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Moutonnet, more successful; he is dismissed, and Eugenie locked up in her chamber. The wedding-day approaches. "M. Dupont had already made his purchases. He had hought the wedding present, into which he insisted on thrusting some pacquets of Bayonne chocolate, and páté de guimauve. Eight days beforehand he ordered an entire suit of clothes for himself; he engaged his perruquier to invent something new for his head; he purchased some new trinkets for his watches, which, with the old ones, made such a noise, that he could be heard a hundred yards off, so that every one drew out of his way, thinking that it was a horse with bells. M. Dupont was enchanted at making such a sensation, and he smiled at all the world, and all the world smiled at him." He engages more rooms over the shop he occupies, to enlarge his apartment; and takes into his service Jeanneton, who has been dismissed by Madame Moutonnet, being suspected, with reason, of favouring the younger lover. Jeanneton has the address to persuade Dupont, that she has left her place for the sake of following her young mistress. At length, the wedding-day has positively come. "From five o'clock in the morning Dupont was beside himself; he had bathed and scrubbed himself nobly, and settled his head-dress. He walked up and down, from room to room, all about his lodging; he ran backwards and forwards between his shop and his looking-glass, now calling upon Jeanneton, now upon his shop-boys, to assist him at the one or the other; for the first time in his life, perhaps, he forgot the price of sugar and coffee. What with going and coming, and running about, the grocer managed to get over the time, till it became necessary for him to put on his new suit; black coat, waistcoat, and small clothes, white silk stockings and buckled shoes. Dupont spread them all out before him, and stood for an instant in admiration. Decidedly there is nothing wanting,' said he, applying himself to the duty of putting them on. The coat and waistcoat do very well, but the small-clothes are rather tight. Deuce!' said Dupont kicking to stretch them a bit, they pinch a little. My knees feel as if they were held in a vice! Certainly, they set all the better for it; not a fold; they fit like a glove!' The grocer calls Jeanneton and his apprentices. How am I?' Superb, sir.' And the cut?' 'Admirable.' You seem to have a little difficulty in walking, sir,' said Jeanneton. Ah! that is my smallclothes; but I hope they will be better when I have worn them a little; besides, I have no other black ones, and one can't be married in yellow small-clothes. But, they suit me, don't they?' Admirably, sir,' Well, I am ready. Let's be off-my gloves?-my hat?-nosegay?-Are the three glass coaches at the door?' "Yes, sir.' 'Have the coachmen nosegays?' 'Yes, sir.' That's right.' Do they give them to the horses.' Not commonly; but if you wish it, sir, some can be fastened to their ears.' 'Let 'em; it will be more handsome, more brilliant. Faith, one is not married every day, and I wish my marriage to be talked of-Joseph, run and buy some branches of orange flowers, and have them put to the horses' heads.' Yes, sir; and to their tails?' A bunch of amaranths to each tail. I like to do things in grand style.'
'One moment, gentlemen! What do you take me for,' cried Bidois, trying to seize the door; I am a citizen of Paris; I have engaged this coach, and I have paid for it, and it is mine; you cannot take it.' You see we can, for we are in it.' You must get out, gentlemen. Coachman explain it to the gentlemen.' The coachman, enchanted to have got another fare, contented himself with mounting his box without answering poor Bidois, who ran backwards and forwards from the coachman to the door. This old fool will stun us with his noise,' said one of the officers. Gentlemen, you must get out of my coach.' What, give up the coach to you? My fine fellow, if do I get out, it will be to crop your ears. Come, coachman, we are in a hurry, and can't stay listening to this drunken fellow!' All right, sir.' And the coachman applied the whip to his cattle. Bidois went and sat down on a post, viewing with an air of consternation, the coach which had taken his dollar, and left him in the middle of the street. At last he got home, and went to bed without a light, lest in getting one he should be stopped by Madame Moutonnet, still to do something
Adolphe and Eugenie bad sworn eternal fidelity. Their vows, however, did not preserve Adolphe (who is a sort of Tom Jones,) from the perseverance of a young dancer, nor Eugenie from maternal tyranny. One morning, Madame Moutonnet came into her daughter's room, and informed her that M. Dupont was to breakfast with them, desiring her to pay particular attention to her toilette. The foreboding girl dresses slowly, delaying as long as possible her appearance in the breakfastroom. At length she dares delay no longer. Her parents' and M. Dupont are already there. O Come in, my child,' said Madame Moutonnet, perceiving Eugenie trembling at the door; 'Come in. M. Dupont, go and give her your hand.' You are right, you are right,' said M. Dupont, leaping to Eugenie, "that is what I The was going to do, when I saw Mademoiselle.' grocer conducted Eugenie to a chair. She seated herself without saying a word; but the frequent swelling of her bosom shewed that she awaited with anxiety the result of this conference. Meantime her papa, who seemed to wish to say something, but did not dare to break into the conversation, contented himself with coughing in different tones, and taking frequent pinches of snuff. Breakfast is served. Then rain is talked of, then the fine weather, and then the trade of grocery; a part of the conversation in which Dupont makes a figure, taking occasion to make good use of brown sugar and pepper, and mixing it liberally with his discourse. At length Madame Moutonnet made a sign to her husband to keep silence, and addressed Eugenie: My child, you are now eighteen years of age, and your education is completed; you know the duties of a counter, and, thanks to my example, I think you understand the management of a home.' 