay,
I believe, nothing in the world, of so much import-
ance in her estimation as myself But I have fre
quently remarked, with concern, the diftercnt as-
pect with which slie would regard me at those
times, and when she returned at night from the
Vi YOUNG LADY S
evening's engagements. However late it was, or
however fatigued she might be, still I was sure of
a greeting as soon as she entered ; but, instead of
the bright, blooming face I had seen a few hours
before, it was generally pale and haggard, and not
unfrequcntly bearing a strong expression of disap-
pointment or chagrin.
My mistress would frequently bring a crowd of
her young companions into her apartment; and it
was amusing to see how they would each in turn
come to pay their respects to me. What varied
features and expressions in the course of a few
minutes I had tlms an opportunity of observing !
upon which I used to make my own quiet reflec-
tions.
In this manner I continued some years in the
service of my mistress, without any material dter-
ation taking place, cither in her or in me ; but, at
length, I began to perceive that her aspect towards
me was considerably changed, especially when I
compared it with my first recollections of her.
Slie now appeared to regard me with somewhat
less complacency ; and would frequently survey
me with a mingled expression of displeasure and
suspicion, as though some change had taken place
in me ; though I am sure it was no fault of mine ;
indeed, I could never reflect upon myself for a
moment ; with regard to my conduct towards any
of my owners, I have ever been a faithful servant;
nor have I once, in the course of my whole life,
given a false answer to any one I have had to do
with. I am, by nature, equally averse to flattery
and detraction; and tiiis I may say for myself,
that I am incapable of misrepresentation. It was
with mingled sensations of contempt and compas-
sion, that I witnessed the efforts my mistress now
BOOK OF PROSE. 43
made, in endeavouring to force me to yield the
same satisfaction to her as I had done upon our
first acquaintance. Perhaps, in my confidential
situation, it would be scarcely honourable to dis-
close all I saw; suffice it, then, to hint, that, to my
candid temper, it was painful to be obliged to con-
nive at that borrowed bloom, whicli, alter all, was
a substitute for that of nature ; time, too, greatly
baffled even these expedients, and threatened to
render them wholly ineffectual.
Many a cross and reproachful look I had now
to endure; which, however, I took patiently, being
always remarkably smooth and even in my tem-
per. Well remembering how sadly Time had
spoiled the face of my poor old mistress, I dreaded
the consequences if my present owner should expe-
rience, by and by, as rough treatment Irom him ;
and I believe she dreaded it too : but these appre-
hensions were needless. Time is not seldom ar-
rested in the midst of his occupations ; and it was
so in this instance. I was one day greatly shocked,
by beholding my poor mistress stretched out in a
remote part of the room, arrayed in very different
ornaments from those I had been used to see her
wear. She was so much altered that I scarcely
knew her ; but for this she could not now reproach
me. I watched her thus for a few days, as she lay
before me, as cold and motionless as myself; but
she was soon conveyed away, and I saw her no
more !
Ever since, I have continued in quiet possession
of her deserted chamber ; which is only occasion-
ally visited by other parts of the family. I feel
that I am now getting old, and almost beyond fur-
ther service. I have an ugly crack, occasioned by
tlie careless stroke of a brooin, all across mv Icil
44 YOUNG lady's
corner ; my coat is vcrj^ niucli worn in several
places ; even my new frame is now tarnislicd and
old-fashioned; so that I cannot expect any new em-
ployment.
Having now, therefore, nothing to reflect on but
the past scenes of my lite, I have amused myself
with giving you this account of them. I said I
had made physiognomy my study, and that I had
acquired some skill in this interesting science.
The result of my observation will at least be
deemed impartial, when I say, that I am generally
least pleased with the cliaracter of those faces,
which appear the most so with mine. And I have
seen occasion so far to alter the opinions of my in-
experienced youth, that for those who pass the least
time with me, and treat me with little considera-
tion, I conceive the highest esteem ; and their as-
pect generally produces the most pleasing reflec-
tions.
Jane Taylor.
THE LEGEND OF THE SALINE RIVER.
Many years since, long before the whites had
extended their march beyond the banks of the Mis-
f^issippi river, a tribe of Indians resided upon the
Platte, near its junction with the Saline. Among
these was one, the chief warrior of the nation,
celebrated througliout all the neighbouring coun-
try, for his fierce and unsparing disposition. Not
a hostile village within several hundred miles, but
wailed for those who had fallen beneath his arm ;
not a brook, but had run red with the blood of his
victims. He was for ever engaged in plotting de-
struction to his enemies.' He led his warriors from
BOOK OF PROSK. 45
one village to another, carrying death to the in-
habitants, and desolation to their homes. He was
a terror to old and young.
Often, alone and unattended, would he steal off,
to bathe his hands in blood, and add new vietims
to tlie countless number of tliose whom he had
already slain. But fearful as he was to the hostile
tribes, he was equally dreaded by his own people.
They gloried in him as their leader, but shrank
from all fellowship with him. His lodge was de-
sertcd, and even in the midst of his own nation he
was alone. Yet there was one being that clung to
him, and loved him, in defiance of the sternness
of his rugged nature. It was the daughter of the
chief of the village ; a ]»eautiful girl, and gracefiil
as one of the fawns of her own prairie.
Though she had many admirers, yet \\hcn the
warrior declared his intention of asking her of lier
father, none dared come in competition with so
formidable a rival. She became his wife, and he
loved her with all the fierce energy of his nature.
It was a new feeling to him. It stole, like a sun-
beam, over the dark passions of liis heart. His
feelings gushed forth, to meet the warm affectiou
of the only being that had ever loved him. Her
sway over him was unbounded. He was a tiger
tamed. But this did not last long. Slie died ; he
buried her ; he uttered no wail, lie shed no tear.
He returned to his lonely lodge, and forbade all
entrance. No sound of grief was heard from it —
all was silent as the tomb. The morning came,
and with its earliest dawn he left the lodge. His
body was covered with war-paint, and he was fully
armed as if for some expedition. His eye was the
same, there was the same sullen fire that had ever
shot from its deep su))k socket. There was no
46 YOUNG lady's
wavering of a single feature ; there was not tlie
shrinking of a single muscle. He took no notice
of those around him ; but walked gloomily to the
spot where his wife was biu-icd. He paused for a
moment over the grave — plucked a wild flower
from among tlie grass, and cast it upon the up-
turned sod. Then turning on his heel, he strode
across the prairie.
Atler tlie lapse of a month he returned to his
village, laden with the scalps of men, women, and
children, which he hung in the smoke of his lodge.
He tarried but a day among the tribe, and again
set off, lonely as ever. A week elapsed, and he re-
turned, bringing with him a large lump of white
salt. In a lew words he told his tale. He had
travelled many miles over the prairie. The sun
had set in the west, and the moon was just rising
above the verge of the horizon. The Indian was
weary, and threw himself on the grass. He had
not slept long, when he was awakened by the low
wailing of a teinale. He started up, and at a little
distance, by the light of the moon, beheld an old,
decrepit hag, brandishing a tomahawk over the
head of a young female, who was kneeling, im-
ploring mercy.
The warrior wondered how two females could
be at this sjx)t, alone, and at that hour of the night ;
for there was no village within forty miles of the
place. There could be no hunting party near, or
he would have discovered it. He approached them ;
but they seemed unconscious of his presence. The
young female finding her prayers unheeded, sprang
up, and made a desperate attempt to get possession
of the tomahawk. A furious struggle ensued, but
tlie old woman was victorious. Twisting one hand
in the long black hair of her victim, she raised the
BOOK OF PROSE. 47
weapon in the other, and prepared to strike. The
face of the young female was turned to the light,
and the warrior beheld with horror, the features of
his deceased wife. In an instant he sprang for-
ward, and his tomahawk was buried in the skull
of the old squaw. But ere he had time to clasp
the form of his wife, the ground opened, both sank
Irorn his sight, and on the spot appeared a rock of
white salt. He had broken a piece from it, and
brought it to his tribe.
This tradition is still current, among the differ-
ent tribes of Indians frequenting that portion of
the country. They also imagine, that the rock is
still under custody of the old squaw, and that the
only way to obtain a portion of it, is to attack her
For this reason, before attempting to collect salt,
they beat the ground with clubs and tomahawks,
imd each blow is considered as inflicted upon the
person of the hag. The ceremony is continued,
until they imagine she has been sufficiently bela-
boured, to resigji her treasure without opposition.
This superstition, tliough privately ridiculed by the
chiefs of the different tribes, is still practised bj
them, and most devoutly credited by the rabble.
J. T. Irving.
THE HISTORY OF BETTY BROOM.
Mr. Idler, — I never thought I should write any
thing to be printed ; but having lately seen your
first essay, which was sent down into the kitchen
with a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers,
I find that you are willing to admit any correspon.
dent, and therefore hope you will not reject mc
If you publish my letter, it may encourage othera
48 YOUNG lady's
in the same condition with myself to tell their sto-
ries, which may be perhaps as useful as those of
great ladies.
I am a poor girl. I was l)rcd in tlie country at
a charity-school maintained by the contributions of
wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or patronesses,
visited us from time to time, examined how we
were taught, and saw that our clothes were clean.
Wc lived happily enough, and were instructed to
be thankful to those at whose cost we were educa-
ted. I was always the favourite of my mistress :
she used to call me to read, and sliow my copy-
book to all strangers, who never dismissed me
without commendation, and very seldom without a
shilling.
At last, the chief of our subscribers, having
passed a winter in London, came down full of an
opinion, new and strange to the whole country : —
she held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls
to read and write. " They who are born to pover-
ty," said she, " are born to ignorance, and will work
the harder the less they know." Slie told her
friends that London was in confusion by the inso-
lence of servants ; that scarcely a wench was »o be
got for all work, since education had made such
numbers of fine ladies ; that nobody would now
accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or
something that might quality her to wear laced
shoes and long ruflles, and to sit and work in the
parlour window : but she was resolved for her part,
to spoil no more girls ; those who were to live by
their hands should neither read nor write out of
her pocket ; the world was bad enough already,
und she would have no part in making it worse.
She was for a short lime warmly opposed ; but
slie persevered in her notions, and withdrew her
DOOK OF PROSK. 43
subscription. Few listen without a desire of con-
viction to those who advise them to spare their
money : her example and her arguments gained
ij-round daily ; and in less than a year the wliole
parish was convinced that the nation would be
ruined if the children of the poor were taught to
read and write.
Our school was now dissolved ; my mistress
kissed me when we parted, and told me that, being
old and helpless, she could not assist me, advised
me to seek a service, and charged me not to forget
wiiat I had learned.
My reputation for scholarship, which had hith-
erto recommended me to favour, was, by the adhe-
rents to the new opinion, considered as a crime ;
and when I offered myself to any mistress, I had
no other answer than, " Sure, child, you would not
work ? Hard work is not fit for a penwoman ; a
scrubbing-brush would spoil your hand, child."
I could not live at home ; and, while I was con-
sidering to what I should betake me, one of the
girls who had gone from our school to London,
came down in a silk gown, and told lier acquaint-
ance how well she lived, what fine tilings she saw.
and what great wages she received. I resolved to
try my fortune, and took my passage in the next
week's wagon to London. I had no snare laid
for me at my arrival, but came safe to a sister of
my mistress, who undertook to get me a place.
She knew only the families of mean tradesmen ;
and I, having no high opinion of my own qualifi-
cations, was willing to accept the first offer.
My first mistress was wile of a working watch-
maker, who earned more than was sufficient to
keep his family in decency and plenty ; but it was
their constant practice to hire a chaise on Sundav,
4
o\J YOUNG LADY 8
and spend half the wages of llic week on Rich-
mond liill; of Monday, he commonly lay half in
bed, and spent the other half in merriment ; Tues-
day and Wednesday consumed the rest of his mo-
ney ; and three days every week were passed in
extremity of want by us who were left at home,
while my master lived on tfust at an alehouse.
You may be sure that, of the sufferers, the maid
suffered most ; and I left them, after three months,
rather than be starved.
I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There was
no want to be dreaded, for they lived in perpetual
luxury. My mistress was a diligent woman, and
rose early in the morning to set the journeymen
to work ; my master was a man much beloved by
his neighbours, and sat at one club or other every
night. I was obliged to wait on my master at
night, and on my mistress in the morning. He
seldom came home before two, and she rose at five.
I could no more live without sleep than without
food, and therefore entreated them to look out for
another servant.
My next removal was to a linendraper's, who had
six children. My mistress, when I first entered
the house, informed me that I must never contra-
dict the children, nor suffer them to cry. I had
no desire to offend, and readily promised to do my
best ; but wlicn I gave them their breakfast, I
could not help all first; when I was playing with
one in my lap, I was forced to keep the rest in ex-
pectation ; that which was not gratified always re-
sented the injury with a loud outcry, which put
my mistress in a fury at mc, and procured sugar-
plums to the child. I could not keep six children
ijuict who were bribed to be clamorous ; and was
BOOK OF PROSE. 51
therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, but not good-
natured.
I thou hved with a couple that kept a petty sliop
of remnants and cheap linen. I was qualified to
make a bill, or keep a book ; and being therefore
often called, at a busy time, to serve the customers,
expected that I should now be happy, in proportion
as I was useful : but my mistress appropriated
every day part of the profit to some private use,
and, as she grew bolder in her theft, at last deduct-
ed such sums, that my master began to wonder
how he sold so much and gained so little. Slip
pretended to assist his inquiries, and began, very
gravely, to hope that Betty was honest, and yet
those sharp girls were apt to be light-fingered.
You will believe that I did not stay there much
longer.
Having left the last place in haste, to avoid the
charge or the suspicion of thcrl, I had not secured
anothei:, service, and was forced to take a lodging
in a back street. I had now got good clothes.
The woman who lived in the garret opposite to
mine was very officious, and offered to take care
of my room and clean it, while I went round tc
my acquaintance to inquire for a mistress. I knew
not why she was so kind, nor how I could recom-
pense her ; but in a few days I missed some of
my linen, went to another lodging, and resolved
not to have another friend in the next garret.
In six weeks I became under maid at the house
of a mercer in Cornhill, whose son was his appren-
tice. The young gentleman used to sit late at the
tavern, without the knowledge of his father, and I
was ordered by my mistress to let him in silently
to his bed under the counter, and to be very care-
ful to take away his candle. The hours which I
52 YOUNG LADV'S
was obliged to watch, whilst the rest of the family
was in bed, I considered as supernumerary : and,
having no business assijjned for tliern, thought
myself at liberty to spend them my own way. I
kept myself awake with a book ; and, for some
lime, liked my state the better for this opportunity
of reading. At last, the upper maid found my
book, and showed it to my mistress, who told me,
that wenches like me might spend their time
better ; that she never knew any of the readers
tlaat had good designs in their heads ; that she
could always find something else to do witli her
time than to puzzle over books, and did not like
that such a fine lady should sit up for her young
master.
This was the first time tliat I found it thought
criminal or dangerous to know how to read. I
was dismissed decently, lest I should tell tales, and
had a small gratuity above my wages.
I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small fortune.
This was the only happy part of my life. My mis-
tress, for whom public diversions were too expen-
sive, spent her time with books, and was pleased
to find a maid who could partake her amusements.
I rose early in the morning, that I might have
time in the afternoon to read or listen, and was
suffered to tell my opinion, or express my delight.
Thus fifteen months stole away, in which I did
not repine that I was born to servitude ; but a
burning fever seized my mistress, of whom I shall
say no more, tlian that her servant wxpt upon her
grave.
I had lived in a kind of luxury which made me
very unfit for another place, and was rather too
delicate for the conversation of a kitchen ; so that
when I was hired in tlic family of an East India
BOOK OF PROSE. 53
director, my behaviour was so different, as they
said, from that of a common servant, that they
concluded me a gentlevi^oman in disguise, and
turned me out in three weeks, on suspicion of
some design which they could not comprehend.
I then lied for refuge to the other end of tlic
town, where I hoped to find no obstruction from
my new accomplishments, and was liired under
tlie housekeeper in a splendid family. Here I
was too wise for the maids, and too nice for the
footman : yet I might have lived on without much
uneasiness, had not my mistress the housekeeper,
who used to employ me in buying necessaries for
tlie family, found a bill which I had made of one
day's expense. I suppose it did not quite agree
with her own book, for she fiercely declared her
resolution, that there should be no pen and ink in
that kitchen but her own.
She had the justice, or the prudence, not to in-
jure my reputation, and I was easily admitted into
another house in the neighbourhood, where my
business was to sweep the rooms and make the
beds. Here I was for some time the favourite of
Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, who could not
bear the vulgar girls, and was happy in the atten-
dance of a young woman of some education. Mrs.
Simper loved a novel, though she could not read
hard words, and therefore when her lady was
abroad, we always laid hold on her books. At
last, my abilities became so nmch celebrated, that
tlie house-steward used to employ me in keeping
his accounts. Mrs. Simper then found out, that
my laziness was grown to such a height that no-
body could endure it, and told my lady, that there
had never been a room well swept since Betty
Broom came into the house.
54 YOUNG lady's
I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who
wanted a maid that could rend and write. I at-
tended her four years, and though she was never
pleased, yet when I declared my resolution to leave
iier, she burst into tears, and told me I must bear
tlie peevishness of a sick bed, and I sliould find
myself remembered in her will. I complied, and
a codicil was added in my favour ; but in less than
a week, when I set her gruel before her, I laid the
spoon on the left side, and she threw her will into
the fire. In two days she made another, which
she burnt in the same manner, because she could
not cat her chicken. A third was made, and de-
stroyed, because she heard a mouse within the
wainscot, and was sure I should suffer her to be
carried away alive. After this I was for some
time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon
her, resentment and sullenness gave way to kinder
sentiments. She died, and left me five hundred
pounds ; with this fortune I am going to settle in
my native parish, where I resolve to spend some
hours every day in teaching poor girls to read and
write. I am, Sir, your humble servant, Betty Broom.
Johnson.
HEIDELBERG.
Were some unhappy man to ask mc where he
ought to live, in order, now and then, to steal an
hour from lurking sorrow, I should say at Heidel-
berg. And were some happy being desirous to
learn which place he ought to choose, in order to
crown every joy of life with fresh garlands, I
should again name Heidelberg. A romantic site ;
mild air ; honest people ; freedom from restraint ;
BOOK OF PROSE. 55
commodious dwellings; cheapness; what advan-
tages ! And yet these are far li-om being all : for
Heidelberg atibrds a still greater, that of being in
the neighbourhood of so many fine, pleasant, and
hospitable towns.
Should the wretched desire to brood alone over
his sorrows, and that is what he always wishes to
do at first, let him walk on the charming banks of
the Necker, or on tlie luxuriant mountains, or
among the majestic ruins of the castle, or let liim
make little excursions to Weinheim, Eppcnheim,
&c. But if once his grief has broken through the
pale of despair, if he no longer shuns mankind,
and their bustling scenes, he may generally find
amusement in the playhouses of Manheim, Stutt-
gard, and Franklbrt on the Mayn. He will meet
with diversion in Darmstadt, Heilbroun, Bruchsal,
Hanau, Spire, Worms, Opjienheim, Ofienbach ; in
short, to the right, to the left, and in every direc-
tion.
The ruins of the castle are unique ; the views
around it awake the thoughts of a better life. The
antique subterraneous walks afi;brd employment to
a lively imagination. They are said to lead to the
town ; but, being dangerous, it has been wisely
ordered that they should be filled up. A few years
ago an emigrant was swallowed up by an abyss,
having, witli incautious precipitation, preceded his
guide. Luckily for him, some boys had a little
while before followed him begging, and having
marked the spot where he disappeared, he was at
length extricated. He related that he had walked
forward a eoijsiderabie way in the vault, when he
heard at a distance various conlused nois.es, which
echoed down upon him from the town. At last he
could distinguish the cries of those who were in
Jb YOUNG LADY 3
search of him, and he turned baclv. A rope-dancer
likewise, erecting- some poles in the market-place,
on which to fix his slack rope, was precipitated
into the same vault, where he Ibund some old rusty
arms.
The famous tun of Heidelbero^ is a pitiful cu-
riosity, which does not even interest by its anti-
(juity ; for the old tun is g-one to pieces, and the
elector, Charles Theodore, by building- a new one,
lias not gained immortality. Yet I would advise
every traveller to go into tlie cellar, for he will find
something which he does not expect, and which
will please him just as it pleased me : it is Clemens.
— I mean the wooden statue of an old fool of the
electoral court, with a real fool's physiognomy. In
this individual we recognise the genus at the first
look. It is not so much wit (which is never par-
doned any truth) as jollity (of which nothing is
taken amiss) that lives and speaks in, and out of,
this face. In the mouth of this lusty, well-fed
personage, every thing is turned into joke ; into
home-felt joke ; but never into bitter sarcasm. In-
deed 1 should like to have such a fool about me,
and I must find fault with all the crowned heads
for having allowed such an useful custom to be-
:;ome obsolete.
1'lie statue of honest Clemens is going fast to
decay, and surely that is a pity. His physiog-no-
my alone gave me a lucid moment of delight, and
I had much rather recall him to life than the ce-
lebrated Lady Moratta, whose monument you find
at St. Peter's church in Heidelberg. She died in
the twenty-ninth year of her age, and notwith-
standing her youth, understood several learned
languages. Her husband, too, one Grundler, is
mentioned in the inscription by her side. You
BOOK OF PROSE. 57
know I am no admirer of those ladies who are «o
learned, tiiat they make of a Imsband a mere do-
mestic animal.
If you, my dear girl, ever come to Heidelberg,
you will, perhaps, inquire for the spring called
Wolfsbrunnen, which was so famous, and so pleas-
ant, and at which our good king is said to have
once taken his breakfast. Yes, in those times,
liuie trees, three hundred years old, formed the
dome over the fountain, and their branches had
grown so closely together, that they could be used
like a floor to v^alk on, to place tables and chairs
on t!ic top, and make merry in the verdant twi-
light.
Tlie female visitors (so the neighbours relate)
sat on the top of the trees, engaged in reading or
knitting stockings ; or even had a harpsichord
placed by them ; while the gentlemen played on
tlie flute, among the umbrageous branches ; in the
cool grotto below, tea or coflfec was made ; the
source murmured secretly and invisibly behind
the green tapestry, exhaling perfume. But all this
you must not now ask for : you will find nothing
but a square basin surrounded with trunks of trees
All those beautiful lime trees were felled a few
weeks ago. " Who gave tlicse orders ?" exclaimed
I with indignation. " The electoral treasury," was
the reply. Those thick trees yield fine wood, and
the fat trouts in the stream could not bear the ex-
rx;ssivc coolness of the shade. I really wish that
every counsellor of the treasury who consented to
tliis robbery of beauteous nature, may be ol)liged
to wander about, twice a year, in the parching
sommer heat and in the glow of the midday sun,
panting in vain for such a shady spot.
58 YOUNG lady's
Oh, this is not the only sin which the spirit of*
electoral economy, which was never desijrncd to
hover o\ct such a paradise, has committed, or at
least wished to commit. It was intended to ha\e
demolished the magnificent ruins of the Hall of
the Knig-hts, in order to sell the stones. The fairy
g-ardens ofSchwetzingen were to have been let out
for potatoe fields, as the expense of keeping tJiem
was deemed too great. This I call making a poet
an accountant; but both these measures have been
effectually protested against. Witli the Hall of
the Knights, the ancient castle of Heidelberg would
be deprived of its finest ornament ; and if Sehwetz-
ingen causes a great expense, it on the otlier hand
attracts a nmltitude of wealthy strangers. O I may
every hand be blasted wliich is eager to destroy
whatever has given pleasure to mankind for cen-
turies I
Before we take our final leave of Heidelberg, I
must conduct you to the beautiful bridge, built on
the site of that which was swept away by a flood
m 1783 or '84. At that time, St. John, to the great
joy of all pious believers, remained standing alone
upon a solitary pillar. Notwithstanding tliis un-
deniable miracle, the good saint was obliged, after
the new bridge was built, to give way to the blind
heathen goddess Minerva.
Facing her, stands the statue of the elector,
Charles Theodore. In an engagement whick took
place last war on this bridge, the goddess was
terribly maltreated with grape-shot, and is now
perfectly ciualified to be tlic emblem of the Ger-
manic empire.
KOTZEBUE.
BOOK OF PROSE. 59
TASSOS " JERUSALEM DELIVERED."
Since you left us, I liavc been reading Tasso's
" Jerusalem," in the translation lately published by
Hoole. I was not a little anxious to peruse a poem
which is so famous over all Europe, and has so
often been mentioned as a rival to the " Iliad,"
" /Eneid," and " Paradise Lost." It is certainly a
noble work ; and thoug-h it seems to rae to be interior
to the tin-ce poems just mentioned, yet I cannot
help tliinking it in the rank next to these. As for
tlie other modern attempts, as the " Epopee," the
*' Henriade" of Voltaire, the " Epigoniad" of Wil-
kic, tlio " Leonidas" of Glover, not to mention tlie
" Arthur" of Ulackmore, they are not to be com-
pared with it. Tasso possesses an exuberant and
sublime imagination ; though in exuberance it
seems, in my opinion, inferior to our Spenser, and
in sublimity inferior to Milton. Were I to com-
pare Milton's genius with Tasso's, I would say,
that the sublime of tlie latter is flashy and fluctuat-
ing, while that of tiie former difluses a uniform,
steady, and vigorous blaze : Milton is more ma-
jestic, Tasso more dazzling. Dry den, it seems,
was of opinion, that the "Jerusalem Delivered"
was the only poem of modern times that deserved
tlie name of epic : but it is certain that criticism
was not this writer's talent; and I think it is
evident, from some passages of his works, that he
either did not, or would not, understand the " Pa-
radise Lost." Tasso borrows his plot and prin-
cipal characters from Homer, but his manner
resembles Virgil's. He is certainly much obliged
to Virgil, and scruples not to imitate nor to trans-
late him on many occasions. In the pathetic he
GO vouNG lady's
is far inferior both to Homer, to Virgil, and to
Milton. His characters, though different, arc not
always distinct, and want those masterly and dis-
tintruishing strokes which the genius of Homer
and Shakspeare, and of them only, knows how to
delineate. Tasso excels in describing pleasurable
scenes, and seems peculiarly fond of such as have
a reference to the passion of love : yet, in charac-
terizing this passion, he is far inferior, not only to
Milton, but also to Virgil, whose fourth book he
has been at great pains to imitate.
Beattie.
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN
Ferdinand Magalhaens, or Magellan, a Porta-
guese gentleman of honourable birth, having served
several years in the East Indies, with distinguish-
ed valour, under the famous Albuquerque, do-
rnanded the recompense which he thought due to
his services, with the boldness natural to a high-
spirited soldier. But as his general would not
grant his suit, and he expected greater justice from
las sovereign, whom he knew to be a good judge
and a generous rewarder of merit, he quitted India
abruptly, and returned to Lisbon. In order to in-
duce Emanuel to listen more favourably to his
claim, he not only stated his past services, but
offered to add to them by conducting his country-
men to the Molucca or Spice Islands, by holding
a westerly course ; wliich he contended would b^
both shorter and less hazardous than that which
the Portuguese now followed by the Cape of Good
Hope, through the inlmense extent of the Eastern
Ocean. This was the original and favourite pro-
BOOK OF PROSK. 61
ject of Columbus, and Magellan founded liis hopes
of success on the ideas of tliat great navigator,
confirmed by many observations, the result of iiis
own naval experience, as well as that of liis con-
trymcn, in their intercourse with the East. But
tiiough the Portuguese monarchs had tlie merit
of having first awakened and encournged the spirit
of discovery in that age, it was their destiny, in
the course of a icw years, to reject two grand
schemes for this purpose, the execution of which
would have been attended witli a great accession
of glory to themselves, and of power to their king-
dom. In consequence of some ill-founded preju-
dice against Magellan, or of some dark intrigue
which contemporary historians have not explained,
Emanuel would neither bestow the recompense
which he claimed, nor approve of tlic sclieme
which he proposed ; and dismissed bim with a dis-
dainful coldness, intolerable to a man conscious of
what he deserved, and animated with the sanguine
hopes of success peculiar to those who are caj)able
of forming or of conducting new and great under-
takings. In a transport of resentment, Magellan
formally renounced his allegiance to an ungrateful
master, and fled to the court of Castile, where he
expected that his talents would be more justly esti-
mated. He endeavoured to recommend himself
by offering to execute, under the patronage of
Spain, that scheme, which be had laid before the
court of Portugal, the accomplishment of wliich,
he knew, would wound the monarch against whom
he was exasperated in the most tender part. In
order to establish the justness of his theory, lie
produced the same arguments which he had em-
ployed at Lisbon ; acknowledging, at the same
lime, that the undcrtakintr was both arduous and
63 YOUNG lady's
expensive, as it coiold not be attempted but with a
scjuadfon of considerable force, and victualled for
at least two years. Fortunately, he applied to a
minister who was not apt to be deterred, either by
the boldness of a design, or the expense of carry-
ing it into execution. Cardinal Ximenes, who at
that time directed the affairs of Spain, discerning
at once what an increase of wealth and glory
would accrue to his country by the success of
Magellan's proposal, listened to it with a most
favourable ear. Charles V., on his arrival in his
Spanish dominions, entered into the measure with
no less ardour, and orders were issued for equip-
ping a proper squadron at the public charge, of
which the command was given to Magellan, whom
Uic king honoured with the habit of St. Jago and
the title of captain-general.
On the tenth of August, one thousand five
hundred and nineteen, Magellan sailed from Se-
ville with five ships, which, according to the ideas
of the age, were deemed to be of considerable
force, though the burden of the largest did not ex-
ceed one hundred and twenty tons. The crews of
the whole amounted to two hundred and thirty-
four men, among whom were some of the most
skilful pilots in Spain, and several Portuguese
sailors, in whose experience, as more extensive,
Magellan placed still greater confidence. After
touching at the Canaries, he stood directly south
towards the equinoctial line along the coast of
America, but was so long retarded by tedious
calms, and spent so much time in searching every
bay and inlet for that communication with the
Southern Ocean which he wished to discover, that
he did not reach the river De la Plata till the
twelfth of January. That spacious opening through
BOOK OF PROSE. G3
which its vast body of water pours into the Atlan-
tic allured him to enter ; but after saihnjr up it for
some days, he concluded, from the shallowness of
the stream and the fresimess of the water, that the
wished-for strait was not situated there, and con-
tinued his course towards tlie south. On the
thirty-first of March he arrived in the port of St.
Julian, about forty-eight degrees south of the line,
where he resolved to winter. In this uncomforta-
ble station he lost one of his squadron ; and the
Spaniards sutfered so nmch from the excessive
rigour of the climate, that the crews of three of his
ships, lieadcd by tlieir officers, rose in open muti-
ny, and insisted on relinquishing tlie visionary
project of a desperate adventurer, and returning
directly to Spain. This dangerous insurrection
Magellan suppressed, by an effort of courage no
less prompt than intrcjjid, and inflicted exemplary
punishment on the ringleaders. With the re-
mainder of his followers, overawed but not recon-
ciled to his scheme, he continued his voyage to-
wards the south, and at lengtli discovered, near
the fifty-third degree of latitude, tlic mouth of a
strait, into which he entered, notwithstanding the
murnnn-s and remonstrances of the people under
liis command. After sailing twenty days in that
winding, dangerous channel, to which he gave his
own name, and where one of his ships deserted
him, the great Southern Ocean opened to his
view, and with tears of joy he returned thanks
to Heaven for having thus far crowned his en-
deavours with success.
But he was still at a greater distance than he
imagined from the object of liis wishes. He sailed
during tlirec months and twenty days in an uni-
form direction towards the north-west, without dis
64 YOUNG lady's
covering land. In this voyage, the longest that
had ever been made in the unbounded ocean, he
suffered incredible distress. Ilis stock of provisions
was ahnost exliausted, the water became putrid,
the men were reduced to the shortest allowance
with which it was possible to sustain life, and the
scurvy, the most dreadful of all the maladies with
which seafaring people are afflicted, began to
spread among the crew. One circumstance alone
atForded them some consolation ; they enjoyed an
uninterrupted course of fair weather, witli such
favourable winds, that Magellan bestowed on that
ocean the name of Pacific, which it still retains.
