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teen-penny-halfpenny comes in return.

We set out

quaintance of mine, who had lived in Archangel, in his place), he instantly with inexpressible forbearsome fine morning after breakfast, when in good for some years, did not receive my last letter to him. ance and benevolence gave the conversation another humour with oneself and all the world ; and after When he came to London, he called on me as before. turn, and asked him many questions about his own bending one's steps to St John's Wood or Hack- I was gone no one knew where ; he gave up, as country, his family, and even about his horses and ney, find the object almost without any trouble, hopeless, the idea of finding me. But the very day dogs. enjoying all the luxuries and happiness of an before he sailed again for the White Sea, he met me Such traits as these, which at the first glance, may English fireside. Thus an address is a complete near Hamlet's, the jeweller's, and accosted me thus; appear insignificant, are however those by means of leading-string to our object, for while we have the My dear fellow, I am truly glad to see you, which Plutarch, in his Biography, gives such imprese address of any of our friends we cannot say they are only think what an extraordinary thing my meeting sive pictures, and which so completely delude the lost to us, although they may be far-far away. you amongst million and half of peo- imagination, that Timoleon, Dion, and Philopæm en Again, I ever look with suspicion when I find that a ple without an address !A wide address may be do not appear as spirits called forth from the hoa ry person cannot readily give his address, and the in- considered as a great object of ambition, and 'may ages of antiquity, but as intimate friends, with whom quiry sometimes acts as a kind of touchstone. The serve, if duly considered in well-regulated minds, to we have lived in social intercourse for many years, in tongue faulters; you no longer look on a counte- stimulate the youth of the present day to more than the same town at least, if not under the same roof. nance void of expression, a barber's block, or a ordinary exertion. This kind of address has been And, after all, this kind of forbearance is one of the graven image ; but the face assumes a complexion of enjoyed by some of our most eminent men in com- most amiable features in the human character, and a kind which to the observant eye cannot be inis- merce and literature; thus, Kirkman Finlay, Glas- perhaps one of the most difficult to practice. taken for the blush of innocence, or hue of health. gow-Dr Brewster, Edinburgh-Henry Brougham, No. 'Tis because its head reposes on some dirty London-Benjamin Constant, Paris —Washington pillow in the neighbourhood of Manilla place, or Irving, America - Dr Herschel, Europe.

THE RETURN. the boundaries of the King's Bench. Though some To conclude this sketch. Sailors may be consithere are who, lost to every sense of feeling in this dered as having no address, they being so often, as

FREELY TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF respect, care not who knows their address, and who it were, out of the pale of society. They may send

c. müchler.
go on like the Caird in Burns's Jolly Beggars, to us—we cannot send to them. This circumstance Art thou the land with which my fancy teens,

no doubt must have grieved the heart of the gallant
“ Let them cant about decorum
poet, Dorset, when he wrote that beautiful address

Whose golden plains once brightly round me shone?
Who have characters to lose."
“ To all you Ladies now at Land,” for no answer

Which oft hath shed sweet magic o'er my dreams, could come in return to men whose post was the And cheer'd me on with hope when feeble grown? I was lately led into a curious speculation of tide, and whose address was the sea.

Art thou the land? Art thou the land ? certain classes of persons, who have no fixed residence or “address.” Such as travellers, soldiers, and

I greet thee, I greet thee, O my fatherland! sailors; but first of all let me begin with myself. I often find myself in a humour to be alone, although

Art thou the town, beside the rippling stream,

BONNET, THE NATURALIST, I cannot imagine my own company half so delight

Tow'rd which, in sadness, oft my eye I've cast ? ful as Lord Ogilby's picture of himself, when alone,

Where life's unclouded spring did on me beam, in the Clandestine Marriage. However, I some. This is from the travels of Matthison, the German And the young hours in thrilling pleasure passed ? times steal away for a day or so, and place myself writer. We do not see the inexpressible forbear

Art thou the town? Art thou the town? in the corner of some inn, in the suburbs, where I feel a peculiar satisfaction in being beyond the

ance and benevolence" of Bonnet towards his visitor ; To thee, to thee I come, O native town! reach of anything like a twopenny-post man's knock, though his conduct was truly polite and good natured, my address being for the time known to no single and worthy of a man of sense. Neither is the poor

Art thou the home in which my cradle stood, creature in the world, except myself; and there are

Where sorrow's bitter pang I never knew ? traveller despised : he at least meant well. But the people in this mighty Babylon, who “ live and move

The future there appeared a glowing food, and have their being” no person knows nor cares where scene is amusing.

The world a path, where joys celestial grew. (a hermit in London is proverbial); who live almost Three days ago, I was at Geneva, and dined at a

Art thou the home? Art thou the home ? without the aid of the world, and who die (I may table d'hôte. A young Englishman sat by me, whom say) without an address. Again, a friend goes to I soon recognised as one of the storks in Lessing's Receive me once again, paternal home! visit the falls of Niagara and America. He may, well-known fable, who, in their excursions, seldom meanwhile, be considered quite out of the world, in concerned themselves with anything except to ascer

Are ye the meads ? Art thou the peaceful vale, regard to us; suddenly we receive to our great joy, tain the topography of frog-ditches. He asked me Which oft at silent eve, I've blithely crossed ? a ship letter containing his address. He thus imme- where Bonnet lived; this introduced a conversation My spirit then would o'er your bound'ries steal, diately becomes again one of our kindred. A friend among us, which at length led to my inquiring if he of mine lately related to me rather a curious had ever read any of Bonnet's works. “ No; I know

Until each trace in fading blue was lost. incident of this kind. In the summer of last year, nothing at all about him, but he is here in my list;"

Are ye the meads ? Are ye the meads ? he left his house Bond street, and after visiting and immediately taking out a pocket-book, he pro- Receive me once again, O native meads! various places in the north, during which time duced a paper, whence he read the following inven(about three weeks) he had not written home, tory of things worthy of observation in Geneva :- Could I here rest, and rural joys be mine, nor heard from thence, he found himself curi. I. The Portico of St Peter's Church ;-II. The The storm would cease—a brighter morning break; ously situated, and quite alone, on some stepping Junction of the Arve with the Rhone ;-III, Saus