'Yes, certainly,' said M. Moutonnet; 'she is quite able to manage'-Hush! silence, if you please Monsieur Moutonnet. I early inculcated in you principles of virtue and wisdom, which' -Madame,' said Bidois, (whose curiosity is excited by the appearance of mystery,) putting his head into the room, I cannot exactly make up M. Dupuis' account.' That will do, that will do, Bidois; we are busy; I will look at it by-and-bye.' 'Oh, very well.' Bidois went away against his will; but he had had time to see every body there, and that was something; upon these premises he could employ himself in making conjectures. In short, my child,' continued Madame Moutonnet, thanks to my care, you are in a condition to marry, and you will prove yourself worthy of your mother. Yes, my love, she will be worthy of you,' said M. Moutonnet; I always Will you be silent, Monsieur Moutonnet? will you let me speak? I never saw you so talkative!-Nevertheless, my child, we should not yet perhaps have thought of marrying you. Seeing your youth, we should doubtless have waited some years, if a brilliant and a solid offer had not been made for you." Dupont, finding that he was now brought upon the carpet, rocked and fidgetted himself on his chair, turned his eyes about after the most agreeable fashion he could, playing all the while with the chains and trinkets of his two watches. Yes, my child, a brilliant offer has been made for you. The person who seeks you in marriage has every right to your affections.' Here Dupont rose, and bowed to Madame Moutonnet. A man who joins to an agreeable exterior-(Dupont rises and bows)-those qualities which are essential to render a woman happy!(Another standing bow from Dupont)-A man of an age befitting a husband; a man who wishes to make you happy, who loves you tenderly; who is rich, very rich; and, what is more, economical, and perfectly versed in business.'-All this while Dupont does nothing but stand up and bow. A man, in short, in whom I know no defect.'-Here Dupont, sitting down too suddenly, rolled on to the floor. Bidois, hearing a noise, pretended that he thought he was called. He assisted the grocer to regain his seat; and the future bridegroom, to avoid the like accident, determined to hear Madame Moutonnet to an end, quietly on his chair. In fine, my child,' continued Madame Moutonnet, when the storm was over, in the portrait which I have drawn, I do not doubt you will recognise Monsieur Dupont, our sincere friend;-well, you are not deceived; it is he who has asked your hand, and it is he to whom we have determined to marry you.'" The result of this discourse is a fainting fit on the part of the poor girl, who endeavours to avert her calamity in vain. Nor is Adolphe, who makes a frantic appeal to Madame
Dupont is married to Eugenie. Meantime Adolphe has heard that his father is sick. He hastens to him, and finds him in a consumption. At length the disease approaches a crisis, and Adolphe watches over him with the tenderest care. One night M. Dalville, feeling easier, persuades his son to seek a few hours repose. Long watching and exhaustion threw Adolphe into a profound sleep, which lasted till late in the following day. What is his astonishment on waking to find his father's hand in his, but cold, and motionless. The father has come to die by his sleeping son. Having buried his father, he returns to Paris, where the news of Eugenie's marriage drives him to despair. Soon after, be hears news of an uncle who has died abroad, and left him a large fortune. In acts of benevolence, and new affections, be strives to forget his first love. Eugenie, though married to Dupont, and living in his house, insists upon being her own mistress, and, with Jeanneton's assistance, who had already procured her a separate apartment, manages to preserve her fidelity to Adolphe, till the unexpected sight of her early lover throws her into a dangerous illness. Dupont studies in vain to please her; and when at length her illness postpones his hopes sine die, he sets off on business to Marseilles. Eugenie recovers, and chances to see Adolphe escorting, with unequivocal assiduity, another lady, to whom in fact he was about to be married. This works such a change in her sentiments, that she writes a kind letter to call home her wellmeaning, though troublesome husband. 86 My wife! a letter from my wife cried the grocer, what can that mean? She must be at the point of death!' He reads, and his astonishment increases at every word. Hereafter you will find in me a submissive wife.'Good heaven! Is it possible! How reflecting! A "submissive wife!" Ah! it is absence that has done this. My wife adores me, now she sees me no longer. Poor little dear!--A submissive wife!' Dupont is intoxicated; he jumps up, and runs like a madman to his landlady, tells her to pack up, and then flies to the posthouse, where he arrives panting and blowing. Quick! quick!' cried he, I want some horses, a coach, postillions!''Where is the gentleman going? To Paris.' 'When does Monsieur wish to set ont.' 'Instantly; my wife is waiting for me. What is the quickest mode of travelling.' Faith, sir, going post is as quick as any." Post! Very good; I go post.' Will you take a chaise?'