When reduced to such extremity that they must
have sunk under their sufferings, they fell in with
a cluster of small but fertile islands, which afibrd
ed them refreshments in such abundance, thai
their health was soon re-established. From these
isles, which he called De los Ladrones, he pro-
ceeded on his voyage, and soon made a more im-
portant discovery of the islands now known by the
name of the Philippines. In one of these he got
into an untbrtunate quarrel witli the natives, who
attacked him with a numerous body of troops well
armed ; and while he fought at the head of his
men with his usual valour, he fell by the hands of
those barbarians, together with several of his prin-
cipal officers.
The expedition was prosecuted under other com-
manders. Afler visiting many of the smaller isles
scattered in the eastern part of the Indian Ocean,
they touched at the great island of Borneo, and at
length landed in Tidorc, one of the Moluccas, tc
the astonislunent of the Portuguese, ^vho could
not comprehend how the Spaniards, by holding a
westerly course, had arrived at that sequestered
BOOK OF PROSE. (J5
seat of their most valuable commerce, which they
themselves had discovered by sailing in an oppo-
site direction. There, and in the adjacent isles,
l.he Spaniards found a people acquainted with tiic
benefits of extensive trade, and willinjr to open an
intercourse with a new nation. They took in a
cargo of the precious spices, which are the distin-
guished production of tliese islands ; and with that,
as well as with specimens of the rich commodities
yielded by the other countries which they had
\isited, the Victory, which, of the two ships that
remained of the squadron, was most fit for a long
voyage, set sail for Europe, under the command
of Juan Sel)astian del Cano. He followed the
course of the Portuguese, by the Cajx; of Good
Mope, and after many disasters and sutferings he
arrived at St. Luear on the seventh of September
one thousand five hundred and twenty-two, having
sailed round the globe in tlie space of three years
and twenty-eight days.
Robertson.
AFFECTATION.
Among the numerous stratagems by which pride
rndeavours to recommend folly to regard, there is
scarcely one that meets with less success than af-
fectation, or a perpetual disguise of the real cha-
racter, by fictitious appearances ; whether it be,
that every man hates falseliood from the natural
congruity of truth to his faculties of reason ; or
that every man is jealous of the honour of his un-
derstanding, and tiiinks his discernment conse-
<juentially called in question, whenever any thing
is exliibited under a borrowed form.
66 YOUNG lady's
This aversion from all kinds of disg-uisc, what-
ever be its cause, is universally diffused, and in.
ccssantly in aclion ; nor is it necessary, that to
exasperate detestation, or excite contempt, any in-
terest should be invaded, or any com petition at-
tempted : it is sufficient that there is an intention
to deceive, an intention which every heart swells
to oppose, and every tonjrue is busy to detect.
This refleclion was awakened in my mind by a
very common practice among my correspondents,
of writinf,' under characters which they cannot
8upj>ort, 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 loii<r litb and peaceable Tt'ign to Elizabeth. She
declared that slie iioped for mercy only tlirougli
the death of Christ, at the foot of whose image she
now willingly shed her blood ; and lilting up and
kissing the crucifix, she thus addressed it : " As
tliy arm?, O Jesus, were extended on the cross ; so
with the outstretched arms of thy mercy receive
me, and forgive my sins."
She then prepared for the block, by taking off'
her veil and upper garments ; and one of the exe-
cutioners rudely endeavouring to assist, she gently
checked him, and said with a smile, that she had
not been accustomed to undress before so many
spectators, nor to be served by such valets. With
calm but undaunted fortitude, she laid her neck
on the block ; and while one executioner held her
hands, the other, at the second stroke, cut off her
head, which falling out of its attire, discovered her
hair already grown quite gray with cares and sor-
rows. The executioner held it up still streaming
with blood, and the dean crying out, " So perish
all queen Elizabeth's enemies !" the earl of Kent
alone answered, Amen. The rest of the spectators
continued silent, and drowned in tears ; being in-
capable, at that moment, of any other sentiments
but those of pity or admiration.
Such was the tragical death of Mary, queen of
Scots, after a life of forty-four years and two
months, almost nineteen years of whicli she passed
in captivity. The poUtical parties which were
formed in the kingdom during her reign have sub-
sisted, under various denominations, ever since
that time. The rancour with which they were at
first animated hath descended to succeeding ages,
and their prejudices, as well as their roge, have
BOOK OF PROSE. 77
been perpetuated, and even augmented, Amonsf
historians, wlio were under tlic dominion of all
tliese passions, and who have cither ascribed to
her every virtuous and amiable quality, or have
imputed to lior all the vices of which the human
heart is susceptible, we search in vain for Mary's
real character. She neither merited the exaggerat-
ed praises of the one, nor the undistinguished cen
sure of the other.
To all the charms of beauty, and the utmost
elegance of external form, siie added those accom-
plishmenf s which render their impression irresisti-
ble. Polite, atfablc, insinuating, sprightly, and
capable of speaking and of writing with equal
ease and dignity. Sudden, however, and violent
in all her attachments ; because her heart was
warm and unsuspicious. Impatient of contradic-
tion ; because she had been accustomed from her
infancy to be treated as a queen. No stranger, on
some occasions, to dissimulation ; which in that
perfidious court where she received her education,
was reckoned among the necessary arts of govern-
ment. Not insensible of flattery, or unconscious
of that pleasure with wliich almost every woman
beholds the influence of her own beauty. Formed
with the qualities which we love, not with the
talents that we admire ; she was an agreeable
woman, rather than an illustrious queen. The vi-
vacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with
sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart,
which was not at all times under the restraint of
discretion, betrayed her both into errors and into
crimes. To say that she was always unfortunate,
will not account for that long and almost uninter-
rupted succession of calamities which befell her ;
we must likewise add, that she was often impru-
78 vouNG lady's
dent. Her passion for Darnlcy was rasli, youthful,
and excessive ; and though tlie sudden transition
to the opposite extreme was the natural effect of
her ill-requited love, and of his in/rratitude, inso-
lence, and brutality ; yet neither tliete, nor Both-
well's artful address and important services, can
justify her attachment to that nobleman. Even
tlie manners of the aj:^c, licentious as they were,
arc no a[)olo;xy for this unhappy passion ; nor can
they induce us to look on tliLit trnrrical and in-
famous scene wliich followed upon it with less ab-
horrence. Humanity will draw a veil over this
part of her ciiaracter which it cannot approve, and
may, perhaps, prompt some to impute some of her
actions to her situation, more than to her disposi-
tions ; and to lament the unhappiness of the former,
rather than excuse the pervcrseness of the latter-
Mary's sutfcring-s exceed, both in degree and in
duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has
feigned to excite sorrow and commiseration ; and
while we survey them, we are apt altogether to
forget her frailties, we think of her faults with less
indignation, and approve of our tears, as if they
were shed for a person who had attained much
nearer to pure virtue.
With regard to the queen's person, a circum-
fitance not to be omitted in writing the history of
a female reign, all contemporary authors agree in
ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of counte-
nance, and elegance of shape, of which the human
form is capable. Her hair was black, though ac-
cording to the fashion of that age, she frequently
wore borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her
eyes were a dark gray ; her complexion was ex.
quisitely fine ; and her hands and arms remarka-
bly delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her
BOOK OF PROSE. 79'
stature was of a height that rose to the majestic.
She danced, she walked, and rode witli equal
grace. Her taste for music was jus^t, and she both
sung and played upon the lute with uncommon
skill. Towards the end of her lile, long confine-
ment, and the coldness of the houses in wiiich she
iiad been imprisoned, brouglit on a rheumatism,
which ollen deprived her ot the use of her limbs.
No man, says Brantome, ever beheld her person
without admiration and love, or will read her his-
tory without sorrow.
None of her women were suffered to come near
her dead body, which was carried into a room ad
joining to the place of execution, where it lay for
some days, covered with a coarse cloth torn from
a billiard table. The block, the scaffold, the aprons
of the executioners, and every thing stained with
her blood, were reduced to ashes. Not long after,
Elizabctli appointed her body to be buried in the
cathedral of Peterborough with royal magnifi-
cence. But this vulgar artifice was employed in
vain ; the pageantry of a pompous funeral did not
efface the memory of those injuries which laid
Mary in her grave. James, soon after his acces-
sion to the English throne, ordered her body to be
removed to Westminster-abbey, and to be deposited
among the monarchs of England.
Robertson.
A SCENE ON THE RIVER SPEY.
In the narrow part of the valley through wliich
the Spey makes its way from the parish of Laggan
downwards to that of Kugussie, there is some
Kcenery of a very singular cliaracter. To tlie south
80 YOUNG lady's
the S[)oy is seen making some fine bends round
the foot of wooded hills. It is bordered by a nar-
row strii>c 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-
<lour, and when he went down beyond the deep,
leviathan was sporting amidst the multitude of
waves.
Then again, in tlie evening, the vanished con-
stellations awoke gradually, and, on opening their
eyes, were so rejoiced at meeting together, — not
one being wanting of last night's levee, — that tliey
were in the highest good humour with tliemselves
and one another. Tricked in all their beams, and
darting theiR benignest influence, they exchanged
smiles and endearments, and made vows of aiiec-
90 YOUNO lady's
tion eternal and uncliangcable ; wliilc, from this
netlier orb, the song- of tlie nig-Jitingale rose out of
darkness, and cliarnied even the stars in their
courses, being the first sound, except the roar of
ocean, that tlicy had ever heard. " The music of
the spheres" may be traced to the rapture of that
hour.
The little gleaming horn was again discerned,
leaning backward over the western hills. This
companionlcss luminary, they thought, — but they
must be mistaken, — it could not be, — and yet tliey
were afraid that it was so, — appeared somewJiat
stronger than on the former occasion. The moon
herself, still only blinking at the scene of magni-
ficence, early escaped beneath the horizon, leaving
the cornet in proud possession of the sky.
About midnight, the whole congregation, shin-
ing in quiet and amicable splendour, as tliey glid-
ed, with unfclt and invisible motion, through the
pure blue field of ether, were suddenly startled by
a phantom of fire, on the approach of which the
comet himself turned pale, the planets dwindled
into dim specks, and the greater part of the stars
swooned utterly away. Shooting upwards, like an
arrow of flame, from the east, — in the zenith it
was condensed to a globe, with scintillating spires
diverging on every side, — it paused not a moment
there, but rushing, witli accelerated velocity, to-
wards the west, burst into a thousand coruscations,
that swept themselves into annihilation before it
could be said that they were.
The blaze of this meteor was so refulgent, that
passing blindness struck the constellations, and,
after they were conscious of its disappearance, it
took many twinklings of their eyes before they
rould see distinctly agiiin. Tiicn with one accord
BOOK OF PROSE. 91
they exclaimed, " How beautiful ! how transient I"
— After gravely nioraliziufr for a good while on its
enviable glory, but unenviable doom, they were all
reeonciled to their own milder but more perma-
nent lustre. One pleasant effeet was produced by
tlie visit of the stranger ; the comet thenceforward
appeared less illustrious in their e3'es by compari-
son with this more gorgeous phenomenon, which,
though it came in an instant, and went as it came,
never to return, ceased not to shine in their re-
membrance night after night.
On the third evening, the moon was so obvious-
ly increased in size and splendour, and stood so
much higher in the firmament than at first,
though she still hastened out of sight, that she
was the sole subject of conversation on both sides
of the galaxy, till the breeze, that awakened new-
ly-created man from his first slumber in paradise,
warned the stars to retire, and the sun, with a
pomp never witnessed in our degenerate days,
ushered in the great Sabbath of creation, when
" the heavens and the earth were finished, and all
the host of them."
The following niglit the moon took her station
still higher, and looked brighter than before ; in-
somuch tliat it was remarked of the lesser stars in
her vicinity, that many of them were paler, and
some no longer visible. As their associates knew
not how to account for this, they, naturally enough,
presumed that her light was fed by the accession
and absorption of theirs ; and the alarm became
general, that she would tlms continue to thrive by
consuming her neighbours, till she had incorporat-
ed them all with herself.
Still, however, she preserved her humility and
shamefacedness, till her crescent had exceeded the
92 vouNQ lady's
first quarter. Hitherto she had only grown love-
lier, but now slie grew prouder at every step of
her prel'eruient. Iler rays, too, became so intoler-
ably dazzling', that fewer and fewer of the stars
could endure their presence, but shrouded them-
selves in her light as behind a veil of darkness.
Wlien she verged to maturity, the heavens seemed
too small for her ambition. She " rose in clouded
majesty," but the clouds melted at her approach,
or spread their garments in her path, of many a
rich and rainbow tint.
She had crossed the comet in her course, and
left him as wan as a vapour behind her. On the
night of her fullness she triumphed gloriously in
mid heaven, smiled on the earth, and arrayed it in
a softer day ; for she had repeatedly seen the sun,
and, though she could not rival him when she was
above the horizon, she fondly hoped to make his
absence forgotten. Over tlie ocean slie hung,
enamoured of her own beauty reflected in the
abyss, 'i'he few stars, that still could stand amidst
her overpowering effulgence, converged their rays,
and shrunk into bluer depths of ether, to gaze at a
safe distance upon her. "What more can she be?"
— thought these scattered survivors of myriads of
extinguished sparklers ; for the " numbers without
number" that thronged the milky way had alto-
gether disappeared. Again thought these rem-
nants of the host of heaven, " As hitherto she has
increased every evening, to-morrow she w411 do
the same, and we must be lost, like our brethren,
in her all-conquering resplendence."
The moon herself was not a little puzzled to
imagine what might become of her ; but vanity
readily suggested, that, although she had reached
her full form, she had not reached ' her fUI size ;
BOOK OF PROSE. 93
consequently, by a regular niglitly expansion of
her cireuniicrcncc, she would fuially cover the
whole convexity of sky, not only to the exclusion
of the stars, but the sun himself, since he occupied
a superior region of space, and certainly could not
shine through her ; — till man, and his beautiful
companion woman, looking upward from tlie
bowers of Eden, would see all moon above them,
and walk in the light of her countenance for ever.
In the midst of this self-pleasing illusion, a film
crept upon her, which spread from lier utmost
verge athwart her centre, till it had completely
eclipsed her visage, and made her a blot on the
tablet of the heavens. In the progress of this dis-
aster, the stars, which were hid in her pomp, stole
forth to witness her humiliation ; but their trans-
port and her shame lasted not long ; tJie shadow
retired as gradually as it had advanced, leaving
her fairer by contrast than before. Soon after-
wards the day broke, and she withdrew, marvel-
ling what would next befall her.
Never had the stars been more impatient to re-
sume their places, nor the moon more impatient
to rise, than on the following evening. With
trembling hope and fear, the planets that came out
first after simset espied her disk, broad and dark
red, emerging from a gulf of clouds in the east
At the first glance, their keen celestial sight dis-
covered that lier western limb was a little con.
tracted, and her orb no longer perfect. Sbe herself
was too much elated to suspect any fuling, and
fondly imagined, by that species of self-measure-
ment, wbcreby earthly as well as heavenly bodies
are apt to deem themselves greater tlian they are,
that she must have continued to increase all round,
— till she had got above the Atlantic ; but even
94 YOUNG lady's
then she was only chajrrincd to perceive that her
image was no larger than it had been last night
There was not a star in the horoscope, — no, not
tlie comet himself, — durst toll her she was less.
Another day went, and another night came.
She rose, as usual, a little later. Even while she
travelled above the land, she was haunted with the
idea, tliat her lustre was rather feebler than it had
been ; but, when she beheld her face in the sea,
she could no longer overlook the unwelcome de-
feet. Tlie season was boisterous ; the wind rose
suddenly, and the waves burst into foam ; perhaps
the tide, for the first time, then was affected by
sympathy v.ith the moon ; and, what had never
happened before, an universal tempest mingled
heaven and earth in rain, and lightning, and dark-
ness. She plunged among the thickest of the
thunder-clouds, and, in the confusion that hid her
disgrace, her exulting rivals were all, likewise, put
out of countenance.
On the next evening, and every evening after-
wards, the moon came forth later, and less, and
dimmer ; while, on each occasion, more and more
of the minor stars, which had formerly vanished
from her eye, reappeared to witness her fading
honours and disfigured form. Prosperity had made
her vain ; adversity brought her to her mind again,
and humility soon compensated the loss of glaring
distinction with softer charms, that won the regard
which haughtiness had repelled ; for, when she
had worn otf her uncouth, gibbous aspect, and
through the last quarter her profile waned into a
hollow shell, she appeared more graceful than ever
in the eyes of all heaven. When she was original-
ly seen among them, the stars contemned her;
jifterwards, as she grew in beauty, they envied,
BOOK OF PROSE. 95
feared, hated, and finally fled from lier. ^As she
relapsed into insignitlcanee, they first rejoiced in
her deeay, then endured her superiority beeause it
could not last long ; but, when they marked Jiow
she had wasted away every time they met, com-
passion succeeded, and on the three last nights,
(like a human fair one in the latest stage of de-
cline, growing lovelier and dearer to lier friends
till tlie close,) she disarmed hostility, conciliated
kindness, and secured atfection ; she was admired,
beloved, and unenvied by all.
At length tlierc came a night wlien there was
no moon. There was silence in lieaven all that
night. In serene meditation on the changes of a
month, the stars pursued tlicir journey from sunset
to daybreak. The comet liad, likewise, departed
into unknown regions. His fading lustre liad been
attributed, at first, to the bolder radiance of the
moon in her meridian, but, during her wane, while
inferior luminaries were brightening around her,
he was growing fainter and smaller every evening,
and now he was no more. Ol" the rest, plan(;ts and
stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and tlic
former only slightly varied in their positions. The
whole multitude, wiser by experience, and better
for their knowledge, were immble, contented, and
grateful, each for his lot, whether splendid or ob-
ecurc.
Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of
«J1, the moon, with a new crescent, was descried
m the west; and instantly, from every quarter
of tiie pole, she was congratulated on her liappy
resurrection. Just as she went down, while her
bow was yet recumbent on tlie dark purple hori-
zon, it is said that an angel appeared, standing
between her horns. Turning his head, his eye
96 YOUNG LADY S
glanced rapidly over tlic universe, — the sun far
sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the
earth spread in prosj)ect before him, and the firma-
ment all g^littirini^ with constellations above. He
paused a moment, and then, in that tonj^ue wiierc-
in, at the accomplislnncnt of creation, " the morn-
ing" stars sang tog-other, and all the sons of God
shouteil for joy," lie thus brake forth ; — " Great
and marvellous arc thy works. Lord God Almig-h-
ty ! In wisdom hast thou made them all. — Who
would not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name,
for thou only art holy ?" — He ceased, — and from
tiiat hour there has been harmony in heaven.
Montgomery.
THE DEATH OF PADILLA, AND HEROISM OP
HIS WIFE.
TuE resentment of his enemies did not suffer
Padilla to Ymgcr long in expectation of what should
befall him. Next day he was condemned to lose
his head, thopgh without any regular trial, the
notoriety of the crime being supposed sufficient to
♦supersede the formality of a legal process. Ho
»vas led instantly to execution, togetlier with don
John Bravo, and don Francis Maldonada, the
former connnander of the Scgovians, and the lat-
ter of the troops of Salamanca. Padilla viewed the
upproach of death witli calm but undaunted for-
titude; and when Bravo, his fellow-sufllrer, ex-
pressed some indignation at hearing himself pro-
claimed a traitor, he checked him, by observing,
" That yesterday was the time to have displayed
the spirit of gentlemen, this day to die with the
BOOK OF PROSK. 97
meekness of Christians." Beings permitted to write
to his wife and to tlic conununity of Toledo, the
place of liis nativity, he addressed the former with
a manly and virtuous tenderness, and tlie latter
with the exultation natural to one who considered
himself as a martyr for the liberties of Jiis country.
After this, he submitted quietly to his fate. Most
of the Spanish historians, accustomed to ideas of
government, and of regal power, very different
from those upon which he acted, have been so
eager to testify their disapprobation of the cause in
which he was engaged, tliat tiiey have neglected,
or have been afraid, to do justice to his virtues ;
and, by blackening his memory, have endeavoured
to deprive him of that pity which is seldom denied
to illustrious sufferers.
The victory at Villalar proved as decisive as it
was complete. Valladolid, the most zealous of all
the associated cities, opened its gates innnediatcly
to the conquerors ; and being treated with great
clemency by the regents, Medina del Canipo, Se-
govia, and many other towns, followed its exam-
ple. This sudden dissolution of a confederacy, form-
ed not upon slight disgusts, or upon trilling mo-
tives, into which the wJiole body of the ijcople had
entered, and which had been allowed time to ac-
quire a considerable degree of order and consistence
by establishing a regular plan of government, is
the strongest proof either of the inabihty of its
leaders, or of some secret discord reigning among
its members. Though part of that army by which
they had been subdued was obliged, a few days
after the battle, to march towards Navarre, in or-
der to check the progress of the French in that
kingdom, nothing could prevail on the dejected
commons of Castile to take arms again, and to
7
98 YOUNG I.ADV'S
embrace such a favourable opportunity cf acquir-
ing' those rifrhts and privileges for which they liad
apiKjarod so zealous. 'J'lie city of 'J'ok-do alone,
animated by donna Maria Pachcco, Padilla's wi-
dow, who, instead of bewailing her husband with
a womanish sorrow, prepared to revenge his death,
and to prosecute that cause in defence of which he
had sulfercd, nuist be excepted. Respect for her
sex, or admiration for her courage and abilities, as
well as sympathy with her misfortunes, and vene
ration for the memory of her husband, secured her
tlic same ascendant over the people which he had
possessed. The prudence and vigour with which
she acted, justified that confidence they placed in
her. She wrote to the French general in Navarre,
encouraging him to invade Castile by the offer of
powerful assistance. She endeavoured by her let-
ters and emissaries to revive the sj)irit and hopes
of the other cities. She raised soldiers, and exacted
a great sum from the clergy belonging to the
cathedral, in order to defray the expense of keep-
ing them on foot. She employed every artifice
tliat could interest or inflame the populace. For
this purpose she ordered crucifixes to be used by
her troops instead of colours, as if they had been
at war with the infidels and enemies of religion ;
she marched through the streets of Toledo with
her son, a young child, clad in deep mourning
seated on a mule, having a standard carried before
him representing the manner of his father's exe-
cution. By all these means she kept the minds
of the people in such perpetual agitation as pre-
vented their passions from subsiding, and rendered
them insensible of the dangers to wliich they were
exposed by standing alone in opposition to the
royal authority. While the army was employed
BOOK OF PROSE. 99
in Navarre, the reg-ents were unable to attempt
the reduction of Toledo by force ; and all their
endeavours, cither to diminish donna Maria's
credit with the people, or to gain her by large
promises and the solicitations of her brother the
marquis de Mondeiar, proved ineffectual. Upon
the expulsion of the French out of Navarre, part
of the army returned into Castile, and invested
Toledo. Even this made no impression on the
intrepid and obstinate courage of donna Maria.
She defended the town with vigour, her troops in
several sallies beat the royalists, and no progress
was made towards rcduciiig the place, until the
clergy, whom she had highly offended by invad-
ing their property, ceased to support her. As soon
as they received information of tlic death of Wil-
liam de Croy, archbis^hoj) of Toledo, whose posses-
sion of tliat sec was tiieir cliief grievance, and that
the emperor had named a Castilian to succeed him,
they openly turned against her, and persuaded the
people that she had acquired such influence over
them by tlic force of enchantments, that she was
assisted by a familiar demon which attended her
in the form of a negro maid, and that by its sug-
gestions she regulated every part of her conduct
The credulous multitude, whom their impatience
of a long blockade, and despair of obtaining suc-
cours either from the cities formerly in confederacy
with them, or from the French, rendered desirous
of peace, took arms against her, and, driving her
out of the city, surrendered it to the royalists. She
retired to the citadel, which she defended with
amazing fortitude four months longer ; and when
reduced to the last extremities, she made her es-
cape in disguise, and fled to Portugal, where she
had many relations. Robertson.
100 YOUiNG lady's
THE BLIND WOMAN.
Entering the parlour of the post-house, (at Mau-
ren,) 1 saw an old woman of fourscore sitting be-
fore the stove, chewing with difficulty a piece of
bread, and drinking a glass of wine. By her side
lay a crutch. In her youth she must have been
handsome, her countenance was still pleasing, and
the silent grief with which it was clouded, rendered
her interesting to me. I asked the post- master's
wife whether she was her mother ? " No, indeed,"
she replied, "she is a very {X)or blind woman, who
is obliged to live on charity, and who calls upon
us occasionally, when wc do for her what we can."
— *' But she docs not beg ?" " No, that she never
does : but all who know her give her something."
I accosted the old woman : " Have you been long
blind ?" I began. " A short time ago," said she,
" I could still perceive a glimpse of light, but now
this is vanished : yet I cannot die." Notwithstand-
ing the concern which I seemed to express for her,
she would not beg. This moved mc : one word
brought on another ; she related her melancholy
8tory. Slic had been married to a clergyman in
Hanover, had children, and lived happily. Then
came on the seven years' war, with poverty and
distress in its train. She lost her all, pined in want,
and yet kept up her spirits. She beheld her chil-
dren expire, and sui)ported them in the hour of dis-
solution. At last her husband died also : a long
illness consumed what little property she had left ;
she was obliged to quit her place of residence, des-
titute and forlorn.
She was advised to go to her brother-in-law, a
counsellor of appeal at Darmstadt. She did not
?.OOK OF PROSE. 101
know him personally, and report proclaimed liim
;i stranjT-c cliaracter. Urcycd, liowcver, hy necessity,
slic ventured, lieing- pcantily assisted b}'- poor rela-
tions, "lor," said she, "none oftlicm had any thinjnr
to g-ive," sh.c raised barely sufficient for her travel-
ling expenses, and came with the post-wagon to
Darmstadt. Trembling- she approached her bro-
ther-in-law's door. A servant received her witli
considerable embarrassment, yet showed her into
a good room, and brought her refreshment. She
remained alone several hours ; but no brother-in-
law made his appearance. Towards night the girl
brought her a good supper; but, unable to eat from
grief and agitation, she continually kept asking
where her brotlier-in-law was. " To-morrow, to-
morrow," said the niaid, who jicrceived her uneasi-
ness, and felt for her; "first take a good night's
repose, you need reireshment." She could not
sleep. In the morning the servant entered her
chamber in tears, announced to her the burial of
her relation a fortnight before, and his having be-
queathed the whole of his considerable fortune to
charitable and beneficent establishments. Here she
began to weep bitterly ; " and yet I cannot die,"
exclaimed she.
I forget how she came to this part of the coun-
try, in which she has been starving these fifty
years, and cannot die. For a long time she re-
ceived support from Heidelberg ; but for the last
eighteen months that pittance has been stopped.
As she sits still without begging, her pitiful Ibrm
often escapes notice ; and she gets little. She is
somewhat prolix in her conversation, but she re-
lates her narrative in correct language, and with
consistency : and the woman of education may be
immediately distinguished. She accepts presents
102 YOUNG lady's
with blushing modesty, and returns cordial thanks
without bcHig abject. Her wish to die, and her
invocations to death, arc extremely moving. Olx 1
how cheerlully shall 1 forgive the post-master for
having Icll his horses in the field, and made me
wait longer than he ought, if this brief and unor-
namented tale furnisii an opportunity to men of
feeling, wiiether travellers or not, of affording relief
to the poor blind woman. She will not long prove
a burden to her benefactors ; her friend will shortly
grant her fervent wish, and softly remove her to
her husband and her children.
KOTZEBUE.
THE QUALITY WIFE.
It is observed, that a man improves more by
reading the story of a person eminent for prudence
and virtue, than by the finest rules and precepts
of morality. In the same manner a representation
of those calamities and misfortunes which a weak
man suffers from wrong measures, and ill-concerted
schemes of lilc, is apt to make a deeper impression
upon our minds than the wisest maxims and in-
structions that can be given us, for avoiding the
like follies and indiscretions in our own private
conduct. It is for this reason that I lay before my
reader the following letter, and leave it with him
to make his own use of it, without adding any
reflections of my own upon the subject matter.
Mr. Spectator, — Having carefully perused u
letter sent you by Josiah Fribble, Esq, with your
subsequent discourse upon pin-money, I do pre-
sume to trouble you with an accomit of my own
BOOK OF FROSE. 103
case, which I look upon to be no less deplorable
tlian that of Squire Fribble. I am a person of no
extraction, having begun the world with a small
parcel of rusty iron, and was for some years com-
monly known by the name of Jack Anvil. I have
naturally a very happy genius for getting money,
insomueli that by the age of five-and-twenty I had
scraped togetlicr tour thousand two hundred pounds,
five shillings and a few odd pence. I then launched
out into considerable business, and became a bold
trader both by sea and land, which in a few years
raised me a very considerable fortune. For these
my good services I was knighted in the tliirty-fiflh
year of my age, and lived with great dignity among
my city neighbours by the name of Sir John Anvil
Being in my temper very ambitious, I was now
bent upon making a family, and accordingly re-
solved tliat my descendants should have a dash of
good blood in their veins. In order to this, I made
love to tiie Lady Mary Oddly, an indigent young
woman of quality. To cut short the marriage
ti'caty, I threw her a Charte Blanche, as our news-
papers call it, desiring her to write upon it her
own terms. She was very concise in her demands,
insisting only that the disposal of my fortune and
the regulation of my family should be entirely in
her hands. Her father and brotiiers appeared ex-
ceedingly averse to this matcli, and would not see
me for some time; but at present are so well recon-
ciled, that they dine with mc almost every day,
and have borrowed considerable suins of me; whicli
my Lady Mary often twits me with, when she would
show me how kind her relations are to me. She had
no portion, as I told you before;' but what slie want-
ed in fortune, she makes up in spirit. She at first
changed my name to Sir John Envil, and" at pre-
104 YOUNG lady's
sent writes lierself Mary Enville. I have some
ciiiUlriU by lur, whom ^ he has christened with the
siirn:iines of Jut iiunily, in oidcr, a:i slic tells nic, to
wc.ir out the homeliness oi' tiieir parentage by the
fiithcr's side. Our cIdo;t pon is the Honourable
Oddly Enville, Ks(|. and our eldest daughter Har-
riot i^nville. Upon her first coming into my family,
she turned off a parcel of very careful servants,
who had been long with me, and introduced in
their stead a couple of black-a-moors, and tlirec or
four very genteel fellows in laced liveries, besides
her Frenchwoman, who is perpetually making a
noi.-e in the house in a language which nobody
understands, except my Lady Mary. She next set
herself to reform every room of my house, having
glazed all my chimney-pieces with looking-glass,
and planted every corner with such heaps of china,
that I am obliged to move about my own Jiousc
wit'ii the greatest caution and circumspection, for
fear of hurling some of our brittle furniture. She
makes an illumination once a week with wax-can-
dles in one of our largest rooms, in order, as she
I)hraj-cs it, to see company : at which time she al-
ways desires me to be abroad, or to confine myself
to tlie cock-loft, that I may not disgrace her among
her visitants of quality. Her footmen, as I told
you before, are such beaux that I do not much
care for asking them questions ; when I do, they
answer me with a saucy frown, and say that every
thing which I find fault with was done by my Lady
Mary's order. She tells me that she intends they
shall wear swords with their next liveries, having
lately observed the footmen of two or three persons
of quality hanging behind the coach with swords
by their sides. As soon as the first honey-moon
was over, I represented to her the unreasonableness
BOOK OF TROSr. lOS
of those daily innovations which she made in my
family ; but ^hc told n^c I w.-i.s no lon-^'cr to cnn-
;~i(liT nivsL'li'iis ."^irJuiin Aii\ il, !;ut ;>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<rly what has been, tlie thought of what
may yet be, hrinjofs home an exquisite and almost for-
gotten delight. Wliile melancholy even imparts its
sad hue to the moral observer of Rome's rehcs and
ruins, something of hope, of instinctive anticipa-
tion, bears out the mental gratification which ever
Jiows from them.