My pilgrim-staff I'd to the brook consign, stones, which led a considerable way into a lock, sare's Cabinet of Natural Curiosities;-IV. Monsieur somewhere betwixt Loch Lomond and Loch Tay. Bonnet ;-V. Monsieur Bourrit. “ As you have

And, borne by friendship, life's last journey take It all at once occurred to him, that he stood, never read any of his works then,” said I, "might it To thee, O grave- To thee, O grave, as it were, alone in the midst of the world. On cast- not be as well to go to the bookseller's and get him Where rest my fathers; gladly, then, O grave ! ing his eyes around, it so happened as if every moving to shew you some : his Contemplation de la Nature, and creeping thing on the face of the earth had hid for instance, read some chapters, and you would itself. No lambkins sported near, nor shepherds then not only be less embarrassed in case he should piped on the lea. The descending sun was casting ask you whether you are at all acquainted with his Art of being Obeyed. The mandate which exacts its long streaks of light and shade on the scene, sha- writings, but you would, I am sure, have very great

obedience may lose the despotic character with which dowing the sides of the mighty hills, deep and mo- pleasure in the perusal."

harshness would invest it, and become even pleasurtionless, into the waters of the lake, which all the He thanked me for my advice, which he said he able, if communicated in forms and terms of kindness. "chalk and reel" of Salvator Rosa or Claude can would certainly follow, and then left me, after having

Men there are, whom to serve, is in itself pleasurable, give but a faint idea of. As he looked around on carefully entered the name of Bonnet's place of abode from the consideration for the feelings of others this calm and pleasing prospect, he was struck with in his pocket-book.

which accompanies their demands for service. the grandeur of the panorama. The mountains, near Yesterday, after dinner, as we were playing at

Bentham. and at a distance, seemed by their profound stillness chess, a foreigner was introduced, whom I imme. to be awaiting some awful event that was about to diately recollected to be the person I had seen before. befall. Yet he thought of “ home and beauty”- Bonnet received him with that cordiality and con

TO CORRESPONDENTS. he thought of Bond street-he thought of scales, ciliatory kindness with which you are so well ac- Thanks to the Freeman's Journal (Dublin) and our weights, and measures-of the many pounds of tea quainted, and begged him to sit down on the sofa. cordial friend Mr D. who sent it us. Also to Mr and coffee that had that morning been served out to After the conversation had ran through the customary the many unwashed housemaids from the streets ad. forms of " Whence come you?” and “ Whither are

L. who wrote to us on Windown, and sent us the jacent to his establishment.

As to his young men,
you going?” &c. &c., Bonnet addressed him

magazines. And to the other Mr L. who forwarded they knew nothing save that his name stood as bright • You have probably occupied yourself, sir, with the book on the Metropolis. The approbation of in the gold letters above his door as ever, and that the speculative philosophy ?'

these gentlemen has highly gratified us. shop was kept as regularly open from morning till • No, not at all, but I saw all your works yes

The letter on « night, as before. He also imagined that as many terday.'

Swearing" in our next. carriages and people would be passing his windows, • Saw them !'-_He stopped short, but supposing

In reply to our Correspondent's answer, we asked as when he himself stood at the door of his house. that the young man who spoke French very ill, bad the age of the writer on “ Gallantry," because, if But now, where was he? On the bounds of eter- made use of some wrong expression, immediately nity! “ Awful thought!” said he to himself; proceeded :— It would make me very happy if my

young, (as we find he is,) there is promise in his “ were I to jump a yard, or perhaps stir a foot, I writings afforded you any entertainment. Might any

writing, though it is hardly yet ripe enough for publi. might never again be heard of, my address being thing in particular strike you ?'

cation. The same observation applies to our modest known only to myself; and having no relations, my • Yes, yes, indeed, the Glaciers in particular, for friend TESTATOR. goods and iny chattels, what would become of them they are all excellens naturels.'-- I give you bis own Mr Lewis is informed that the whole of Mr in all the world !”

expressions. Again, we may consider a correct address of the There was no occasion for an Edipus here to

Shelley's poetical works are to be had (together with first importance in a commercial point of view. But

divine that, according to my advice, he had been to a those of Coleridge and Keats) in one large volume, for this, commerce, both by sea and land, would soon bookseller's where, confusing Bonnet with Bourrit as octavo, published in Paris by Galignani. We bestand still. Look at this city, for instance, and at they stood together on his list, he had inquired for the recent returns of the Post Office, which show the works of the latter, and had seen his travels in

lieve also that a London edition, in small volumes, such a large sum coming yearly into the hands of the Alps, the engravings in which had probably at

has lately been completed. Government, from being enveloped in an improper tracted his attention, and were the only part of which The “ Musings on a Stone" shall be carefully read, address; and at the West-end, morning visits, even- he had any idea. Bonnet immediately perceived his and the answer given next week. ing calls, soiries, and conversaziones, would be all at mistake, and it was really quite affecting to see how, an end, but for this one thing. Changing our instead of taking advantage of it and leading him on address is oftentimes attended with bad to stumble further and further, so as to produce a

LONDON: Published by H. HOOPER, 13, Pall Mall East. sequences, both to business and friends. An ac- piquant scene, (as an hundred others would have done From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney street.

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WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 17, 1834.


IN the window beside which we are writing this article, there is a geranium shining with its scarlet tops in the sun, the red of it being the more red for a back-ground of lime-trees, which are at the same time breathing and panting like airy plenitudes of joy, and developing their shifting depths of light and shade, of russet brown and sunny inward gold.

