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LIBRARY
OF THE
PHILADELPHIA
MUSEUM
OF ART
<^v^>'sv*^*k :y>:\tea3 ^t; :^vo^^^;^y-B?^iX:^
ZonDon :
Published bv R. ACKERMANN, 101, Strand : Sherwood & Co. and Walker & Co. Paternoster-Row ; »nd Simi-kin & Maishall, Stationers' Court.
THE
3fceposttorp
OF
ARTS, LITERATURE, FASHIONS,
Manufactures, 8$c.
THE SECOND SERIES.
Vol. XIII.
January 1, 1822.
N° LXXIII,
EMBELLISHMENTS. The Entrance of the Quadrant, Regent-street . View of the Fall of the Oltschenkach, and the Bridge of Wyler ...........
Ladies' Morning Dress ........
Full Dress . . .
PAG K 1
5. A Drawing-Room Lustre
6. Needle-Work Pattf.rns.
2G 53 ib.
58
CONTENTS.
I'AGE Select Views of London. — The Entrance of the Quadrant, Regent-street . . 1
MISCELLANIES.
Astonishing Instance of early Profici- ency (from the MS. Journal of John Evelyn)
Who would be an Old Bachelor ?
Iroldo and Prasildo, translated from Boi- ardo's Orlando Innamorato. Part II.
The Short Stage, or Recollections of the Road
Who is independent? by J. M. Lacey .
Lines written by a Husband to his Wife
Lives of Spanish Poets. — Diego Hur- tado de Mendoza (continued from vol. XII. p. 26.5) • .
Origin of Vauxhall, Ranelagh, Sadler's Wells, Operas, Oratorios, and Bell- ringing .
Picturesque Tour in the Oberland —View of the Fall of the Oltschenbach, and the Bridge of Wyler
Correspondence of the Adviser . .
The Green Mantle of Venice : a true Storv, from the German (continued from vol. XII. p. 344)
The Beggar- Woman of Locarno . .
Vicissitudes of Half-a-Guinea (continued from vol. XII. p. 204)
The Female Tattler. No. LXXIII. . .
Anecdotes, &c. Historical, Literary, and Personal. — The Countess of Derby — The Duke of Ossuna— Horses' Tails — Sir Edward Coke— The Poetic Caliph — Lady Wallace— Cardinal D'Este — Menage and Marigny — The Emperor Charles IV.— -James I
45
PAGE
MUSICAL REVIEW.
Nightincali.'s '.' Introduction, and Rossini's celebrated Afr " Di tanti pal- piti"
Rimbault's " Tu che accendi" . . .
— — La petite Bagatelle . . .
■ ■ ■ Pleyel's celebrated Sympho- ny adapted for the Piauo-forte . .
Airs and Chorusses selected
from " II Flauto Magico" .... Parke's " Oh! say not that woman" .
Purkis's Fourth Fantasia
George the Fourth's Coronation
Grand March and Waltz .... Handel's Coronation Anthem
newly arranged for the Organ, Sec.
Poole's Coronation Hondo for the Piano- forte
Dan se ley's The Christmas Rose, a Duet
Ferrier's, Miss, " Farewell, bright illu- sions"
Linley's " My native land, a long good night"
Smith's "Oh! blame me not that plea- sure's dream"
On the Orthography of the Surname of the Composer of " The Messiah" .
FASHIONS.
London Fashions. — Ladies' Morning Dress
Ladies' Full Dress
Genera! Observations on Fashion and Dress
French Female Fashions
Fashionable Furniture. — A Drawing- Room Lustre
INTELLIGENCE, LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC ....
48 ib. 49
ib.
ib. ib. 50
ib.
ib.
ib.
61
ib, 52 ib. ib.
53 ib.
54 5G
58 61
L. Harrison, l'rinter, :$7:>, Strand.
TO OUR READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
Publishers, Authors, Artists, and Musical Composers, are requested to transmit, on or before the 1 5th of the month, announcements of works which they may have in hand, and we shall cheerfully insert them, as we have hitherto done, free of expense. New musical publications also, if a copy be addressed to the publisher, shall be duly noticed in our Review; and extracts from new books, of a moderate length and of an interesting nature, suitable for our Selections, will be acceptable.