'A chaise! two if it is necessary.' 'How many horses?' 'How many can you put to?' Two, three, or four, as you like.' 'I have five then; and you had better put them all one before the other, that they may run the faster.' "It would be impossible to drive them, sir.' Put them all abreast, then.' Why, sir, then we could not fasten them to the coach.' Well, put them how you like; I don't care how they go, provided they go like the wind.' Will you have two postillions?" Three, and a courier to go before. My wife is waiting for me, and I am in haste.' The chaise, postillions, courier, all come to the door. He jumps in. Such an extraordinary turn-out puzzles the neighbours. Is it a prince incognito? an ambassador? a general? or any other great man? Who is it, postillions?' They answer, It is a wholesale grocer going to his wife.' Dupont pays like a prince, and his courier announces his arrival at the inns with great importance. The innkeepers make great preparations. Fires crackle, spits turn, all the saucepans are on the stoves, and the scullions at their places; the servants hasten to prepare a room for the illustrious traveller. A man who has a courier does not dine at the common table, and, as he does not stop the night, they must repay themselves for it in the dinner-bill. The sound of horses and whips announces the arrival of the great man. The master, cap in hand, goes out to receive him. The maids adjust their dress, the ostlers quit their horses, the travellers fill the windows from the top to the bottom of the house, the peasants and idlers of the town flock about the gate. Dupont alights, and his unmajestic figure surprises the assembled gazers. He insists on taking a hasty snack in the outer room. If, my lor-Monsieuryour greatness, would go into the inner room, where there is a dinner laid out.' 'No occasion for so much trouble, my dear sir, I am very well here.' • Will Monsieur dine? Why, I am hungry. The coach has jolted me exceedingly, and that gives one an appetite. I think I should like a morsel of something.The dinner of Monsieur the traveller is prepared.' Ah! Parbleu? There is no occasion for this ceremony. Let me have a plate of potatoes and a bit of Gruyere cheese, with half a bottle of wine.' 'How, sir!" I ask you for a plate of potatoes, and some Gruyere, — but let it be good, for I understand it; if you have not not got any good, I can send you some famous cheese.'" At length the speed at which he travels, breaks down the coach. A bright idea strikes him. His courier is always in advance; therefore horseback is quicker travelling than riding in a coach. He buys his courier's horse, boots, spurs, and whip; and half citizen, half courier, pursues his uxorious race to Paris. He finds horseback not so easy as he took it to be, and can scarcely keep his seat. He soon loses a boot, then another, and at last poor Dupont and his horse jump down a quarry. This is a more tragical ending to the farce than the good-natured eccentric deserves. It serves, however, to free Eugenie, who is, a year after, united to Adolphe Dalville, whose half-and-half attentions had disgusted his other mistress so much, that he obtained the dismissal he had already wished. Madame Moutonnet is charmed at her daughter's marrying a man of fortune; and Bidois becomes his steward, and teaches his tenants arithmetic.
ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.
IV. THE TRAGEDY OF GUERNSEY.
sent number, has not so fixed and intense an air wiht THE tragical history which we give in our preit as the two in our last, but it is so very dramatic, that if Fate could be supposed to have an eye to such results, we could fancy the circumstances to have taken place, purely in order that they might give a lesson from the stage. In truth, they have been dramatized more than once, and, we believe, more than once told otherwise; but the following is the best account of the story we have met with. It is (with little variation) by the same author as furnished us with the case of Mr. Barnard and the Duke of Marlborough. We shall speak of him by and bye; he was a sort of mystery himself.
John Andrew Gordier, a respectable and wealthy inhabitant of Jersey in the early part of the eighteenth century, had, for several years, paid his addresses to an accomplished and beautiful young woman, a native of the island of Guernsey; and having surmounted the usual difficulties and delays of love, which always increase the value of the object in pursuit, the happy day for leading his mistress to the altar at length was fixed. After giving the necessary orders for the reception of his intended wife, Gordier, at the time appointed, in full health and high spirits, sailed for Guernsey. The impatience of a lover on such a voyage need not be described; hours were years, and a narrow channel between the islands, ten thousand leagues. The land of promise at length appears, he leaps on the beach, and without waiting for refreshment, or his servant, whom he left with his baggage, sets out alone, and on foot, for the house he bad so often visited, which was only a few miles from the port. The servant, who soon followed, was surprized to find his master not arrived; repeated messengers were sent to search and enquire, in vain. Having waited in anxious expectation till midnight, the apprehensions of the lady and her family were proportionate to the urgency of their feelings, and the circumstance of the case.
The next morning, at break of day, the appearance of a near relation of the missing man, was not calcu
while the injured family were sending for the officers of
lated to diminish their fears. With evident marks of distress, fatigue, and dejection, he came to inform them that he had passed the whole of the night in minutely examining, and in every direction, the environs of the road by which Gordier generally passed. — After days of dreadful suspense, and nights of unavailing anxiety, the corpse of the unfortunate lover was at length discovered in a cavity among the rocks, disfigured with many wounds; but no circumstance occurred on which to ground suspicion, or, even to hazard conjecture against the perpetrator of so foul a murder. The regre of both families for a good young man thus cut off in meridian of life and expectation, by a cruel assassins was increased by the mystery and mode of his death. The grief of the young lady not being of that specie, which relieves itself by shew and exclamation, was, for that very reason, the more poignant and heartfelt; she was never seen to shed a tear, but doubled the pity for her fate by an affecting patience. Her virtues and her beauty having attracted general admiration, the family, after a few years, was prevailed on to permit Mr. Galliard, a merchant and native of the island, to become her suitor, hoping that a second lover might gradually withdraw her attention from brooding in hopeless silence over the catastrophe of her first. In submission to the wishes of her parents but with repeated and energetic declarations that she never would marry, Galliard was occasionally admitted; but the unhappy lady, probably from thinking it not very delicate or feeling in relation of her murdered lover to address her, found it difficult to suppress a certain antipathy, which she felt whenever he approached. It was possible also, that, although hardly known to herself, she might have entertained a worse suspicion. At all events, the singu. lar but well-authenticated circumstance of her antipathy was often remarked, long before the secret was revealed; it was a more than mental aversion, and was said to bear a near resemblance to that tremulous horror and shivering, which seizes certain persons of keen sensibility and delicate feelings at the sight of some venomous creature, abhorrent far their own nature and likeness. But such was the ardour of passion, or such the fascinating magic of her charms, repulse only increased desire, and Galliard persisted in his unwelcome visits. Sometimes he endeavoured to prevail on the unfortunate young woman to accept a present from his hands. Her friends remarked that he was particularly urgent to present her with a beautiful trinket, of expensive workmanship and valuable materials, which she pointedly refused, adding, that it would be worse than improper in her to encourage attentions and receive favours from a man, who excited in her mind sensations far stranger than indifference, and whose offers no motive of any kind could prevail on her to accept. But Galliard, by the earnestness of his addresses, by his assiduities, and by exciting pity, the common resource of the artful, had won over the mother of the lady to second his wishes. In her desire to forward his suit, she had taken an opportunity, during the night, to fix the trinket in question on to her daughter's watchchain, and forbade her, on pain of her displeasure, to remove this token of unaccepted affection.