Italian Sketch Book.
THE VATICAN.
We crossed the Tiber in a broad barge, and
during the few moments which intervened ere our
walk recommenced, we were naturally led to con-
trast the turbid waters and the dim earth around
us, with the same scene, in its transcendent aspect,
as existing in the familiar picture of our fancy.
The one was the plain appearance of neglected
and perhaps degenerate nature ; the other, impres-
sions derived I'rom nature's glowing commentator,
the poet. Passing by a retired path through the
fields, we soon came in view of a circular fortress,
(the Castle of St. Angelo,) now chiefly used as a
prison, but originally the tomb of Hadrian. And
certainly, when its solid proportions were decked
with the numerous statuary ornaments which once
adorned them, it must have formed a glorious final
resting-place for a Roman. There is a striking and
melancholy inconsistency observable in this, as in
many instances, in the modern appropriation of
ancient monuments. So much more honourable
is it to the general, or at least to the better senti-
140 YOUNG lady's
rncnt of rmnkind, to leave unmarred the few rem-
nants of a nation's ^Tcatncss, when not one of her
children exists. There is surely a kind of sacrilege
in disturbing- works consecrated to the dead, for pur-
poses of selfish pride or narrow utility. The beauty,
the interest, the blessed inspiration which so often
liallow these ruins, are thus invaded, while no
commensurate advantage is obtained. Have not as
many smiles of ridicule or sneers of reproach, as
pious feelings, been awakened, by the view of the
apostles' figures surmounting the triumphal pillars
of Aurelius and Trajan ? And who can behold,
without regret, the mausoleum of the mighty dead
transformed into a tomb for the most wretched of
tlie living ?
We ascended a long flight of steps, entered a
square and corridor, and were soon in the Museum
of the Vatican. It were vain to endeavour to de-
scribe what an impression of the richness of art is
inspired by the first general inspection of this vast
collection of her redeemed trophies ; and far more
to paint the vivid and elevating conception of her
power which dawns, brightens, and finally glows
in the bosom, as face after face of thrilling interest,
figure after figure of embodied nature, and gem
after gem of exquisite material or workmanship
attracts the admiring eye ; all unanimated by one
spiritual principle, and yet so legitimately the off-
spring of the highest, and so perfectly significant,
as to awaken wonder, enkindle delight, and finally
win love. We devoted a season to tlie inspection
and admiration of the time-worn frescoes, which
exist upon the walls of the Camere of Raphael,
Constantino's victory is, indeed, a splendid battle-
piece. But of all the figures, none struck me as
grander than the group representing the miracu-
I
nooK OF riiosE. 141
lous defeat of the rava^^or of the temple, struck
down by a cavalier, and two ang'els, at the prayer
of the priest. Most of the countenances acre de-
picted arc separate and noble studies. All the fres-
coes were })artially designed and executed by Ra-
phael. They present a worthy but melancholy
monument to his j^enius, impaired as they arc by
age, and marred l»y his untimely death. Yet art-
ists of the present day arc continually studying
these dim, though most admirable remains, and
tind in their contemplation the happiest aids and
incitements. Notwithstanding this speaking testi-
mony to departed excellence, as well as that which
beamed in the admiring looks of the gazers around,
there was sometliing of sadness in flic very air of
rooms that bore the name, and shone with the em-
bodied talent of the beloved and early dead, which
forced itself irresistibly upon the mind, and tinged
with mournfulness the gratilied thoughts.
But it is when we stand for the first time in the
presence of that being, if aught destitute of sensa-
tion deserve the name, it is when the eye first
rests, and the heart first fastens with instinctive
eagerness upon the Apollo Belvidere, that we feel
tlie triumph of human art. And there springs up
a rich sentiment of satisfaction, not only that the
poetical in native feeling, the pure in taste, and tho
exalted in thought are conscious of unwonted grati-
fication, but because we rejoice in the spiritual
nobility of our common nature ; we glory in tho
thought that the senseless marble radiates the beau-
tiful and deep expressivenes.^ of intellectual life .it
tlie call of human genius, and we are soothed by
the testimony thus afforded to the immortality of
what wc most love in ourselves and kind ; for we
feel that such followers of nature are allied to .ts
142 YOUNG lady's
author, and may liumbly, but legitimately, aspire
to yet liighcr teachings than arc evolved from the
physical universe.
Italian Sketch Book.
LA ROCHE.
More than forty years ago, an English philoso-
phcr, whose works have since been read and ad-
mired by all Europe, resided at a little town in
France. Some disappointments in his native
country had first driven liim abroad, and he was
afterwards induced to remain there, from having
found in this retreat, where the connexions even
fif nation and language were avoided, a perfect
r^cclusion and retirement highly favourable to the
development of abstract subjects, in which he ex-
o^;llcd all the writers of his time.
Perhaps in the structure of such a mind as Mr.
's, the finer and more delicate sensibilities are
seldom known to have place ; or, if originally im-
planted there, are in a great measure extinguished
by the exertions of intense study and profound in-
vestigation. Hence the idea of philosophy and
unfeelingness being united, has become proverbial,
and in common language the former word is ofl;en
used to express the latter. — Our philosopher had
been censured by some, as deficient in warmth
and feeling : but the mildness of his manners has
been allowed by all ; and it is certain, that if he
was not easily melted into compassion, it was, at
least, not difficult to awaken his benevolence.
One morning, while he sat busied in those spec-
ulations which afterwards astonished the world,
an old female domestic, who served him for a
BOOK OF PROSE. 143
housekeeper, brought him word, that an elder-
ly gentleman and his daughter had arrived in the
village, tlie preceding evening, on their w^ay to
some distant country, and that the father had been
suddenly seized in the night with a dangerous dis-
order, which the people of the inn where they
lodged feared would prove mortal ; that slic had
been sent for, as having some knowledge in medi-
cine, the village surgeon being then absent ; and
tliat it was truly piteous to see the good old man,
who seemed not so much afflicted by his own dis-
tress as by that which it caused to his daughter. —
Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and
broke off the chain of ideas it had inspired. His
night-gown was exchanged for a coat, and he fol-
lowed his gouvernante to the sick man's apartmenL
It was the best in the little inn where they lay,
but a paltry one notwithstanding. Mr. was
obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was floored
with earth, and above were the joists not plastered,
and hung with cobwebs. — On a flock-bed, at one
end, lay the old man he came to visit ; at the foot
of it sat his daughter. She was dressed in a clean
white bed-gown ; her dark locks hung loosely over
it as she bent forward, watching the languid looks
of her father, Mr. and his housekeeper had
stood some moments in the room without the young
lady's being sensible of their entering it. — " Made-
moiselle !" said the old woman at last, in a soft
tone. She turned and showed one of the finest
faces in the world. It was touched, not spoiled
with sorrow ; and when she perceived a stranger,
whom the old woman now introduced to her, a
blush at first, and then the gentle ceremonial of
native politeness, which the afl^liction of the time
tempered, but did not extinguish, crossed it for a
141 vouNG lady's
moment, and clianjrcd its expression. It was
sweetness all, however, nnd our philosopher felt it
strongly. It was not a time for words ; lie offered
his services in a lew pincerc ones. " Monsieur
!ies miserably ill here," said the gouvernantc ; " if
iie could possibly be moved anywhere ?" " If he
could be moved to our house," said her mas-
l«;r. He jto.ssessed a spare bed for a friend, and
there was a garret unoccupied, next to the gouver-
iiante's. — It was contrived accordingly. The scru-
ples of the stranger, who could look scruples,
iJjougii he could not speak them, were overcome,
and the bashful reluctance of his daughter gave
way to her belief of its use to her father. The
sick man was wrapped in blankets, and carried
licross the street to the English gentleman's. The
old woman helped his daughter to nurse him there.
The surgeon, who arrived soon after, prescribed a
little, and nature did much for him ; in a week he
was able to thank his benefactor.
By that time his host had learned the name and
cliaracter of his guest. He was a protcstant cler-
gyman of Switzerland, called La Roche, a widow-
er, who had lately buried his wife, after a long
and lingering illness, for which travelling had
been prescribed, and was now returning home,
after an inefteetual and melancholy journey, with
liis only child, the daughter we have mentioned.
He was a devout man, as became his profession-
He possessed devotion in all its warmth, but with
none of its asperity ; I mean that asperity which
men, called devout, sometimes indulge in. Mr. ,
thougli he felt no devotion, never quarrelled with it
in others. — His gouvcrnante joined the old man
and his daughter in the prayers and thanksgivings
which they put up on liis recovery ; for she, too,
BOOK OF PROSE. 145
was a heretic, in the phrase of the village. The
philosopher walked out, with his long- stafY and
his dog, and left them to their prayers and thanks-
givings. " My master," said the old woman, " alas I
he is not a Christian ; but he is the best of unbe-
lievers." — " Not a Christian I" cxelaimed made-
moiselle IjH Roche, " yet he saved my father I
Heaven bless him lor it ; I would he were a Chris-
tian 1" " There is a pride in human knowledge,
my child," said her father, " which often blinds
men to tlic sublimer truths of revelation ; hence
opposers of Christianity are found among men of
virtuous lives, as well as among those of dissipated
and licentious characters. Nay, sometimes I have
known the latter more easily converted to the true
faith than the former, because the fume of passion
is more easily dissipated than the mist of false
tlieory and delusive speculation." — "l?ut Mr. ,"
said his daughter, " alas, my father, he shall be a
Christian belbre he dies." She was interrupted by
the arrival of their landlord. He took her lian'd
with an air of kindness : — she drew it away from
him in silence ; threw down her eyes to the ground,
and left the room. — " I have been thanking God,"
said the good La Roche, " for my recovery."
" That is right," replied his landlord. — " I would
not wish," continued tlie old man, hesitatingly,
" to think otherwise ; did I not look up with gra
titudc to that Being, I should barely be satisfied
with my recovery, as a continuation of life, which,
it may be, is not a real good. Alas I I may live
to wish I had died ; that you had left me to die,
sir, instead of kindly relieving me (he clasped Mr.
's hand ;) — but, when I look on this renova-
ted being as the gift of the Almiglity, I feel a far
different sentiment — mv heart dilates with grati-
10
146 YOUNG lady's
tudc and love to liim : it is prepared for doing his
will, not as a duty, but as a pleasure, and rejjards
every breach of it, not witli disapprobation, but
with horror." — " You say right, my dear sir," re-
plied tiie philosopher ; " but you are not yet re-es-
tablished enoug-li to talk much — you must take
care of your healtli, and neither study nor preach
for some time. I have been thinking over a scheme
tliat struck me to-day, when you mentioned your
intended departure. I never was in Switzerland ;
I have a great niiud to accompany your daughter
nnd you into that country. 1 will help to take
care of you by the road ; for, as I was your first
physician, I hold myself responsible for your cure."
— La Roche's eyes glistened at the proposal ; his
«laughtcr was called in and told of it. She wa8
equally pleased with her father ; for they really
loved tlieir landlord — net perhaps the less for his
infidelity ; at least that circumstance mixed a sort
of pity with their regard for him — their souls were
not of a mould for harsher feelings ; hatred never
dwelt in them.
They travelled by short stages ; for the philoso-
pher was as good as his word, in taking care that
the old man should not be fatigued- The party
had time to be well acquainted with one another,
and their friendship was increased by acquaintance.
Ija Roche found a degree of simplicity and gentle-
ness in his companion, which is not always annex-
id to the character of a learned or a wise man.
ilis daughter, who was prepared to be afraid of
)um, was equally undeceived. She found in him
nothing of that self-importance which superior
])art3, or great cultivation of them, is apt to confer.
He talked of every thing but philosophy and reli-
gion ; he seemed to enjoy every pleasure and
BOOK OF PROSE. 147
amusement of ordinary life, and to be interested
in the most connnon topics of discourse ; wlien his
knowledge or learning- at any time appeared, it was
delivered witli the utmost plainness, and without
the least shadow of dogmatism.
On his part, he was charmed with the society
of the good clergyman and his lovely daughter.
He found in them the guileless manner of the ear-
liest times, with the culture and accomplishment
of the most refined ones. Every better feeling,
warm and vivid ; every ungentle one, repressed or
overcome. He was not addicted to love ; but he
felt himself happy in being the friend of made-
moiselle La Roche, and sometimes envied her fa-
ther the possession of such a child.
After a journey of eleven days, tliey arrived at
the dwelling of La Roche. It was situated in one
of those valleys of the canton of Berne, where Na-
ture seems to repose, as it were, in quiet, and has
inclosed her retreat Avith momitains inaccessible- —
A stream that spent its fury in the hills above, ran
in front of the house, and a broken waterfall was
fc-een through the wood that covered its sides ; be-
low, it circled round a tufted plain, and formed a
little lake in front of a village, at the end of which
appeared the spire of La Roche's church, rising
above a clump of beeches.
Mr. enjoyed the beauty of the scene ; but,
to his companions, it recalled the memory of a
wife and parent they had lost. — The old man's sor-
row was silent; his daughter sobbed and wept.
Her father took her hand, kissed it twice, pressed
it to his bosom, threw up his eyes to heaven ; and
having wiped off a tear that was just about to drop
from each, began to point out to his guest some
6f the most striking objects which the prospect
148 YOUNG lady's
afforded. The philosopher interpreted all this;
and he could but slightly censure the creed from
which it arose.
They had not been long arrived when a num-
ber of La Roche's parishioners, who had heard
of his return, came to the house to see and wel-
come him. The honest folks were awkward, but
sincere in their profes^sions of regard. They made
some attempts at- condolence ; it was too delicate
for their handling ; but La Roche took it in good
part. — " It has pleased God," said he ; and they
saw he had settled the matter with himself. Phi-
losophy could not have done so much with a thou-
sand words.
It was now evening, and the good peasants were
about to depart, when a clock was heard to strike
seven, and the hour was followed by a particular
chime. The country-folks, who had come to wel-
come their pastor, turned their looks towards him
at the sound ; he explained their meaning to his
guest. " That is the signal," said he, " for our
evening exercise : this is one of the nights of the
week in which some of my parishioners are wont
to join in it ; a little rustic saloon serves for the
chapel of our family, and such of the good people
as are with us : — if you choose rather to walk out,
I will furnish you with an attendant ; or here are
a few old books that may afford you some enter-
tainment within." — " By no means," answered the
philosopher ; " I will attend mademoiselle at her
devotions." — " She is our organist," said La Roche;
"our neighbourhood is the country of musical me-
chanism ; and I have a small organ fitted up for
the purpose of assisting our singing." — " 'T is an
additional inducement," replied the other ; and
they walked into the room together. At the end
BOOK OF PROSE. 1 i9
stood the org^an mentioned by La Roche ; before it
was a curtain, which liis daughter drew aside, and
placing lierself on a seat within, and drawing the
curtain close, so as to save her the awkwardness
of an exhibition, began a voluntary, solemn and
beautiful in the highest degree. Mr. was no
musician, but he was not altogether insensible to
music ; this fastened on his mind more strongly,
from its beauty being unexpected. The solemn
prelude introduced a hymn, in wliich such of the
audience as could sing, immediately joined ; the
words were mostly taken from holy writ ; it spoke
the praises of God, and his care of good men. —
Something was said of tlie death of the just, of
such as die in the Lord. The organ was touched
with a hand less firm ; — it paused, it ceased ; and
tlie sobbing of mademoiselle La Roche was heard
in its stead. Her father gave a sign for stopping
the psalmody, and rose to pray. He was discom-
posed at first, and his voice faltered as he spoke ;
but his heart was in his words, and its warmth
overcame his embarrassment. He addressed a
Being whom he loved, and he spoke for those he
loved. His parishioners catched the ardour of the
good old man ; even the philosopher felt himself
moved, and forgot, for a moment, to think why he
should not.
La Roche's religion was that of sentiment, not
theory, and his guest was averse from disputation ;
their discourse, therefore, did not lead to questions
concerning the belief of either ; yet would the old
man sometimes speak of his, from the fullness of a
heart impressed with its force, and wishing to
spread the pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of
his God, and his Saviour, were so congenial to his
mind, that every emotion of it naturally awakened
150 YouxG lady's
them. A philosopher iniglit liavc called him an
enthusiast; but, if lie possessed the tervour of en
thusiasts, he was guiltless of their bigotry. " Our
Father wiiich art in heaven I" might the good man
say — for he lelt it — and all mankind were his
brethren.
" You regret, my friend," said lie to Mr. ,
" when my daughter and I talk of the exquisite
pleasure derived from nmsic ; you regret your
want of musical powers and musical feelings ; it
is a department of soul, you sg,y, which nature has
almost denied you, which, from the effects you see
it have on others, you arc sure must be highly de-
lightful. — Why should not the same thing be said
of religion ? Trust me, I feel it in the same way,
an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose
for all the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the
world ; yet, so far from lessening my relish of the
pleasures of life, methinks I feel it heighten them
all. The thought of receiving it from God, adds
the blessing of sentiment to that of sensation in
every good thing I possess ; and when calamities
overtake me — and I have had my share — it con-
fers a dignity on my affliction, — so lifts me above
the world. Man, I know, is but a worm — yet,
methinks, I am then allied to God I" It would
have been inhuman in our philosopher to have
clouded, even wuth a doubt, the sunshine of this
belief.
His discourse, indeed, was very remote from
metaphysical disquisition, or religious controversy.
Of all men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation
was the least tinctured with pedantry, or liable to
dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter, it
was perfectly familiar. The country round them,
the manners of the villagers, the comparison of
BOOK OF PROSE. 151
both with those of England, remarks on tlie works
of favourite authors, on tlie sentiments tliey con-
veyed, and tlie ])assions they excited, with many
other topics, in which there was an equality, or
alternate advantage, among the speakers, were the
subjects they talked on. Their hours too of riding
and walking were many ; in which Mr. , as
a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and
curiosities of the country. They would sometimes
make little expeditions to contemplate, in different
attitudes, those astonishing mountains, the cliffi?
of which, covered witli eternal snows, and some-
times shooting into fantastic shapes, form the ter-
mination of most of tlie Swiss prospects. Our
philosopher asked many questions as to their natu-
ral history and productions. La lloche observed
tlic subhmity of the ideas which the view of their
stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot,
was calculated to inspire, which naturally, said he,
leads the mind to that Being by whom their foun-
dations were laid. — " They are not seen in Flan-
ders !" said mademoiselle with a sigh, "That's
an odd remark," said Mr. , smiling. — She
blushed, and he inquired no farther.
It was with regret he left a society in which he
found himself so happy ; but he settled with La
Roche and his daughter a plan of correspondence ;
and they took his promise, that, if ever he came
within fifty leagues of their dwelling, he should
travel those fifty leagues to visit them.
About three years after, our philosopher was on
a visit at Geneva ; the promise he made to La
Roche and his daughter on his former visit, was
recalled to his mind, by the view of that range of
mountains, on a part of which they had often
looked together. There was a re2)roach, too, con-
lOa YOn.NG LADY S
veycd aloncc with the recollection, for liis having
failed to write to either for several months past.
The truth was, that indolence was tlie habit most
natural to him, from which he was not easily roused
by tlie claims of correspondence either of his friends
or of his enemies ; when the latter drew their pens
in controversy, they were often unanswered as
well as the former. While he was hesitating about
a visit to La Roche, which he wished to make, but
found the effort rather too much for him, he re-
ceived a letter from the old man, which had been
forwarded to him from Paris, where he had then
fixed his residence. It contained a gentle com-
plaint of Mr. 's want of punctuality, but an
assurance of continued gratitude for his former
good offices ; and, as a friend whom the writer
considered interested in his family, it informed
him of the approaching nuptials of mademoiselle
La Roche, with a young man, a relation of her
own, and formerly a pupil of her fatlicr's, of the
most amiable disjwsitions, and respectable charac-
ter. Attached from their earliest years, they had
been separated by his joining one of the subsidiary
regi'ments of the Canton, then in the service of a
foreign power. In this situation he had distinguish,
ed himself as much for courage and military skill,
as for the other endowments which he had culti-
vated at home. 7^he time of his service was now
expired, and they expected him to return in a few
weeks, when the old man hoped, as he expressed
it in his letter, to join their hands, and see them
happy before he died.
Our philosopher felt himself interested in this
event ; but he was not, perhaps, altogether so hap-
py in the tidings of mademoiselle La Roche's
marriage, as her father supposed him. Not that
BOOK OF PROSE. 153
he was ever a lover of the lady's ; but he tliought
her one of the most amiable women he had seen,
and there was something in the idea of her being-
another's for ever, that struck him, lie knew not
why, like a disappointment. After some little
speculation on the matter, however, he could look
on it as a thing fitting, if not quite agreeable, and
determined on this visit to see his old friend and
his daughter happy.
On tiie last day of his journey, different acci-
dents had retarded his progress : he was benighted
before he reached the quarter in which La Roche
resided. His guide, however, was well acquainted
with the road, and he found himself at last in view
of the lake, which I have before described, in the
neighbourhood of La Roche's dwelling. A light
gleamed on the water, that seemed, to proceed
from the house ; it moved slowly along as he pro-
ceeded up the side of the lake, and at last he saw
it glimmer through the trees, and stop at some dis-
tance fi-om the place where he then was. He sup-
posed it some piece of bridal merriment, and push-
ed on his horse, that he might be a spectator of the
scene ; but he was a good deal shocked, on ap-
preaching the spot, to find it proceed from the
torch of a person clothed in the dress of an atten-
dant on a funeral, and accompanied by several
others, who, like him, seemed to have been em-
ployed in the rites of sepulture.
On Mr. 's making inquiry who was the
person they had been burying, one of them, with
an accent more mournful than is common to their
profession, answered, "Then you knew not made-
moiselle, sir ? — you never beheld a lovelier" — " La
Roche !" exclaimed he, in reply — " Alas I it was
she indeed I" — The appearance of surprise and
154 YOUNG lady's
grief which his countenance assumed, attracted
the notice of the peasant with whom lie talked.
He came up closer to Mr. ; " I perceive, sir,
you were acquainted with mademoiselle La Roche."
" Acquainted with her I — Good God I — when — how
— where did she die ? Where is her father ?" " She
died, sir, of heart-break, I believe ; the young gen-
tleman to whom she was soon to have been mar-
ried, was killed in a duel by a French officer, his
intimate companion, and to whom, before their
quarrel, he ])ad often done the greatest favours.
Her worthy father bears her death, as he has often
told us a Christian should ; he is even so composed,
as to be now in his pulpit, ready to deliver a few
exhortations to his parishioners, as is the custom
with us on such occasions : — Follow me, sir, and
you shall hear him." He followed the man with-
out answering.
The church was dimly lighted, except near the
pulpit, where the venerable La Roche was seated
His people were now lifting up their voices in a
psalm to that Being, whom their pastor had taught
them ever to bless and revere. La Roche sat, his ,
figure bending gently forward, his eyes half-closed,
lifted up in silent devotion. A lamp, placed near
him, threw its light strong on his head, and mark-
ed the shadowy lines of age across the paleness
of his brow, thinly covered with gray hairs.
The music ceased ; La Roche sat for a moment,
and nature wrung a few tears from him. His peo-
ple 'were loud in their grief. Mr. was not
less affected than they. — La Roche arose. " Father
of mercies I" said he, " forgive these tears ; assist
thy servant to lift up his soul to thee ; to lift to
thee the souls of tliy people ! My friends ! it is
good so to do ; at all seasons it is good ; but, in the
BOOK OF PROSE. 155
days of our distress, what a privileg-c it is ! Well
saith the sacred book, ' Trust in the Lord ; at all
times trust in the Lord.' When every other sup-
port fails us, when the fountains of worldly com-
fort are dried up, let us then seek those living
waters wliich flow from tlic throne of God. 'T is
only from the belief of the goodness and wisdom
of a supreme Being, that our calamities can be
borne in that manner which becomes a man. Hu-
man wisdom is here of little use ; for, in propor-
tion as it bestows comfort, it represses feeling, with-
out which we may cease to be hurt by calamity,
but we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. I wiU
not bid you be insensible, my friends ! I cannot, I
cannot, if I would (his tears flowed afresh) — I feel
too much myself, and I am not ashamed of my
feelings ; but therefore may I the more willingly
be heard ; therefore have I prayed God to give me
strength to speak to you ; to direct you to Him,
not with empty words, but with these tears, not
from speculation, but from experience, — that while
you see me suffer, you may know also my conso-
lation.
" You behold the mourner of his only child, the
last earthly stay and blessing of his declining
years ! Such a child too ! — It becomes not me to
speak of her virtues ; yet it is but gratitude to
mention them, because they were exerted towards
myself. Not many days ago, you saw her yoimg,
beautiful, virtuous, and happy ; ye who are parents
will judge of my felicity then, — ye will judge of
my affliction now. But I look towards him who
struck me ; I see the hand of a father amidst the
cliastenings of my God. Oh ! could I make you
feel what it is to pour out the heart, when it is
pressed dovv'n with many sorrows, to pour it out
156 YOUNG lady's
with confidence to Him in whose liands are life
and death, on whose power awaits all that the first
enjoys, and in contemplation of whom disappears
all tliat the last can inflict I For we are not as
those who die without hope ; we know thirt our
Redeemer liveth, — tliat we shall live with Him,
with our friends, his servants, in that blessed land
where sorrow is unknown, and happiness is endless
as it is perfect. Go then, mourn not for me ; 1
have not lost my child : but a little while, and we
shall meet again never to be separated. But ye
are also my children : would ye that I should not
grieve without comfort ? So live as she lived :
that, when your death cometh, it may be the death
of the righteous, and your latter end like his."
Such were the exhortations of La Roche : his
audience answered it with their tears. The good
old man had dried up his at the altar of the Lord ;
his countenance had lost its sadness, and assumed
the glow of faith and of hope. Mr. followed
him into his house. The inspiration of the pulpit
was past ; at sight of him the scenes they had last
met in, rushed again on his mind ; La Roche threw
his arms round his neck, and watered it with his
tears. The other was equally affected ; they went
together in silence, into the parlour, where the
evening service was wont to be performed. The
curtains of the organ were open ; La Roche start-
ed back at the sight. " Oh ! my friend !" said he,
and his tears burst forth again. Mr. had now
recollected himself; he stept forward, and drew
the curtains close — the old man wiped off his tears,
and taking his friend's hand, " You see my weak-
ness," said he, "'tis the weakness of humanity;
but my comfort is not therefore lost." " I heard
you," said the other, " in the pulpit ; I rejoice that
BOOK OF PROSE. 157
such consolation is yours." " It is, my friend,"
said he ; " and I trust I shall ever hold it fast ; if
there are any who doubt our faith, let them think
of wliat importance religion is to calamity, and
forbear to weaken its force ; if they cannot restore
our happiness, let them not take away the solace
of our affliction."
Mr. 's heart was smitten ; and I have heard
him, long after, confess, that there were moments
when the remembrance overcame him even to
weakness ; when, amidst all the pleasures of phi-
losophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame,
he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the
good La Roche, and wished tliat he had never
doubted.
Mackenzie.
LUCY.
About a twelvemonth ago we had the misfor-
tune to lose a very faithful and favourite female
servant; one who has spoiled us for all others.
Nobody can expect to meet with two Lucies. Wc
all loved Lucy — poor Lucy ! She did not die — she
only married ; but we were so sorry to part with
her, that her wedding, which was kept at our
house, was almost as tragical as a funeral ; and
from pure regret and affection we sum up her me-
rits, and bemoan our loss, just as if she had really
departed this life.
Lucy's praise is a most fertile theme : she united
the pleasant and amusing qualities of a Frencli
soubrctte, witli the solid excellence of an English-
woman of the old school, and was good by con
trarics. In the first place, she was exceedingly
158 YOUNG lady's
a^ceable to look at; remarkably pretty. She
lived in our family eleven years ; but, having- come
to us very young, was still under thirty, just in
full bloom, and a very brilliant bloom it was. Her
figure was rather tall, and rather larjgo, with deli-
cate hands and feet, and a remarkable ease and
vigour in her motions : I never saw any woman
walk so fast or so well. Her faee was round and
dimpled, with sparkling gray eyes, black eye-
brows and eye-lashes, a profusion of dark hair,
very red lips, very white teeth, and a complexion
that entirely took away the look of vulgarity which
tlie breadth and flatness of her face might other-
wise have given. Such a complexion, so pure, so
finely grained, so healthily fair, with such a sweet
rosiness, brightening and varying like her dancing
eyes whenever she spoke or smiled ! When silent,
she was almost pule ; but, to confess the truth, she
was not often silent. Lucy liked talking, and
every body liked to hear her talk. There is al-
ways great freshness and originality in an unedu-
cated and quick-witted person, who surprises one
continually by unsuspected knowledge or amusing
ignorance ; and Lucy had a real talent for conver-
sation. Her light and pleasant temper, her cle-
verness, her universal kindness, and the admirable
address, or rather the excellent feeling, with which
she contrived to unite the most perfect respect
with the most cordial and affectionate interest,
guve a singular charm to her prattle. No confi-
dence or indulgence — and she was well tried with
both — ever made her forget herself for a moment
All our friends used to loiter at the door or in the
hall to speak to Lucy, and they miss her, and ask
for her, as if she were rcr.lh one of the family. —
She was not less liked by her equals. Her con-
BOOK OF PROSK. 159
slant simplicity and riglit-mindodncss kept lier al-
ways in licr place witli tlioiu as with us ; and her
gaiety and good-humour made her a most welcome
visitor in every shop and cottage round. She had
another qualification for village society — she was
an incomparahlc gossip, had a rare genius for
picking up news, and great liberality in its diffu-
sion. Births, deaths, marriages, casualties, quar>
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
ina<rnificent pophirs wliicli form a landmark lor
many miles round, rise the rock-like walls of the
old city of S , one of the most perfect Ro-
man remains now existing in England. The wall
can be traced all round, rising sometimes to a
height of twenty feet, over a deep narrow slip of
meadow land, once the ditch, and still full of aqua-
tic flowers. The ground within rises level with
the top of the wall, which is of gray stone, crown-
ed with the finest forest trees, wJiose roots seem
interlaced with the old masonry, and covered witli
wreaths of ivy, brambles, and a hundred otlier
trailing plants. Close by one of the openings,
which mark the site of the gates, is a graduated
terrace, called- by antiquaries the Amphitheatre,
which commands a rich and extensive view, and
u backed by tlie village church and an old farm-
Jiouse, — tlie sole buildings in that once populous
city, whose streets are now traced only by the
bliglited and withered appearance of the ripening
corn. Roman coins and urns are often ploughed
up there, and it is a favourite haimt of the lovers
of " hoar antiquity." But the beauty of the place
is independent of its noble associations. The very
heart expands in tJie deep verdure and perfect
loneliness of that narrow winding valley, fenced
on one side by steep coppices or its own tall irre-
gular hedge, on the other by the venerable crag-
like wall, whose proud coronet of trees, its jutting
ivy, its huge twisted thorns, its briery festoons, and
the deep caves where the rabbits burrow, make
the old bulwark seem no work of man, but a ma-
jestic piece of nature. As a picture it is exquisite.
Nothing can be finer than the mixture of those
BOOK OF PROSE. IG'J
varied greens so crisp and life-like, \vith the crum-
bling' gray stone ; nothing more perleelly m har-
mony with the solenm beauty of the place, than
the deep cooings of the wood-pigeons, who abound
in the walls. I know no pleasure so intense, so
soothing, so apt to bring sweet tears into tlie eyes,
or to awaken thoughts that "lie too deep for tears,"
as a walk round the old city on a fine summer
evening. A ride to S was always delight-
ful to me, even before it became the residence of
Lucy ; it is now my prime festival.
Miss Mitford.
THE MEXICAN PRINCESS.
With good hearts, Juan Lerma and the princess
of Mexico moved among the corruptions of super-
stition, uncorruptcd ; and preserved to themselves,
unabated and unsullied, the pure and gentle feel-
ings which nature had showered upon them at
their birth.
The moon, falling aslant upon the garden, lighted
the countenances of the young Spanish exile and
the orphan child of Montezuma, as they rested upon
the sunnnitof a little artificial mound, ornamented
with carved stone seats and rude statuary, con-
structed lor the i)urpose of overlooking the walls.