We hope that Q, in a Corner will excuse us for hinting, thai he has not at least chosen the most inviting subjects for his first communication. His scheme is a good one, if conducted with spirit.
Mr. J. M. Lacey's More about Old Maids in our next Number, if possible.
The Second Series of Anecdotes of Artists and the Arts is in the hands of the Printer.
We have to thank Mr. Strodington for several favours, which are under consi- deration.
The personalities contained in the article headed, The Life of Lord Byron, we totally reject. The real or supposed plagiarisms have been pointed out before.
The Poetical Hackney-Coachman shall have, through us, an opportunity of giving publicity to a select few of his productions.
B. B. in an early Number.
We have been obliged to postpone many poetical contributions.
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THE
a^eposttorp
OF
ARTS, LITERATURE, FASHIONS,
Manufactures^ 8§c.
THE SECOND SERIES.
Vol. XIII.
January 1, 1822. N°- LXXIII.
SELECT VIEWS OF LONDON.
PLATE 1.— THE ENTRANCE OF THE QUADRANT, REGENT-STREET.
During the last four years of the Second Series of the Repository of Arts, a considerable number of de- signs, illustrative of domestic ar- chitecture* and its correspondent gardening, have been the leading embellishments of the work: as they have been honoured by the appro- bation of its readers, the proprietor is therefore induced to offer further novelty and information on matters connected with architectural pur- suits, by now selecting for pictu- resque views, such prominent build- ings in the rnetropolisf as in the mean time have started up before our eyes, as if in obedience to the favoured powers of another Aladdin. It is presumed that the remarks whichwill accompany these subjects may yield to our readers a familiar acquaintance with the purposes to
* Published as " Rural Residences" in 1819, designed by Mr. J. B. Papworth.
f A volume of" Select Views in Lon- don," compiled and arranged by Mr. Papworth, was published by Mr. Acker- mann in 1816, which these continue.
Vol. XIII. No. LXXIII.
which the buildings are devoted, the demands they make upon the notice of the public and of stran- gers, and rejecting the severities of fastidious criticism, may point out the defective parts, without de- tracting from the claims to respect, as a whole, which every meritori- ous edifice ought to command.
In a work of architecture, as in a picture, even in the most perfect, many points will remain liable to censure, or at least to the wish that they had been performed other- wise ; but provided such faults, if they must necessarily be so, are few and small in proportion to the more prominent beauties, surely the artist's work should be permit- ted the reputation readily afforded to it by the voice of science, unal- loyed by the censures of invidious criticism. But to too many who take upon themselves to judge of architecture, there is a charm in the language of censure, an irre- sistible delight in an assumed su- periority of judgment, a gratifica- B
SELECT VlliWS OF LONDON.
tion arising from the system which seeks to level all talent down to one common standard ; so that amidst " the cavil of a thousand tongues," we should rather wonder at so much forbearance, than that it is so little exercised.
Every one, said a shrewd observer of mankind, is bom an architect; all architectural accomplishments are intuitive; and unfortunately for the students in that art, their capa- cit}7 to practise it well is in the in- verse ratio of the quantity of their studies. Hence we see the boldest of its critics are those who have learned the least about the matter. Such critics, continued the satirist, write much, assume more, and cen- sure most; but whenever they ven- ture to suggest a substitution for that part which they condemn, they betray the imposture.
"I would have thebuilding," wrote one of these intuitive geniuses, who, by the bye, had already denied the justly celebrated James Wy- att all knowledge of the principles of his art — " I would have it like a pure Grecian temple, with eight columns to the portico, forming twelvecolumns on thesides." Now unfortunately this first step of his architectural career was a false one; for it seems, the ancients, wishing to give a peculiar dignity to the portico, endeavoured to prevent the peristyle from demonstrating a centre, always making its co- lumns odd in number, thereby in part preventing a conflict with the grandeurof the portico; the great- er number of pillars and real mag- nitude of the peristyle might else have encountered it with advan- tage.