The health of the lovely mourner suffered in the conflict; and the mother of the murdered man, who had ever regarded her intended daughter-in-law with tenderness and affection, crossed the sea which divided Jersey from Guernsey to visit her. The sight of one so nearly related to her first, her only love, naturally called forth ten thousand melancholy ideas in her mind. She seemed to take pleasure in recounting to the old lady, many little incidents which lovers only consider as important. Mrs. Gordier was also fond of enquiring into and listening to every minute particular, which related to the last interviews of her son with his mistress.
It was on one of these occasions that their conversation reverted, as usual, to the melancholy topic; and the sad retrospect so powerfully affected the young lady, whose health was already much impaired, that she sunk in convulsions on the floor. During the alarm of the unhappy family, who were conveying her to bed, their terror was considerably increased by observing that the eyes of Mrs. Gordier, were fearfully caught by the glittering appendage to the lady's watch; that well-known token of her son's affection, which, with a loud voice, and altered countenance she declared he had purchased as a gift for his mistress, previously to his quitting Guernsey. With a dreadful look, in which horror, indignation, wonder, and suspicion were mingled, she repeated the extraordinary circumstance, as well as the agitated state of her mind would permit, to the unhappy young lady, during the interval of a short recovery. The moment the poor sufferer understood that the jewel she had hitherto so much despised, was originally in the possession of Gordier, the intelligence seemed to pour a flood of new horror on her mind; she made a last effort to press the appendage to her heart; her eyes, for a moment, exhibited the wild stare of madness, stung as she was to its highest pitch by the horrible conviction; and crying out, "Oh, murderous villain!" she expired in the arms of the bye-standers.
It is hardly necessary further to unfold the circumstances of this mysterious assassination; Gordier, in his way from the port to his mistress's house, had been clearly way-laid by Galliard, murdered and plundered of the trinket, in the hope that after his death he might succeed to the possession of a jewel far more precious.
V. VI. TWO STORIES OF REVERSION,
We add the following by way of farces after our
He who has been half his life (quoth our authority)
had for some years awakened the hopes and excited the
The pears, the port wine, and the chesnuts being
Patiently at first, and then impatiently, waited he several posts, without receiving further intelligence, and filled up the interval as well as he could in settling his accounts as bursar;* getting in the few bills he owed, and revising his books; which, as the distance was considerable, he resolved to weed before he left the university. Considering himself now as a married man, he thought it a piece of necessary attention to his wife, to supply the place of the volumes he disposed of, by some of the miscellaneous productions of modern literature, more immediately calculated for female perusal.
At the end of three weeks, a space of time, as long as any man of common feelings could be expected to abstain from enquiry; after being repeatedly assured by his college associates that the incumbent must be dead, but that the letter announcing it had miscarried, and being positively certain of it himself, he took pen in hand, but not knowing any person in the neighbourhood of the living, which he hoped so soon to take possession of, he was for some time at a loss to whom he should venture to write on so important a subject.
In the restlessness of anxious expectation, and irritated by the stimulants of love and money-in a des. perate and indecorous moment, he addressed a letter officially to the clerk of the parish, not knowing his name. This epistle commenced with taking it for granted that his principal was dead; but informing him, that the college had received no intelligence of it, a circumstance which they imputed to the miscarriage of a letter; but they begged to know, and if possible by return of post, the day and hour on which he departed; if, contrary to all expectation and probability, he should be still alive, the clerk was in that case desired to send without delay, a particular and minute account of the state of his health, the nature of his late complaint, its apparent effects upon his constitution, and any other circumstance he might think at all connected with the life of the incumbent.
On receiving the letter, the ecclesiastic subaltern immediately carried it to the rector's, who, to the infinite satisfaction of his parishioners, had recovered from a most dangerous disease, and was, at the moment, entertaining a circle of friends at his hospitable board, who celebrated his recovery in bumpers.
After carrying his eye over it in a cursory way, he smiled, read it to the company, and, with their per
it, but with evident confusion and equivocation; and
Galliard, being charged with the crime, boldly denied mission, replied to it himself, in the following manner:
*Treasurer of the college.
RW-—.” "P. S. My clerk's name is Robert D-- your letter cost him four-pence, to the foot post who brings it from S--e."
Such an epistle, from so good and excellent a character, and under such circumstances, could not fail producing unpleasant sensations in the breast of the receiver, who was not without many good qualities, and, except in this one occasion (for which love and port must be his excuse) did not appear to be deficient in feeling and propriety of conduct.
The purpose of this article will be fully and effectually answered, if fellows of colleges, and expectants of fat livings, valuable sinecures, and rich reversions, may happily be taught to check the indecorous ardour of eager hope; lest they meet with the rebuff given by an old Nottinghamshire vicar, whose health was more robust, and manners less courteous than those of the Dorsetshire clergyman.