The visage of the Christian was illumined by pen-
sive smiles, and his lips breathed gently and fer-
vently the accents that were sweetest to the ears
of the Indian maiden. But did he discourse of
worldly atibction and passion to one so ignorant
and artless ? A nobler spirit animated the youth
He spoke of the faith of Christians, and laboured
with more than the zeal, though not perhaps with
170 YOUNG lady's
llic wisdom, of llic missionary, to impress its divine
truths upon the mind of his licarer. If his argu-
ments were somewhat less cog^cnt and logical than
might have been spoken, it must be remembered
that his religion was like that which will perhaps
belong to the majority of Christians to the end of
the world, — a faith of the heart, which the head
has not been accustomed to canvass.
lie directed her eyes to the moon, to the evening
star, and to those other celestial wanderers, by
which the heart of man was " secretly enticed,"
even before the days of the perfect man of Uz.
" They are the little bright heroes that hang
down from the house of Omcteuctli, king of the
city of heaven," said the poor infidel, — " all save
Meztli," (the moon) " who is the king of night,
brother of Tonatricli," (the sun) "god of the burn-
ing day. This is what they say of the two gods :
Tlicre were men on earth, but wicked : the ancient
jj^ods, tlic sons of Ipalnemoani, killed them. Tiien
Ometeuctli sent forth from the city of heaven his
sons, who descended to Mictlan, — the dark hell, —
by the road that leads between the Fighting Moun-
tains, and the Eight Deserts, — and stole the bones
of men, that Mictlanteuctli had heaped up in his
cavern. Tlie sons of Ometeuctli sprinkled the
bones with their blood; and these men lived again,
and llie sons of Ometeuctli were their rulers and
fathers. But the earth was dark, — it was night
over the world, and the only light was the fire
which they kindled and kept burning in the vale
of Teotihuacan. The sons of Ometeuctli pitied the
men they had revived; and, to give them light, they
burned themselves in the fire. Ometeuctli, their
father, then placed them in the sky, — ^Tonatricli
the first-born, to be the suii, Meztli to be the moon,
BOOK OF PROSE. 171
and the others to be stars. So they haiifr in hea-
ven, turned to fire : and men built j)yraniids to
them, on the plaee of burning, Micoatl, llie Field
of Death.* They are very good gods, Ibr they
shine upon us."
" Forget these idle fables," said Juan, with a
gentleness much more judicious tlian any zeal
could have been. " Forget, too, Mexitli, Painalton,
Quetzalcoatl, Centeotl, and the thousand vain be-
ings of imagination, with which your priests have
peopled the world. Think only of the great Teoll,
whom you have called Ipalnemoani, — the great
God, tlie only God, — for there is no other than He,
and the rest are but fables. Yonder moon and
stars are not divinities, but great globes like this
on which we live ; and to worship them is a sin —
it angers Ipalnemoani, who is tlie only God, — the
Creator, — whom all men worshij), though under
difterent names. Worship but Ipalnemoani, and
in mode as I will tell thee, and thou art already
almost a Christian."
" But is not Christ anotlier god of the Spaniards ?"
said the maiden, doubtfully.
" The Son of God, a portion of God, and God
himself," replied the Christian, launching at once
into all the theological metaphysics with wiiich lie
was acquainted, and succeeding in confounding
the mmd of the poor barbarian, without being very
sensible of the confusion of his own. Lut if he
could not teach her how to distinguish between
categories, not reducible to order and consistency
by the poor aids of human language, he was able
to interest her in the fate and character of the di-
* The vale of San Juan de Teotihuacan, wliere stand the
great pyramids of the Sun and Moon, and the smaller mounds
erected to the stars.
172 YOUNG lady's
vine Redeemer, by no other means than tliat of
relating^ his history. And it is this to which men
must chiefly look for instruction, belief, and reno-
vation, without reference to dogmas and creeds ;
for licrc all find tlic unanimit}^ of belief and feel-
ing, whicli entitles them to the claims of fraternity.
When Juan had excited her sympathy in the
character of the Messiah, he began to discourse
upon the object and the ends of Jiis mission. But
unfortunately the doctrine of original sin, with
which he set out, had in it something extremely
repugnant to the rude ideas of the child of nature.
It inferred a native wickedness in all, to be ban-
ished only by belief; and it seemed at once to place
her in an humble and degraded light, in the eyes
of the young Christian.
" Wliat has Zelahualla done," she said, with
maidenly pride, "that the king's brother should
make her out wicked ?"
At this application of tlic doctrine, Juan was
somewhat staggered in his own belief. He looked
at the mild eyes of tiie catechumen, beaming as
from a spirit without stain and without guile, and
he said to himself, " How can tliis be ? for she has
known no sin." His imagination wandered among
the moral and religious precepts stored in his memo-
ry, and settled at last with the triumph of a contro-
versialist, as well as the satisfaction of a Christian,
upon the first rules of the decalogue, — broken in
ignorance, and therefore, he doubted not, easily
atoned. He told lier that the worship of false gods
was a sin, and homage shown to idols of wood and
stone a deep iniquity ; and these being common to
all benighted people, he satisfied himself, and per-
haps her, that they were unanswerable proofs of
the existence of natural depravity. But a stronger
BOOK OF Piiosr. 173
liglit was thrown upon tlic niaiden's mind, when
lie showed its effects in the scene of bloodshed,
commenced long since in tlie days of" her sire, and
now about to be terniinated in a war of massacre.
" He of whom I speak," he said, "came into the
world, in order that these things should cease. He
offers men peace and good-will; and when men
acknowledge him and follow his commands, peace
and good-will will reign over the whole world.
Think not, because my countrymen are sometimes
unjust, and often cruel, that our divine Leader is
tlie less divine. These are the wickednesses of
their nature, not yet removed by full or just belief;
for the belief of some is insuthcient, of others per-
verted, and some, though tliey proless it, have no
belief at all. Know, then, that our religion, justly
considered, and with a pure mind not selfish, has
its great element in affection. It teaches love of
heaven, and, equally, love of man. It denounces
the wrong-doer, who is as a fire, burning away the
cords that bind men together in happiness ; and it
exalts the good man, Avho unites his fellows in
affection. It punislies vicious deeds and forbids
evil thoughts ; for with these, there can be no hap-
piness and peace. This it does upon earth ; and it
prepares for the world beyond the grave, in which
no human passion or infirmity can disturb the per-
fect purity and enjoyment, of which the immortal
spirit is capable."
Thus he conversed, and thus, guided by the na-
tive bias of his mind, dwelt upon that feature of our
heavenly faith, of which it requires no aid of en-
tlmsiasm to perceive the amiableness and beauty.
*' Peace and good-will to all .'"* There is a charm
* According to tlie Vulgate, the good tidings of great joy
offered peace onlj/ " to men oigood-will," pax hominibus boiue
174 YOUNG lady's
in the holy sentence, at onee the watchword and
synopsis of reliuioii, that thrills to tlie hearts even
of those, who, \o obtain the base immortality of
renown, arc wiiling to exchange it for the war-cry
of the barbarian, the V(S victis I of a hero.
Thus far, then, the heart of the Indian maiden
was sotlened, and tears, — not of penitence, for it
never entered her mind that she had any thing- to
repent, — tears of gentle and pleasurable emotion
stole into her eyes, as she listened to tenets ex-
plained by one so revered and beloved.
" The religion that my lord loves, is good ; and
Zelahualla shall know no other."
" God be praised for this then," said Juan, fer-
vently ; " for now is the desire of my heart ful-
filled, mine errand accomplished ; and I will die,
when I am called, cheerfully ; knowing that thou
wilt follow me to heaven. Now do I perceive that
heaven works good in our misfortunes. The mise-
ries that I have lamented, — the hatred of Don Her-
nan, the malice of my foes, my downfall, my con-
demnation, — what were they but the steps which
have led me to effect thy conversion and salvation ?
God be praised for all things ! and God grant that
the seeds of the true faith, now sown in thy
heart, may grow and flourish, till transplanted into
paradise !"
Thus saying, Juan fell upon his knees, and
invoked blessings ' upon the proselyte, who knelt
beside him, confirmed greatly in her new creed by
voluntatis, — which, whether the translation be right or wrong,
undoubtedly destroys the sublimity of the conception, by narrow-
ing down the benevolence of the Deity, and deprives of the
blessing of peace that majority of men, who, not being men of
good-will, have the greatest need of it.
BOOK OF PROSE. 17.)
the evident pleasure licr conversion, if it could be
so called, had given him.
" Know now, Zelahualla," he said, as lie raised
lier from the ground, and folded her in an embrace
that had more of tlie gentle affection of a brother,
than the ardent passion of a lover, "that now thou
art dearer to me than all the world beside. Wliile
tiiou wert a worshipper of idols, I wept for thee ;
now that tliou art a Christian, I love thee ; and
through this storm of war, that is gathering around
thee, I will remain to protect thee, and, if need be,
to perish by thy side."
"What my lord is, that will I be," said the
young princess, with such looks of confiding af-
fection as belong to the unsophisticated child of
nature — " Yes, Zelahualla will be a Christian, —
Juan's Christian," — for she had been long since
instructed to pronounce the name of her young
friend — " and she will think of none but him."
Dr. Bird. -
CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY.
When the Gods, knowing it to be for the benefit
of mortals that the few should lead and that the
many should follow, sent down into this lower
world Ignorance and Wisdom, they decreed to
each of them an attendant and guide, to conduct
their steps and facilitate their introduction. To
Wisdom they gave Confidence, and Ignorance they
placed under tlie guidance of Modesty. Thus
paired, the parties travelled about the world for
some time with mutual satisfaction.
Wisdom, whose eye was clear and piercing, and
176 YOUNG lady's
commanded a lonjr reach of country, followed her
conductor with pleasure and alacrity. She saw the
windings of the road at a great distance ; Jier foot
was firm, her ardour was unbroken, and she as-
cended the hill or traversed the plain with speed
and safety.
Ignorance, on Ihe other hand, was short-sighted
and timid, Wlien she came to a spot where the
road branched out in different directions, or was
obliged to pick her way through the obscurity of
tlie tangled thicket, she was firequently at a loss,
and was accustomed to stop till some one appeared,
to give her the necessary information, which the
interesting countenance of her companion seldom
failed to procure her.
Wisdom, in the mean time, led by a natural
instinct, advanced toward the temple of Science
and Eternal Truth. For some time the way lay
plain before her, and she followed her guide with
unhesitating steps ; but she had not proceeded far
before the paths grew intricate and entangled; the
meeting branches of the trees spread darkness over
her head, and steep mountains barred her way,
whose summits, lost in clouds, ascended beyond
the reach of mortal vision. At every new turn of
the road her guide urged her to proceed ; but after
advancing a little way, she was ollen obliged to
measure back her steps, and often found herself
involved in the mazes of a labyrinth which, after
exercising her patience and her strength, ended
but where it began.
In the mean time Ignorance, who was naturally
impatient, could but ill bear the continual doubts
and hesitation of her companion. She hated de-
liberation, and could not submit to delay. At
length it so happened that she found herself on a
BOOK OF PROSK. 177
spot where three ways met, and no indication was
to be found which inig-ht direct her to the right
road. Modesty advised her to wait ; and she had
waited till her patience was exhausted. — At thai
moment Confidence, who was in disgrace with
Wisdom for some false steps he had led her into,
and who had just been discarded from her pres-
ence, came up, and offered himself to be her guide.
Ho was accepted. Under liis auspices Ignorance,
naturally swift of foot, and who could at any
time have outrun Wisdom, boldly pressed forward,
pleased and satisfied with her new companion. He
knocked at every door, visited castle and convent,
and introduced his charge to many a society
whence Wisdom found herself excluded.
Modesty, in the mean time, finding she could be
of no further use to her charge, offered her services
to Wisdom. They were mutually pleased with each
other, and soon agreed never to separate. And ever
since that time Ignorance has been led by Confi-
dence, and Modesty has been found in tlie society
of Wisdom.
Mrs. Barbauld.
ON FEMALE STUDIES.
My dear young Friend,
If I had not been afraid you would feel some
little reluctance in addressing me first, I should
have asked you to begin the correspondence be-
tween us ; for I am at present ignorant of your par-
ticular pursuits : I cannot guess whether you are
climbing the hill of science, or wandering among
12
178 YOUNG lady's
the flowers of fancy ; whether you are stretching
your powers to embrace the jjlunetary system, or
cxarniniii^^r with a curious eye the dehcate veinings
of a green leaf, and the minute ramifications of a
Bca-wced ; or whetlier you are toiling through the
intricate and thorny mazes of graumiar. Wliich-
ever of these is at present your employment, your
general aim no doubt is the improvement of your
mind ; and we will therefore spend some time in
considering what kind and degree of literary at-
tainments sit gracefully upon the female character.
Every woman should consider herself as sus-
taining the general character of a rational being,
as well as tlie more confined one belonging to the
female sex; and therefore the motives for acquiring
general knowledge and cultivating the taste are
nearly the same to both sexes. The line of separa-
tion between the studies of a young man and a
young woman appears to me to be chiefly fixed by
this, — that a woman is excused from all profes-
sional knowledge. Professional knowledge means
all that is necessary to fit a man for a peculiar
profession or business. Thus men study in order
to qualify themselves for the law, for physic, for
various departments in political life, for instructing
others from the pulpit or the professor's chair.
These all require a great deal of severe study and
technical knowledge ; much of which is nowise
valuable in itself, but as a means to that particular
profession. Now, as a woman can never be called
to any of these professions, it is evident you have
nothing to do with such studies. A woman is not
expected to understand the mysteries of politics,
because she is not called to govern ; she is not re-
quired to know anatomy, because she is not to
perform surgical operations ; she need not embar-
BOOK OF PROSE. 179
rass herself witli theological disputes, because she
will neither be called upon to make nor to explain
creeds.
Men have various departments in active life ;
women have but one, and all vi^omen have the
same, differently modified indeed by their rank in
life and other incidental circumstances. It is, to
be a wife, a mother, a mistress of a family. The
knowledg-e belonging' to these duties is your pro-
fessional knowledge, the want of which nothing
will excuse. Literary knowledge, therefore, in
men, is often an indispensable duty : in women it
can be only a desirable accomplislmient. In women
it is more immediately applied to the purposes of
adorning and improving the mind, of refining the
sentiments, and supplying proper stores for conver-
sation. For general knowledge, women have in
some respects more advantages than men. Their
avocations often allow them more leisure ; their
sedentary way of life disposes them to the domestic,
quiet amusement of reading ; the share they take
in the education of their children throws them in
the way of books. The uniform tenour and con-
fined circle of their lives make them eager to di-
versify the scene by descriptions which open to
them a new world ; and they are eager to gain an
idea of scenes on the busy stage of life from which
they are shut out by their sex. It is likewise par-
ticularly desirable for women to be able to give
spirit and variety to conversation by topics drawn
from the stores of literature, as the broader mirth
and more boisterous gaiety of the other sex are to
them prohibited. As their parties must be inno-
cent, care should be taken that they do not stag-
nate into insipidity. I will venture to add, that the
purity and simplicity of heart which a womjin
180 YOU.NG IJIDy's
ought never, in lier freest commerce with the
world, to wear off; her very seclusion Irom tiio
jarring interests and coarser amusements of so-
ciety, tit lier in a peculiar manner for the worlds
of tancy and sentiment, and dispose her to the
quickest relish of what is pathetic, sublime, or ten-
der. To you, therefore, the beauties of poetry, of
moral painting, and all in general that is comprised
under the term of polite literature, lie particularly
open ; and you pannot neglect them without neg-
lecting a very copious source of enjoyment.
Languages are on some accounts particularly
adapted to female study, as they may be learnt at
liome without experiments or apparatus, and with-
out interfering v/ith the habits of domestic life ; as
they form the style, and as they are ihe immediate
inlet to works of taste. But the learned languages,
the Greek especially, require a great deal more
time tlian a young woman can conveniently spare.
To the Latin there is not an equal objection ; and
if a young person has leisure, has an opportunity
of learning it at home by being connected with
literary people, and is placed in a circle of society
sufficiently liberal to allow her such an accom-
plishment, I do not see, if she has a strong inclina-
tion, why she should not make herself mistress of
so rich a store of original entertainment : — it will
not, in the present state of things, excite either a
smile or a stare in fashionable company. To those
who do not intend to learn the language, I would
strongly recommend the learning so much of the
grammar of it as will explain the name and nature
of cases, genders, inflection of verbs, &c.; of which,
having only the imperfect rudiments in our own
language, a mere English scholar can with diffi-
culty form a clear idea. This is tlic more neces-
DOOK OF PROSE. 181
fary, as all our grammars, being- written by men
whose early stiuiJes }iad given thcrn a partiality
for the learned languages, are Ibrnied more u])oii
those than upon the real genius of our own tongue
I was going now to mention French, but per.
ccive I have written a letter long enough to fright-
en a young correspondent, and for the present 1
bid you adieu.
French you are not only permitted to learn, but
you are laid under the same necessity of acquiring
jt as your brother is of acquiring the Latin. Cus-
tom has made the one as much expected from an
accomplished woman, as the other from a man
who has had a liberal education.
If after you have learned French you should
wish to add Italian, the acquisition will not be dif-
ficult. It is valuable on account of its poetry, in
which it far excels the Frencli, — and its music.
The other modern languages you will hardly at-
tempt, except led to tJiem by some peculiar bent^
History affords a v/ide field of entertaining and
useful reading. The chief thing to be attended to
In studying it, is to gain a clear well arranged
idea of facts in clironological order, and illustrated
by a knowledge of the places where such facts
happened. Nei^er read without tables and maps:
make abstracts of what you read. Before you
embarrass yourself in the detail of this, endeavour
to fix well in your mind the arrangement of som«
leading facts, which may serve as land-marks U
which to refer the rest Connect the history of dif-
ferent countries togetlier. In the study of history
the different genius of a woman, I imagine, will
show itself. Tiie detail of battles, tlie art of sieges,
182 YOUNG lady's
will not interest her so much as manners and sen-
timents ; this is the food she assimilates to herself.
The great laws of the universe, the nature and
properties of those objects which surroimd us, it is
unpardonable not to know : it is more unpardona-
ble to know, and not to feel the mind struck with
lively gratitude. Under this head are compre-
hended natural history, astronomy, botany, experi-
mental philosophy, chemistry, physics. In these
you will rather take what belongs to sentiment
and to utility than abstract calculations or difficult
problems. You must often be content to know a
thing is so, without understanding the proof. It
belongs to a Newton to prove^ his sublime prob-
lems, but we may be all made acquainted with the
result. You cannot investigate ; you may remem-
ber. This will teach you not to despise common
things, will give you an interest in every thing you
see. If you are feeding your poultry, or tending
your bees, or extracting the juice of herbs, with au
intelligent mind you are gaining real knowledge ;
it will open to you an inexliaustible fund of won-
der end delight, and effectually prevent you from
depending for your entertainment on the pooy
novelties of fashion and expense.
But of all reading, what most ought to engage
your attention are works of sentiment and morals.
Morals is that study in which alone both sexes
liave an equal interest; and in sentiment yours has
even the advantage. The works of this kind often
appear under tlie seducing form of novel and ro-
mance : here great care, and the advice of your
older friends, is requisite in the selection. What-
ever is true, however uncouth in the manner or dry
in the subject, has a value from being true : but
fiction, in order to recommend itself, must give us
BOOK OF PROSE. 183
la belle Nature. You will find fewer plays fit for
your perusal than novels, and fewer comedies than
tragedies.
What particular share any one of the studies I
have mentioned may engage of your attention will
be determined by your particular turn and bent of
mind. But I shall conclude with observing, that a
woman ought to have that general tincture of them
all, which marks tlie cultivated mind. She ought
to have enough of tliem to engage gracefully in
general conversation. In no subject is she required
to be deep, — of none ought she to be ignorant. If
she knows not enough to speak well, she should
know enough to keep her from speaking at all ;
enough to feel her ground and prevent her from
exposing her ignorance; enougli to hear with intel-
ligence, to ask questions with propriety, and to
receive information where she is not qualified to
give it. A woman who to a cultivated mind joins
that quickness of intelligence and delicacy of taste
which such a woman often possesses in a su])erior
degree, with that nice sense of propriety which
results from the whole, will have a kind of tact by
which she will be able on all occasions to discern
between pretenders to science and men of real
merit. On subjects upon which she cannot talk
herself, she will know whether a man talks with
knowledge of his subject. She will not judge of
systems, but by their systems she will be able to
judge of men. She will distinguish tlie modest,
the dogmatical, the affected, the over-refined, and
give her esteem and confidence accordingly. She
will know with whom to confide the education of
her children, and how to judge of their progress
and the methods used to improve them. From
books, from conversation, from learned instructors.
184 YouNQ lady's
slic will g-athcr the flower of every science ; and
licr luiiul, in assimilating' everything to itself, will
adorn it witii new graces. She will give the tone
to the conversation even when she cliooscs to bear
but an inconsiderable part of it. The modesty
which prevents her from an unnecessary display
of what she knows, will cause it to be supposed
that her knowledge is deeper than in reality it is: —
as when the landscape is seen through tlie veil of
mist, the bounds of the horizon are hid. As she
will never o!)trude her knowledge, none will ever
be sensible of any deficiency in it, and her silence
will seem to proceed from discretion rather than a
want of information. Slie will seem to know every-
thing by leading every one to speak of what he
knows ; and when she is with those to whom she
can give no real information, she will yet delight
them by the original turns of thought and sprightly
elegance which will attend her manner of speaking
on any subject. Such is the character to whom
professed scholars will delight to give information,
from whom others will equally delight to receive
it : — the character I wish you to become, and to
form wliich your application must be directed.
Mrs. Barbauld.
TRUE MAGICIANS.
TO MISS C.
My dear Sarah,
I HAVE often reflected, since I left you, on the
wonderful powers of magic exhibited by you and
vour sister. The dim obscurity of that grotto hol-
lowed out by your hands under the laurel hedge,
BOOK OF PROSE. 185
where you used to mix the ingredients of your in-
cantations, struck us with awe and terror; aiid the
broom wliich you so often brandislicd in your
hands made you look very hke witches indeed. I
must confess, liowever, that some doubts have now
and then arisen in my mind, whether or no you
were truly initiated in the secrets of your art; and
these suspicions gathered strength after you had
suffered us and yourself to be so drenched as we
all were on that rainy Tuesday ; which, to say the
least, was a very odd circumstance, considering
you liad the command of the weather. — As I was
pondering these matters alone in the chaise be-
tween Epsom and London, I fell asleep and had
the following dream.
I thought I had been travelling through an un.
known country, and came at last to a thick wood
cut out into several groves and avenues, the gloom
of which inspired thoughtfulness, and a certain
mysterious dread of unknown powers came upon
me. I entered however one of the avenues, and
found it terminated in a magnificent portal, through
which I could discern confusedly among thick
foliage, cloistered arches, and Grecian porticoes,
and people walking and conversing among the
trees. Over the portal was the following inscrip-
tion : "//ere dwell the true magicians. Nature is
our servant. Man is our pupil. We change, toe
conquer^ we create."
As I was hesitating whether or no I should pre-
sume to enter, a pilgrim, who was sitting under
the shade, otfered to be my guide, assuring me that
these magicians would do me no harm, and that so
fjir from having any objection to be observed in
fJieir operations, they were pleased with any op-
portunity of exhibiting them to the curious. In
186 YOUNG lady's
therefore I went, and addressed the first of the
majo^icians I met with, who asked mo whether 1
liked panoramas. On replying' that I tliou^ht them
very entertaining-, she took me to a little eminence
and bade me look romid. I did so, and beheld the
representation of the beautiful vale of Dorking,
with Norbury-park and Box-hill to the north, Rie-
gate to the east, and Leith-tower with the Surry
hills to the south. Aflcr I had admired for some
time the beauty and accuracy of the painting, a
vast curtain seemed to be drawn gradually up, and
my view extended on all sides. On one hand I
traced the windings of the Thames up to Oxford,
and stretched my eye westward over Salisbury
Plain, and across the Bristol Channel into tiae ro-
mantic country of South Wales ; northward the
view extended to Lincoln cathedral, and York min-
ster towering over the rest of the churches. Across
the Sussex clowns I had a clear view of the British
Channel, and the opposite coast of France, with its
ports blockaded by our fleets. As the horizon of
the panorama still extended, I spied the towers of
Notre Dame, and the Tuilleries, and my eye wan-
dered at large over "the vine-covered hills and gay
regions of France," quite down to the source of the
Loire. At the same time the great Atlantic ocean
opened to my view ; and on the other hand I saw
the lake of Geneva, and the dark ridge of Mount
Jura, and discovered the summits of the Alps co-
vered with snow ; and beyond the orange groves
of Italy, the majestic dome of St. Peter's, and the
smoking crater of Vesuvius. As the curtain still
rose, I stretched my view over the Mediterranean,
the scene of ancient glory, the Archipelago studded
with islands, the shores of the Bosphorus, and the
gilded minarets and cypress groves of Coustanti-
BOOK OF PROSE. 187
nople. Throwing back a look to the less attractive
north, I saw pictured the rugged, broken coast of
Norway, the cheerless moors of Lapland, and the
interminable desolation of the plains of Siberia.
Turning my eye again soutliward, the landscape
extended to the plains of Barbary, covered with
date-trees ; and I discerned the points of pyramids
appearing above the horizon, and saw t)ie Delta
and the scvon-mouthcd Nile. In short, the curtain
still rose, and the view extended farther and fur-
ther, till the panorama took in the whole globe. I
cannot express to you the pleasure I felt as I saw
mountains, seas, and islands, spread out before me.
Sometimes my eye wandered over the vast plains
of Tartary, sometimes it expatiated in the savan-
nahs of America. I saw men with dark skins,
white cotton turbans wreathed about their heads,
and long flowing robes of silk ; others almost naked
under a vertical sun. I saw whales sporting in
the northern seas, and elepliants travelling amidst
fields of maize and forests of palm-trees. 1 seemed
to have put a girdle about the earth, and was grati-
fied with an infinite variety of objects which I
thought I never could be weary of contemplating.
At length, turning towards tlie magician who had
entertained me with such an agreeable exhibition,
and asking her name, she informed me it was
Geography.
My attention was next arrested by a sorceress,
who, I was told, possessed the power of calling up
from the dead whomsoever she pleased, man or
woman, in their proper habits and figures, and
obliging them to converse and answer questions
She held a roll of parchment in her hand, and had
an air of great dignity. I confess that I felt a little
afraid ; but having been somewhat encouraged by
188 YOUNG lady's
the former exhibition, I ventured to ask licr to give
me Ji speeiinen of her power, in ea.se there was
nothiii^r unlawful in it. " Whom," said she, "do
you wish to heliold ?" Aftt-r eonsiderinjr some
time, 1 desired to see Cieero, tlie Roman orator.
.She made some talismanie fifrures on the sand, and
presently lie rose to my view, hia neek and liead
hare, tin- rest ot his body in a llowin;!,r to;^^;!, which
lie {Tiithered round him with one hand, and stretch-
in'T out the other very jjraeefully, he recited to me
one (jf his orations aj^-ainst (Jatiline. He also read
to me, — which was more than 1 could, in reason,
Jiave e.\|)ected, — several of liis i'amiliar letters to
Jiis most intimate friends. I next desired that
Jidius C^nsar mijn^ht he called up: on which he ap-
jieared, his hair nicely arraiijrcd, and the lore part
of his head, which was bald, covered with wreaths
of laurel ; and he very ()i)li}i^iufj^ly jjave me a parti-
cular account ol'his expedition into (iaul. I wished
to sec; the youtii of Maeedon, but was a little dis-
appointed in his fij.rure, llir he was low in stature
and held his h(;ad awry ; liut I saw him manage
IJueephalus with admirable courajrc and address,
and was allcrwards introduced with him into the
tent of Darius, where 1 was jrit atly pleased with
the j^^enerosity and politincss of his behaviour. I
afterwards expressed some curiosity to sec a battle,
if I mii^dit do it with safely, and was gratified
with the sea-fijrht of Actium. I saw, after the first
onset, the fjalleys of ('leopatra turning their prows
and flyinir from the battle, and Antony, to his eter-
nal shame, (juitfin<r tin; en<ra<,rement and making
sail after her. I then wished to call up all the
kings of England, and they appeared in order one
after the otlu^r, with their crowns and the insignia
of their dignity, and walked over the stage for my
BOOK OK raosK. ]89
amusement, much like the descendants of IJanquo
in iMaebedi. Tlu'ir (|nefiis iic.eoiiipanicd them,
Irailiiijr tlicir robes upon the jrround, and tho
bisho{M with their mitres, and judfrcs, and jrcnc-
rals, and eminent persons of every class. 1 asked
many qnestions as they ])asse(i, and received a
great deal of information relative to tlio laws,
manners, and transactions of past times. 1 did
not, however, always meet with direct answers to
my ([uestions. For instance, when I called up
Homer, and after some other conversation asked
him where ho was born, he only said, " Guess !"
And when 1 asked Louis the Fourteenth wlio was
tiic man in the iron mask, he irowned and would
not tell me. I took a jrirat deal of i)l(;asnre in call-
ing up tlie shadrs of dislingnished people in dif-
ferent ages and countries, making them stand
close by one another, and comparing their manners
and costume. Thus 1 measured Catharine of Rus-
sia against Stnniramis, and Aristotle against Lord
Bacon. 1 could have spc;nt whole years in conver-
satioti witli so many celel)rated persons, and pro-
mised myself that 1 would oiten fre(|uent this
obliging magician. Her name, 1 found, was in
heaven Clio, on earth llislonj.
I saw another who was making a charm for two
friends, one of whom was going to tliL' East Indies:
Uiey werb bittejly lamenting that when they were
parted at so great a distance from each other, tliey
could no longer conmnmieate their tiioughts, Imt
nmst be cut oif from each otlier's socicity. Pre-
senting them vvith a talisman inscril)ed witli four-
and-tv,'enty black marks, "Take this," she said;
" I have breathed a voice upon it : by means of
this talisman you shall still converse, and hear one
another as distinctly when lialf the globe is be-
190 YOUNG lady's
tween you, as if you were talking together in the
same room." The two friends thanked her for
such an invaluable present, and retired. Her name
was Abracadabra.
I was next invited to sec a whispering-gallery
of a most curious and uncommon structure. To
make the experiment of its powers, a young poet
of a very modest appearance, who was stealing
along in a retired walk, was desired to repeat a
verse in it. He applied his lips to the wall, and
whispered in a low voice, '■'■ Riira mihi etrigui pla-
ceant in vallibus arnnes.'''' The sound ran along
the walls for some time in a kind of low whisper ;
but every minute it grew louder and louder, till at
length it was echoed and re-echoed from every part
of the gallery, and seemed to ba pronounced by
a multitude of voices at once, in different lan-
guages, till the whole dome was filled with the
sound. There was a strong smell of incense. The
gallery was constructed by Fame.
The good pilgrim next conducted me to a cave
where several sorceresses, very black and grim,
were amusing themselves with making lightning,
thunder, and earthquakes. I saw two vials of cold
liquor mixed together, and flames burst forth from
them. I saw some insignificant-looking black
grains, which would throw palaces and castles into
the air. I saw — and it made my hair stand on
end — a headless man, who lifted up his arm and
grasped a sword. I saw men flying through the
air, without wings, over the tops of towns and cas-
ties, and come down unhurt. The cavern was
very black, and the smoke, and fires, and mephitic
blasts, and sulphurous vapours that issued from it,
gave the whole a very tremendous appearance. I
did not stay long, but as I retired I saw Chemistry
BOOK OF PROSE. ]91
written on the walls in letters of flame, with seve-
ral other names which I do not now remember.