It seems to say " Paint me!" So here it is. Every now and then some anxious fly comes near it: we hear the sound of a bee, though we see none; and upon looking closer at the flowers, we observe that some of the petals are transparent with the light, while others are left in shade; the leaves are equally adorned after their opaquer fashion, with those effects of the sky, showing their dark-brown rims; and on one of them a red petal has fallen, where it lies on the brighter half of the shallow green cup, making its own red redder, and the green greener. We perceive, in imagination, the scent of those goodnatured leaves, which allow you to carry off their perfume on your fingers: for goodnatured they are, in that respect, above almost all plants, and fittest for the hospitalities of your rooms. The very feel of the leaf has a household warmth in it, something analogous to clothing and comfort.

Why does not every body (who can afford it) have a geranium in his window, or some other flower? It is very cheap; its cheapness is next to nothing if you raise it from seed, or from a slip; and it is a beauty and a companion. It sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate you; it cannot utter a hateful

thing, even for your neglecting it; for though it is all beauty, it has no vanity: and such being the case, and living as it does purely to do you good and afford you pleasure, how will you be able to neglect it?

But pray, if you chuse a geranium, or possess but a few of them, let us persuade you to chuse the scarlet kind, the "old original” geranium, and not a variety of it, not one of the numerous diversities of red and white, blue and white, ivy-leaved, &c. Those are all beautiful, and very fit to vary a large collection; but to prefer them to the originals of the race, is to run the hazard of preferring the curious to the beautiful, and costliness to sound taste. It may be taken as a good general rule, that the most popular plants are the best; for otherwise they would not have become such. And what the painters call "pure colours," are preferable to mixed ones, for reasons which Nature herself has given when she painted the sky of one colour, and the fields of another, and divided the rainbow itself into a few distinct hues, and made the red rose the queen of flowers. Variations of flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which they are founded, the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very large, or in any other small assemblage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well, if of one beautiful colour; while the most beautiful varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. Contrast is a good thing, but we should first get a good sense of the thing to be contrasted, and we shall find this preferable to the contrast, if we are not rich enough to have both in (From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.]

No. 25.

due measure. We do not, in general, love and honour any one single colour enough, and we are instinctively struck with a conviction to this effect, when we see it abundantly set forth. The other day we saw a little garden-wall completely covered with nasturtiums, and felt how much more beautiful it was than if any thing had been mixed with it. For the leaves, and the light and shade, offer variety enough. The rest is all richness and simplicity united,-which is the triumph of an intense perception. Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant.

Everything is handsome about the geranium, not excepting its name; which cannot be said of all flowers, though we get to love ugly words when associated with pleasing ideas. The word “ "geranium" is soft and elegant; the meaning is poor, for it comes from a Greek word signifying a crane, the fruit having a form resembling that of a crane's head or bill. Crane's-bill is the English name of Geranium; though the learned appellation has superseded the vernacular. But what a reason for naming the flower! as if the fruit were any thing in comparison, or any one cared about it. Such distinctions, it is true, are useful to botanists; but as plenty of learned names are sure to be reserved for the free-masonry of the science, it would be better for the world at large to invent joyous and beautiful names for these images of joy and beauty. In some instances, we have them; such as heart'sdarling"), daisy (day's-eye), &c. And many flowers ease, honey-suckle, marygold, mignonette ("little are so lovely, and have associated names otherwise unmeaning so pleasantly with one's memory, that no new ones would sound so well, or seem even to have such proper significations. In pronouncing the words, lilies, roses, pinks, tulips, jonquils, we see the things themselves, and seem to taste all their beauty

and sweetness. "Pink" is a harsh, petty word in itself, and yet assuredly it does not seem so; for in the word we have the flower. It would be difficult to persuade ourselves that the word rose is not very beautiful. "Pea" is a poor, Chinese like monosyllable; and Briar" is rough and fierce, as it ought to be; but when we think of Sweet-Pea and Sweet-Briar, the words appear quite worthy of their epithets. The poor monosyllable becomes rich in sweetness and appropriation; the rough dissyllable also; and the sweeter for its contrast. But what can be said in behalf of liver-wort, blood-wort, dragon's head, devil's bit, and devil in a bush? There was a charming line in some verses in our last week's journal, written by a lady.


I've marr'd your blisses,

Those sweete kisses

That the young breeze so loved yesterdaye! I've seen ye sighing,

Now ye're dying;

How could I take your prettie lives away?

But you could not say this to dragon's head and devil's bit

O dragon's head, devil's bit, blood-wort,—say, How could I take your pretty lives away?

This would be like Dryden's version of the pigsqueaking in Chaucer

Poor swine! as if their pretty hearts would break. The names of flowers in general, among the polite,


are neither pretty in themselves, nor give us information. The country people are apt to do them more justice. Goldy-locks, ladies'-fingers, bright-eye, rosea-rubic, shepherd's-clock, shepherd's-purse, saucealone, scarlet runners, sops-in-wine, sweet-william, &c. give us some ideas either useful or pleasant. But from the peasantry also come many uncongenial names, as bad as those of the botanists. Some of the latter are handsome as well as learned, have meanings easily found out by a little reading or scholarship, and are taking their place accordingly in popular nomenclatures: as amaranth, adonis, arbutus, asphodel, &c., but many others are as ugly as they are farfetched, such as colchicum, tagetes, yucca, ixia, mesembryanthemum; and as to the Adansonias, Browallias, Koempferias, John Tomkinsias, or whatever the personal names may be that are bestowed at the botanical font by their proud discoverers or godfathers, we have a respect for botanists and their pursuits, and wish them all sorts of little immortalities except these: unless they could unite them with something illustrative of the flower as well as themselves. A few, certainly, we should not like to displace, Browallia for one, which was given to a Peruvian flower by Linnæus, in honour of a friend of his of the name of Browall; but the name should have included some idea of the thing named. The Browallia is remarkable for its brilliancy. "We cannot," says Mr Curtis, "do it justice by any colours we have."* Now why not have called it Browall's Beauty? or Browall's Inimitable? The other day we were admiring an enormously beautiful apple, and were told it was called "Kirk's Admirable," after the gardener who raised it. We felt the propriety of this name directly. It was altogether to the purpose. There was use and beauty together,--the name of the raiser, and the excellence of the fruit raised. It is a pity that all fruits and flowers, and animals too, except those with good names, could not be passed in review before somebody with a genius for christening, as the creatures did before Adam in Paradise, and so have new names given them, worthy of their creation.