This testy old gentleman, after recovering from a short illness, was exasperated by insidious, often repeated, and selfish inquiries after his health; and in the heat of irritation, ordered a placard with the following words, to be affixed to the chapel door of the college, to which the vicarage belonged :
To the Fellows of * * College. "Gentlemen,-In answer to the very civil and very intelligible inquiries which you have of late so assiduously made into the state of my health, I have the pleasure to inform you that I never was better in my life; and as I have made up my mind on the folly of dying to please other people, I am resolved to live as long as I am able for my own sake. To prevent your being at any unnecessary trouble and expense in future on the subject, have directed my apothecary to give you a line, in case there should be any probability of a humble servant, vacancy and am, your
A laughable story was circulated during the administration of the old duke of Newcastle, and retailed to the public in various forms. This nobleman, with many good points, and described by a popular contemporary poet, as almost eaten up by his zeal for the House of Hanover, was remarkable for being profuse of his promises on all occasions, and valued himself particularly on being able to anticipate the words or the wants of the various persons who attended his levees, before they uttered a syllable. This weakness sometimes led him into ridiculous mistakes and absurd embarrassments; but it was his passion to lavish promises, which gave occasion for the anecdote about to be related.
At the election for a certain borough in Cornwall, where the ministerial and opposition interests were almost equally poised, a single vote was of the highest importance; this object the duke, by certain well-applied arguments, by the force of urgent perseverance, and personal application, at length attained, and the gentleman recommended by the treasury, gained his election. In the warmth of gratitude for so signal a triumph, and in a quarter where the minister had generally experienced defeat and disappointment, his Grace poured forth acknowledgments and promises, without ceasing, on the fortunate possessor of the casting vote; called him his best and dearest friend; protested that he should consider himself as for ever indebted to him; that he could never do enough for him; that he would serve him by night and by day.
The Cornish voter, in the main an honest fellow, "as things went," and who would have thought himself already sufficiently paid, but for such a torrent of acknowledgments, thanked the duke for his kindness, and told him, "that the supervisor of excise was old
*Henry, ninth Earl of Lincoln, and second Duke of Newcastle, some time prime minister,-a flighty politician,
Just published, in three vols. post 8vo.
"One of the most interesting and graphic romances that it has been our lot to read for many a year."Athenæum.
"His pictures of the scenery of Africa are vivid and uniquehis eloquent delineations of individual character are life-like and philosophical."-Atlas.
"Allow me to point out a little error in your Romance of Real Life," which I think renders it less MAKAN NA; OR, THE LAND of the Savage. romantic than the reality. You state that the Duke of Marlborough survived till 1817, whereas it appears from Smollett, that he died in the course of the very year in which the letters were written. The words of the historian are, "On the whole it is surprising that the death of the duke, which happened in the course of this year, was never attributed to the secret practices of this incendiary correspondent, who had given him to understand that his vengeance, though slow, would not be the less certain," vol. xii., p. 275. If I remember rightly, the same statement is made in the first volume of the Annual Register, but I cannot at this moment refer to it."
"He is as much at home on the ocean-and there are many scenes on ship board equal to the best of the great sea lord, the author of the Spy."-New Monthly Magazine.
We have referred to the Annual Register, and to the
and infirm, and if he would have the goodness to recommend his son-in-law to the commissioner, in case of the old man's death, he should think himself and his family bound to render government every assistance in his power, on any future occasion."
"My dear friend, why do you ask for such a trifling employment?" exclaimed his grace, "your relation shall have it at a word speaking, the moment it is vacant." "But how shall I get admitted to you, my lord? for in London, I understand, it is a very difficult thing to get a sight of you great folks, though you are so kind and complaisant to us in the country." "The instant the man dies," replied the premier, (used to, and prepared for the freedoms of a contested election) "the moment he dies, set out post haste for London; drive directly to my house, by night or by day, sleeping or waking, dead or alive, thunder at the door; I will leave word with my porter to shew you up stairs directly, and the employment shall be disposed of according to your wishes, without fail."
The parties separated; the duke drove to a friend's house in the neighbourhood, where he was visiting, without a thought of seeing his new acquaintance till that day seven years; but the memory of a Cornish elector, not being loaded with such a variety of objects, was more attentive. The supervisor died a few months afterwards, and the ministerial partizan, relying on the word of a peer, was conveyed to London by the mail, and ascended the steps of a large house, now divided into three, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, at the corner of Great Queen Street.t
The reader should be informed that precisely at the moment when the expectations of a considerable party of a borough in Cornwall, were roused by the death of a supervisor, no less a person than the king of Spain was expected hourly to depart: an event in which all Europe, and particularly Great Britain, was concerned. The Duke of Newcastle, on the very night that the proprietor of the decisive vote was at his door, had sat up, anxiously expecting dispatches from Madrid, wearied by official business and agitated spirits, he retired to rest, having previously given particular instruction to his porter, not to go to bed, as he expected every minute a messenger with advices of the greatest importance, and desired he might be shewn up stairs, the moment of his arrival.
His grace was sound asleep, for with a thousand singularities and absurdities, of which the rascals about him did not forget to take advantage, his worst enemies could not deny him the merit of good design, that best solace in a solitary hour; the porter settled for the night in his chair, had already commenced a sonorous nap, when the vigourous arm of the Cornish voter roused him effectually from his slumbers.
To his first question, "Is the Duke at home?" the porter replied, "Yes, and in bed; but he left particular orders that come when you will, you are to go up to him directly." "God for ever bless him! a worthy and honest gentleman," cried our applier for the vacant post, smiling and nodding with approbation, at a prime minister's so accurately keeping his promise, "How punctual his Grace is; I knew he would not deceive me; let me hear no more of lords and dukes not keeping their words; I believe, verily, they are as honest, and mean as well as other folks, but I can't always say the same of those who are about them." Repeating these words as he ascended the stairs, the burgess of ** was ushered into the duke's bed chamber.
