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SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS.

BY W R. SMITH, ESQ.

"CARMAGNOLE"-THE POPULAR SONG. CARMAGNOLE! This word, my readers, recalls to our recollection a most horrible song.* Let the young men of the present age thank God that they did not come into the world, until, after a reign of ten years, it began to be obliterated from the memory of the people, as the roarings of the lion, and the howlings of the hyena are extinguished in the depths of the wilderness.

The Carmagnole, born in a debauch of blood, written within the miry limits of a prison, amidst the vociferations of tumultuous mobs, and the cries of victims slaughtered in their dungeons, quickly spread itself through the city, passing from quarter to quarter, from crossway to crossway, terrifying men and leaving women only strength enough to draw close within their arms their little children, to protect them against an infuriated populace, which engulfed itself in the streets, and rolled by like a thunder-storm.

PICTURE I. This song was howled like a deathcry at the doors of the coach of a poor queen, pale and beautiful, whom her frenzied people brought back a prisoner to her capital. The crime of this noble woman was a holy one; she had not sought her safety in flight because she believed herself to be too young to die; but because she felt herself to be too good a mother, not to be willing to save her children, even at the price of the crown of France.

PICTURE II.-One day, whilst this courageous mother slept on the straw of her prison, she was awakened with great surprise, on hearing cries of joy. They were dancing before the Tower of the Temple, to the chorus of the Revolutionary hymn. She raised herself to smile at the gaiety of her people. As she advanced towards the window, she saw through the bars a friendly face, that seemed to rise up before her. The head rested itself at the grate of the loop-hole, and inclined itself, but without a smile.

"My poor Lamballe!" said the queen, believing herself still under the influence of a vision,"how pale she is! doubtless it is from my griefs that she has suffered; her eyes are closed! perhaps, not to look upon my misery. But, take courage-look at me!" added the noble captive; her hand was extended, as if to touch the hand of

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her friend; but immediately the head made a movement towards the top of the window, and the hand of Maria Antoinette encountered only the humid and clammy wood of a pike. As for the body of the princess de Lamballe, it was torn in fragments, spread in the kennels of the streets, where the loud voice of the populace cast to the winds the chorus of the Carmagnole!

PICTURE III.-When the widow of Louis XVI. appeared before her judges, eager to cast before the executioner a second royal feast, the concert of voices which so decreed mingled with their imprecations the burthen of the Carmagnole!

PICTURE IV. When the daughter of Maria Theresa offered to the eyes of the world the doubly terrible spectacle of a condemned young female, and of a queen of France, upon the scaffold, a bloody round which was gnashed, and snarled, from the foot of the instrument of punishment, twice interrupted the prayer which she addressed to God for her two orphans! This last round of brutal uproar was still the chorus of the Carmag. nole!

In the name of humanity, we ought doubtless to proscribe this word from our dictionaries; but, to efface it altogether from our recollection, we would also lose the memory of a great captain, whom the ingratitude of men has immortalized; and who, to render that memory more popular still, bequeathed to his costume the name which he had rendered so illustrious by his life.

CARMAGNOLE-THE GREAT MAN.

PICTURE I.-Not far from the right bank of the Po, near to Turin, in the year 1405, there was a young lad of fifteen years of age, skilful, if it can so be called, in guarding the flocks of his farm. Neither voracious beast, pressed by famine, nor soldier living on plunder, was able to put his vigilance in fault; as for braving his courage, some had dared it, but all had also cause to repent of their temerity. "A free-hearted shepherd, like Francis Bartholomew Busoni," was the common expression throughout the country, to designate an intelligent and courageous guardian of the flocks.

At that time, while Francis kept his eyes on his sheep, and each evening conducted his wellfed flock to the sheep-fold of the farm, war spread itself over Italy like a net of swords and lances; so much so that the highways were overrun night and day by bands of condottieri, (free troops,) who made a market of their blood, with those who

were willing to pay for it, provided that the sack and pillage of towns taken by assault was granted to them.

Facino Cani was one of these partizans, or seekers of party, for the condottieri troubled themselves little about fighting for Venice, Genoa, Milan, or Turin. Their banner was their pay; their country the tent which sheltered them, whether its standard was the evangelical lion of St. Mark, or the silver cross of Sardinia. In those times it was necessary to be noble, to command regular troops; but, to be a chief in the free companies of Facino Cani it was only requisite to despise danger, and to possess a knowledge of those arts of war which deceive an enemy and decide a victory.