Suppose flowers themselves were new! Suppose they had just come into the world, a sweet reward for some new goodness: and that we had not yet seen them quite developed; that they were in the act of growing; had just issued with their green stalks out of the ground, and engaged the attention of the curious. Imagine what we should feel when we saw the first lateral stem bearing off from the main one, or putting forth a leaf. How we should watch the leaf gradually unfolding its little graceful hand; then another, then another; then the main stalk rising and producing more; then one of them giving indications of an astonishing novelty, a bud! then this mysterious, lovely bud gradually unfolding like the leaf, amazing us, enchanting us, almost alarming us with delight, as if we knew not what enchantment were to ensue: till at length, in all its fairy beauty, and odorous voluptuousness, and mysterious elaboration of tender and living sculpture,

shone forth

"the bright consummate flower!" Yet this phenomenon, to a mind of any thought and lovingness, is what may be said to take place every day; for the commonest objects are only won

We learn this from the Flora Domestica, an elegant and poetry-loving book, specially intended for cultivators of flowers at home.

ders at which habit has made us cease to wonder, and the marvellousness of which we may renew at pleasure, by taking thought. Last spring, walking near some cultivated grounds, and seeing a multitude of green stalks peeping forth, we amused ourselves with likening them to the plumes or other head-gear of fairies, and wondering what faces might ensue; and from this exercise of the fancy, we fell to considering how true, and not merely fanciful, those speculations were; what a perpetual reproduction of the marvellous was carried on by Nature; how utterly ignorant we were of the causes of the least and most disesteemed of the commonest vegetables; and what a quantity of life, and beauty, and mystery, and use, and enjoyment, was to be found in them, composed out of all sorts of elements, and shaped as if by the hands of fairies. What workmanship, with no appa workman! What consummate elegance, though the result was to be nothing (as we call it) but a radish or an onion, and these were to be conA rough tree sumed or thrown away by millions! grows up, and at the tips of his rugged and dark fingers he puts forth,-round, smooth, shining, and hanging delicately, the golden apple, or the cheekThe other day we like beauty of the peach. were in a garden, where Indian corn was growing, and some of the cobs were plucked to show us. First one leaf or sheath was picked off, then another, then another, then a fourth, and so on, as if a fruit-seller was unpacking fruit out of papers; and at last we came, inside, to the grains of the corn, packed up into cucumber-shapes of pale gold, and each of them pressed and flattened against each other, as if some human hand had been doing it in the caverns of the



The same that made the poor yet rich hand (for is it not his workmanship also?) that is tracing these marvelling lines, and which if it does not tremble to say so, it is because Love sustains, and because the heart also is a flower which has a right to be tranquil in the garden of the All-Wise.

self-seeking drove him. Never however is it to be for enee for two thousand crowns."_" You have only
gotten, that although he could not make love as well guessed two thousand crowns too much (says she),
as he fancied, he struck notes of other truths and uni- for it cost me nothing."-" How! nothing!"" No,
versalities into the hearts of mankind never to be for-nothing; unless you place a dozen days work in the
year to my gardener's account, as many to two or
gotten, and that the misgiving egotist, who justified three of my people, and some to M. Wolmar, who
as a gardener." I could not comprehend this riddle;
the alienation of those that loved him by condemning has sometimes condescended to officiate in my service
himself before-hand in his own complaints and exac- but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to me
tions, was also the bold philosopher who interrogated (letting me loose)" Go and you will understand it.
half the existing opinions of mankind, and found Farewell Tinian! Farewell Juan Fernandez! Fare-
well all enchantment! In a few minutes you will
them tremble before him.
find your way back from the end of the world."

I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of ecstacy; and if I found no exotic plants nor any of the produce of the Indies, I found all those which were natural to the soil dis

posed and blended in such a manner as to produce the The verdant turf, most cheerful and lovely effects. thick, but short and close, was intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes, among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers, which seemed to I now and then met grow natural with the rest. with shady tufts, as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been in a thick forest. These tufts were composed of trees of a very flexible nature, the branches of which they bend till they hang on the ground and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in America. In the more open spots, I saw bushes of roses, raspberries, and gooseberries: little plantations of lilac, hazel-trees, alders, syringa, broom, and trefoil, dispersed without any order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time that it gave to it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake weed, and other plants of that kind, with honeysuckles and jessamine, designed to intertwine. These garlands seemed as if they were carelessly scattered from one tree to another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry walking upon a fine moss, without sand, or grass, or any rugged Then it was I first discovered, not without shoots. astonishment, that this verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and afforded shade and freshness I observed likewise, that by means of under foot. common industry, they made several of these plants take root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more being nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and, in the rest of their grounds, they have taken such care of the trees, that, without the orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the midst of a wood, and to refresh one's-self with it, you will easily conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there, and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of searching and selecting the best.

All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around." How! (said I to Eloisa) I comprehend all the rest, but these waters which I see on every side."-" They come from thence (she replied, pointing to that side where the terrace lies). It is the same stream, which, at a vast expense, supplies the fountain in the flower garden, for which nobody cares. M. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here every day to see the water run through the orchard, which we never looked at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true, that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to the detriment of passengers, besides its running to It formed an elbow waste, without profit to any one. at the foot of the orchard, between two rows of willows; I have taken them into my inclosure, and water hither through different bring the same channels."

We select from a translation of the "New Eloisa" a passage, worth the attention of the lovers of gardening, and such as will afford our readers another snug scene of sylvan enjoyment, fit for the month, and exhibiting the charming combination of the two ideas of home and remoteness. Rousseau is truly at home here,—with Nature, to whom he was nothing, and therefore whom he could not plague or be plagued by. If the trees could have spoken to him, he would have quarrelled with them. Something which they said, or did not say, would have been found unsatisfactory. Why did he not discover that there are hearts which could have been equally tranquil with him, if he could have been content to think of their kindness, instead of his own misgivings?