"Is he dead?" exclaimed his Grace, rubbing his eyes, and scarcely awaked from dreaming of the King of Spain, "Is he dead?" "Yes, my lord," replied the eager expectant, delighted to find that the election promise, with all its circumstances, was so fresh in the
minister's memory. "When did be die ?", "The day THE
Vexed at so untimely a disturbance and disappointed of news from Spain, he frowned for a few minutes, but chagrin soon gave way to mirth at so singular and ridiculous a combination of opposite circumstances, and yielding to the irritation, he sank on the bed in a violent fit of laughter, which, like the electrical fluid was communicated in a moment to the attendants.
[ADDITION TO THE ARTICLE ON MR. BARNARD AND THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH].
WIRTEMBERG WINES.-The wines of Stutgard are
A correspondent, whose letter was among the most welcome we have received, and from whom we shall be glad to hear in future, concludes his communication as follows:
Pleasing Regrets. Even when defeated and mortified, the social feelings are not wholly unpleasing; for the French Actress's exclamation, while speaking of an unfaithful lover's once deserting her, was quite natural. "Ah! c'etoit le bona tems! j'etois bien malheureuse." ("Ah! those were fine times! I was so unhappy.) Sharp's Letters and Essays in Prose and Verse (just published). The exclamation, however gaily put, is the more affecting, when we consider the probable heartlessness of the actress's life at the time she uttered it; and how delightful to the memory even the pains of a real affection had become, when compared with the pleasures of dissipation.
The duke, by this time, perfectly awake, was staggered at the impossibility of receiving intelligence from Madrid in so short a space of time, and he was perplexed at the absurdity of a king's messenger applying for his son-in-law to succeed the King of Spain. Where are your dispatches?" the man drunk or mad? exclaimed his Grace, hastily drawing back his curtain, when instead of a royal courier his eager eye recognized at THE JUVENILE MUSICAL
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of Anacreon except that he is easy to read; another,
Little is known of the life of Anacreon. There is
So with B. You imply a question to B. in the same tone, and he answers, "Anacreon! Oh! a most delightful poet Anacreon-charming-all love and wine. The best edition of him is Spaletti's."
This is all that B. knows of Anacreon's "love and wine." "The best edition of it is Spaletti's;" that is to say, Spaletti is the Anacreon wine-merchant most in repute.
"Translations of Anacreon! Delightful poet-too delightful, too natural and peculiar to be translated simplicity-naïveté-Fawkes's translation is elegant Moore's very elegant, but diffuse.— Nobody can translate Anacreon. Impossible to give any idea of the exquisite simplicity of the Greek."
Imagine then a good-humoured old man, with silver locks, but a healthy and cheerful face, sitting in the delightful climate of Smyrna, under his vine or his olive, This gentleman has never read Cowley's translations with his lute by his side, a cup of his native wine before from Anacreon; and if he had, he would not have him, and a pretty peasant girl standing near him, who known which part of them was truly Anacreontic, and has, perhaps, brought him a basket of figs, or a bottle of which not. He makes up his mind that it is impossible milk corked with vine leaves, and to whom he is giving to give "any idea of the exquisite simplicity of the a rose, or pretending to make love. Greek," meaning by that assertion, that he himself For we are not, with the gross literality of dull or cannot, and therefore nobody else can. His sole idea vicious understandings, to take for granted every thing of Anacreon is, that he is a writer famous for certain that a poet says, on all occasions, especially when he is beauties which it is impossible to translate. As to old. It is mere gratuitous and suspicious assumption supposing that the spirit of Anacreon may occasionally in critics who tell us, that such men as Anacreon passed be met with in poets who have not translated him, and "whole lives" in the indulgence of " every excess and you may thus get an idea of him without recurring debauchery." They must have had, in the first place, to the Greek at all, this is what never entered his head: prodigious constitutions, if they did, to live to be near for Nature has nothing to do with his head; it is only ninety; and secondly, it does not follow that because a books and translations. Love, nature, myrtles, roses, poet speaks like a poet, it has therefore taken such a wine, have existed ever since the days of Anacreon; vast deal to give him a taste, greater than other men's, yet he thinks nobody ever chanced to look at these for what he enjoys. Redi, the author of the most things with the same eyes. famous Bacchanalian poem in Italy, drank little but Thus there is one class of scholars who have no idea water. St. Evremond, the French wit, an epicure pro[SPARROW AND CO. CRANE COURT.]
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LETTERS TO SUCH OF THE LOVERS OF
LETTER II. ANACREON. WE intended to have begun these letters with the oldest and greatest of the Greek poets, Homer; but the want of a book or two prevents us, and we turn for consolation to Anacreon, also an old poet, who gives it us abundantly. So much so, that we no sooner think of him, than war and its heroics, even in Homer, seem ridiculous; and the only sensible thing in life (provided we were Greeks) appears to be, to sit drinking wine under a myrtle tree, crowned with roses, and admiring a pretty girl.
Even Anacreon, however, though of a genius pretty obvious to most readers who are not blinded by mere scholarship, contrives to be misunderstood by great numbers who fancy themselves intimate with him. It has been said of ladies when they write letters, that they put their minds in their postscripts-let out the real object of their writing, as if it were a second thought, or a thing comparatively indifferent. You very often know the amount of a man's knowledge of an author by the remark he makes on him, after he has made the one which he thinks proper and authorized. As for example, you will mention Anacreon to your friend A. in a tone which implies that you wish to know his opinion of him, and he shall say
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fessed, was too good an epicure not to be temperate and preserve his relish. Debauchees, who are foxhunters, live to be old, because they take a great deal of exercise; but it is not likely that inactive men should; unless they combined a relish for pleasure with some very particular kinds of temperance.