As Francis slept one evening, by the highway, at that hour when the sun, in setting, tinges the transparent heavens of Italy with the glimmering lights of a conflagration, a man stopped near the young shepherd; for some time he contemplated that sunburnt countenance, on which one might believe that he could read "strength and courage."

Rise," said the traveller.

Francis opened his eyes and sprung to his feet. "The form of a man," "added the stranger, scanning him with admiration.

"And the heart of a man also," replied Francis, raising his arm, as if to punish a troublesome meddler, who had so lately and rudely interrupted his sleep.

"I am Facino Cani," continued this inspector of men.

The shepherd's arm remained a moment suspended, then, without striking, it fell mechanically; the name of the partisan inspired all with terror or respect.

"Yes," added he, "Facino Cani, who from a private soldier in the troops of Visconti, has made himself Prince of Tortona, and of Verceil, because heaven belongs to God, and the earth to men of courage."

"In that case," said Francis, "I have my portion of the inheritance to demand from Italy."

"And here is the key of your ducal castle," added Facino Cani, whilst girding to his side a great heavy sword.

The eyes of Francis shone like two meteors, and he followed the soldier-prince, who traversed the country, recruiting for his army all those who with the mould of a man had a thirst for military dignities.

PICTURE II-In 1424, in the capital of Milan, was celebrated the marriage of the Count of Castel-Nuovo, and Antoinette Visconti, niece of Philip Maria, Duke of Milan. The Palace Del Broletto, built for the new married couple, resounded with songs of festivity. The escutcheons suspended on the wainscots of the hall of honour, told with what titles the sovereign duke honoured the subject of his royal alliance. Here, might be read "L Capture of Plaisance," there "Surrender

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of Brescia;" farther on, Siege of Bergami;" on one side, "Milan reconquered;" on the other, Reunion of Genoa to the Ducal Crown;" and, in the centre of a trophy, was raised, upright and resplendent, the great naked sword given by Facino Cani to the shepherd Francis Bartholomew Busoni, successively become captain, under the name of Carmagnole, and finally count and nephew of the Duke of Milan.

PICTURE III.--In 1425, a man accused of having excited the enthusiasm of the soldiery, by his courage; of having gained to himself the love of a conquered people, by his moderation in victory; in fine, of having struck a blow at the power of his master, by elevating himself above him, in the admiration of strangers; a man, we say, sorrowfully pursued the road to Venice. He left far behind him immense properties, confiscated by the avarice and injustice of his sovereign. Igno. rant where to find a shelter, the proscribed carried away nothing with him, except the great sword of Facino Cani, and the imperishable glory which would deservedly ever attach itself to his name. It is said that one evening, overcome with fatigue, he knocked at the door of a miserable cottage, and having nothing wherewith to pay for his lodging he risked his banished name to obtain a place at the table of the poor inhabitants.

At the mention of this name, the whole family fell at the feet of the great general; the women offered him their attentions, the men the sacrifice of their lives; and a little child was surnamed Felice e Glorioso (happy and glorious), for having, in his play, touched the pummel of the sword of Carmagnole.

PICTURE IV.-In 1430, at Venice, there was a general of fortune, whom even princes in the service of the Republic honoured themselves in obeying. Escaped from the poignard of an assas sin sent against him by Philip Maria of Milan, in order by a murder to acquit himself of a debt of gratitude, the new Venetian general received from the hands of the Doge, at the altar of St. Mark, the standard of chief and the baton of commander, which conferred upon him supreme power over all the land forces of the Venetian territory. This laden with honours and with wealth, who daily extended the boundaries of the Republic, and consolidated its power throughout, was still Carmagnole.

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PICTURE. V.-On the 5th of June, 1432, between the two colonnades of the Piazzetta,* the officers of justice brought a man, gagged, and bound with cords. The hangman's assistant forcibly bent his head upon the block, and the chief executioner raised his axe on the naked and bruised neck of the victim, already half dead with the pangs of the torture. The crime of which they publicly reproached him, was, of having sent back to their ploughs four hundred prisoners of war; the offence of which they secretly accused him,

* Little square of Venice.