After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her Elysium.

I had often heard them talk of this Elysium of which they made a mystery before me. Yesterday, however, the excessive heat being almost equally intolerable both within doors and without, M. Wolmar proposed to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into the nursery towards evening, as usual, to come and breathe the fresh air with us in the orchard: she consented, and thither we went.


From Wednesday the 17th, to Tuesday the 23rd




We have been looking through Rousseau's Eloisa
again, (for we never could thoroughly read it), and
have unfortunately had the impression confirmed,
that was made upon us in our youth. We say
fortunately," in a socio-literary sense, (and in that only,
for in any other sense, social or otherwise, we are not
aware of having reason to regret it); but it seems a
misfortune to be unable to like a celebrated book,-
one that is approved by so many people;
and we cannot
but think the work a marvellous failure in its greatest
pretension, the love. Some love there certainly is,
and eloquently is it set forth; but there appears to us to
be a great deal more will, and outcry, and pedantry,—
even making allowance for French gesticulation.
Preux is by far the more genuine lover of the two,
and he is of a scene-making temper. As to Julia, the
"new Heloise," we cannot help thinking her quite
unworthy of her namesake. There is quite as much
lecturing as loving in her correspondence, and the two
things are incompatible. She absolutely "huffs" the
poor man at every turn in his behaviour, or way of
To be sure
thinking, that does not quite satisfy her.
this "huffing" is Rousseau's; he puts it in her mouth;
and to him also is attributable the temper and suspi-
ciousness of St Preux; but this only shews how unfit
he was to write a love-story. In short, this book,
and a reperusal of two volumes of the Confessions,


have convinced us that Rousseau, admirable writer as he was, and of the greatest service to the world (in shaking up their thoughts for them, and inciting them to recur to first principles) was all his life a victim to bad temper, and made others victims with him. This, we have no doubt, was the secret of much which he has left unexplained, and the real reason of his estrangements with lovers and friends, from first to last. Latterly indeed he confesses it; and his friends became too well aware of the extravagances to which his morbid

This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner by a shady walk, that it is not visible from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was scarce got within side, but the door, being covered with alder and hazeltrees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the clouds.

On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful and lovely verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and I appeared as if I had been the first person who had ever penetrated into this wild and desert spot. Being seized with astonishment and transported at so unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, “O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez! Eloisa, the world's end is at your threshold!"—" Many people (said she, with a smile,) think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most presently bring them back to Clarens; let us see whether the charm will work longer with


This is the same orchard where you have
walked formerly, and where you have played at romps
with my cousin. You may remember that the grass
was almost burned up, the trees very thinly planted,
affording very little shade, and that there was no
water. You find that it is now fresh, verdant, culti-
vated, embellished with flowers, and well watered;
what do you imagine it may have cost me to put it
into the condition you see? For you must know that
I am the superintendant, and that my husband leaves
the intire management of it to me.""In truth (said
I), it has cost you nothing but inattention.
indeed a delightful spot; but wild and rustic, and I can
discover no marks of human industry. You have con-
cealed the door; the water springs I know not whence;
nature alone has done all the rest, and even you could
not have mended her work."-" It is true (said she)
that nature has done everything; but under my direc-
tion, and you see nothing but what has been done
under my orders. Guess once more."—" First (I
replied) I cannot conceive how labour and expense
can be made to supply the effects of time.

It is

The trees


"As to them, (said M. Wolmar,) you may
observe that there are
none very large, and they
were here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work
a long while before her marriage, and presently after
her mother's death, when she used to come here with
her father in quest of solitude." "Well (said I),
since you will have these large and massy bowers,
these sloping tufts, these umbrageous thickets to be
the growth of seven or eight years, and to be partly
the work of art, I think you have been a good econo-
mist, if you have done all within this vast circumfer-

I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the slopes as possible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the most of a few little murmuring cascades. A layer of earth, covered with some gravel from the lake, and


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strewed over with shells, forms a bed of these waters. The stranger being sent for, and privately ques

countenance exhibited the same scars as that of The same streams, running at proper distances under tioned, repeated in a clear and consistent manner Martin. some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a what he had before communicated, confirmed the The shoemaker, who had for many years furnished level with the ground, form a kind of artificial apprehensions of the uncle that the real Martin Guerre with shoes, being called, deposed, that his spring, where they issue forth. Some small streams Guerre was still absent, and added, that since quit- foot reached the twelfth size, but that the prisoner's spout through pipes on some rugged places and bub; ting his wife, he had lost one of his legs in the battle was rather short of the ninth; it further appeared ble as they fall. The ground, thus refreshed and of St Quintin.

that he formerly had, from his early youth, been watered, continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps The family, alarmed by this account, now saw,

dexterous at cudgeling and wrestling, of which the the grass always verdant and beautiful.

or thought they saw, many little circumstances, impostor was wholly ignorant.
which had before escaped their notice, but all tend- As a strong circumstance against the person ac-
ing to prove that the man with whom Mrs Guerre cused, it was added that his manner of speaking, and

cohabited, and by whom she had had two children, the sort of language he used, though at times art-
was not in fact her lawful husband.

fully interlarded with patois and unintelligible gibOne of the sources upon which we have drawn for But they found it extremely difficult to convince berish, was very different from that which used to be our Romances of Real Life,-the “ Lounger's Com- the deluded female of her mistake; and she loudly, spoken by the real Martin Guerre, who, being a mon-Place Book,” begins to pump a little drily companion was her first love, her real and original and with tears insisted that her present domestic Biscayan, spoke not wholly Spanish, wholly French,

nor wholly Gascon, but a curious mixture of each ; (though not in the instance before us); but we are

husband; it was not till after several months that a sort of language called the Basque. much mistaken, if we have any reason to dread the the unhappy woman was at length prevailed on to Lastly, and what seemed to make an impression failure of resources, intimated by a correspondent who prosecute the impostor.