There is generally, in Anacreon's earnest, a touch of something which is not in earnest,-which plays with the subject, as a good-humoured old man plays with children. There is a perpetual smile on his face between enthusiasm and levity. He truly likes the objects he looks upon, (otherwise he could not have painted them truly) and he will retain as much of his youthful regard for them as he can. He does retain much, and he pleasantly pretends more. He loves wine, beauty, flowers, pictures, sculptures, dances, birds, brooks, kind and open natures, every thing that can be indolently enjoyed; not, it must be confessed, with the deepest innermost perception of their beauty (which is more a characteristic of modern poetry than of ancient, owing to the difference of their creeds) but with the most elegant of material perceptions,-of what lies in the surface and tangibility of objects,--and with an admirable exemption from whatsoever does not belong to them, from all false taste and the mixture of impertiWith regard to the rest, he had all the sentiment which good nature implies, aud nothing more. Upon those two points of luxury and good taste the character of Anacreon, as a poet, wholly turns. the poet of indolent enjoyment, in the best possible taste, and with the least possible trouble. He will enjoy as much as he can, but he will take no more pains about it than he can help, not even to praise it. He would probably talk about it, half the day long; for talking would cost him nothing, and it is natural to old age; but when he comes to write about it, he will say no more than the impulse of the moment incites him to put down, and he will say it in the very best manner, both because the truth of his perception requires it, and because an affected style and superfluous words would give him trouble. He would, it is true, take just so much trouble, if necessary, as should make his style completely suitable to his truth; and if his poems were not so short, it would be difficult to a modern writer to think that they could flow into such excessive ease and spirit as they do if he had not taken the greatest pains to make them. But besides his impulses, he had the habit of a life upon him. Hence the compositions of Anacreon are remarkable, above all others in the world, for being "short and sweet." They are are the very thing, and nothing more, required by the occasion; for the animal spirits, which would be natural in other men, and might lead them into superfluities, would not be equally so to one, who adds the indolence of old age to the niceties of natural taste: and therefore as people boast, on other occasions, of calling things by their right names, and "a spade a spade," so when Anacreon describes a beauty or a banquet, or wishes to convey his sense to you of a flower, or a grasshopper, or a head of hair, there it is; as true and as free from every thing foreign to it, as the thing itself.
Look at a myrtle-tree, or a hyacinth, inhale its fragrance, admire its leaves or blossom, then shut your eyes, and think how exquisitely the myrtle tree is what it is, and how beautifully unlike every thing else,-how pure in simple yet cultivated grace. Such is one of the odes of Anacreon.
This may not be a very scholastic description; but we wish it to be something better; and we write to genial apprehensions. We would have them conceive a state of Anacreon, as they would that of his grapes ; and know him by his flavour.
It must be conceded to one of our would-be scholarly friends above mentioned, that there is no translation, not even of any one ode of Anacreon's, in the English language, which gives you an entirely right notion of it. The common-place elegancies of Fawkes (who was best when he was humblest, as in his ballad of "Dear Tom, this brown jug") are out of the question. They are as bad as Hoole's Ariosto. Mr. Moore's translation is masterly of its kind, but its kind is not Anacreon's; as he would, perhaps, be the first to say, now; for it was a work of his youth. It is too oriental, diffuse, and ornamented; an Anacreon in Persia. The best English translations are those which Cowley has given us, although diffuseness is their fault also; but they have more of Anacreon's real animal spirits, and his contentment with objects themselves, apart from what he can say about them. Cowley is most in earnest. He thinks most of what his original was thinking, and least of what is expected from his translator.
We will give a specimen of him presently. But it is not to be supposed that we have no passages in the writings of English poets, that convey to an unlearned reader a thorough idea of Anacreon. Prose cannot do it, though far better sometimes as a translation of than verse itself, since the latter may destroy the original both in spirit and medium too. But prose, as a translation of verse, wants, of necessity, that sustained enthusiasm of poetry, which presents the perpetual charm of a triumph over the obstacle of metre, and turns it to an accompaniment and a dance. Readers, therefore, must not expect a right idea of Anacreon from the best prose versions; though, keeping in mind their inevitable deficiences, they may be of great service and pleasure to him, especially if he can superadd the vivacity which they want. And he is pretty sure not to meet in them with any of the impertinences of the translations in verse; that is to say (not to use the word offensively) any of the matter which does not belong to the original; for an impertinence, in the literal, unoffensive sense of the word, signifies that which does not belong to, or form a part, of any thing.
The passage quoted in our last London Journal about Cupid bathing and pruning his wings under the eyes of a weeping beauty (the production either of Spenser, or of a friend worthy of him) appears to us to be thoroughly Anacreontic in one respect, and without contradiction; that is to say, in clearness and delicacy of fancy.
The blinded archer-boy, like larke in shower of raine, Sat bathing of his wings; and glad the time did spend Under those cristall drops, which fell from her faire eyes, And at their brightest beams, him proyned in lovely wise. Milton's address to May-morning would have been Anacreontic, but for a certain something of heaviness or stateliness which he has mingled with it, and the deferential changes of the measure.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Com s dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
The dancing of the star, the leading flowery May, the green lap, and the straightforward simple style of the words, are all anacreontic; but the measure is too stately and serious. The poet has instinctively changed it in the lines that follow these, which are altogether in the taste of our author:
Hail bounteous May! that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire: Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
We wish we had him
happy imitation of his manner. by us, to give a specimen. There is one beautiful song of his, (which has been exquisitly translated, by the way, into Latin, by one of the now leading political writers,) the opening measure of which, that is, of the first couplet, is the same as the other common measure
of Anacreon :
Their eyes the glow worms lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also
Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
He ge melaina pinei, Pinei de dendre auten, Pinei thalassa d'auras, Ho d'Helios thalassan.