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was, of having merited the confidence of the senate, by being unable to violate his oath to the Republic, without ruining it by his defection. He never had dreamed of perjuring himself; as they could not wrest from him any part of his power over the army without failing in the gratitude which they owed him, they instituted unjust proceedings against him. The senate conceived that there would be less ingratitude in putting him to death than in exhibiting any mistrust or jealousy towards him, after the services he had rendered.

We have no need to add, that this man, who had lived the life of heroes, and who died the death of criminals, was still the humble shepherd, the companion of Facino Cani, the preserver of Philip Maria of Milan, the Protector of the Venetian Republic; in a word, Francis Bartholomew Busoni, called Carmagnole.

JANOT-THE CARICATURE.

A wild effusion of blood made the name of Carmagnole popular; a wild effusion of wit brought that of Janot into fashion. If Callot, of facetious memory, as was formerly said, and of splendid fame, as we may now say, did not engrave that burlesque figure, in the midst of the orgies of an ale-house, it is because Callot, dull and grave, like all great comical characters, severe in his manners, and affected in his costume, walked from the palace to his engraving shop, without stopping, like the good fellows of his time, in the inns which he found on his way.

Janot with his butterfly tied before him, at twice his arm's length, and who stretched out his hand to seize the insect, which always outstripped him; Janot with his lantern lighted at mid-day, and who trembled at the least puff of wind, lest the flame should be extinguished, and he should only have the light of the sun left, by which to grope along the streets; Janot with his fine knife, completely new, to which he has never yet had but two new blades, and three ebony handles; Janot, we say, remains in our memory, as the gayest specimen of human stupidity. He it is, who, between two letters that the postman brings in his box, chooses the largest one, although the other is addressed to him; he it is, who, having been sent to market, relates that he has just bought a pair of shoes of three years old for a child of two shillings; it is still he, who, being charged with the care of the kitchen, puts the live charcoal into the porridge-pot, in order that the beef shall boil the faster. Howsoever he speaks, whatsoever he does, Janot is an object of laughter; one step further, he will excite our pity; he will become an idiot.

JANOT-THE HERO.

In 1525, when the Imperialists entered Champagne; when the English ravaged Picardy; when the Spaniards passed the Pyrennees, to dismem

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ber the kingdom of Francis the First, and the Milanese detached themselves town after town, piece by piece, from the inheritance of the successor of Louis the Twelfth; in fine, in that disastrous year there yet remained to the French a last place of defence on this side of the Tessino, that river which admiral Bonivet had been compelled to repass so shamefully.

PICTURE I.--The castle of Cremona lost, and an end was put to the French possessions in Italy. He who guarded the post, inspired his soldiers for a long time with confidence and with courage. The place had at first been largely provisioned, but at length their resources failed them. The enemy was at the gates; he proposed an honourable capitulation; the French commander personally offered his life to those of his garrison who spoke of yielding the place; he even turned the point of his sword against his own breast, ready to die on the first word of surrendering the castle. Upon this, the messenger was sent back with so formal a refusal to yield that nothing remained for the besieged but to prepare themselves for new conflicts.

PICTURE II.--Days passed, and Bayard, who ought to have relieved the courageous defenders of Cremona, appeared not on the plain. Nevertheless, emaciated arms with pain raised the arquebuss; eyes almost extinct sent at random the shot against the enemy. Each evening they mustered, and each evening their ranks, thinned by famine, occupied less space at the hour of military call. At length no more than seven remained to defend the castle; seven phantoms without voice, and almost in delirium, possessing no longer the human visage, but always obeying, as if instinctively, a chief attenuated like themselves, and who drag. ged himself along the ground for want of strength to die above it!

PICTURE III.-At length the French standard floated at a distance on the route. Bayard broke through the enemies' lines, and arrived in time to receive these words of the commander, who only awaited the coming of a deliverer, to surrender his soul to God:

"You have greatly delayed!" said he, and the brave man expired!