My companion whispered me that some of these
were suspected of communication with the evil
genii, and that the demon of War had been seen
to resort to the cave. "But now," said the pilgrim,
" I will lead you to enchanters who deserve all
your veneration, and are even more beneficent
than those you have already seen." He then led
me to a cavern that opened upon the sea-shore : it
blew a terrible storm, the waves ran mountains
high, the wind roared, and vessels were driven
against each other with a terrible shock. A fe-
male figure advanced and threw a little oil upon
the waves ; they immediately subsided, the winds
were still, the storm was laid, and the vessels pur-
sued their course in safety. " By what magic is
this performed ?" exclaimed I. " The magician
is Meekness,''^ replied my conductor : " she can
smooth the roughest sea, and allay the wildest
storm."
My view was next directed to a poor wretch,
Vi^ho lay groaning in a most piteous manner, and
crushed to the earth with a mountain on his breast;
he uttered piercing shrieks, and seemed totally un-
able to rise or help himself One of these good
magicians, whose name I found was Patience,
advanced and struck the mountain with a wand ;
on which, to my great surprise, it diminished to a
size not more than the load of an ordinary porter,
which the man threw over his shoulders, with
something very like a smile, and marched off with
a firm step and very composed air.
I must not pass over a charmer of a very pleas-
ing appearance and lively aspect. She possessed
the power (a very useful one in a country so subject
192 YOUNG lady's
to fogs and rain as'this is) of gilding a landscape
with sunshine whenever she breatlied upon it. Her
name was Cheerfulness. Indeed you may remem-
ber that your papa brought her down with liim on
that very rainy day when we could not go out at
all, and he played on his flute to you, and you all
danced.
I was next struck, on ascending an eminence,
with a most dreary landscape. All the flat coun-
try was one stagnant marsh. Amidst the rushy
grass lay the fiend Ague, listless and shivering : on
tlie bare and bleak hills sat Famine, with a few
shells of acorns before her, of which she had eaten
the fruit. The woods were tangled and pathless ;
tlie howl of wolves was heard. A few smoky huts,
or caves, not much better than the dens of wild
beasts, were all the habitations of men tliat pre-
sented themselves. " Miserable country !*" I ex-
claimed ; " step-child of nature I" " This," said
my conductor, " is Britain as our ancestors pos-
sessed it." "And by what magic," I replied, "has
it been converted into the pleasant land we now
inhabit ?" " You shall see," said he. " It has been
the work of one of our most powerful magicians.
Her name is Industry. '''' At the word she ad-
vanced and waved her wand over the scene. Gra-
dually the waters ran off into separate channels,
and left rich meadows covered with innumerable
flocks and herds. The woods disappeared, except
what waved gracefully on the tops of the hills, or
filled up the unsightly hollows. Wherever she
moved her wand, roads, bridges, and canals laid
open and improved the face of the country. A nu-
merous population, spread abroad in the fields,
were gathering in the harvest. Smoke from warm
cottages ascended through the trees, pleasant towns
DOOK OF PROSE. 19.1
and villages marked the several points ofdistanccv
Last, the Thames was filled witli forests of masts,
and proud London appeared with all its display of
wealth and grandeur.
I do not know whether it was the pleasure 1
received from this exhilarating scene, or the car-
riage having just got upon the pavement, which
awakened me ; but 1 am determined to write out
my dream, and advise you to cultivate your ac
quaintance with all the true Arts of Magic.
Mrs. Barbauld.
PICNIC.
Pray, mamma, what is the meaning oi'pic-nic ?
I have heard lately once or twice of apic-nic supper,
and I cannot think what it means ; I looked for
the word in Johnson's Dictionary, and could not
find it.
I should wonder if you had ; the word was not
coined in Johnson's time ; and if it had been, I
believe he would have disdained to insert it among
the legitimate words of tlio language. I cannot tell
you the derivation of the phrase ; I believe pic-nic
is originally a chat word, and was first applied to
a supper or other meal in wliich tlic entertainment
is not provided by any one person, but each of the
guests furnishes his dish. In a pic-nic supper one
supplies the fowls, another the fish, another the
wine and fruit, &,c.; and the}' all sit down together
and enjoy it.
A very sociable way of making an entertainment
Yes, and I would have you observe, that the
principle of it may be extended to many other
things. No one has a riglit to be entertained gra-
13
194 YOUNG LADY S
tis in society; lie must expend, if he wishes to
enjoy. Conversiition, particularly, is a pic-nic least,
where every one is to contribute something-, ac-
cording to his genius and ability. Different talents
and acquirements compose the different dislies of
the entertainment, and tlie greater variety, the bet-
ter; but every one must bring something, for soci-
ety will not tolerate any one long who lives wholly
at the expense of his neighbours. Did not you ob-
serve how agreeably we were entertained at Lady
Lsabella's party last night ?
Yes : one of the young ladies sung, and another
exhibited her drawings ; and a gentleman told some
very good stories.
True : another lady, who is very much in the
fashionable world, gave us a great deal of anecdote ;
Dr. R., who is just returned from the continent,
gave us an interesting account of the state of Ger-
many ; and in another part of the room a cluster
was gathered round an Edinburgh student and a
young Oxonian, who were holding a lively debate
on the power of galvanism. But Lady Isabella
herself was the charm of the party.
I think she talked very little; and I do not recol-
lect any thing she said which was particularly
striking
That is true. But it was owing to her address
and attention to her company that others talked
and were heard by turns ; that the modest were
encouraged and drawn out, and those inclined to
be noisy restrained and kept in order. She blended
and harmonized the talents of each ; brought those
together who were likely to be agreeable to each
other, and gave us no more of herself than was ne-
cessary to set off others. I noticed particularly her
-g^Ood offices to an accomplished but very bashful
BOOK OF PROSE. 105
lady and a reserved man of science, who wished
much to bo known to each other, but w ho would
never have been so without her introduction. As
soon as she had fairly cnj^aged them in an interest-
ing conversation, she left them, regardless of lier
own entertainment, and seated herself l)y poor Mr.
, purely because he was sitting- in a corner
and no one attended to hiui, You know that in
chemical preparations two substances often require
a third, to enable them to mix and unite together.
Lady Isabella possesses this amalgamating power:
— this is what she brings to the pic-nic. I should
add, that two or three times I observed she dexter-
ously changed topics, and suppressed stories which
were likely to bear hard on the profession or con-
nexions of some of the company. In short, the
party which was so agreeable under her harmo-
nizing influence, would have had quite a different
aspect without her. These merits, however, might
easily escape a young observer. But I dare say
you did not fail to notice Sir Henry B 's lady,
who was declaiming with so much enthusiasm, in
the midst of a circle of gentlemen which she had
drawn around her, upon the beau ideal.
No, indeed, mamma; I never heard so much
fire and feeling : — and what a flow of elegant lan-
guage ! I do not wonder her eloquence was so
much admired.
She has a great deal of eloquence and taste: she
has travelled, and is acquainted with the best works
of art. I am not sure, however, whether the gen-
tlemen were admiring most her declamation or
the fine turn of her hands and arms She has a
different attitude for every sentiment. Some ob-
servations which she made upon the beauty of sta-
tues, seemed to me to go to th,; verge of what a
196 YOUNG lady's
modost female will allow herself to say upon such
subjects, — but she has travelled. She was sensible
tJiat she could not fail to gain by the conversation
while beauty of form was the subject of it.
Pray, wliat did , the great poet, bring to the
pic-nic ? — for I think he hardly opened his mouth
He brought his fame. Many would be gratifioc
with merely seeing him who had entertained them
in their closets ; and he who had so entertained
tlicm had a right to be himself entertained in that
way which he had no talent for joining in. liCt
every one, I repeat, bring to the entertainment
something of the best he possesses, and tlie pic-nic
tiiblo will seldom fail to afford a plentiful banquet.
Mrs. Barbaui.d.
THE TRIAL.
The day of trial arrived — Mr. Percy came up
to town, and" brought Mrs. Percy and Rosamond
with him to his son Alfred's, that they might aJV
be together, and hear as soon as possible their
fate.
The trial came on about three o'clock in the
nflcrnoon. The court was uncommonly crowded
Mr. Percy, his son Erasmus, and all his friends
and Sir Robert and his adherents, appeared on op
posite sides of the galleries.
The excellent countenance and gentlemanlike
demeanour of I\Ir. Percy were contrasted with the
dark, inauspicious physiognomy of Sir Robert,
who sat opposite to him, and wlio was never tran-
quil one second, but was contiimally throwing
notes to his counsel, beckoning or whispering to
BOOK OF PROSE. 197
his attorney — while convulsive twitches of face
and licaci, snutf takinji;-, and iiandkerclilef spread
frequently to conceal the expression of his coun-
tenancc, betrayed the malignant flurry of his
spirits.
Alfred conducted his father's cause in the most
judicious and temperate manner. An attempt had
been made by Sir Robert to prejudice the public
against Mr. Percy by representing him as the do-
scendant of a younger brother, who was endea-
vouring to dispossess the heir of the older branch
of the llimily of that estate which belonged to him
by right of inheritance. Alfred's first care was to
put the court and the jury in full possession of the
tiicts. He stated that " his father, Lewis Percy,
plaintiff in tliis case, and Robert Percy, hart., de-
fendant, both descended from Sir John Percy, who
was their grandfather. Sir John outlived both his
sons, who left him two grandsons ; Robert was the
son of Jiis eldest, and Lewis of his youngest son.
Sir John had two estates, one of them paternal,
which went in the ordinary course of descent to
tlie representative of the eldest son, being the pre-
sent Sir Robert Percy. Sir John's other estate, in
Hampshire, which came to him by his wife, ho
conveyed, a short time before his death, to his
youngest grandson, the present licwis Percy, who
had held undisturbed possession of it for many
years. But, in process of time. Sir Robert Percy
ruined himself by play, and having frequent in.
tercourse with Sharpe, the solicitor, upon some
great emergency inquired whether it was not pos»-
sible to shake the title of his cousin Mr. Percy's
estate. He suggested that the conveyance might
not be forthcoming; but Sir Robert assured
Jiim that both his grandfatlier and the present Mr
198 YOUNG lady's
Percy were men of business, and that there was
little likelihood cither that the deeds should be
lost, or that there should be any flaw in the title.
Afterward a fire broke out at Percy-hall, which
consumed tliat wing of the house in which were
Mr. Percy's papers — the papers were all saved ex-
cejrt this deed of conveyance. Mr. Sharpe, being
accidentally apprised of the loss, conveyed the in-
.telligcnce to Sir Robert. He immediately com-
menced a suit against his cousin, and had finally
succeeded in obtaining a verdict in his own fa-
vour, and possession of the Hampshire estate. At
tlic time when Mr. Percy delivered up possession,
and quitted Percy-hall, in consideration of the ex-
tensive improvements which he had made, and in
consideration of his giving up to Sir Robert, plate,
furniture, wine, horses, and equipages, Sir Robert
had promised to forego whatever claim he might
have upon Mr. Percy for the rents which lie had
received during the time he had held the estate ;
but, afterward, Sir Robert repented of having
made this agreement, broke his promise, and took
out a writ against his cousin for the mesne rents.
They amounted to an immense sum, which Mr.
Percy was utterly unable to pay, and he could
have had no hope of avoiding ruin had the claim
been by law decided against him. By fortunate
circumstances, however, he had, while this cause
was pending, recovered that lost conveyance,
which proved his right to the Hampshire estate.
Of this he had apprised Sir Robert, who had per-
sisted, nevertheless, in holding possession, and in
liis claim for the mesne rents. The present action
was brought by Mr. Percy in resistance of this
unjust claim, and for the recovery of his property."
Not one word of invective, of eloquence, of or
BOOK OF PROSE. 199
nament, or of any attempt at pathos, did our bar-
rister mix witli tins statement. It was his object
to put the jury and the court clearly in possession
of tacts, wliicli, unadorned, he knew would appear
■ stronger than if encumbered by any flowers of
oratory.
Having produced the deed, conveying the Hamp-
shire estate to his father, Alfred called evidence to
prove the signature of Sir John Percy and the
handwriting of the witnesses. He further proved
that this conveyance had been formerly seen
among his father's papers at Percy-hall, showed
it had been recently recovered from Mr. Falconer's
box of papers, and explained how it had been put
there by mistake ; and he supported this fact by
the evidence of Commissioner Falconer, father-in-
law to the defendant. Alfred rested his cause on
these proofs, and waited, anxious to know what
defence the defendant was prepared to make.
To his astonisliment and consternation, Sir Ro-
bert's counsel produced another deed of Sir Jolin
Percy's, revoking the deed by wliich Sir John had
made over his Hampshire estate to his younger
grandson, Mr. Percy ; it ajipearing by a clause in
the original deed that a power for this purpose had
been tlicrein reserved. This deed of revocation
was handed to the judge and to the jury, that it
might be examined. The two deeds were care-
fully compared. The nicest inspection could not
discover any difference in the signature or seal.
When Mr. Friend examined them, he was in dis-
may. The instrument appeared perfect. While
the jury were occupied in this examination, Mr.
Friend and Alfred had a moment to consult to
gather.
" We are imdone," w^hispered Mr. Friend, " if
200 VOIJNG lady'3
they establish this deed of revocation — it sets as
•aside for ever."
Neither Mr. Friend nor Alfred had any doubt
of its being a forgery, but those who had plunged
thus desperately into guilt would probably be pro-
vided with perjury stSfieient to support their in.
iquity.
" If we had been prepared 1" said Mr. Friend ;
" but how could we be prepared for such a stroke ?
Even now, if we hud time, we could summon wit-
nesses who would discredit theirs, but "
" Do not despair," said Alfred : "still we have a
chance that their own witnesses may cross each
other, or contradict themselves. Falsehood, with
all its caution, is seldom consistent."
The trial proceeded. Alfred, in the midst of
the fears and sighs of his friends, and of the tri-
umphant smiles and anticipating congratulations
of his enemies, continued to keep both his temper
and his understanding cool. His attention was
fixed upon the evidence produced, regardless of
the various suggestions whispered or written to
him by ignorant or learned advisers.
William Gierke, the only surviving witness to
the deed of revocation produced by Sir Robert,
was the person on whose evidence the cause prin-
cipally rested. He was now summoned to appear,
and room was made for him. He was upwards
of eighty years of age: he came slowly into court,
and stood supporting hiniself upon his stall', his
Jiead covered with thin, gray hairs, his countenance
placid and smiling, and his whole appearance so
respectable, so venerable, a? to prepossess imme-
diately the jury jafl,d :(he court in his favour.
Alfred Percy could scarcely believe it possible
that such a ^ap ^ .this could be the person sub-
BOOK OF PROSE. 301
orncd to support a forgery. After being sworn,
he was desired to sit down, vvliich he did, bowing
respectfully to the court. Sir Robert Percy's coun-
sel proceeded to examine him as to the points they
desired to establish.
" Your name, sir, is William Gierke, is it not?"
" My name is William Gierke," answered tlio
old man, in a feeble voice.
" Did you ever see this paper before ?" showing
him the deed.
" I did — I was present when Sir John Percy
signed it — he bade me witness it, that is, write
my name at the bottom, which I did, and then he
said, ' Take notice, William Gierke, this is a deed,
revoking the deed by which I made over my
Hampshire estate to my youngest grandson, Lew-
is Percy.' "
The witness was going on, but the counsel in-
terrupted.
" You saw Sir John Percy sign this deed — you
are sure of that ?"
" I am sure of that."
" Is this Sir John Percy's signature ?"
" It is — the very same I saw him write ; and
here is my own name, that he bade me put just
there."
" You can swear that this is your handwriting 7"
" I can — I do."
" Do you recollect at what time Sir John Percy
signed this deed ?"
" Yes; about three or four days before his death."
" Very well, that is all we want of you, Mr.
Gierke."
Alfred Percy desired that Gierke should be de-
tained in court, that he might cross-examine him.
The defendants went on, produced their evidence.
202 YOUNG lady's
examined all their witnesses, and established all
they desired.
Then it came to Alfred's turn to cross-examine
tlie witnesses that liad been produced by his ad-
versary. When William Gierke reappeared, Al-
fred regarding him steadfastly, the old man's coun-
tenance chang-cd a little ; but still he looked pre-
pared to stand a cross-examination. In spite of
all his efforts, however, he trembled.
" Oh I you are trembling on the brink of the
grave 1" said Alfred, addressing him in a low, so-
lemn tone : " pause, and reflect, while you are
allowed a moment's time. A few years must be
all you have to spend in this world. A few mo-
ments may take you to another, to appear before
a higher tribunal — before that Judge who knows
our hearts, who sees into yours at this instant."
The staff in the old man's hand shook violently.
Sir Robert Percy's counsel interrupted — said
that the witness should not be intimidated, and
appealed to the court.
The judge was silent, and Alfred proceeded,
" You know that you are upon your oath — these
are possibly the last words you may ever utter
— look that they be true. You know that men
have been struck dead while uttering falsehoods.
You are upon your oath — did you see Sir John
Percy sign this deed ?"
The old man attempted in vain to articulate.
" Give him time to recollect," cried the counsel
on the opposite side : " give him leave to see the
writing, now he has his spectacles."
He looked at the writing twice — his head and
hands shaking so that he could not fix his specta-
cles. The question was repeated by the judge.
The old man grew pale as deatlj. Sir Robert Per-
BOOK OF PROSE. 203
cy, just opposite to him, cleared his tliroat to catch
the witness's attention, then darted at him such a
look as only he could gfivc.
" Did I see Sir Jolui Percy sign this deed ?" re-
peated William Clerke : "yes, I did."
" You hear, my lord, you hear," cried Sir Ro-
hcrt's counsel, " the witness says he did ; there is
no occasion further to intimidate this poor old man.
He is not used to speak before such an audience.
There is no need of eloquence — all we want is
truth. The evidence is positive. ]My lord, with
your lordship's leave, I fancy we may dismiss
him."
'I'hey were goinjj to hurry him away, but Al-
fred Percy said that, with the permission of the
court, he must cross-examine that witness further,
as tlie whole event of the trial depended upon the
degree of credit that might be given to his evi-
dence.
By this time the old man had somewhat reco-
vered himself; he saw that his age and reverend
apj)earancc still prepossessed the jury in Jiis fa-
vour ; and Irom their looks, and from the whispers
near hiin, he learned tliat his tremor and hesita-
tion had not created any suspicion of guilt, but
had been attributed rather to the sensibility of
virtue and the weakness of age. And now that
the momentary emotion which eloquence had pro-
duced on his mind had subsided, he recollected the
bribe that had been promised to him. He was
aware that he had already sworn what, if he con-
tradicted, might sul)ject him to be prosecuted for
perjury. He now stood obstinately resolved to per-
severe in his iniquity. The first falsehoods pro-
nounced and believeJ, the next would be easy.
" Your name is William Clerke, and this," said
204 YOUNG lady's
Alfred (pointing to tlic witness's signature), " is
your handwriting' ?"
" Yes, I say it is."
" You can write, then ?" (putting a pen into his
liand :) " be so good as to write a few words in the
presence of the court." He took the pen, but after
making some fruitless attempts, replied, " I am too
old to write ; I have not been able to write my
name these many years. Indeed, sir ! you are too
hard upon one like me. God knows," said he,
looking up to heaven, some thought with feeling,
some suspected with hypocrisy — " God knows, sir,
I speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Have
vou any more questions to put to me ? I am ready
to tell all I know. What interest have I to con-
ceal any thing ?" continued he, his voice gaining
strength and confidence as he went on repeating
tlie lesson which he had been taught.
" It was long, a long while ago," he said, "since
it had all happened ; but, thank Heaven, his me-
mory had been spared him, and he remembered alj
that had passed, the same as if it was but yester-
day. He recollected how Sir John looked, where
he sat, what he said when he signed this deed ;
and, moreover, he had often before heard of a dis-
like Sir John had taken to his younger grandson
— ay, to that young gentleman's father," looking
at Alfred ; " and I was very sorry to hear it — very
eorry there should be any dispute in the family,
for I loved them all," said he, wiping his eyes ;
" ay, I loved 'em all, and all alike, from the time
they were in their cradles. I remember, too, once,
Sir John said to me, William Gierke, says he, you
are a faithful lad — lor I was a lad once "
Alfred had judiciously iillowed the witness to go
on as far as he pleased with his story, in the ex-
BOOK OF PROSF.. 205
pectation that some exagircration and contradic-
tion would appear ; but the judge now interrupted
the old man, observing- that this was nothing- to
tlie purpose — that he must not take up the time
of the court with idle tales ; but that if he had
any thing- more to give in evidence respecting the
deed, he should relate it.
The judge was thought to be severe; and the
old man, alter glancing his eye on the jury, bowed
with an air of resignation, and an appearance of
difficulty, which excited their compassion.
"We may lot liim go now, my lord, may not
wc?" said Sir IJobert Percy's counsel.
"With the permission of his lordship, I will
ask one other question," said Alfred.
Now it should be observed, that after the first
examination of this witness, Alfred had heard him
say to Mr, Shar])e, " They forgot to bring out what
I had to say about the seal." To vvliich Sharpo
had replied, " Enough without it."
Alfred had examined the seal, and had observed
that there was something underneath it ; through
a small hole in the parchment he saw some-
tiling between the parchment and the sealing-
wax.
" You were present, I think you say, Mr. Gierke,
not only when this deed was signed, but when it
was sealed ?"
" I was, sir," cried Gierke, eager to bring out
this part of the evidence, as it had been prepared
for him by Sir Robert; " I surely was ; and I re-
member it particularly, because of a little remark-
able circumstance : Sir John, God bless him ! 1
think I see him now. My lord, under this seal,'*
continued the old man, adtkcssing himself to the
judge, and putting his slirivcUed finger upon the
206 YOUNG lady's
seal, " under this very seal Sir John put a sixpence
— and he eallcd upon me to observe him doing it ;
for, my lord, it is my opinion he thought then of
what might come to pass — he liad a sort of a fore-
boding of this day. And novi', my lord, order them,
if you please, to break the seal — break it before
them all ; and if there is not the sixpence under
it, why this deed is not Sir John's, and this is none
of my writing, and," cried he, lifting up his hands
and eyes, " I am a Uar, and perjured."
There was a profound silence. The seal was
broken. The sixpence appeared. It was handed
in triumph, by Sir Robert Percy's counsel, to the
jury and to the judge. There seemed to be no
longer a doubt remaining in the minds of the
jury — and a murmur of congratulations among
the partisans of Sir Robert seemed to anticipate
the verdict.
" 'Tis all over, I fear," whispered Friend to Al-
fred. " Alfred, you have done all that could be
done, but they have sworn through every thing ; it
is over with us."
" Not yet," said Alfred. Every eye turned upon
him — some from pity, some from curiosity, to see
how he bore his defeat. At length, when there
was silence, he begged to be permitted to look at
the sixpence. The judge ordered that it should
be shown to him. He held it to the light, to ex-
amine the date of the coin ; he discovered a faint
impression of a head on the sixpence, and upon
closer inspection he made out the date, and show-
ed clearly that the date of the coin was later than
the date of the deed ; so that there was an abso-
lute impossibility that this sixpence could have
been put under the seal of the deed by Sir John.
The moment Alfred stated this fact, the counsel
YouxNG lady's 207
on the opposite side took the sixpence, examined
it. threw down his brief, and left the court. Peo-
ple looked at each other in astonishment. The
judge ordered that William Gierke should be de-
tained, that he might be prosecuted by the crown
for perjury.
The old man fell back senseless. Mr. Sharpe
and Sir Robert Percy pushed their way together
out of court, disclaimed by all who had till now
appeared as their friends. No further evidence
was otFercd, so that here the trial closed. The
judge gave a short impressive charge to the jury,
who, without withdrawing, instantly gave their
verdict in favour of the plaintiff, Lewis Percy — a
verdict that was received with loud acclamations,
which not even respect to the court could restrain.
Mr. Percy and Alfred hastily shook hands with
their friends, and in the midst of universal ap-
plause hurried away to carry the good news to
Mrs. Percy and Rosamond, who were at Alfred's
house, waiting to hear the event of the trial.
Neither Alfred nor Mr. Percy had occasion to
speak ; the moment Mrs. Percy and Rosamond
saw them, they knew the event.
" Yes," said Mr. Percy, " our fortune is re-
stored ; and doubly happy we arc in having re-
gained it, in a great measure, by the presence of
mind and ability of my son."
His mother and sister embraced Alfred with
tears of delight. For some moments a spectator
might have imagined that he beheld a family in
deep affliction. But soon through these tears ap-
peared on the countenance of each individual the
radiance of joy, smiles of affection, tenderness,
gratitude, and every delightful benignant feeling
of the human heart.
208 YOUNG LADV'S
" Has anybody sent to Mrs. Ilun^crford and to
Lady Jane Granville ?" said Mr. Percy.
" iTcs, yes, messengers were sent off the mo-
ment the verdict was given," said Erasmus : " I
took care of that."
" It is a pity," said Rosamond, " that Caroline ia
not iicre at this moment, and Godfrey."
" It is best as it is," said Mrs. Percy ; " we have
til at pleasure still in store."
" And now, my beloved children," said Mr. Per-
cy, " after having returned tlianks to Providence,
let me here, in the midst of all of you, to whom I
owe so large a share of my happiness, sit down
quietly for a few minutes to enjoy ' the sober cer-
tainty of waking bliss.' "
Maria Edgeworth.
MISTAKEN KINDNESS.
Ann Belson had lived in a respectable mer-
chant's family, of the name of Melbourne, for
many years, and had acquitted herself to the satis-
faction of her employers in successive capacities
of nurse, house-maid, and lady's maid. But it was
at length discovered that she had long been ad-
dicted to petty pilfering ; and, being emboldened
by past impunity, she purloined some valuable
lace, and was detected ; but her kind master and
mistress could not prevail on themselves to give
up the tender nurse of their children to the just
rigour of the law, and as their children themselves
could not be;ir to liavo " poor Ann sent to gaol,"
they resolved to punish her in no other manner
than by turning lu;r away wUhout a character^ as
DOOK OF PROSE. 209
the common plirasc is. But without a character
she could not procure anotlicr service, and might
be thus consigned to misci-y and ruin. Tliis idea
was insup[K>rtahlc ! 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, <at a certain age, to let young people taste
these pleasures, that they may better api)reciate
tlic nature and tendency of them.
Admit that the thistle may be rooted out ; that
the girl who is taught vanity, will not be vain
when she becomes a Christian woman ; and the
youth who is encouraged in oppression, rivalry, and
pride, will not be contentious or dissatisfied when lie
becomes a Christian man; — still, be it remembered,
it is no magic touch of the celestial wand that con-
verts the bond-slave of earth into the meet inheritor
of heaven. It can do so — but generally, as regards
the sanctification of the heart, after it has been
pardoned and renewed, the process is a long, and
S50 YOUNG lady's
often very painful one. It is by fire that gold is
purified. By many a painful excision tlie eye is
made single. Sorrow after sorrow comes ; draught
after draught of misery is drained ; and the heart
has sometimes to be buried beneath the wreck of
every thing it has loved and dcliglited in, before
earth and self can be cruslied out of it. Why should
we be so mad, so unjust to our children, and cruel
to ourselves, as to increase the difficulty of the cure,
because confident it will in the issue be performed?
Why do we plant our ground with thistles, because,
after years of labour, they may be rooted out ?
Mrs. Fry.
THE ROUGH DIAMOND.
A ROUGH diamond lay in the sand, among many
other ordinary stones, A boy picked up some of
them to play with and carried them home, together
with the diamond, but he knew not what it was.
The father of the boy, watching his play, observed
the diamond, and said to his son : Give me that
stone ! The boy did so, and smiled, for he thought
to himself — what will my father do with that
stone ?
But he took and skilfully cut the stone into re-
gular facets, and polished the diamond, which then
sparkled gloriously.
Behold, said the father, here is the stone which
thou gavcst to me. Then was the boy amazed at
tlie brilliancy of the stone, and cried : Father, hovr
hast thou wrought this change ?
I knew, said the father, the virtue and hidden
properties of the* crude stone, and so I cleared it
from the crust in which it was enveloped, and now
it shines with its natural splendour.
BOOK OF rnosK. 251
In process of linio, wl-.on tho boy Jiiul jrrown up
to manliood, his liillicr <,'-avr liiin the precious slouc,
as an emblem of the lieart that is frct-d I'roui tU\
base passions, and purified by virtue.
Krummaciifr,
THE CANARY-BIKl).
A LITTLE girl, named Caroline, liad a sweet littlo
canary-bird. It sang from morning until night,
;md was a beautiful creature, yellow as gold, with
a black head. Caroline gave him seeds to eat and
cooling groundsel, and now and then a lump of
sugar, and she supplied him with fresh water every
day.
But all at once the bird began to be dull, and
one morning when Caroline came to change his
water, the poor bird lay dead at the bottom of the
cage.
The child immediately burst forth into loud la-
mentations over Iier little favourite, and wejjt ex
ceedingly : but her mother went and bought another
bird, which sang as delightfully as the first, but
surpassed it in beauty of colour, and put it into
the cage.
The girl, however, wept still more bitterly when
she saw the new bird. Her mother was much sur-
prised at this, and said : IMy dear child, why dost
thou still grieve and weep thus ? Thy tears can-
not recall the dead bird to li^c, and here thou hast
another, in no respecf vvbrsathan that which thou
hast lost. i'
Ah, dear moth^^ answered tlie girl, I used tho
poor bird ill, and was not so kind to liim as I ought
to have been.
352 YOUNG lady's
My dear Caroline, replied her mother, hast thou
not always waited on him assiduously ?
Ah, no I interrupted the child ; but just before
he died I did not carry him a lump of sugar that
thou gavest me for him, but ate it myself. Thus
spake the girl, and she gave full vent to her tears.
But her mother did not smile at the grief of the
child ; for she recognised and respected the sacred
voice of nature in the heart of her daughter.
Ah ! said she, what must be the feelings of an
ungrateful child at the grave of his parents !
Krummacher.
THE HYACINTH.
Emily was grieved because the winter lasted so
long ; for she was fond of flowers, and had a little
garden, in which she raised some of the most beau-
tiful with her own hands. Therefore did she
anxiously desire that the winter might pass away,
and long for the return of spring.
See, Emily, said her father, 1 have brought thee
a flower-root, but thou must cultivate it thyself
with care.
How can I, father, replied the maiden. Every
thing is buried in snow, and the earth is as hard as
a stone ! — Thus spake she, for she knew not that
flowers may be reared in vases. But her father
gave her a vase with mould, and Emily put the
bulbs into it. She looked, nevertheless, at her
father, and smiled, doubtful whether he was in
earnest in what he had said : for she imagined that
flowers could not thrive unless they had the azure
sky above their heads, and the genial breezes of
spring about them.
In a few days the mould in the pot was raised,
BOOK OF PROSE. 253
*nd green leaves pushed it up on their points and
exposed themselves to view. Emily was overjoyed,
and she acquainted her father, her mother, and the
whole household, with the birth of the young- plant.
How little is required, said her mother, to rejoice
tlie heart, while it remains true to nature and
innocence !
Emily then besprinkled the plant with water, and
smiled complacently upon it.
Her father observed her, and said : That is right,
my child. Rain and dew must be succeeded by
sun-shine. The beam of the benevolent eye givcth
value to the bounty which tlie hand dispenses.
Thy plant will be sure to thrive, Emily.
The leaves soon shot forth entirely above the
surface of the earth, and were of a lovely green.
Emily's joy was greater than ever. O, said she,
with an overflowing heart, I should be content,
tliough it were not to produce any flower !
More will be given to thee, said her father, than
thou darest hope for. This is tlie reward of mo-
deration, and of a heart that is content with little.
He showed her the germ of the flower, which lay
hidden between the leaves.
Emily's care and attention increased every day
as the blossom gradually unfolded itself. With
delicate hand she sprinkled it with water, and when
a gleam of sun-shine burst forth slie carried the
plant to the window, and her breath, light as the
morning breeze that plays about the rose, blew
away the dust which had settled upon its leaves.
O the sweet union of the tendercst love and in-
nocence ! said the mother.