on the court, the prosecutors referred to the internal

He was taken into custody and imprisoned by the evidences of the offender's character, which, they writes in the present number. In fact, we look

order of the criminal judge of Rieux, and a time proved, had been from his childhood vicious and inconfidently not only to old stores of our own, but to fixed for examining the evidence, and hearing what corrigible in the extreme: they produced satisfacnew ones in all quarters, among which we shall be Du Tilb had to offer in his defence.

tory proofs of his being hardened in all manner of happy to reckon those which he is good enough to

On the day appointed, the offender was brought wickedness and uncleanness; a common swearer and

into court, followed by a number of people whose blasphemer, a notorious profligate, every way capapromise us.

curiosity was naturally excited; the deposition of ble of the crime laid to his charge.
the traveller, concerning the absent Martin Guerre,

The accusation lay heavy upon the prisoner, a
ARNOLD Du Tilk, a native of Sagias, a village the inhabitants of Sagias, were next closely ques-
was first read; the uncle, the sisters, and many of pause ensued for deliberation, and the court, fatigued

by a long and patient examination of a host of witnear the city of Rieux, in the Upper Languedoc, tioned on their oath; some declared that the prisoner nesses, took refreshment; the town-house being still who, towards the middle of the sixteenth century,

was not Martin Guerre, others as positively insisted crowded by persons impatient to give their testimony was the object of a criminal prosecution, extraor

that he was the identical person, corroborating their in behalf of the prisoner, whom they considered and dinary in its nature, perplexing and difficult to

testimony by many collateral circumstances; but the pitied as an injured man. decide.

greater number averred without scruple that the The first parties next examined astonished the At Artigues, a country hamlet, only a few miles

resemblance between the two, if two there were, was judge and staggered the whole court. They were from the place of Du Tilb's residence, lived a little so great, that it was not in their power to distinguish;

the four sisters of Martin Guerre, all reputed farmer, whose name was Martin Guerre, married to the weight of evidence was thought by many to

to be women of sound understanding, and of chaa modest handsome young woman born in that neigh- preponderate in favour of the prisoner.

racter unblemished; they positively swore that the bourhood, but himself of the Spanish province of

The judge demanding of him what he had to say

man in custody was “ their dear brother Martin." Biscay; they had a son; and, for their situation in in his defence, he answered, without embarrassment,

Two of their husbands, and thirty-five persons born life, possessed tolerable property.

that the whole was a conspiracy of the uncle and a or brought up in the neighbourhood corroborated Ten years after their marriage, in consequence of certain part of the family, who, taking advantage of their assertions; among others, Catherine Boere, a dispute with his father-in-law, Martin suddenly

the easy temper and weak understanding of his wife, who carried Martin and his wife the medianoche, or, quitted his family, and, charmed with the licentious

had contrived the story in order to be rid of him, as an Englishman would call it, the sack-posset, after freedom of a roving life, or cooled in his affection

and to get possession of his property, which he valued they were put to bed on their wedding-night, detowards his wife, although she had conducted herself at eight thousand livres.

clared, as she hoped for everlasting, salvation, that with exemplary propriety, had not been seen or The uncle, he observed, had for some time taken a the prisoner, and the man she saw in bed with the heard of for eight years.

dislike to him, had frequently assaulted him, and in bride, were the same person. It was during this long absence (to lovers as well

one instance would have killed him by the stroke of The majority of these last witnesses also deposed, as husbands a dangerous interval), it was at this time an iron bar on his head, had he not fortunately par

that Martin Guerre had two scars in his face, and that Arnold du Tilb, the subject of our present artiried the blow.

that the nail of his forefinger, on the left hand, in cle, who had formerly seen and admired the wife of Martin Guerre, meditated a most perfidious and

The remark of the prisoner on the weakness of his

consequence of a wound received in his childhood, cruel stratagem.

wife's understanding, served to diminish the surprise grew across the top of his finger; that he had three of the court at her being so easily duped, nor indeed

warts on the back of his right hand towards the In age and appearance he greatly resembled the absent man; like him, too, Du Tilb having for many could they blame any relation for endeavouring, in

knuckles, and another on his little finger; the judge

ordered the culprit to stretch forth both his hands, years quitted his country, was generally considered any manner they were able, to expel the violator of as dead; and having made himself acquainted with the wife and property of their kinsman.

which were found to agree with this description.

It further appeared that, on his first arrival at all the circumstances, connexions, and general habits Du Tilb then proceeded to inform the court of Artigues, the prisoner addressed most of the inhabiof Guerre, as well by collateral inquiries, as by actual the reasons which first induced him to quit his house

tants by name, and recalled to the memory of those association with him during two campaigns as a priand family; related minutely where, how, and with

who had forgotten him, several circumstances with vate soldier, he boldly presented himself to the wife whom he had passed his time; that he had served in

respect to the village, on the subject of births, mar. and family as her long lost husband.

the French army seven years, and on his regiment riages, and deaths, which had happened ten, fifteen, The risk he incurred and the difficulties he en- being disbanded, had entered into the Spanish ser

and twenty years before; he also spoke to his wife countered were considerable: a thousand little cir- vice, from which, being impatient to see his wife, (as he still insisted she was) of certain circumstances cumstances which it is easy to imagine, but unnecesand sorely repenting that he had ever quitted her, at

of a very peculiar nature. sary to describe, must daily and hourly have led him a considerable expense he procured his discharge, He who could give an assumed character so strong to the brink of destruction; indeed, it is not easy to and made the best of his way to Artigues. At this

a resemblance to reality, and so dextrously clothe conceive how he could succeed, unless the unhappy place, notwithstanding his long absence and the loss

falsehood in the robes of truth, was no common im. dupe of his delusion had been herself a promoter of of his hair, he was directly and universally recog

postor; like other great villains, he must have been the deceit, which does not appear to have been the nized by his old acquaintance, and received with

a man of abilities. transports of joy by his wife and sisters, particularly To add to the perplexities of this business, the The stranger, at once, and without hesitation, was by his uncle; although that unnatural and cruel

wife being called, her pretended husband solemnly received with transports of joy by the wife and all

relation had now thought proper to stir up the pre- addressed and called on her, as she valued peace of the family, which at that time consisted of four of her sent prosecution against him.