He who sustained even to the extremity of human courage the confidence of his soldiers; he whom Bayard judged worthy of his esteem, and who merited it so well, the good captain who retarded perhaps for one day the loss of Milan, was named Janot. Why he has not obtained an equal celebrity with that of his grotesque namesake, may be conceived. We remember Gautier Garguille, the buffoon,-we forget that this same Gautier Garguille expired with grief on learning the death of a friend. The biographical dictionaries have had no place to give to Janot d'Herbou. ville, and we ourselves, in consecrating to him one recollection, do not expect to have done any thing for his memory; the Janot of the theatre has many more claims on popularity.

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Dear Julia:-Here I am at last at Niagara, in the midst of a tremendous crowd, and I cannot tell you how shy and frightened I feel, nor how often I wish myself back again in our old-fashioned, quiet parlours. But do not think I am discontented. It is not that. I could not be so undutiful to my dear old grandfather and grandmother, who have undertaken this journey merely on my account. I am glad to find they are none the worse for their fatigue, and are very much pleased with every thing around them, which is more than I am. You ask me to tell you the names of the people here; how can I undertake such a task? Crowds of old ladies, crowds of young ones, and gentlemen to match. I know about seven of these people to speak to, so you may imagine how I feel among them. The dinnerbell is ringing, and I have no time to say any more, but do you write to me soon, and tell me how my canary birds are, and if you take good care of them. I think the small one is very delicate,pray do take care of him.

Yours, affectionately, MARY SPENSER.

Dear Mary:-I received your letter, and was never so disappointed since the time I spilt the ink over my new ball-dress last winter. Is that the way you write from Niagara? I never heard any thing like it. See what it is to be a favourite of fortune, petted to death by a doting grandfather and grandmother. I expected a long list of beaux and flirtations! I expected a letter seven or eight pages long, describing all sorts of enchanting things, and behold!-you send me a miserable little epistle, complaining how tired you are, and that you only know seven people, and you don't say whether it is seven ladies or seven gentlemen, (I should think seven gentlemen were a very good beginning;) and you wind up with your canary birds. Really, I have no patience with you; it would have been much better if your grandfather and grandmother had left you at home with your canary birds, your proper sphere, and taken me to Niagara! Yours, &c.

JULIA.

My Dear Julia:-Don't be offended at the stupidity of my last letter, nor that I have written to you since. Really, I have so many acquaintances that they take up all my time. There are several very agreeable gentlemen here; and you know I always was very fond of walking. There is a very pleasant family of Conynghams here; and

we ride on horseback in large parties. One of the Miss Conynghams I like particularly, and the mother is a sweet woman. Excuse that great blot, I heard somebody knock at my door, and I laid down my pen to go and see who it was. A servant handed me a bunch of beautiful flowers, with Mr. Howard's compliments! I wish you could see them, or smell them. I will put one little flower in the letter. We dance every evening, and I am so tired by the time I go up to bed, which is seldom before midnight, that I can never snatch a few minutes then to write to you, as I meant to do. I do not want to come home at all. The very mention of such a thing distresses me beyond measure. Yours,

MARY SPENSER.

My Dear Mary:-Coming on finely! coming on finely! This is something like life,-walks! and rides! and bunches of flowers! I have no doubt but that it is very delightful. I don't wonder that you are not anxious to come home; a week often makes a great difference in a person's sentiments; but I never saw such a change as in you. JULIA.

From Frank Howard to his friend Sam Wilmot. Dear Sam:--Come on here as fast as you can! Come to Niagara, and you will never want to go away. We are very crowded here; but I say, the more the merrier;--there are a great many beautiful girls here from all parts of the Union. Last week I was very much in love with a fair blue eyed beauty, from Virginia; but somehow or other on Sunday I was very much taken with a lady with great black, Spanish looking eyes. Since then, she and I have flirted at a great rate. Remember, if you come here, no interference in that quarter. When shall I expect you?

FRANK HOWARD.

Samuel Wilmot to his friend Frank Howard. Dear Frank:-At it again old fellow! So I must beware of a pair of Spanish black eyes, must I? or I shall have a Spanish dagger pointed at me! Why, you know I can't come sooner than a week from the date of yours, and by that time the Spanish lady will have been succeeded by how many, Frank?

Dear Julia:-I would not come home for any thing in the world: it is a perfect Paradise here. Last night I had a most delightful serenade, by moonlight. Mr. Howard promised me one yes

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