Emily's thoughts were occupied with her flower
till she fell asleep at night, and as soon as she
awoke in the morning. Ofl,en, too, did her dreams
264 YOUNG lady's
present to her view her hyacinth in full blossom ;
and when in the morning she found that it was
not yet open, she was under no concern on that
accoimt, and said, smiling : I must have patience
a little longer. Sometimes she would ask lier fa-
ther in what hue the flower would be arrayed ; and
when she had gone through all the colours, she
would cheerfully say : 'Tis all one to me, so it do
but blossom !
At length the blossom appeared. Early one
morning twelve little bells were found expanded.
They hung down in the full bloom of youthful
beauty, between five broad leaves of emerald green.
Their colour was a pale red, like the rays of the
morning dawn, or the delicate flush on Emily's
cheek. The flower diffused around a fragrant
odour. . It was a serene morning in the month of
March.
Emily's joy was calm and silent, as she knelt
before the flower and gazed upon it. Her father
approached, and he looked at his beloved child and
at the hyacinth, and said : Behold, Emily, what
the hyacinth is to thee, thou art to us !
The maiden sprang up and tlirew herself into
the arms of her father, and after a long embrace,
she said, in a low voice : O father I would to hea-
ven that I could rejoice your hearts as you have
rejoiced mine !
Krummacher.
INTERVIEW BETWEEN LEICESTER AND THE
COUNTESS AT KENILWORTH.
The Countess Amy, with her hair and her gar-
ments dishevelled, was seated upon a sort of couch
m an attitude of the deepest afliiiction, out of which
BOOK OF riiosE. 255
ghe was startled by the openiiifr of tlie door. She
turned hastily round, and fixintr her eye on Var-
ney, exclaimed, "Wretch ! art thou come to frame
some new plan of villany ?"
Leicester cut short her reproaches by stepping
forward, and droppinjr Jiis cloak, while he said in
a voice rather of authority than of affection, " It
is with me, madam, you have to commune, not
with Sir Richard Varncy."
The change effected on the Countess's look and
manner was like magic. " Dudley !" she exclaim-
ed, " Dudley I and art thou come at last ?" And
with the speed of lightning she flew to her bus-
band, clung around his neck, and, unheeding the
presence of Varney, overwhelmed him with ca-
resses, while she bathed his face in a flood of tears ;
muttering, at the same time, but in broken and
disjointed monosyllables, the fondest expressions
which love teaches his votaries.
Leicester, as it seemed to him, had reason to be
angry with his lady for transgressing his com-
mands, and thus placing him in the perilous situa-
tion in which he had that morning stood. But
what displeasure could keep its ground before these
testimonies of affection from a being so lovely,
that even the negligence of dress, and the wither-
ing effects of fear and grief, which would have im-
paired the beauty of others, rendered hers but the
more interesting. He received and repaid her caress-
es with fondness, mingled with melancholy, the last
of which she seemed scarcely to observe, until the
first transport of her own joy was over : when,
looking anxiously in his face, she asked if he was ill.
" Not in my body. Amy," was his answer.
" Then I will be well "too.— O Dudley ! I have
been ill I — very ill, since we last met I — for I call
256 YOUNG LADY S
not this morning's horrible vision a meeting. I
have been in sickness, in grief, and in danger. —
But thou art come, and all is joy, and health, and
safety."
" Alas ! Amy," said Leicester, " thou hast un-
done me !"
" I, my lord," said Amy, her cheek at once losing
its transient flush of joy — " how could I injure that
which I love better than myself?"
" I would not upbraid you. Amy," replied the
Earl ; " but are you not here contrary to my ex-
press commands — and does not your presence here
endanger both yourself and me ?"
" Does it, does it indeed !" she exclaimed eager-
ly ; " then why am I here a moment longer ? O
if you knew by what fears I was urged to quit
Cumnor Place ! — but I will say nothing of myself
— only that if it m.ight be otherwise, I would not
willingly return thither ; yet if it concern your
safety"
" We will think, Amy, of some other retreat,"
said Leicester ; " and you shall go to one of my
Northern castles, under the personage — it will be
but needful, I trust, for a very few days — of Var-
ney's wife."
" How, my Lord of Leicester !" said the lady,
disengaging herself from his embraces ; " is it to
your wife you give the dishonourable counsel to
acknowledge herself the bride of another — and of
all men, the bride of that Varney ?"
" Madam, I speak it in earnest — Varney is my
true and faithful servant, trusted in my deepest se-
crets. I had better lose my right hand than his
service at this moment. You have no cause to
scorn him as you do."
" I could assign one, my lord," replied the Comi-
LOOK OK PROSE. 257
tess ; " and I sec he shakes even under that as-
sured look of his. Cut he that is necessary as your
right hand to your safety, is free ironi any accusa-
tion of mine. May he be true to you ; and th;il
he may be true, trust him not too much or tco iar.
But it is enough to say, that I will not go with
him unless by violence, nor would I acknowledge
him as my husband, were all"
" It is a temporary deception, madam," said
Leicester, irritated by her opposition, " necessary
for both our safeties, endangered by you through
female caprice, or the premature desire to seize on
a rank to which I gave you title, only under condi-
tion that our marriage, for a time, should continue
secret. If my proposal disgust you, it is yourself
has brouglit it on both of us. There is no other
remedy — you must do what your own impatient
folly hath rendered necessary — I command you."
" I cannot put your comynands, my lord," said
Amy, " in balance witli those of honour and con-
science. I will NOT, in this instance, obey you.
You may achieve your ov/n dishonour, to which
these crooked policies naturally tend, but I will
do nauglit that can blc:riish mine. How could you
again, my lord, acknowledge me as a pure and
chaste matron, worthy to share your fortunes,
when, holding that high character, I had strolled
ihe country the acknowledged wife of such a pro-
digate fellow as your servant Varncy !"
" My lord," said Varney interposing, " my lady
is too much prejudiced against me, unhappily, to
listen to v/hat I can offer ; yet it may please her
better than what she proposes. She has good in-
terest with Master Edmund Tressilian, and could
doubtless prevail on him to consent to be her com-
uanion to Lidcote-IIall, and there she might remain
17
258 YOUNG LADY 3
in safety until time permitted the devclopcment of
this mystery."
Leicester was silent, but stood looking eagerly
on Amy, with eyes which seemed suddenly to glow
as much with suspicion as displeasure.
The Countess only said, " Would to God I were
in my father's house ! — Wlicn I left it, I little
thought I was leaving peace of mind and honour
behind me."
Varney proceeded with a tone of deliberation,
" Doubtless this will make it necessary to take
strangers into my lord's counsels ; but surely the
Countess will be warrant for the honour of Master
Tressilian, and such of her father's family"
" Peace, Varney," said Leicester ; " by Heaven
I will strike my dagger into thee, if again thou
namest Tressilian as a partner of my counsels !"
" And wherefore not ?" said the Countess ; " un-
less they be counsels fitter for such as Varney,
than for a man of stainless honour and integrity.
— My lord, my lord, bend no angry brows on me
— it is the truth, and it is I who speak it. I once
did Tressilian wrong for your sake — I will not do
him the farther injustice of being silent when his
honour is brought in question. I can forbear," she
said, looking at Varney, " to pull the mask off hy-
pocrisy, but I will not permit virtue to be slander-
ed in my hearing."
There was a dead pause. Leicester stood dis-
pleased, yet undetermined, and too conscious of
tlie weakness of his cause ; while Varney, with a
deep and hypocritical affectation of sorrow, min-
gled with humility, bent his eyes on the ground.
It was then that the Countess Amy displayed,
in the midst of distress and difficulty, the natural
energy of character, which would have rendered
BOOK OF PROSE. i*.).)
her, had fate allowed, a disting-uishod ornament of
the rank which she held. Slie walked up to Lri-
cester with a composed step, a dij^niified air, and
looks in which strong affection essayed in vain to
shake the firmness of conscious truth and recti-
tude of principle. , "You have sjjokc your mind,
my lord," she said, " in these dillicultics witli
which, unhappily, I have found myself unal)le f<>
comply. Tliis gentleman — this person I would
say — has hinted at another scheme, to whieli I
object not but as it displeases you. Will your lord-
ship be pleased to hear what a young and timid
woman, but your most affectionate wife, can sug-
gest in the present extremity ?"
Leicester was silent, but bent his head towards
the Countess, as an intimation that she was at
liberty to proceed.
" There hath been but one cause for all these
evils, my lord," she proceeded, " and it resolves
itself into the mysterious duplicity with which you
have been induced to surround yourself Extricate
yourself at once, my lord, from the tyranny of
these disgraceful trammels. Be like a true Eng.
lish gentleman, knight and earl, who holds that
truth is the foundation of honour, and that honour
is dear to him as the breath of his nostrils. Take
your ill-fated wife by the hand, lead her to the
footstool of J^lizabeth's throne — say that in a mo-
ment of infatuation, moved by supposed beauty,
of which none perhaps can now trace even the re-
mains, I gave my hand to this Amy Robsart, —
You will then have done justice to me, my lord,
and to your own honour ; and should law or power
require you to part from me, I will oppose no ob-
jection — since I may then with honour hide a
260 YOUNG lady's
grieved and broken heart in those shades from
which your love withdrew me."
There was so much of dignity, so much of ten-
derness in llie Countess's remonstrance, that it
moved all tliat was noble and generous in the soul
of her husband. The scales seemed to fall from
ills eyes, and tlic duplicity and tergiversation of
which he had been guilty, stung him at once with
remorse and shame.
" I am not worthy of you. Amy," he said, "that
could weigh aught wliich ambition has to give
against such a heart as thine. I have a bitter
penance to perform, in disentangling, before sneer-
ing foes and astounded friends, all the meshes of
my own deceitful poIicy.-^And the Queen — but
let her take my liead, as she has threatened."
" Your head, my lord !" said the Countess ; " be-
cause you used the freedom and liberty of an Eng-
lish subject in choosing a wife ? For shame ! it is
this distrust of the Queen's justice, this apprehen-
Bion of danger which cannot but be imaginary,
that, like scare-crows, have induced you to Ibrsake
the straight-forward path, v^'hich, as it is the best,
is also the safest."
" Ah, Amy, thou little knowest !" said Dudley :
but, instantly checking himself, he added, "Yet
she shall not find in me a safe or easy victim of
arbitrary vengeance — I have friends — I have allies
— I will not, like Norfolk, be dragged to the block,
as a victim to sacrifice. Fear not, Amy ; thou
shalt see Dudley bear himself worthy of his name.
I must instantly communicate with some of those
friends on whom I can best rely ; for, as things
stand, I may be made prisoner in my own Castle."
BOOK OF PROSE. 261
•* O, my good lord," said Amy, " make no fac-
tion in a peaceful state ! Tlicre is no iricnd can
help us so well as our own candid truth and honour.
Bring but these to our assistance, and you are sale
amidst a whole army of the envious and malignant.
Leave these beliind you, and all other del'ence will
be fruitless — Truth, my noble lord, is well painted
unarmed."
" But Wisdom, Amy," ansv.'crcd Leicester, " is
arrayed in panoj)Iy of proof. Argue not with mo
on tiie means I shall use to render my confession
— since it must be called so — as sale as ma}' be ;
it will be fraught with enough of danger, do what
we will. — Varney, we must hence. Farewell, Amy,
whom I am to vindicate as mine own, at an ex-
pense and risk of which thou alone couldst be wor-
thy. You shall soon liear farther from me."
He embraced her fervently, muffled himself a«
before, and accompanied Varney from the apart-
ment. The latter, as he left the room, bowed low,
and, as he raised his body, regarded Amy with a
peculiar expression, as if he desired to know how
far his own pardon was included in the reconcilia-
tion wliich had taken place betwixt her and her
lord. The Countess looked upon him witli a fixed
eye, but seemed no more conscious of his presence,
than if there had been nothing but vacant air on
the spot where he stood.
" She has brought me to the crisis," he mutter-
ed — " She or I are lost. Tiiere was something, I
wot not if it was fear or pity, that prompted me to
avoid tills fatal crisis. It is now decided — She or
I must perish.''^
Sir W. Scott.
YOUNG LADY S
AN AUTUMNAL EVENING.
It was a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear
and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden
livery which we always associate witli the idea of
abundance. The forests had put on their sober
brown and yellow, while some trees of tlie tenderer
kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant
dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming
files of wild ducks began to make their appearance
high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be
heard from the groves of beach and liickory nuts,
and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals
from the neiglibouring stubble field.
The small birds were taking tlieir farewell ban-
quets. In the fiiUness of their revelry, they flut-
tered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush,
and tree to tree, capricious from tlic very profusion
and variety around them. There was the honest
cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling sports-
men, with its loud querulous note ; and the twit-
tering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the
golden-winged wood-pecker, with his crimson
crest, his broad black gorget and splendid plumage ;
and the cedar bird, with his red tipt wings and
yellow tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of fea-
thers ; and tJie blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his
gay light blue coat and white under clothes, scream-
ing and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bow-
ing, and pretending to be on good terms with every
songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye,
ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance,
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly au-
BOOK OF PROSE. 2b3
tumn. On all sides ho beheld vast store of apples,
some hanging in opi)ressivc ojjulence on tiie trect*,
some gathered into baskets and barrels for thf
market, others heaj)ed np in rich piles Ibr the eidcr-
prcss. Further on he beheld great fields of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy
coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and
hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying
beneath them, turning uj) their fair round bellies
to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the mo^l
luxurious of pies; ana anon ho passed the fragrant
buckwheat fields, breatliing the odour of the bee-
hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole
over his mind of dainty slap-jacks, well buttered,
and garnished with honey or treacle, by tiic deli-
cate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet
thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he jour-
neyed along the sides of a range of hills which
look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the
mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his
broad disk down into tlic west. The wide bosom
of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, ex-
cepting that here and there a gentle undulation
waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the dis-
tant mountain ; a dw amber clouds tloated in tiie
sky, without a breath of air to move them. Tlie
horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradu-
ally into a pure apple green, and from that into a
deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lin-
gered on the woody crests of the precipices that
overhung some parts of tlic river, giving greater
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky
sides. A sloop was loitering in tlie distance, drop
ping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging
264 TOUNO lady's
uselessly against the mast, and as tlic reflection of
the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed an
if the vessel was suspended in the air.
W. InviNc;.
THE STORM SHIP.
In the golden age of the province of the New
Netherlands, when it was under the sway of Wou-
ter Van Twiller, otherwise called Walter the Doubt-
er, the people of the Manhattoes were alarmed, one
sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer
solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and
lightning. The rain descended in such torrents
as absolutely to spatter up and smoke along the
ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled and
rolled over the very roofs of the houses. The light-
ning was seen to play about the church of St.Nich.
olas, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its
weather-cock. Garret Van Home's ncv/ chimney
was split almost from top to bottom, and Doffue
Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-
faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In a
word, it v/as one of those unparalleled storms that
only happen once within the memory of tliat ve-
nerable personage, known in all towns by the ap-
pellation of " the oldest inhabitant."
Great was the terror of the good old v.'omen of
the Manhattoes ; they gathered their children to-
gether and took refuge in the cellars, after having
hung a shoe on tlie iron point of every bed-post,
lest they should attract the lightning. At length
the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl,
and the setting sun, breaking from .under the
fringed borders of the clouds, made the broad bo-
s^xn of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold.
BOOK OF PROSK. Sfio
The word was given from the fort that a ship
was standin<r up the ba3^ It passed from mouth
to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the lit-
tle capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in
those early times of the settlement, was an event
of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brouglit
tliem news from the old world, from the land of
their birth, from which they were so completely
severed. To the yearly ship, too, they looked for
their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and
almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not
have her new cap, nor new gown, until the arrival
of the ship ; the artist waited for it for liis tools ;
the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of hol-
lands ; the schoolboy for liis top and marbles ; and
the lordly landholder for the bricks with which he
was to build his new mansion. Thus every one,
rich and poor, great and small, looked out tor the
arrival of " The Sliip." It was the great yearly
event of the town of New Amsterdam ; and Irom
one end of the year to the other, the shi]) — tlic
ship — the ship — was the continual topic of con
vcrsation.
The news from the fort, therefore, brought all
the populace down to the battery, to behold the
wished for sight, ft was not exactly the time
when she had been expected to arrive, and the
circumstance was a matter of some speculation.
Many were the groups collected about the battery.
Here and there might be seen -a' -burgomaster of
slow and pompous gravity, giving nis opinion witJi
great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle
boys. At another place was a knot of old weather
beaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen
in their times, and were great authorities on such
occasions: these gave different opinions, and caused
266 YOUNG lady's
great disputes among their several adherents. But
the man most looked up to, and followed and
watched by the crowd was Hans Van Pelt, an old
Dutch sea-captain retired from service ; the nauti-
cal oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship
through an ancient telescope, covered with tarry
canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, and
said nothing — a hum, however, from Hans Van
Pelt had always more weight with tlie public than
a speech from another man.
In the mean time the sliip became more distinct
to the naked eye. She was a stout, round, Dutch
built vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing
Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded her belly-
ing canvas, as she came riding over the long
waving billows. Tiie sentinel who had given no-
tice of her approach declared, that he first got
sight of her when she was in the centre of the
bay ; and that she broke suddenly upon his sight,
just as if she had come out of the bosom of the black
timnder cloud. The by-standers looked at Hans
Van Pelt to see w^hat he would say to this report
Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together
and said nothing; upon whicli some shook their
heads, and others shrugged their slioulders.
The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made
no reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the
Hudson. A gun was brought to bear on her, and,
with some difficulty, loaded and fired by Hans Van
Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artillery.
The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the
ship, and to skip along the water on the other side,
but no notice was taken of it. What was strange,
she had all her sails set, and sailed riglit against
wind and tide, which v/ere both down the river.
Upon tliis Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise
BOOK OF PROSE. 2G7
harbour master, ordered his boat, and set ofT to
board her, but after rowing for two or tbrcc hours
he returned witliout suecess. Sonietinu-s he would
get within one or two hundred yards of her, and
then, in a twinkUng-, she would be lialf a mile otT.
Sonic said it was because his oarsmen, who were
rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every now
and then to take breath, and spit on their hands ;
but tliis, it is probable, was a mere scandal. Ho
got near enoug-h, however, to see the crew, who
were all dressed in the Dutch style; the oflieers in
doublets and high hats and feathers. Not a word
was spoken by txriy one on board ; tliey stood as
motionless as so many statues ; and the sliip seem-
ed as if left to her own government. Tims she
kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening
in the evening sunshine, until she faded from sight,
like a little while cloud, melting away in a sum-
mer sky.
The appearance of this ship tlu-cw the governor
into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset hin»
in the whole course of his administration. Fears
were entertained for the security of the infant set-
tlements on the river, lest this might be an ene-
my's ship in disguise sent to take possession. The
governor called his council repeatedly to assist him
with their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state,
built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague;
and smoked his long jasmin pipe ; and listened to
all that his counsellors had to say, on a subject
about which they knew nothing ; but in spite of
all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest hcuds,
the governor still continued to doubt.
Messengers were dispatched to dilViTcnt places
on the river; but they returned without any tidings;
the ship had made no port. Day alUr day, and
268 TouNG lady's
week after v/cck elapsed ; but slic never returned
down the Hudson. As, however, the council seem-
ed solicitous for iiitcUigenee, they soon had it in
abundance. The captains of the sloops seldom
arrived without bringing some report of liaving
seen the strange ship, at different parts of the
river. Sometimes near the Palisadoes ; some-
times olT Croton Point, and sometimes in tlie
Highlands; but she was never reported as hav-
ing been seen above the Highlands. The crews
of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among
tliemselves in their accounts of these apparitions ;
but that may have arisen from the uncertain situ-
ations in which they saw her. Sometimes it was
by the flashes of a thunder storm, lighting up a
pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering
across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haver-
straw Bay. At one moment she would appear
close upon them, as if likely to run them down :
and would throw them into great bustle and alarm,
when the next flash would show her far ofl'; al-
ways sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in
quiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under
some high bluff of the Highlands, all in deep sha-
dow, excepting her top-sails glittering in the moon-
beams. By the time, however, that the voyagers
would reach the place, there would be no ship to
be seen ; and when they had passed on for some
distance, and looked back, behold I there she was
again, with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her
appearance was always just after, or just before,
or just in the midst of unruly weather ; and she
was known by all the skippers and voyagers of tlic
Hudson by the name of " the Storm Ship."
These reports perplexed the governor and his
council more than' ever : and it would be endless
BOOK OF PROSE. 265
to repeat the conjectures and opinions that were
uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases in ]K)'ini
of ships seen off the coast of New-England navi-
gated by witches and gobhns. Old Hans Van
Pelt, who had been more tlian once to the Dutch
colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this
must be the Flying Dutchman, which liad so long
haunted Table Bay, but being unable to make port,
had now sought another harbour. Others suggest-
ed that, if it really was a supernatural apparition,
as there was every natural reason to believe, it
might be Hendriek Hudson and his crew, of the
Half Moon ; who, it was well known, had once run
aground in the upper part of the river, in seeking
a north-w^est passage to China. This opinion had
very little weight with tlie governor ; but it passed
current out of doors. Indeed, it had already been
reported that Hendriek Hudson and his crew
haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appeared
very reasonable to suppose that his ship might in-
fest the river where the enterprise was baffled ; or
that it might bear the shadowy crew to their peri-
odical revels in the mountain.
Other events occurred to occupy the tlioughts
and doubts of the sage Wouter and his council ;
and the Storm Ship ceased to be a subject of de-
liberation at the board. It continued, however, to
be a matter of popular belief and marvellous anec-
dote throughout the whole time of the Dutch go-
vernment; and particularly just before the capture
of New-Amsterdam, and the subjugation of tlio
province, by the English squadron. About that
time the Storm Ship was repeatedly seen in the
Tappaan Zee ; about Weehawk, and even down
as far as Hobokm, i nd her appearance was sup-
posed to be ominous of t'le npproacliing squall in
270 YOUNG lady's
public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domina-
tion.
Since that time we have no authentic accounts
of her, thoug-h it is said she still haunts the High.
lands, and cruises about Point-no-point. People
who live along the river insist that they sometimes
see her in summer moonlight ; and that in a deep,
still midnight, they have heard the chant of her
crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds
are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and
about the wide bays and long readies of tliis great
river, tliat I confess I have very strong doubts upon
the subject.
It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things
have been seen in these Highlands in storms,
which are considered as connected with the old
story of the sliip. The captains of the river craft
talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in
trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking-
trumpet in his hand ; which tliey say keeps about
the Dunderberg Mountain. They declare that
they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the
midst of the turmoil, giving orders in Low Dutch
for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or the
rattling off of another thunder-clap. That some-
times he has been seen surrounded by a crew of
little imps in broad breeches and short doublets,
tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist,
and playing a thousand gambols in the air ; or
buzzing like a swarm of flies, about Antony's
Nose ; and that, at such time, the hurry-scurry of
the storm was always greatest. One time a sloop,
in passing by Dunderberg, was overtaken by a
thunder-gust that came scouring down from the
mountain, and seemed to burst just over the ves-
sel. Though tight and well-ballasted, yet she la-
BOOK OF PROSr. 271
bourcd dreadfully, and rocked until the water came
over the g;unwale. All the i^rew wtn- amazed;
when it was discovered that there was a little
white sugar-loaf hat on the mast-head ; which was
known at once for the hat of the Heer of the Dun-
derberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the
mast-head and get rid of this terrible hat. The
sloop continued labouringr and rocking as if she
would have rolled her mast overboard. She seem-
ed in continual danger either of upsetting or of
running on shore. In this way she drove quite
through the Highlands, until she had passed Pol-
lopcl's Island ; where, it is said, the jurisdiction
of the Dunderbcrg potentate ceases. No sooner
had she passed this bourne, than the little hat all
at once spun up into the air like a top; whirled up
all the clouds into a vortex ; and hurried them back
to the summit of the Dunderbcrg ; while the sloop
righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a
mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck
but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-
shoe nailed against the mast ; a wise precaution
against evil spirits, which has since been adopted
by all the Dutch captains that navigate this liaunt-
ed river.
W. Irving.
THE SETTLEMENT OF NEW-ENGLAND.
The settlement of New-England, by the colony
which landed here on the twenty-second of Decem-
ber, sixteen hundred aiid twenty, although not tho
first European establishment in what now consti-
tutes the United States, was yet so pi^culiar in its
causes and character, and has been followed, and
272 YOUNG lady's
must still be followed, by such consequences, as to
give it a high claim to lasting commemoration.
On these causes and consequences, more than on
its immediately attend:int circumstances, its im-
portance, as an historical event, depends. Great
actions and striking occurrences, liaving excited a
temporary admiration, often pass away and are
forgotten, because they leave no lasting results,
affecting the prosperity of communities. Such is
frequently the fortune of the most brilliant military
achievements.
Of the ten thousand battles which have been
fouglit ; of all !he fields fertilized with carnage ; of
the banners which have been bathed in blood ; of
the warriors who have hoped that they had risen
from the field of conquest to a glory as bright and
as durable as the stars, how few that continue long
to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is.
reversed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of mili-
tary glory, rising like a meteor, like a meteor has
fallen ; disgrace and disaster hang on the heels of
conquest and renown ; victor and vanquislied pre-
sently pass away to oblivion, and the world holdj
on its course, with the loss only of so many lives,
and so much treasure.
But if this is frequently, or generally, the fortune
of military achievements, it is not always so. There
are enterprises, military as well as civil, that some-
times check the current of events, give a new turn
to human affairs, and transmit tlicir consequences
through ages. We sec their importance in their
results, and call them great, because great things
follow.
There have been battles which have fixed the
fate of nationa. I'hcsc come down to us in history
with a solid and permanent influence, not created
fay a display of glittering armour, the rush of ad-
BOOK OF PROSE. 273
verse battalions, tlic sinking and rising of jK^nnoiis
the flight, the pursuit, and tlic victory ; hut hy their
ctfcct in advancing or retarding hmnan knowledge,
in overthrowing or estahlishing despotism, in ex-
tendnig or destroying human iiappiness.
When the traveller pauses on the plains of Mar-
athon, what arc the emotions which strongly agi-
tatc his breast ? What is that glorious recollection
that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his
eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Gre-
cian valour were lierc most signally displayed ; but
that Greece herself was saved.
It is because to this spot, and to tlic event which
lias rendered it immortal, he refers all the succeed-
ing glories of the republic. It is because, if that
day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It
is because he perceives that her philosophers and
orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and
architects, her government and free institutions,
[loint backward to Marathon ; and that their future
existence seems to have been suspended on the con-
tingency, w^hether the Persian or Grecian banner
should wave victorious in the beams of that day's
^citing sun.
And, as his imagination kindles at the retrospect,
..c is transported back to the interesting moment;
ho counts the fearful odds of the contending hosUi ;
liis interest for the result overwhelms him ; lie
trembles as if it were still uncertain, and seems to
doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato,
Demosthenes, Sophocles, and Phidias, as secure,
yet, to himself and to the world.
" If we conquer," — said the Athenian command-
or on the morning of that decisive day, — " if we
conquer, we shall make Athens the greatest city
of Greece." A prophecy how well fulfilled I
18
'21 A YOUNG I^VDy's
" If CfOii prosper us," — mij^ht have been the
more appropriate language of our fathers, when
they landed upon this rock, — " If God prosper us,
wc shall here begin a work tliat shall last for ages;
we shall plant here a new society, in the principles
of the fullest liberty, and the purest religion ; wc
shall subdue tliis wilderness which is before us ;
we shall fill this region of the great coiitinent,
which stretches almost from pole to pole, with
civilization and Christianity ; tlie temples of the
true God shall rise where now ascends the smoko
of idolatrous sacrifice ; fields and gardens, the
flowers of summer, and the waving and golden
harvests of autumn, shall extend over a thousand
hills, and stretch along a thousand valleys, never
yet, since the creation, reclaimed to the use of civil-
ized man.
" Wc shall whiten this coast with the canvas of
a prosperous commerce ; we shall stud the long
and winding shore with a hundred cities. That
which we sow in weakness shall be raised in
strength.
" From our sincere, but houseless worship, there
shall spring splendid temples to record God's good-
ness ; from the simplicity of our social union, there
shall arise wise and politic constitutions of govern-
ment, full of the liberty which we ourselves bring
cud breathe; from our zeal for learning, institutions
shall spring, which shall scatter the light of know-
ledge throughout the land, and, in time, paying back
what they liave borrowed, shall contribute their
part to the great aggregate of human knowledge ;
and our descendants, through all generations, shall
look back to this spot, and this hour with unabated
affection and regard."
Webster.
BOOK OF PROSE. ti 1 5
COLLOaUIAL POWERS OF DR. FRANK M\.
Nevkr have I known sucli a fireside eompaiiion
as he was. Great as lie was, both as u stalesniaii
and a pliilosophcr, he never shone in a hirht more
winning tlian when lie was seen in a doniestie cir-
cle. It was once my good fortune to pass two or
three weeks with him, at the house of a private
gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania ; and
we w'C^c confined to the house during the whole
of that time, by the unintermitting constancy and
depth of the snows.
But confinement could never be felt where Frank,
lin was an inmate. His cheerfulness and his col-
loquial powers spread around him a ])erpetual
spring. When I speak, however, of his colloquial
'i powers, I do not mean to awaken any notion ana-
^ j logons to that which Boswell has given us, when
t;' he so frequently mentions the colloquial powers of
n Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter con-
' K tinually reminds one of " the pomp and circum-
\\ stance of glorious war."
Ml It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for victory,
li' 1 or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage
K I to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt,
ill- ! I splendid, and vociferous; as loud, stormy, and sub-
K A lime, as those winds which he represents as shaking
oiiS||i|the Hebrides, and rocking the old castles that
o^ji I frowned upon the dark, rolling sea beneath. But
Bti ; I tne gets tired of storms, however sublime they may
fell I )e, and longs for the more orderly current of iia-
ilgslf 1 ure.
shall 1 1 Of Franklin no one ever became tired. There
iWUiras no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine.
ill any thing which came from him. There wis
TE5- 11 othing which made any demand cither upon your
il
276 YOUNG lady's
allegiance or your admiration. His manner was
as unaffected as infancy. It was nature's self. He
talked like an old patriarch ; and iiis plainness and
simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave
you the full and free possession and use of all your
faculties.
His thouglits were of a cliaracter to shine by
their own ligijt, without any adventitious aid.
They required only a medium of vision, like his
pure and simple style, to exhibit, to the higliest
advantage, their native radiance and beauty. His
cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as
much the effect of the systematic and salutary ex-
crcise of the mind, as of its superior organization.
His wit was of tlie first order. It did not show
itself merely in occasional coruscations ; but, with-
out any etibrt or force on his part, it shed a con-
stant stream of the purest light over the whole of
his discourse. Whether in the company of com-
nions or nobles, he was always the same plain
man ; always most perfectly at liis ease, his facul-
ties in full play, and.the full orbit of his genius for
ever clear and unclouded.
And, then, the stores of his mind were inexhaust-
ible. He had commenced life with an attention so
vigilant, that nothing had escaped his observation,
and a judgment so solid, that every incident was
turned to advantage. His youth had not been
wasted in idleness, nor overcast by intemperance.
He had been all his life a close and deep reader,
as well as thinker ; and, by the force of his own
powers, liad wrouglit up the raw materials, which
lie had gathered from books, witli such exquisite
skill and felicity, that he had added a hundred fold
to their original value, and justly made them his
own. Wirt.
HOOK OF PROSE. 277
CLIMATE AND SCENERY OF NEW-ENGLAND.
The position of our continent, and the course of
the winds, will iihvays give us an unc(iual climate,
and one abounding in contrasts. In tlic lalitiuic
of 50 dog., on the north-west coast of America, the
weather is milder even than in the same parallel
in Europe; — the wind, three-quarters of the year,
comes off the Pacific : in the same latitude on the
eastern side, the country is hardly worth inhabit-
ing, under the dreary length of cold, produced by
the succession of winds across a irozen continent.
The wind, and the sun, too, often carry on tlie con-
test here, which they exerted on the poor traycllcr
in the fable; and we are in doubt to wxiicli we
shall yield.