mind here, and everlasting happiness hereafter, to husband's sisters and an uncle: one of them remark- The prisoner, in consequence of certain leading speak truth without fear or affection, that he would ing that his clothes were somewhat out of repair, he questions from the judge, gave a minute description submit to instant death without repining if she replied, “yes," and in a careless and apparently un. of the situation and peculiar circumstances of the would swear that he was not her real husband; the premedited way, desired that a pair of taffety place in Biscay, where he said he was born (still in- woman replied that she would by no means take an breeches might be brought him. His wife, not sisting that he was Martin Guerre) mentioning the oath on the occasion, at the same time, she would immediately recollecting where she had put them, names, ages, and occupations of the relations he had not give credit to anything he could say. he added, “ I am not surprised you have forgot, for left there, the year, the day, and the month of his I have not worn them since the christening

The evidence on both sides being closed, and the my marriage, also the persons who were present at the defence of the prisoner having been heard, the judge son; they are in a draw at the bottom of the large ceremony, as well as those who dined with them; pronounced Arnold du Tilb guilty, and sentenced chest in the next room; in this place they were which, on referring to collateral evidence, were found him to suffer death ; but the culprit appealed to the found and immediately brought to him.

to tally: The supposed Martin's return was welcomed by

parliament of Toulouse, who not long after ordered the neighbours in the old French way with song and

On the other hand, forty-five reputable and credi- a copy of the proceedings, and the convict, to be dance; and he enjoyed the privileges and pleasures,

ble witnesses, who were well acquainted with Martin forth with transmitted to them. he shared the emoluments and cares of a husband,

Guerre and Arnold du Tilb, swore that the prisoner The parliament, at that period a court of justice and a few days after his arrival, repaired to Rieux was not and could not be Martin; one of these, Car

as well as registry of royal edicts, wisely determined to transact some necessary law business, which had bon Barreau, maternal uncle of Du Till), acknow

to take no decisive step in the business till they had been deferred in consequence of his absence; the

ledged his nephew with tears, and, observing that he endeavoured to get sight of and secure the man with fond couple lived apparently happy for three

was fettered like a malefactor, bitterly lamented the a wooden leg, as described by the traveller; the in which time two children were added to their disgrace it would bring upon his family.

uncle strenuously insisting that he and no other was family.

These persons also insisted that Martin Guerre his long-lost nephew.
But their tranquillity was gradually interrupted

was tall, of a slender make, and as persons of that A commission was called to examine the papers by the uncle, whose suspicions of imposture were

form frequently are, awkward and sloping in his and call for new evidence, if necessary; descriptions first excited by a traveller passing through the vile gait ; that he had a remarkable way of protruding of the person and circumstances of Martin Guerre, lage; this person hearing the name of Martin

the absent husband, were also circulated throughout Guerre accidentally mentioned, declared, that eigh- flat and that several scars were to be seen on his left

the kingdom. At length, after several months had teen months before he had seen and conversed with eyebrow, and other parts of his face.

elapsed and considerable pains had been taken, the an invalid of that name in a distant province of

On the contrary, they observed that Du Tilb was absentee was fortunately discovered in a distant proFrance, who informed him that he had a wife and

a middle-sized, well-set man, upright, with thick legs, vince, conveyed to Toulouse, and ordered into close children in Languedoc, but that it was not his de

a well-formed nose, and without anything remark- custody, with particular directions that he should sign to return during the life of his uncle.

able about his mouth or lips; they agreed that his have no intercourse with any person whatever, even


at his meals, but in the presence of one of the commissioners, who ordered an additional lock to the door of the room in which he was confined, and themselves kept the key.

A day was fixed for a solemn and final re-hearing, and a list of such witnesses as would be required to appear before the parliament, was in the meantime sent to Rieux for the purpose of preventing the trouble and expense of conveying to Toulouse, so large a number of persons who had crowded the court and streets of Rieux.

The parliament assembled at an early hour; the former proceedings were read; the prisoner still persisted in asserting his innocence, and complained of the hardship and injuries he had suffered.

The real Martin Guerre now walked into court on his wooden leg, and Du Tilb being asked if he knew him, undauntedly answered, "No." The injured husband reproaching the impostor for the perfidiousness of his conduct, in basely taking advantage of the frankness of an old companion, and depriving him of his wife and property, Du Tilb retorted the charge on his accuser.

The present was thought a curious instance of audacity contrasted with simplicity of heart and unassuming manner; an impudent and flagitious adventurer who had for several years enjoyed the wife and property of another, and, in the face of his country, endeavouring to persuade the injured man out of his name and personal identity: it was further observed that the gesture, deportment, air, and modé of speaking of the prisoner were cool, consistent, and steady; while those who appeared in the cause of truth were embarrassed, hesitating, confused, and on eertain points contradictory in their evidence.

The wife, the four sisters, and the uncle had not yet seen the real Martin Guerre; they were now called in court; the first who entered was the eldest sister, who, the moment she caught sight of the man with a wooden leg, ran and embraced him, exclaiming with tears, " Oh, my dear brother, I now see and acknowledge the error and misfortune into which this abominable traitor hath betrayed us."

The rest of the family, as they approached, confessed in a similar way how much they had been deceived; and the long-lost Martin, mingling his tears with theirs, received their embraces, and heard their penitential apologies with every appearance of tenderness and affection.

But, towards his wife he deported himself very differently: she had not yet ventured to come near him, but stood at the entrance of the court trembling and dismayed; one of the sisters, taking her arm, conducted her to Martin, but he viewed her with sternness and aversion, and, in reply to the excuses and advances she made, and the intercession of his sisters in her behalf, "That she was herself innocent, but seduced by the arts of a villain," he observed, "Her tears and her sorrow are useless; I shall never love her again; it is in vain that you attempt to justify her, from the circumstance of so many others having been deceived, -a wife has always ways of knowing a husband unknown to all the world; in such a case as this, it is impossible that a woman can have been imposed on, if she had not entertained a secret wish to be unfaithful. I shall for ever regard her as the cause of all my misfortunes, and impute solely to her the whole of my wretchedness and disgrace.'