Suckling, a charming off-hand writer, who stood between the days of Elizabeth and the Stuarts, and partook of the sentiment of the one and the levity of the other, would have translated Anacreon admirably. And had Anacreon been a fine gentleman of the age of Charles the First, instead of an ancient Greek, he would have written Suckling's ballad on a wedding. There is a touch in it, describing a beautiful pair of lips, which, though perfectly original, is in the highest Anacreontic
Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared with that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly.
Beauty, the country, a picture, the taste and scent of honey, are all in that passage. And yet Anacreon, in the happy comprehensiveness of his words, has beaten it. The thought has got somewhat hacknied since his time, the hard, though unavoidable fate of many an exquisite fancy; yet stated in his simple words, and accompanied with an image, the very perfection of eloquence, it may still be read with a new delight. In his direction to a painter about a portrait of his mistress, he tells him to give her "a lip like Persuasion's,"
Prokaloumenon philemaProvoking a kiss.
The word is somewhat spoilt in English by the very piquancy which time has added to it; because it makes it look less in earnest, too much like the common language of gallantry. But provoking literally means calling for-asking-forcing us, in common gratitude for our delight, to give what is so exquisitely deserved. And in that better sense, the word provoking is still the right
Shakespeare's serenade in Cymbeline might have been written by Anacreon, except that he would have given us some luxurious image of a young female, instead of the word "lady."
Hark, hark, the lark at heav'ns gate sings And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies, And winking mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty been, My lady sweet, arise.
Lilly, a writer of Shakespeare's age, who perverted a naturally fine genius to the purposes of conceit and fashion, has a little poem beginning
Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses,
which Anacreon might have written, had cards existed in his time. But we have it not by us to quote. Many passages in Burns's songs are Anacreontic, inasmuch as they are simple, enjoying, and full of the elegance of the senses; but they have more passion than the old Greek's, and less of his perfection of grace. Anacreon never suffers but from old age, or the want of wine. Burns suffers desperately, and as desperately struggles with his suffering, till we know not which is the greater, he or his passion. There is nothing of this robust-handed work in the delicate Ionian. Nature is strong and sovereign in him, but always in accommodating unison with his indolence and old age. He says that he is transported, and he is so; but somehow you always fancy him in the same place, never quite carried out of himself.
Of Anacreon's drinking songs, we do not find it so easy to give a counterpart notion from the English poets, who, though of a drinking country, have not exhibited much of the hilarity of wine. Their port is heavy, compared with Anacreon's Teion. Shakspeare's Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne
*See a periodical publication in two volumes, called the Reflector, which contained some of the first public essays of several eminent living writers.
will not do at all; for Anacreon's Bacchus is the perfection of elegant mythology, particularly comme il faut in the waist, a graceful dancer, and beautiful as cheerfulness. In all Anacreon's manners, and turn of think
ing, you recognise what is called the gentleman." He evidently had a delicate hand. The "cares" that he talks about, consisted in his not having had cares enough. A turn at the plough, or a few wants, would have given him pathos. He would not have thought all the cares of life to consist in its being short, and swift, and taking him away from his pleasures, If he partook however of the effeminacy of his caste, he was superior to its love of wealth and domination. The sole business of his life, he said, was to drink and sing, perfume his beard, and crown his head with roses; and he appears to have stuck religiously to his profession. "Business," he thought, "must be attended to." Plato calls him "wise;" as Milton calls the luxurious Spenser sage and serious." The greatest poets and philosophers sometimes "let the cat out of the bag," when they are tired of conventional secrets.
But we must hasten to close this long article with the best Anacreontic piece of translation we are acquainted with ;-that of the famous ode to the Grasshopper by Cowley. Anacreon's Grasshopper, it is to be observed, is not properly a Grasshopper, but the Tettir, as the Greeks called it from its cry,-the Cicada of the Roman poet, and Cicala of modern Italy, where it sings or cricks in the trees in summer-time, as the grasshopper does with us in the grass. It is a species of beetle. But Cowley very properly translated his Greek insect as well as ode, into English, knowing well that the poet's object is to be sympathized with, and that if Anacreon had written in England, he would have addressed the grasshopper instead of the tettix.
We have marked in Italics the expressions, which, though original in Cowley's version, are purely Anacreontic, and such as the Grecian would have delighted to write. The whole poem is much longer than Anacreon's, double the size; but this, perhaps, only justly makes up for the prolongation afforded to all ancient poems, by the music which accompanied them. There is not a Cowleian conceit in the whole of it, unless the thought about "farmer and landlord," be one, which is quickly forgiven for its naturalness in an English landscape; and the whole, from beginning to end, though not so perfectly melodious, runs on with that natural yet regulated and elegant enthusiasm, betwixt delight in the object and indolent enjoyment in the spectator, which has been noticed as the characteristics of the sprightly old bard. The repetition of the word all is quite in the poet's manner; who loved thus to cram much into little, and to pretend to himself that he was luxuriously expatiating;-as in fact he was, in his feelings; though, as to composition, he did not chuse to make "a toil of a pleasure."
One taste, like this, of the wine of the feelings gives a better idea of Anacreon's drinking songs than hundreds of ordinary specimens.
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine. Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill ? 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread Nature's self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king. All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow, Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently joy; Nor does thy luxury destroy; The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among