The changes that cultivation and planetary in-
fluence, if there be such a thing, can create, arc
very gradual. It seems to be a general opinion,
that the cold is more broken now. The totals of
heat and cold may be nearly the same as tluy
were fifty years ago. The winters, particularly,
have conuuenced later. The autumn is warmer,
and the spring colder. We arc still subject to the
same caprices : a flight of snow in IMay, a frost in
June, and sometimes in every month in the year ;
and ^olus indulges his servants in stranger freaks
and extravagances here than elsewhere ; yet the
severe cold seldom sets in before January ; the
snow is less and later, and, on the sea-coast, dots
not, on an average, afford more than a montli's
sleighing.
These contrasts in our climate occasion 8oinc
very picturesque effects, — some that would be con-
sidered phenomena by persons unaccustomed to
them. It blends together tJie circumstances of
278 YOr-NO LADV'S
very distant rcg-ions in Europe. Thus, when the
earth lies buried in a deep covering' of snow, in
Europe, the clinio is so far to the north, that the
sun rises bat little above the horizon, and his daily
visit is a very short one ; — liis feeble rays hardly
illumine a chilly sky, tljat harmonizes with the
dreary waste it covers : but iiere, the same surface
reflects a dazzling brilliancy from rays that strike
at the same angle at which they do the dome of
St. Peter's.
The plains of Siberia and the Campagna di Roma
are here combined ; — we have the snow of the one
and the sun of the other at the same period. While
his rays, in the month of March, are expanding the
flowers and blossoms at Albano and Tivoli, they
ore here falling on a wide, uninterrupted covering
of snow, — producing a dazzling brilliancy that is
almost insupportable. A moonlight at this season
is equally remarkable, and its effects can be more
easily endured.
Our moon is nearly the same with that moon
of Naples, which Carracioli told the king of Eng-
land was " superior to his majesty's sun." When
this surface of spotless snow is shone upon by this
moon at its full, and reflects back its beams, the
light, indeed, is not that of day, but it takes away
all appearance of night ; — the witch and the spec-
tre would shrink from its exposure :
" It is not night ; — 't is but the daylight sick ;
It looks a little paler."
On the sea-coast, the winters are milder; but
the obnoxious cast winds are more severely felt, in
the spring, than they are in the interior. The
whole coast of Massachusetts Bay is remarkably
exposed to their influence. Some compensation,
BOOK OF TROSK, 279
however, is derived, for tlicir liarslinrss and viru-
lence in the spring, by their refreshing and salu-
tary breezes in the sunnncr, wheTi they frequently
allay the sultry heat, and prevent it from becoming
oppressive.
Althougli a district favourably situated will enjoy
an average of climate two or three degrees better
thaJi those in its neighbourhood, yet, generally, the
progress of the climate is pretty regular as you
ibllow^ the coast of the United States from north-
east to south-west. I am induced to tiiink, that
our great rivers have some connexion witli the
gradations of climate ; that every large river you
pass makes a diflcrence of two or three degrees in
the averages of the thermometer. The position of
mountains will affect the climate essentially ; but
tlie rivers, whose course upwards is nortlw^rly, will
still, in general, be lines of dcmarkation.
One of the most agreeable peculiarities in our
climate is a period in the autumn called the Indian
Summer. It happens in October, commencing a
few da3's earlier or later, as the season may l)e.
The temperature is delightful, and the weather
differing in its character from that of any other
season. The air is filled with a slight haze, like
smoke, which some suppose it to be ; the wind is
south-west, and there is a vernal soilness in the
atmosphere ; yet the different altitude of the sun
from what it has in the summer, makes it, in other
respects, very unlike that season.
This singular occurrence in our climate seems
to be to summer what a vivid reeolleefion of past
joys is to the reality. The Indians have some
pleasing superstitions respecting it. " They be-
lieve it is caused by a wind, which comes imme-
dialelyfroni tlie court of tlieir great and b<nevt)linl
280 YOUNG lady's
god Caulantowwit, or tlic south-wcstorn g-od, the
god tliat is superior to ull other beings, who sends
them every blessin<r' whicli they enjoy, and to
whom tlic fcouls of their fathers go alter their de-
cease."
In connexion with our climate, the appearance
of our atmospiiere may be considered. The lover
of picturesque beauty will find this a fruitful source
of it. The same inequalities will be found here,
that take place in the measure of heat and cold,
and an equal number of contrasts and varieties.
We have many of those days, when a murky va-
pourishness is diffused through the air, dimming
the lustre of the sun, and producing just such tones
of light and colour as would be marked, in the
calendar of Newfoundland or the Hebrides, for a
bright, fair day. We have, again, others, in which
even the transparency and purity of the tropics,
and all the glowing, mellow hues of Greece and
Naples, are blended together, to shed a hue of para-
dise on every object.
I have already spoken of the intense brilliancy
of a winter moonlight, when the air lias a polar
temperature; tlie same brilliancy and a greater
clearness are often found in the month of June,
and sometimes in July, with the warmth of the
equator. There, are, occasionally, in the summer
and autumn, such magical effects of light, such a
universal tone of colouring, that the very air seems
tinged ; and an aspect of such harmonious splen-
dour is thrown over every object, that the attention
of the most indifferent is awakened, and the lovers
of the beautiful in nature enjoy the most lively de-
light.
These are the kinds of tints which even the
matchless pencil of Claude vainly endeavoured to
BOOK OF PROSK. 281
imitate. They occur a few limes every year, a
little before suiiiset, under a particuhir slate of tlic
air and position of the clouds. These beautiful
appearances are not so frequent, indeed, here, as
llicy are at Naples : all those warm colours, which
we sec in Neapolitan pictures, occur tliere more
often ; but I have frequently seen the hills on the
south of Boston exhibiting^, towards sunset, tlie
same exquisite hues, which Vesuvius more fre-
quently presents, and which the Neapolitans, in
their paintings of it, always adopt.
The vivid beauty, whicii I now speak of, is rare
and transient ; but we may often enjoy the charms
of a transparent atmosphere, where objects stand
in bold reliei', and even distant ones will present all
their hues and angles, clear and sharp, from Uie
deep distant sky, as on the shores of Greece ; and
we gaze at sunset on gorgeous skies, where all tlic
magnificence that form and colour can devise, is
accumulated to enrapture the eye, and render de
scription hopeless.
The scenery of this country will have struck
you, at once, as very different from that of Europe.
This difference is partly intrinsic, and partly acci-
dental, — arising out of the kind and degrees of
cultivation. Tiie most obvious and extensive view
in which it differs, is the redundancy of forest. A
vast Ibrcst, to a person who had never seen one,
would excite almost as strong sensations as tiif
sight of the ocean to Jiim who beheld it l()r the lirst
time ; and in both cases a long continuance of the
prospect becomes tiresome.
From some of our hills, tlie spectator looks over
an expanse of woods bounded by tlie huri/on, and
slightly checkered by cultivation. Tlie view is grand
and imposing at first, but will be more agreeable,
282 YOUNG lady's
and afford more lasting pleasure, when the relative
proportions of wood and open ground are reversed.
The most cultivated parts of these states approach
nearest to some of the most covered in England,
that are not an actual forest. We have nothing
like the downs on your southern coast ; and, fa-
tiguing as an eternal forest may be, it is less so
than those dreary wastes, as destitute of objects as
the mountain swell of the ocean.
We have still so much wood, that, even in the
oldest cultivated parts of the country, it is difficult
to find a panoramic view of any extent, where some
patches of the native forest are not to be found. I
know of but one exception, which is from the stee-
ple of the church in Ipswich, in Essex, Massachu-
setts. This is one of tlie oldest towns ; the pros-
pect will put an Englishman in mind of the scenery
of his own country. I need not add, that it is a
very pleasing one, and will repay him for the slight
trouble of ascending the steeple.
The trees, though there are too many of them,
at least in masses, must please the eye of a Euro-
pean, from their variety and beauty, as well as
novelty. The richness of our trees and shrubs has
always excited the admiration of botanists and the
lovers of landscape gardening. There can be no-
thing nobler than the appearance of some of tho
oaks and beeches in England, and the walnuts and
chestnuts in France and Italy. The vast size of
these spreading trees is only surpassed by some of
our sycamores on the banks of the Ohio.
Our oaks may sometimes be seen of the same
size ; and the towering white pine and hemlock
reach a height that I have never seen attained by
trees in Europe ; but, for grandeur of appearance,
we must rely, in the first instance, on the Ameri-
BOOK OF PROSE. 283
can elm, that lias been planted for ornaniont. Itn
colour, its form, and its size, ])lace it much before
the European elm ; it is one of our most majestic
trees. There are many varieties of it very distinct,
yet not so numerous as of the oaks, walnuts, and
some others.
Of the former, you know, we have between
thirty and forty different species, and a jjreat num-
ber of species exist of all our principal trees. This
variety, in the hands of taste, would be made [)ro-
ductive of the highest eflccts in ornamental plant.
ing, of which there are more specimens in England
than in this country, though only a part of our
riches in this way have been transplanted by tlieir
gardeners.
You will remark the fresh and healthy look of
our forest, as well as fruit trees, compared with
tliose of all tlie northern parts of Europe. The hu-
midity of that atmosphere nourishes the mosses,
and a green coating over the trunks and branches,
Lliat give the aspect of disease and decay. You
will often observe the clean and smooth bark of
our trees of all kinds: among the forest trees, par-
ticularly, the walnut, maple, beech, &c., will \)C
entirely free from moss or rust of any kind; and
their trunks form fine contrasts with the leaves.
I will mention a peculiarity, which you will
witness in autumn, that will affect a lover of land.
ficajX! scenery, like yourself, on seeing it the first
time, with surprise as well as delight. The rich
and mellow tints of the forest, at that season of the
year, have often furnished sulycets I'or the ptn-t and
the painter in Europe; but it will hardly prepare
you for the sight our woods exhibit. 1 have never
seen a representation of them attempted in paint-
U)g ; it would probably be grotesque.
284 YouNo lady's
Besides all the shades of brown and green,
which you have in European trees, there arc tlie
most brilliant and glaring colours, — bright yellow,
and scarlet, for instance, — not merely on single
leaves, but in masses of whole trees, with all tiieir
foliage thus tinged. I do not know that it has
ever been accounted for; it may, pcrliaps, be
owing to the frosts coming earlier here than in
Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is
yet copious, before they have begun to dry up and
fall off. However this may be, the colouring is
wonderful ; the walnut is turned to the brightest
yellow, the maple to scarlet, &c. Our trees put on
this harlequin dress about the first of October.
I leave to your imagination, which can never
reach the reality, to fancy the api)earance of such
scenes as you may behold at tlys season. A cloud-
less sky, and transparent atmosphere, a clear blue
lake, with meadows of light, delicate green, backed
by hills and dales of those party-colbured, gorgeous
forests, are often combined, to form tlie most en-
chanting views.
Tudor.
ON THE PICTURESaUE.
The arts are no less unfortunate than the sci
ences, in being retarded by the vagueness and
laxity of their technical terms. In various branches
of philosophy, a single word has imposed on the
notions of an age, or constituted the distinctive
badge of a school. It has paralyzed investigation,
and held the minds of men as in a spell ; and,
even in more modern and in the present times, an
observer will frequently be struck with the extend
BOOK OF PUOSE. 385
ed and unhappy inflnrnco of soino cnnvrnlionnl
words and phrases, to wliich the fxaiii|)l(; of nn
individual or loii;:^ hat)ituation has nttacht d a linti-
tious importance. Nor, as wc have said, are the
arts exempted from a like disadvantii^fe, J)itlerfnt
meanings are sometimes attached to the same
terms; and, wlicre this is not the case, there is an
indetenninatencss in their apj)heati()n, which is at
once the source of much contusion and much con-
troversy. Of tiiis class may be sijccitied such
words as sublime, beautiful, picturesque, &c., tiie
precise meaning of which, it would seem, can
only be fixed by a reference to some acknowledged
standard, of which we seem to be in want. Some
authors, however, have laid down, hotli by dciini-
tion and illustration, their views of l!i(> just appli-
cation of these terms, and we propose to lay them
before our readers in a selection from their writing?.
The distinction between sublime and beautiful
objects is thus generally stated in Mr. Ihirke's
treatise on that subject: — "Sublime objects," says
he, "are vast in their dimensions , beautiful ones
comparatively small : beauty should be smof.th
and polished ; the great, rugged and negligent :
beauty should shun the rigiit line, yet deviate from
it insensibly ; the great, in many cases, Ir.ves the
right line; and when it deviates, it ollen makes a
strong deviation : beauty should not be obse\ire ;
the great ought to be dark and gloomy : bea«ity
should be light and delicate ; the great ought to be
solid, and even massive. They are, indeed, ideas
of a very different nature, one Ixing founded on
pain, tlie other on pleasure ; and however they
might vary atlcrwards from the direct nature of
their causes, yet these causes keej) up nn eternal
distinction, never to be forgotten l)y any whoso
286 YOUNG lady's
business it is to affect the passions," The distinc*
tion between the picturesque and the beautiful is
stated in the same general manner, though with
much interesting illustration, by Mr. Uredale
Price, in his Essay on the Picturesque. " A tern,
pie or palace of Grecian architecture, in its perfect
and entire state, and its surface and colour smooth
and even, either in painting or reality, is beautiful;
in ruin, it is picturesque. Observe the process by
which time (the great author of such changes)
converts a beautiful object into a picturesque ona
First, by means of weather-stains, partial incrus.
tations, mosses, Sec. ; it at the same time takes off
from the uniformity of its surface and its colour ;
that is, gives it a degree of roughness and variety
of tint. Next, the various accidents of weather
loosen the stones themselves ; they tumble in irreg-
ular masses upon what was perhaps smooth turf or
pavement, or nicely-trimmed walks and shrub-
beries, now mixed and overgrown with wild plants
and creepers, that crawl over and shoot among the
fallen ruins. Sedums, wall-flowers, and other vege-
tables that bear drought, find nourishment in the
decayed cement, from which the stones have been
detached ; birds convey their food into the chinks ;
and yew, elder, and other berried plants, project
from the sides ; while the ivy mantles over other
parts, and crowns the top. The even, regular
lines of the doors and windows are broken, and
through their ivy-fringed openings is displayed the
ruined interior of the edifice. In Gothic buildings,
the outline of tlie summit presents such a variety
of fffms r.f turrets and pinnacles, some open,
seme fretted and variously enriched, that, even
where there is an exact correspondence of parts,
it is often disguised by an appearance of splendid
BOOK OF PROSK. 287
confusion and irrojjularity. In the doors and win-
dows of Gothic cliurclies, the pciinli'd ar(;li lias as
niucli variety as any rcjruhir fi^rurc can well have:
Uie eye is not too stronpfly conducted iVom tlie lop
of the one to tiiat of tlie other, as l)y the parallel
lines of the Grecian ; and every person nuist be
t^truck with the extreme richness and uilricaey of
some of the principal windows of our cathedrals
and ruined abbeys. In these last is ciisplayt d the
triumph of the picturesque ; and its charms to a
painter's eye are often so great as to rival those of
i>cauty itself. So in mills, such is the extrenie in.
tricacy of the wheels and the wood-work ; such is
the singular variety of forms, and of lights and
shadows, of mosses and wcather-stams from the
constant moisture — of plants springing from tho
rough joints of the stones ; such the assemblage
of every thing which most conduces to pic-
turcsqueness, that, even without the addition of
water, an old mill has the greatest charm for a
painter. It is owing to the same causes, that a
building with scaffolding has ol'ten a more pic
turesque appearance than the iiuilding itst 11" when
the scaffolding is taken away — that old, mossy,
rough-hevv'n park pales of uncciual heights arc an
ornament to landscapes, especially when they aro
j)artially concealed by thickets; while a neat jkjsI
and rail, regularly continued round a field, and
seen without any interruption, is one of the most
unpicturcsque, as being one of the most uinlcjrni,
of all boundaries. Among trees, it is not Uio
smooth young beech, or the fresh and lender ash,
l)ut the rugged old oak, or knotty wyeh ehn, that
are picturesque; nor is it necessary that they
should be of great bulk ; it is suffieii iit if they are
ruugh, mossy, with a character of ag<', and witii
288 YOUNG lady's
sudden variations in their forms. The limbs of huge
trees, shattered by lightning or tempestuous winds,
are in the highest degree picturesque ; but what-
ever is caused by those dreaded powers of destruc-
tion, must always have a tincture of the sublime.
* As when heaven's fire
Has scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines;
With singed top their stately growth, though bare.
Stand on the blasted heath.'
"If we next take a view of those animals that
are called picturesque, the same qualities are found
to prevail. Tlie ass is eminently so, much more
than the horse ; and, among horses, it is the wild
forester, with his rough coat, his mane and tail
ragged and uneven, or the worn-out cart-horse
with his staring bones. Among savage animals,
the lion with his shaggy mane is much more pic-
turesque than the lioness, though she is equally an
object of terror. The effects of roughness and
smoothness in producing the beautiful or the
picturesque is again clearly exemplified in the
plumage of birds. Nothing more beautiful than
feathers in their smooth state, when the hand or
eye glides over them without interruption ; nothing
more picturesque, as detached ornaments, or when
ruffled by any accidental circumstance, by any
sudden passion in the animal, or when they appear
so from their natural arrangement. As all the
effects of passion and of strong emotion on the
human figure and countenance are picturesque,
such likewise are their effects on the plumage of
birds; when inflamed with anger, the first symp-
toms appear in their ruffled plumage. The game-
cock, when he attacks his rival, raises the feathers
of the neck, and the purple pheasant his crest,
DOOK OF PROSE. 289
Birds of prey have generally more of the pic-
turesque, from the angular form of tluir In-aks, the
rough feathers on tlir-ir lejrs, their crooked talons :
all this covmlerbaliiiices the jreneral smoollmess of
the plumage on their backs and wings, w Inch thcv
have in common with the rest of the ii<atherrd
creation. Lastly, among our own species, heggars,
gypsies, and all such rough tattered figures as are
merely picturesque, bear a close analogy, in all
the qualities that make them so, to old hovels ;ind
mills, to the wild forest horse, and other objects nf
the same kind. More dignified characters, sin-h
as a Belisarius, or a Marius in age and exih-, li.ivc
the same mixture of picturesqueness and decayi d
grandeur as the venerable remains of past ages.
If wc ascend to the highest order of created beings,
as painted by the grandest of our poets, they, in
their state of glory and happiness, raise clii* tlj
ideas of beauty and sublimity; like earthly oIk
jects, they become picturesque when ruined —
when shadows have obscured their original bright-
ness, and that uniform though angelic expression
of pure love and joy has been destroyed by a va-
riety of warring passions : —
" ' Darkened so, yet sliono
Above Ihem all the archungel ; but liis faco
Deep scars of thunilur had intrpncht-d, and care
Sat on his faded cheek ; but under brows
Of dauntless courage and considerate pride
Waiting revenge; cruel his eye, hut cast
Signs of remorse and passion.' "
My Daughter's Book-
19
YOUNG I.ADY S
L I G FI T.
Look at that glassy wave, the light of which
dazzles our eyes as if it came from a silvered mir-
ror ; where does that light originate ? Oh, you
will say, it is only the sunbeams. To be sure : you
admit, then, that the light from the wave does not
originate in the wave itself, but that it comes from
the sun ? Well, as it comes from the sun, let me ask
wliat distance has it travelled ? How far is the
earth from the sun? Ninety-five millions one
hundred and seventy-three thousand miles. A
pretty long journey, you will confess ; but is
the light tardy in accomplishing it^ No ; it travels
at the rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles
in a second, and consequently, arrives at tlie earth
from the sun in about eight minutes. Does it
travel farther than the earth ? For what we know,
it may travel on for ever, till intercepted by some
opaque or ponderable object ; but we know for cer-
tain, that it reaches Herschell, the most distant
planet of our system, which is no less than
eighteen hundred millions of miles from the sun.
Now, is light material ? I have no knowledge of
it but what is obtained through the medium of
sight : no other sense recognizes it ; we cannot
taste it; we cannot smell it; and it makes no im-
pression on the nerves of touch. But I can learn,
that it is not only compounded of three primary
coloured rays, but also of others not connected
with colour at all ; of calorific and of oxidising
and deoxidising rays. I can see, that it is neces-
sary to vegetation ; that plants, deprived of its pre-
sence, lose their green colour ; that it affects va-
rious chemical decompositions ; and tJiat it is sub-
jected to certain fixed lav/s, which form the basis
DOOK OF PROSK, 291
of the science of optics. From tlicsc circumstnnces
I infer tliat it is matter, that it is a siihstarice ; hut
liow subtle must he the nature of a siibsUmee whose
particles can move in every direction without in-
tcrferinsT with each other ; which can travel about
ninety-five millions of miles in about ei<][ht minutes,
and yet not exert the least perceptible force of
collision ; which will pass throuj^h the hardest crys-
tal, or tlie purest diamond, with as much ease as
through air or water ! It is imponderable, and wants
various properties which philosophers have tlioug-lit
to be essential to matter ; but, in fact, we can sel-
dom tell wiiat is essential to any thing. We see
objects and light by the eyes : that you will admit;
und you will admit, also, tliat, without organs of
vision, we could have no knowledge of light and
colours. But is it the eye that sees ? Consider
now. You say, Yes. I say, No. When you take
up a telescope and lopk at the moons of Jupiter,
you see those moons, which, without the telescope,
you could not see. But does the telescope see
them ? You laugh, perhaps ; you think the ques-
tion childish. It is not so. Suppose a card were
slipped in between your eye and the eye-glass,
you would then neither perceive the planets nor
his satellites. Now, the eye is to vision what the
telescope is : it is an optical instrument ; it serves
to form an image ; but the eye itself docs not see :
it is tlje organ of communication with liglit, and
is necessary to vision ; but the sensation lies in the
brain, or rather, I shoidd say, in the mind which
inhabits it. Cut off the communication between
the eye and the brain, and the same result follows
as when a card is placed between the eye and tho
telescope : all is dark. The optic nerve is tlic cord
ithrough which the brain communicates w itli tlio
292 rouNG lady's
eye and when, by disease or other means, that
nerve, or its expansion, the retina, on which the
images of external objects are painted, loses its
function, or if, as has been often proved by experi-
ment, the optic nerves be cut across, then the ani-
mal sees no longer, though the eyes themselves re-
main as perfect as before.
WALKING.
1 HAVE ever held walking to be a principal plea-
sure. It is one, however, which, like health, is
usually enjoyed with a most thankless indifference.
We hold it cheap, because it costs nothing, while
there are many things we prize, merely because
we pay for them. Privation appears to be a neces-
sary process, to give a man a just sense of the
goods of existence. The original gift is never
valued as the restored boon. Ask the convalescent
w^hat they feel in the renewed power 6f locomo-
tion. Let such a one look back, and contrast past
and present feeling on the point. Did he not once
go forth with the free limb, the erect carriage,
nerves braced, and spirits exhilarated ; and did he
pause to say to himself, This is pleasure — renova-
tion to my physical and mental constitution — an
assertion of one of the proud privileges that pro-
claim me lord of the animal world ? See him now
with his slow step, and faint brow, looking up
with complacent gratification for the restored good,
though it be in comparison to the original good
what the far echo is to the original sound. I
knew a lady who rarely walked without repining
at fortune for depriving her of a carriage ; but she
BOOK OF rRO'.;K. 293
never thought of rejoicing thut nature had ex-
empted her trom crutelies. If walking were taxed,
jiow would the rich wallc, and tlie poor envy thcni
the privilege ! How would jx'ople then repine at
a restriction, which they now voluntarily impose
upon themselves ! What petitions would hv. pre-
sented to Parliament to remove the duly Irom this
paneeea — this source of health and good spirits,
this right of humanity, as it would then he con-
tended tor ! Thus it is that the fruit for which wc
liave but to put forth our hands, remains unj)luck.
ed, while wo risk every thing for the purchased
enjoyments, popularly termed pleasures.
Mv Daughter's Book.
NATURAL SCENERY FAVOURABLE TO
DEVOTION
Whatever leads our minds iiabitually to the
Author of the universe ; whatever mingles Uie
voice of nature with the revelation of the Gosfx;!;
whatever teaches us to see in all the changes of tlie
world, the varied goodness of Ilim, in whom "wc
live, and move, and have our being," brings us
nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind.
But it is not oiily as encotlraging a sincere devo-
tion, that these retleetions are favourable to Chris-
tianity ; there is something, moreover, peculiarly
allied to its spirit in such observations of external
nature. When our Saviour prepared himself for
his temptation, his agony, and death, he retired to
the wilderness of Judca, to inhale, we may venture
to believe, a hoUer spirit amidst its solitary scenes,
and to approach to a nearer eonununion with Ida
^94 YOUNG lady's
Father, amidst the sublimest of his works. It is
with similar feelings, and to worship the same
Father, that the Christian is permitted to enter the
temple of nature ; and by the spirit of his religion,
there is a language infused into the objects whicli
she presents, unknown to the worshippers of for-
mer times. To all, indeed, the same objects appear,
the same sun shines, the same heavens are open ;
but to the Christian alone it is j)ermitted to know
the Author of these things; to see liis Spirit
"move in the breeze and blossom in the spring;"
and to read in the changes which occur in the
material world, the varied expression of eternal
love. It is from the influence of Christianity, ac-
cordingly, that the key has been given to the signn
of nature. It was only when the " Spirit of Goci
moved on the face of the deep," that order and
beauty were seen in the world. It is, accordingly,
well worthy of observation, that the beauty of nii-
ture, as felt in modern times, appears to have bee.n
almost unknown to the writers of antiquity. They
described, occasionally, the scenes in which thcy
dwelt; but, if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind
seems to have anticipated, in tliis instance, the in
fluence of the gospel, never with any deep feelings
of their beauty. Then, as now, the citadel of
Athens looked upon the evening sun, and her tem-
ples flamed in his setting beam, but what Athenian
writer ever described the matchless glories of the
scene ? Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the
-^gean sea rolled round her verdant isles, and
sported in the azure vault of heaven ; but what
Grecian poet has been inspired by the sight ?
Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloud-
less sky, and all that is lovely in nature was gather-
ed around them, yet even Eustace tells us, that a
BOOK OF PROSK- 29 fi
few detaclicd lines is all that is left in regard to
them by the Roman poets. Tlie Alps themselves,
"The pnlace3 of nature, whoso vast walls
Have pinnacled in clou.ls their snowy scalps.
And throned eti'rniiy in iry hulls
Of cold sublimity, where forms ami fulls
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow " —
even these, the most glorious objeets wiiich the
eye of man ean behold, were rejrarded by the an-
cients with sentiments only of dismay or horror;
as a barrier from hostile nations, or as the dwell-
ings of barbarous tribes. The toreh of religion
liad not then lightened the faee of nature; they
knew not the language which she sj)oke, nor felt
tliat holy spirit, whieh, to the Christian, gives the
sublimity of these seenes. There is something,
therefore, in religious reflections on the objeets or
tlie changes of nature, which is peculiarly fitting
ill a Christian teacher. No man will imiucss tJiein
on his heart without becoming luippier and better;
without feeling warmer gratitude lor the bent fi-
eence of nature, and deej)er thankfulness for the
means of knowing the Author of this beneficence
which revelation has alTorded. "Behold tlie lilies
of the field," says our Saviour, " they toil not,
neither do tliey spin: yet, verily I say unto you,
that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not array-
ed like one of these." In these wr)rds, we jureeive
the deep sense which he entertained of the beauty
even of the minutest of the works of nature. If
the admiration of external olijeets is not directly
made the object of his preeejits, it is not, on tliat
account, the less allied to the spirit of religion; it
springs from the revelation which he has made,
and grows with the spirit whieh he ineuleatcs.
The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, ii
296 YOUNG lady's
purposely left to the human mind, that man may
be inauced to follow it from the charms which
novelty confers ; and the sentiments which it
awakens are not expressly enjoined, tliat they may
be enjoyed as the spontaneous growth of our own
imagination. While they seem, however, to spring
up unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, pro-
duced by the spirit of religion; and those who
imagine that they are not the fit subjects of Chris-
tian instruction, are ignorant of the secret work-
ings, and finer analogies, of the faith which they
profess.
My Daughter's Book.
GARDENS AND GARDENING.
I HAVE a love for every thing in the shape of a
garden. Even that little square plot at the back
of my house, which from the narrowness of its
superficies, and the height of its walls, looks not
unlike a draw-well, and where a few straggling
blades of grass find with difficulty air and sun-
shine enough to keep them alive, has a corner in
my aff"ections. This love I am inclined to regard
as in some sort an elementary feeling — an innate
attachment, born with me, and wanting but the
presence of a suitable object to call it into full ac
tivity. From the fiirst moment I knew what a
garden was, I felt a longing for some patch of
earth, however small, where I might turn up the
mould, and plant and water. It was long before
I had an opportunity of indulging my inclina-
tion. Window-boxes were recommended ; but they
proved sorry substitutes. I could not stand in
them. There was a cellar in my mother's house
BOOK OF PROSK. 297
in which the potatoes wore kept. One or two of
them luid rolled into a corner, and havinfj lain there
unnoticed for a len<rth of time, they shot out, al
hist, sonic lonjr white runners. 'I'liese could scarce-
ly he called ve<,rctation. They were colourless and
leafless — hut they were something grow inj;, and
upon the ground, and I watched them as a florist
would do his rarest flower. Our housemaid was
one of those unfortunate persons who are troubled
with a propensity to tidiness, and one day when I
was at school, she swei)t away my suhterraneoua
garden bodily. I we{)t, and refused to be com-
forted; till one day I observed a green leaf pro-
truding through a chink between the two step.s
by which we ascended from the street to the door
of our dwelling. A bean had dropped into it by
accident, and finding a small portion of earth at
t!ie bottom, had struck out roots and leaves. This
was a treasure, but one day some heavy-footed
inonstor trampled upon it — it withered. Not Jack
himself, had he seen his miraculous bean-stalk cut
d(jwn as he was about to attempt his voyage of
discovery to its summit, could have sutlired nnorc
than I did. When about ten years of age, it waw
judged expedient to send me to a school at some
distance from home; and there I at last attained
what I had so long ardently coveted. Each boy
had a border allotted to him in the master's large
garden, which he was allowed to manage nccorii-
ing to his own fancy. Was I not happy ? I felt,
as I stood in my little territory, the first dawnings
of the pride and pleasure of ownership, I watclicd
with unwearying interest the progress of ivcr^
plant from its apjxiarance above the soil, till I coi
lected its ripe seed. I changed continually tlit*
arrangement of my (lowers. Mv leisure moment*,
298 vouNQ lady's
my little pocket money, all were devoted to my
garden. There was a tall tree in the centre of
it. During summer, I used to con my tasks, or
read Robinson Crusoe, seated up among the
branches. My favourite passages were those that
described Robinson's horticultural attempts. Old
fool that I am I What has carried me back just
now to the days of my boyhood, and set me to
describe childish trifles with an eager and accurate
gravity, as strongly contrasted with the trifling
objects of description, as the wonderful wealth of
art lavished by some Flemish painters upon tJieir
pictures of still life, with the meanness of the pots
and pans which compose them ? Strange how
trifles will at times assume a burlesque importance-
in our estimation ! I have experienced many
crosses of life, but at this moment none touches
me so nearly as that it has never been in my power
to indulge my passion for gardening. That little
spot of ground — my first, my only garden — stands
out with a brightness among the recollections of
my life, akin to tiiat which, in the mind of our
tirst father, must have attached itself to the only
spot where he tasted unalloyed happiness. I have,
however, in the course of my life, managed to de^
rive much enjoyment from the conversation of gar-
deners, and from lounging about in the gardens
of others. Bartoline Saddletree was never happy
but when he was in tlic Parliament House, seeing
causes managed, if he had none to manage him
self. I have known people to whom the monthly
perusal of the " Sporting Magazine" was a sufl!i-
cient sueccdaneum for their inability to join in the
sports of the field. Everybody has at times met
with younkers who wear spurs on Sunday, and
who,
BOOK OK raosK. S99
" When the circlinB glass warmH thtir vain hoodi.
Can talk <if liorscs which Ihoy never crowi'd.