The judge, reminding the angry husband that, if he had remained at home, nothing of what had happened could have ever taken place, recommended lenity and forgiveness.

Du Tilb was pronounced guilty of fraud, adultery, sacrilege, rape, and theft, and condemned to make the amende honorable in the market-place of Artigues, in his shirt, with his head and feet bare, a halter round his neck, and a lighted torch in his hand; to demand pardon of God, the king, the nation, and the family whom he had so cruelly deceived; it was further ordered that he should be hanged before the dwelling-house of Martin Guerre, and that his body should be burned to ashes; his effects were adjudged to be the property of the children begotten by him on Martin's wife.

The criminal was taken back to Artigues, and as the day of execution approached, was observed to lose his firmness; after a long interview with the curé, he at last confessed his crime, acknowledging that he was first tempted to commit it by being frequently mistaken for and addressed by the name of Martin Guerre; he denied having made use of charms or of magic, as many suspected, very properly observing, that the same supernatural act which could enable him to carry on his deception, would also have put it in his power to escape punishment.

He was executed according to his sentence, first addressing a few words to Martin Guerre's wife, and died offering up prayers to the Almighty to pardon his sins, through the merits and mediation of Jesus


This singular narrative is authenticated by the respectable evidence of Gayot de Pitaval, and related in good Latin by the worthy De Thou.

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From Mr Bentham's "Deontology."

THERE is a class of people in the world, offensive intruders, forward hypocrites, and bold usurpers, who, under the mask of friendly advisers, are great creators of misery.

Not that, on every occasion, the counsels of the adviser, even though injudicious, can be taken as evidence of an unfriendly purpose. For foolish though it be, hastily concocted and inconsiderately communicated, it may have had its source in sympathy, and be really a mark of good will.

But such cases are exceptions. Selfishness untouched by sympathy is ordinarily the inspirer of the intrusive counsellor. Pure selfishness is abundantly sufficient for the production of the character. And without good grounds for believing that credit is to be given to benevolence, it may, with great probability, be presumed, that some quality, far removed from benevolence, gave birth to the intervention.

It is clearly then demanded by morality, that advice-giving, as a habit, should be abstained from; and if the demand for it be obvious and undoubted, if the case be clear and urgent-that it should be accompanied with such statements and reasons as will, in so far as may be, plead its excuse and justification to the person advised, and cause to him as little suffering as may be necessary to give the advice its intended effect. Without strong evidence both of the necessity for its application, and the probability of its success, virtue requires the suppression of the advice, and the abstention of the adviser.

Revenge itself sometimes takes the shape of advicegiving. For a gratification of ill-will a man censures another in the shape of counsel. He visits another with the burthen of evil, for obtaining a small pleasure in the infliction of that evil. In so far as the inflictor is concerned, no doubt the infliction of evil is good, for no action can have its source in any other motive. However enormous the evil may be, and however trifling the pleasure of inflicting it, still the pleasure is good, and must be taken into account. But the law of effective benevolence requires that the advice you give to a man, or the evil-speaking of him, necessary to do him good, should lead to no waste of evil. Only in the absolute necessity of drawing on him punishment from the popular source, or sanction, are you authorized to speak evil of him to others; and then be sure there is reason to believe that the awarded punishment will bring a result of good.

[The great secret perhaps of giving advice successfully, is to mix up with it something that implies a real consciousness of the adviser's own defects, and as much as possible of an acknowledgment of the other party's merits.-ED.]


[THE following whimsical jeu d'esprit is taken from a little German periodical, in prose and verse, and in a variety of languages, entitled Chaos, which was (or is) got up,' if we are not mistaken, under the superintendence of Goethe's daughter-in-law, and appears to receive any contributions, from respectable quarters, in a very indulgent spirit. We know not who the author is, perhaps some accomplished German who writes English, perhaps some English resident, unaccustomed to speak his own language exclusively; for there are marks of stiffness and obsoleteness in the versification, as well as a no-rhyme here and there. But it is very pleasant. We have been obliged to modify an adjuration which would have been a little too strong for the general ear in England.]

I read in Mrs Glass's page

The neatest way to roast a goose, Basted with lard and stuffed with sage, With apple sauce and lemon juice: I slumbered; does it wondrous seem, That as I snored, I had a dream?

I dreamt a form of heated air
Stood by a blazing sea coal fire,
His cheeks were red, his arms were bare,

And wofully he did perspire;
Beef on the spit was smoking hot,
And turtle soup was in the pot.

A red hot poker in his hand,
Looked like a warrior's blood-stained lance;
Around him hung an iron band,

Of gridirons, pots and frying pans;
And by his watery bloodshot eye
I guessed a cook, and well guessed I.

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WHO pull the skiff along the glassy lake? Two fairest creatures are they-fairer ne'er

[The author of the following elegant Sonnet says, in his letter to us, that it is descriptive of Mr Southey's "mode of relaxation from his literary labours." So at least he says he has "read;" for he has "never had the happiness of seeing it."

We thank our correspondent for the other sonnets he has sent us, which will be gladly inserted, with the exception of one; and we only make that exception because it contains a mixture of politics, such as might produce a retrospective bitterness of criticism from quarters which would have an equal right to express their feelings. And this, we are sure, is what he desires as little as we do.]

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To the rapt eye of Poet did appear,
His deep thirst of the beautiful to slake.
Oh, let my heart susceptible awake

To their budding beauty-and be cleft in twain,
As the deep bosom of the lonely main
Some beauteous bird in its embrace to take:
A Poet's Daughters, shewing in their May
How the sire's virtues in the woman shine,
The household virtues, meek as day's decline,
In feminine sweetness fading soft away.
Oh, be the virtues of the father mine;
Mine, Daughters beautiful and good as thine.
J. C.

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