And i'tincy lb.\-hunt:i which they no'cr shall ride.*'
I acknowledge myself to bo free of the cor|)ora.
tion of " Woiild-be's," — one of those who loiip for
wliat they can never have, and seek at limes to
cheat themselves, by dnit of oonversinij with tlio
more fortunate, into a half belief that their wishes
are attained. A more innocent self-delusion than
mine can scarcely well be. They arc a pleasant
set of fellows, your gardeners — both the profes-
sional gentlemen and the amateurs. The former
in particular are less known than they deserve to
be. They belong, in virtue of tiieir breeding
and employment, to the labouring cl.isses; but
there is something in llic scenes by which they
are surrounded, and in the objects upon wliieh tin ir
labour is expended, calculated to awaken tlie sen-
timents of romance, and the aspirinirs alter know-
ledge, which are in general trodden down and
stilled by the dull routine- of meclianical exertion.
When was a grocer ever known to have his love
of learning excited by a curiosity to know the
natural history of the articles he deals in? But
where shall we find a gardener who has not a
smattering of botany? — ay, and a comfortable as-
sortment of Latin remnants to deck the fai^'-ends
of his sentences ? f iawyers, it is true, have some-
thing of the same, but 'tlieir Latin want^ the na-
tural grace of tlie gardener's ; they s|XMk accord-
ing to a cold, formal systein — atul a proverbially
bad system ; but with the gardener, it is as if sontc
handsfnll of Latin words had been scattered in Jiis
mind, and had there struck root, and si»nmg up in
a thousand agreeable varieties, and original groups.
But it may be said, that llicsc advantages of tlie
300
YOUNG LADY S
gardener arc common to all agricultural labourers.
By no means. There is something too wholesale
in the ploughman and the mower's style of work
ing. They do not care for a single plant, but for
a whole harvest ; and we never tind a mind thus
prematurely accustomed to the contemplation of
vague generalities, susceptible of the charms of
knowledge. It is in the minute attention to indi-
viduals required at the hand of the gardener, that
we are to look for the cause of that fine discrimi-
nating tact that leads him unavoidably on the way
to learning. If Adam had been any other trade
than a gardener, I wonder if the tree of knowledge
would have been so irresistibly tempting. Then
his sentiment ! From the days of Shakspeare, tlie
gardener has been noted for his sentimentality.
The only one of Richard the Second's dependants
who sympathises gracefully with the miseries of
the unfortunate queen, is the gardener. What man,
in his rank of life, but a gardener, could have
thought of planting a bank of rue on the spot
where the queen dropped a tear, in sad memorial
of her woes ? Then, (not to overwhelm the reader
with examples,) is there not in later times the
inimitable Andrew Fairservice? There are, we
confess it with the deepest regret, some parts of
Andrew's conduct which do not easily admit of a
defence. He showed, in some instances, signs of
a cold and selfish spirit ; even his honesty was of a
dubious kind ; and his courage far from unques-
tionable. But the worse we make Andrew's char-
acter to be, the better for our theory. What other
habits and pursuits could have rendered such a
man capable of the fine burst of feeling with
wliich he describes to Frank Osbaldistone the
beauties of a bed of coleworts by moonlight ? A
DooK OK rnosr. 301
frardener's scnliindit, \vc confess, is rather pcou-
liar. It is not allied to lovi- — it dors not atlict tlic
brotlicrhood ot' kindred crc;iturcs wliose pulse bcatji
back to ours. It is rarely that yon hear of a gar-
dener in love. They inherit a jwrtion of that niy».
terious dower which rested upon those who in old
times studied the liabits and properties of plants.
Penetrating- into the hidden secrets of nature, and
approachintr more nearly to convi-rso with the
spiritual world, they feel the mantle of its uuiinpa>-
sioncd nature cast around them, and walk among
men with less of their frail and leverish passions.
It is but seldom that you see a wife and children
viewed as welcome inliabitants of a garden. 'I'he
amateur differs little from the prolessional gar-
dener, except in his being sometimes a man of
more education, and, in general, free from the
cares and anxieties of mercantile speculation. He,
too, is, for the most part, a bachelor. Now I know
there is a prejudice, in general hut tfx) well found-
ed, against this class of society; but the gardener
ought to be made an exception. He is not like
other Benedicts, selfish and engrossing; he has an
active and benevolent spirit, and would fain stc all
people happy. It is true that he loves his flowers
better than any thing else — except, perhaps, lii.s
cat and his old housekeeper ; but then he likes
people to come and see his garden, and he is al-
ways ready to impart a share of his rarest trea-
sures to those who can aj)preeiale and enjoy them.
He is hale and happy, f^jr he is a nursling of the
free air as much as any of his flowers and shrubs.
He is the friend and particular acquaintance of
every bird that builds its nest in his leafy corners.
He cannot abide any thing that is harsh or ill-n.u
tured. Politics are liis aversion : a newsp:n>er en-
302 YOUNG lady's
ters not his door. From the gardener I turn to
his territory. (Iirdens are as various as the char-
acters and circumstances of their proprietors; and
although, liko them, they have all something in
common, each has, at the same time, something
of its own. How different the garden of the cot-
tager, with its single hush of southernwood, its two
carnations, and solitary rose, from the extensive
piece of ground walled in from th-e northern and
eastern blasts, with its numerous fruit-trees (stand-
ard or trained upon the wall and espaliers,) — its
thousand flowers of the gayest dyes and richest
perfumes, — its hot-liouses and green-houses, where
the fruits and flowers of other regions flourish in
other climates I And how different from both the
royal garden, where we wander, now through
forest glades, and anon among trim parterres, sur-
rounded by artificial terraces and gay alcoves,
where the very water has yielded to the power of
the artist, and assumes unwonted form and motion
at his bidding I All of these have their peculiar
charms ; but, as it would fill half-a-dozen journals
at the least, to expatiate on them all, I must con-
fine myself to the inquiry, what it is that gives
the garden its chief and characteristic delightful-
ness ? An idea has gone abroad in our days, that
gardens ought to be imitations of nature — a most
absurd notion, and indicative of a want of feeling
for the true charm of the garden. Our picturesque
gardeners profess to create beautiful landscapes.
The truth is, that they create poor and paltry at-
tempts at something very fine. Natural scenery
is a creation on too large a scale to be aped by the
handywork of man. But not only has this false
direction of gardening talent spoiled our larger
gardens it has exercised a detrimental influence
DOOK OF PROSE. .'103
on tlic smallest. Since it has been laid down a.-* a
first principle, that artificial jjardeninpf hIkows a
false and vitiated taste, and since the fashi'in of
laying out cfardcns in what is called tlic natural
.style can only he practised on a large scale, such
persons as have only a rood or two of land, have
lor some time contented themselves with rearinjf
fruits and herbs, and an occasional fiower, cstceni-
ing it in vain to attempt any thing ornamental on
so small a scale. A square plot of ground is mea-
sured off* and surrounded with walls. From the
centre, four straight gravel walks are drawn per.
pendicular to eaelj of the w.'ills. At a distance of
a couple of yards from each wall, a walk is laid
out parallel to it, these four walks Ibrming a lesser
square inclosurc witliin the greater one. All the
walks are bordered on either side with their
edgings of box-wood, two inches in height. Fruit-
trees and gooseberry bushes are j)lanted at regular
intervals, and in formal rows. Flowers are also
planted at regular distances, so as not to incom-
mode each otiier. Tliis may be a good nursery,
but it is not a garden. Its eftect is stifle, bare, and
unsatisfactory. Tlic true garden is a place which
a man has set apart for himself, and filled with all
the rarest plants. Tliese cannot be arranged or
distributed in a natural way, f»r their very assem-
blage in such quantities shows that man's hand
has been busy upon them. But still there is room
tor ornamental arrangement, although it niust bj
ill consonance with the artifieial character of tho
whole collection. A little quaintness is rather an
advantage tlian a drawback. The first requisite
in a perfect garden is, that we should feel, when
we are in it, shn.t in from the external world.
This is best effected by circling its utmost limit*
304 YOUNG lady's
with the tallest shrubs, which serve to screen the
garden from the prying eyes of neighbours, and
afford, in the summer time, a pleasing and umbra-
geous canopy. The next requisite is, that there
should be plenty of plants. They ought to be
rather crowded than otherwise, so as to convey an
impression of a rich and luxuriant vegetation. In
the arrangement of the walks, formality neither
can nor ought to be entirely avoided. The feeling
inseparable from a garden, we have said above, is,
tiiat it is a storehouse of vegetable wealth ; and
our walks ought to be arranged less with an eye
to picturesque effect, than to the commodious ap-
proach they afford to our flowers and shrubs. The
exact manner of laying them out must depend
upon the character of the ground ; which is all
the better of having an unequal surface, both as
that affords more variety, and is advantageous to
some kinds of plants. In placing hothouses, which
are a great addition to every garden, we must
clioose their locality at first with a view solely to
utility. They must stand on tlic spot which affords
the best exposure. This first great object being
attained, we must next consider how we can ren-
der them ornamental. It will generally be found,
that by disregarding show in the first instance, we
have obtained an opportunity of introducing a
wider and more varied beauty into our garden,
than we could have planned beforehand. It is the
analogy of nature — in sacrificing our immediate
pleasure to the principles of honour and justice,
we are invariably preparing for ourselves a more
noble and lasting happiness. There are some or-
naments which, although not necessary to a gar-
den, may, in certain situations, be introduced with
advantage. Where there is a great inequality of
BOOK OK rilOSK. 30')
ground, terraces laid out, and dcrorati <1 witlisonii"
arcliitcctural pretensions, are a valuable addition.
When the enduring irrowth of the plants has Mih-
dued them to the character of the scene, they
much enhance the charms of the pardon. In more
genial climates than ours, an occasional bust or
statue, peeping from among the green leaves,
pleases the eye, and afford liints for nieditalioii.
Our variable weather causes them to moulder tn,)
quickly away ; and in winter, they gleam eoldlv
and uncomfortably through the leafless trees. In
Italy, there is something exquisitely refreshing in
the play of fountains, and marble ornaments add
both to their apparent coolness and to their beauty.
With us they arc unnecessary. " Too nmch of
water hast thou, poor Ophelia." A small piece of
water is, however, always an improvement to a
garden. It is in keeping, for a supply of this cle-
nient is required in summer for the drooj>ing How-
ers ; and although it cannot be made to rival the
beauties of a lake, there is yet something ex-
quisitely pleasing in its transparency, and its re-
flections of tree and sky. A summer-house is
indispensable ; but it ought to be of good aioiw
and lime. Leafy bowers are fine things to read
of, but they are plagued witli insects. In general,
too, they are stiff, and ought to be abrogated, with
all the bare and stunted productions of what has
been called the topiarian art. It is true, that our
brief and uncertain summer affords us hut a sliort
space for the enjoyment of the garden ; but tliis is
tlie very reason why we ought to make the most
of it. In its embowered shades we can best con-
centrate our affections and tiioughts, scattered and
dissipated among the multitudinous cans of the
world. There we can assemble our friends around
2 'J
306 YOUNG lady's
us, or we may bask alone in the sun, until we
seem to ripen with the fruits overhead, or sit in
the breathless hush of midnight, looking at the
pale moon, and the few intensely bright stars
around her. It is not every one who can reach
the solitudes of nature, there to commune with his
own heart ; but almost every one may have a gar-
den, where he can lock out the dense crowd that
jostles him in the st'-eets. And if at times his
thoughts be interrupted by the laugh from some
neighbouring garden, or by the small happy voices
of children, this will but give a heartier and more
human turn to his musings, teachmg him how
many thousands are unconsciously sympathising
with his happiness.
My Daughter's Book.
ANCIENT ROME.
Unfortunately, very few travellers approach
Rome, in the first instance, with the moderate ex-
pectations of Virgil's sliepherd ; prepared for no-
thing more splendid than what they had been
accustomed to see at their own country-towns on
a market-day. They have taken on trust the de-
scriptions of the poets, and orators, and historians,
of a country fertile in such characters ; and the
Queen of Cities, throned upon her seven hills in
marble majesty, the mistress of a world conquered
by the valour of her sons, holds up to them a pic-
ture, the effect of which they are perhaps unwil-
ling to spoil by filling up all its parts with too
curious accuracy ; otherwise it is certain that in-
formation enough is to be obtained from Roman
BOOK OF raosK. 307
authors to prepare them for a scene of much more
moderate splendour in the capital of Italy. From
them they might have learned, betore they j)ut
themselves on board the packet, tliat all tJioso
points upon which the imagination reposes with
so much complacency, are perfectly consistent with
disorder, and misery, and filth ; they might have
learned, that the Tiber was of old but a torpid and
muddy stream; that lieretoforc the streets of Rome
were dark and narrow, and crooked ; that cur.
wages of pleasure, (of which, by the by, the c«r.
pentum, one of the most conmion, probably very
little surpassed our tilting ajid jolting ta.\-cart)
were by law prohibited from ezitering tliem except
on certain days, so little space was there for driv-
ing; that the sedans, which were used in tlieir
stead, put the people to infinite confusion ; that
there were few scavengers, and no lamps ; that
when a Roman returned home from a supper-party,
he had to pick his way along with a horn lantern,
and bless himself if he reached his own door witli-
out a shower from an attic alighting on his cap of
liberty ; that the porticoes and approaches to the
baths were subject to every species of defilement,
eo that even the symbols of religion were enlisted
for their protection ; that the statues with which
the city was peopled were treated with that con-
tempt which Launce would have rebuked even in
his dog; that the images of the gods were disfigured
by painted faces and gilded beards; and that though
the Venus do' Medici never appeared in a hooped
petticoat, nor the Apollo Belviderc in a blue swal-
low-tailcd coat with metal buttons, yet that tJic
costume of the day, whatever it was, was very
.generally bestowed on the representatives of Hea-
ven ; that the houses were for the most part brick.
308 YOUNG lady's
many of them crazy, and supported upon props,
and that such as belonged to a patrician himsehi
had often the groimd-floor assigned to a huckster
or a dealer in oil ; that in the windows \^which
were few in number) glass was seldom, if ever, to
be seen, but, in its stead, a dimly transparent stone,
or shutter of wood ; that, from a want of chimneys,
the rooms were full of smoke, which was left to
make its escape by the tile?, the windows, and the
door ; that on this account Vitruvius expressly for-
bade carved work or mouldings, except in the sum-
mer apartments, where no fire was admitted, be-
cause in the others they would be covered with
soot; that, amongst the accomplishments of a cook,
it was expected that he should be skilful in de-
tecting \\ hich way the wind blew, lest, if he opened
the wrong kitchen-window, the smoke should be
driven into the broth ; — that, under these circum-
stances, the ancestors of a Roman gentleman,
vv^hen ihey had occupied the niches of his hall for a
few years, bore a very striking resemblance to mo-
dern chimney-sweepers; that the Romans made as
much use of their fingers at a meal as Englishmen
do of their forks ; and that Ovid, in his Art of Love,
gives it as a piece of Chesterfield advice to the
young gallants of his time, " not to smear their
mouths with their greasy hands" more than neces-
sary ; that a mappa, or napkin, for each individual,
was thus absolutely requisite ; that every guest
brought his own, and, lest the gravy and sauce-
boats overturned should not do it tull justice, it was
made further serviceable as a pocket-handkerchief I
Tliey might have learned, moreover, from the same
authorities, that tlie middle ranks of tlie citizens
were clad in white woollen vestures, which were,
of course, as habitually dirty as might be expected
BOOK OF TROSE. 30!)
from the general poverty of the wearers, wliilst
the baser plebeians, not able to aftcct this shabby
gentility, contented themselves with garnierils of
the eolour, and quality, and neatness, of a incMuli-
cant friar's; that their shirts, too, were conjposed
of the same material ; and that from tliesc cau:ies,
aided by the blessing of a warm climate, and the
plentiful use of garlic, the effluvium of their public
assemblies was so offensive, that, even in a rootless
theatre, the emperor found it expedient to sprinkle
his faithful subjects with showers of rose-water ;
— and, having duly weighed these, and siiniLir
points of minute history, they might certainly have
brought themselves to adopt n)orc sober views of
tlie magnitieence of ancient Rome, and an ancient
Roman, and have advanced to the Porta del Popolo
with the reasonable chance of having their ajitiLti-
pations, in many respects at least, completelv ful-
filled.
Quarterly Review.
INTELLECTUAL aUALITIES OF MILTOX.
In speaking of the intellectual qualities of Mil-
ton, we may begin with observing, that the very
splendour of his poetic fame has tended to ol)scure
or conceal the extent of his mind, and the variety
of its energies and attainments. To many he seems
only a poet; when in truth he was a profound
scholar, a man of vast compass of thought, imbued
thoroughly with all ancient and modern learning,
and able to master, to mould, to impregnate with
his own intellectual power, his great and various
acquisitions.
810 * YOUNG lady's
He had not learned the superficial doctrine of a
later day, that poetry flourishes most in an uncul.
tivated soil, and that imagination shapes its bright-
est visions from the mists of a superstitious age ;
and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge,
lest it should oppress and smother his genius. He
was conscious of that within him, which could
quicken all knowledge, and wield it with ease and
might ; which could give freshness to old truths,
and harmony to discordant thoughts ; which could
bind together, by living ties and mysterious affini-
ties, the most remote discoveries, and rear fabrics
of glory and beauty from the rude materials which
other minds had collected.
Milton had that universality which marks the
highest order of intellect. Though accustomed,
almost from infancy, to drink at the fountains of
classical literature, he had nothing of the pedantry
and fastidiousness which disdain all other draughts.
His healthy mind delighted in genius, on whatever
soil, or in whatever age, it burst forth and poured
out its fullness. He understood too well the rights^
and dignity, and pride, of creative imagination, to
lay on it the laws of the Greek or Roman schools^
Parnassus was not to him the only holy ground of
genius.
He felt that poetry was as a universal presence.
Great minds were everywhere his kindred. He
felt the enchantment of oriental fiction, surren>
dered himself to the strange creations of "Araby
the Blest," and delighted still more in the roman-
tic spirit of chivalry, and in the tales of wonder in
which it v/as embodied. Accordingly, his poetry
reminds us of the ocean, which adds to its own
boundlessness contributions from all regions undev
heaYen. Nor was it only in the department of
BOOK OF PROSE. 311
imagination that liis acquisitions were vast. He
travelled over the whole held of knowledge, as iar
as it had then heen explored.
His various philological attainments were used
to put him in possession of the wisdom stored in
all countries where the intellect had heen culti-
vated. The natural philosophy, metaphysics, eth-
ics, history, theology, and political science of his
own and former times, were tamiliar to him. Never
was there a more uncontined mind ; and we would
cite Milton as a practical example of the henefits
of that universal culture of intellect, which tbrnis
one distinction of our times, but which sonic dread,
as unfriendly to original thought.
Let such remember, that mind is in its own na-
ture diffusive. Its object is the universe, which is
strictly one, or bound together by infinite connex-
ions and correspondences; and accordingly its na-
tural progress is from one to another field of
thought : and wherever original power, creative
genius, exists, the mind, far from being distracted
or oppressed by the variety of its acquisitions, will
sec more and more common bearings and hidden
and beautiful analogies in all the objects of know-
ledge ; will sec mutual liglit shed from truth to
truth; and will compel, as with a kingly power,
whatever it understands, to yield some tribute of
proof, or illustration, or splendour, to whatever
topic it would unfold. Chanmng.
ON THE GREAT HISTORICAL AGES.
Ever v'age has produced heroes and politicians ,
all nations have exjK-rienced revolutions ; and all
histories are nearly alike, to those who seek only
312 YOUNG lady's
to furnish their memories with facts ; but whoso-
ever thinks, or, what is still more rare, whosoever
has taste, will find but four ages in the history of
the world. These four happy ages are those in
which the arts were carried to perfection ; and
which, by serving as the era of the greatness of
the human mind, are examples for posterity.
The iirst of these ages to which true glory is
annexed, is that of Philip and Alexander, or th&'
of a Pericles, a Demosthenes, an Aristotle, a Plato,
an Apelles, a Phidias, and a Praxiteles ; and this
honour has been confined within the limits of an-
cient Greece : the rest of the known world was
then in a state of barbarism.
The second age is that of Ccesar and Augustus,
distinguislied likewise by the names of Lucretius,
Cicero, Titus, Livius, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Varro,
and Vitruvius.
The third is that which followed the taking of
Constantinople by Mahomet II. Then a family
of private citizens were seen to do that which the
kings of Europe ought to have undertaken. The
Medicis invited to Florence the learned, who had
been driven out of Greece by the Turks. — This
was the age of Italy's glory. The polite arts had
already recovered a new life in that country ; the
Italians honoured them with the title of Virtu, as the
first Greeks had distinguished them by the name
of Wisdom. Every tiling tended tov.'ards perfec-
tion ; a Michael Angelo, a Raphael, a Titian, a
Tasso, and an Ariosto, flourished. The art of en-
graving was invented ; elegant architecture ap-
peared again, as admirable as in the most triumph-
ant ages of Rome; and the Gothic barbarism, which
had disfigured Europe in every kind of production,
was driven fi:om Italy, to make way for good taste.
BOOK OF PROSE. 313
The arts, always transplanted from Greece to
Italy, found themselves in a favourable soil, where
they instantly produecd fruit. France, England,
Germany, and Spain, aimed in their turns to gather
these fruits; but either they could not live in tliose
climates, or else they degenerated very fast.
Francis I. encouraged learned men, but such as
were merely learned men : he had architects ; but
he had no Miciiacl Angelo, nor Falladio : he en-
deavoured in vain to establish schools for jjainting;
the Italian masters whom he invited to France,
raised no pupils there. Some epigrams and a few
loose tales made the whole of our poetry. Rabe-
lais was the only prose writer in vogue, in the
time of Henry II.
In a word, the Italians alone were in possession
of every thing that was beautiful, excepting music,
which was then but in a rude state ; and experi-
mental philosophy, which was everywhere equally
unknown.
Lastly, the fourth age is that known by tin;
iKime of the age of Lewis XIV., and is perhaps that
which approaches the nearest to perfection of all
the four ; enriched by the discoveries of the" three
former ones, it has done greater things in certain
kinds than those three together. All the arts, in-
deed, were not carried farther than under the Mo-
dicis, Augustus, and Alexander; but human reason
in general was more improved. In this age wo
first became acquainted with sound philosophy. It
may truly be said, that from the last years of Car-
dinal Richeheu's administration till those which
followed the deatli of Lewis XIV., there has hajv
pened such a general revolution in our arts, our
genius, our manners, and even in our government,
as will serve as an immortal mark to the true glory
314 YOUNG lady's
of our country. This happy influence has not been
confined to France ; it has communicated itself to
England, where it has stirred up an emulation
which that ingenious and deeply-learned nation
stood in need of at that time ; it has introduced
taste into Germany, and the sciences into Russia ;
it has even reanimated Italy, which was languish-
'ng; and Europe is indebted for its politeness and
spirit of society, to the court of Lewis XIV.
Before this time, the Italians called all the peo-
ple on this side the Alps by the name of Barba-
rians. It must be owned tliat tlie French, in some
degree, deserved this reproachful epithet. Our fore-
fathers joined the romantic gallantry of the Moors
with the Gothic rudeness. They had hardly any
of the agreeable arts amongst them ; which is a
proof that the useful arts were likewise neglected ;
for, when once the things of use are carried to
perfection, the transition is quickly made to the
elegant and the agreeable ; and it is not at all as-
tonishing, tliat painting, sculpture, poetry, elo-
quence, and philosophy, should be in a manner
unknown to a nation, who, though possessed of
harbours on the Western ocean and the Mediter-
ranean sea, were without ships ; and, who, though
fond of luxury to an excess, were hardly provided
with the most common manufactures.
The Jews, the Genoese, the Venetians, the Por-
tuguese, the Flemish, the Dutch, and the English,
carried on, in their turns, the trade of France,
which was ignorant even of the first principles of
commerce. Lewis XIII., at his accession to the
crown, had not a single ship ; the city of Paris
contained not quite four hundred thousand men,
and had not above four fine public edifices ; the
other cities of the kingdom resembled those pitiful
BOOK OF PROSK. Gl."!
villages which \vc see on tlic other side of «Jie Loire.
The nobility, who were all stationed in the coun-
try, in dungeons surrounded with deep dilches,
oppressed the peasant who cultivated the land.
Tiie high roads were almost impassable; the towns
were destitute of police ; and the govermnent had
hardly any credit among foreign nations.
We must acknowledge, that, ever since the de-
clinc of tlie Carlovingian family, France had lan-
guished more or less in this intirm state, merely
for want of the benelit of a good administration.
For a state to be powerful, the people nnist either
enjoy a liberty founded on the laws, or the royal
authority must be fixed beyond all opposition. In
France, the people were slaves till the reign of
Philip Augustus ; the noblemen were tyrants till
Lewis XL ; and the kings, always employed in
maintaining their authority against their vassals,
had neither leisure to think about the happiness
of their subjects, nor the jmwer of making them
happy,
Lewis XL did a great deal for the regal power,
but nothing for the happiness or glory of the na-
tion. Francis L gave birth to trade, navigation,
and all the arts : but he was too unfortunate to
make them take root in the nation during his time,
so that tliey all perished with him. Iknry the
Great was on the point of raising France from the
calamities and barbarisms in which she !iad been
plunged by thirty years of discord, when he was
assassinated in his capital, in the midst ol'a people
whom he had begun to make happ^. The Cardinal
do Richelieu, busied in humbling the house of Auk
tria, tlic Calvinists, and the grandees, did jjot enjoy
a power suilicicnlly undisturbed to reform tlic aa-
316 YOUNG lady's
tion ; but he had at least the honour of beginning
this happy work.
Thus, for the space of 900 years, our genius had
been almost always restrained under a Gothic go-
vernment, in the midst of divisions and civil wars;
destitute of any laws or fixed customs ; changing
every second century a language which still con-
tinued rude and unformed. The nobles were with-
out discipline, and strangers to every thing but
war and idleness : the clergy lived in disorder and
ignorance ; and the common people without indus-
try, and stupefied in their wretchedness.
The French had no share either in the great
discoveries, or admirable inventions of other na-
tions: they have no title to the (J^scoveries of print-
ing, gunpowder, glasses, telescopes, the sector,
compass, the air-pump, or the true system of the
universe : they were making tournaments, while
the Portuguese and Spaniards were discovering
and conquering new countries from the east to the
west of the known world. Charles V. had already
scattered the treasures of Mexico over Europe, be-
fore the subjects of Francis I. had discovered the
uncultivated country of Canada ; but by the little
which the French did in the beginning of the six-
teenth century, we may see what they are capable
of when properly conducted.
Voltaire.
THE LADIES OF LLANGOLLEN.
There are few who have not heard of the ladies
of Llangollen ; perhaps a short account of whom
may not be considered uninteresting, and I know
BOOK or riiosK. 317
no better authority for it that the niomoirs of the
Comtesse de Genlis, who lias thrown a consider-
able degree of romance around tlieni and th(;ir
abode. The Comtesse states, that while she wa.s
staying at Bury St. Edmunds, accompanied by
Mademoiselle D'Orleaiis, the sister of the present
duke, she met Lord C'astlereagh, afterwards tlie
Marquis of Londonderry ; and having observed,
in the course of the conversation, tiiat she would
willingly travel a long journey for the sake of
seeing two persons who had been long united by
a sincere bond of friendship : " Then, Madam,"
said he, "you should go to'Iilangollen, where yo'j
will see a model of perfect friendship ;" and at
the Comtesse's request, he related the following
memoir : — ** "
Lady EJcanor Butler, then (1798) about twenty,
eight years of age, was born in ])ublin; an or-
phan from the cradle, and a rich, amiable, and
lovely heiress, her hand was sought by persons
of the best families in Ireland, but she very early
announced her repugnance to marriage. This
taste for independence slie never concealed; yet
no woman was ever more remarkable for mild-
ness, modesty, and all the virtues that embellish
her sex. From earliest infancy she was the in-
timate friend of Miss Ponsonby; by a singular
coincidence of events, (which struck their imagi-
nations,) they were botii born at Dublin, in the
same year, and on the same day, and they be-
came orphans at the same period. It was easy
for them to fancy from this, that heaven had ere-
atcd them for each other, to perform together the
voyage of life ; their sensibility enal)led them to
realize this illusion. Their friendship increased
318 YOUNG lady's
with their age, so that at seventeen they mutually
promised to preserve their hbcrty, and never part
from each other. They formed, from that moment,
the plan of withdrawing from the world, and affix-
ing themselves for ever in the profoundest solitude.
Having heard of the charming landscapes of
Wales, they made a secret journey thither, in or-
der to choose their place of retreat.
They arrived at Llangollen, and there found, on
the summit of a mountain, a little isolated cottage,
of which the situation seemed to them delicious ;
there it was they resolved to fix their abode. The
guardians of the young fugitives, however, traced
their steps, and brought them back to Dublin.
They declared that they would return to their
mountain, as soon as they had attained their ma-
jority. In fact, at twenty-one, in spite of all the
entreaties and arguments of their relatives, they
quitted Ireland for ever, and went to Llangollen.
Miss Ponsonby was not rich, but Lady Eleanor
possessed a considerable fortune; she purchased
the little cottage of the peasants, and the land
about the mountain, and built a house upon its site,
of which the outside is extremely simple, but the
interior is of the greatest elegance.
The two friends still possessed, at the foot of the
hill, a meadow for their flocks, a beautiful farm-
house, and a kitchen-garden. These two extraor-
dinary persons, both of whom possessed the most
cultivated minds, and the most charming accom-
plishments, have lived in that solitude for seven
years (1788,) without having slept out of it in a
single instance. Nevertheless, they are far from re-
served ; they frequently pay visits at the neighbour-
ing gentlemen's houses, and receive, with equal po-
BOOK OF PROSE. 319
litencss and kindness, travellers, who an; eitlRT
coming' from or gointr to Ireland, and who arc
recommended to their attention l)y their old friends.
Madame and her protege, the young princess,
undertook the journey to Llangollen, and they
were received with grace and cordiality. She
saw nothing in them of that vanity which is grati-
fied by awakening the astonishment of otliers ;
they loved each otiicr, and lived in that sjx)t with
so much simplicity, that wonder soon subsided
into a toucliing- interest; every thing was genuine
and natural in their manners and conversation. —
They possessed an excellent library of the Ix-st
English, French, and Italian authors, who afford-
ed them an inexhaustible source of amusement.
The interior of the house was remarkable for the
beauty of its proportions, the convenient distribu-
tion of the apartments, the elegance of the orna-
ments and the furniture, and the beautiful views
which were so visible from all the windows. The
drawing-room was adorned with charming land-
scapes drawn and painted after nature by Miss
Ponsonby. — Lady Eleanor was a very good nm-
sician ; and both had filled their solitary dw( lling
with embroidery, of which the work was extraor-
dinary. The arts were cultivated with en,ual suc-
cess and modesty ; and you admired their produc-
tions on this secluded spot with a feeling which
you could not experience elsewhere; you were de-
lighted to find, in that peaceful retreat, so much
merit, sheltered from the attacks of satire and of
envy, and talents that, free from ostentation and
pritle, were derived, in that spot, from other suf-
frages than those of friendshii).
During the ilight they slept at the cottage,
320 BOOK OF PROSE.
Madame de Genlis heard, for the first time, a
species of melody, as mysterious as new. She
found next morning, that it proceeded from an in-
strument in England, called an "^olian Harp,"
on which, she beautifully remarks, it is natural
enough tliat such an instrument sliould have origi-
nated in an island of storms, amid tempests, of
which it softens the terrors. I must not quit Llan-
gollen, she proceeds, without mentioning the pure
manners of that part of Wales : the two friends
assured us that such is their honesty, that often,
when they \et\ their mountain to walk in the
neighbourhood, they left the key in the cottage
door, and were never robbed of any thing, though
they had a considerable quantity of silver-plate
and other valuable articles which might have been
carried away. The inns of Llangollen were dis-
tinguished by the neatness peculiar to England.
Anon.
THE END.
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