This was perhaps a part of the
architectural philosophy of the an- cients (if the modern philosopher could have found it out), and which they employed still further, both as it related to effect, and to the relative proportions of the edifice.
The remains of the Parthenon have eight columns to the portico, presenting seventeen on the sides; in the cell of the building, eleven.
In the temple of Jupiter Olym- pius, ten to the portico, and twenty- one as the peristyle. The temple of Ilissus has no peristyle, but its proportion is formed by the space that would have engaged nine pil- lars.
Without such research, Vitru- vius orPalladio would haveinform- ed the critic, that Grecian temples usually presented six columns to the portico, and eleven to either side, including those of the por- tico itself.
In truth, if candour be not ex- ercised, there are few buildings in any country that would escape some censure; and it may be well expected that many cannot merit the highest eulogy in our metro- polis at least, when the great va- lue of ground whereon to build, and its consequent limitation, eco- nomy, and too often parsimony, adverse fancy, acts of parliament, and the terrors of invidious cri- ticism, are mighty obstacles in the artist's way towards the perfection of his works.
The subject of the annexed en- graving is a view at the top of Re- gent-street, looking westward, tak- en at a short distance from the en- trance of the Quadrant, and pre- sents one of the most novel fea- tures of the improvements now in progress. The concave and convex
SliLKCT VIEWS OF LONDON.
curves of so great radii, continued to such distance, cannot but im- press the mind with a sense of magnificence ; foritrecojjnisesboth but as parts of a grand whole, which the imagination readily attempts to complete, and it as willingly re- ceives the illusion. The continu- ity maintained by the pillars adds to the effect; find all the horizon- tal lines departing from the eye of the spectator without an index of their termination (for the fore- ground buildings forbid him to be- lieve they continue the circle to its return), leaves every mind to suggest its progress, which will as certainly accord with the first ex- cited impression. The baldness of the upper edifice and cornice is, however, a subtraction from its merits.
The colonnades form ample shel- ter and delightful terraces; be- neath are shops suited to various employments, and each house is arranged with apartments distinct from those in the occupation of the family, by the disposal of which the great rentals may be the more readily defrayed.
The prominent building of this view is the County Fire-Office, a work highly creditable to every party engaged in its erection. To the members, for their spirit and liberality; to the managing direc- tor, Mr. Barber Beaumont, for his zeal, arrangements, taste, and ener- gy ; to Mr. Abraham, the architect of this building, for his designs, which have obtained the well-me- rited applause of the public as far as regards its exterior, and the ap- probation of the members for its ad- mirable distribution and extensive accommodation amidst the diffi-
culties presented by an irregular form of ground, and (for a build- ing devoted to such purposes) of so limited an area. The builders, Messrs. Bird and Herbert, have full claim to participate in the general approbation, as the works are said to have been abl}' and satisfacto- rily executed under a contract of 8900/.
The south elevation is imme- diately before the centre of Re- gent-street, and opposite to Carl- ton - House, from which, in con- nection with the buildings forming the vista, it has an imposing effect, particularly when the sun at the south-west spreads a glow over its surface, and marks its projections by well -arranged shadows.
The facade is of the Corinthian order, modelled from the example afforded by the pillars of the sub- lime portico of the Pantheon at Rome : the capitals are, however, the least happily executed of thewhole, and the arcade is rather French than Roman in its detail ; but the contour, the simplicity, the propor- tion, and fitness of the facade, strike every scientific mind, and enable it to maintain its well-de- served reputation, amidst a host of competing edifices in its neigh- bourhood. The building is sur- mounted by a sitting colossal statue of Britannia, in artificial stone, ex- ecuted by Mr. Bubb, behind which is an observatory, the important usefulness of which is its apology for some intrusion: hence a pano- ramic view over great part of Lon- don, and its surrounding villages, is obtained, yielding information as to the site at which a fire has commenced, and enabling the ma- naging director accurately to for- B 2
ASTONISHING INSTANCE OP SAltLY PItOPIClLKCY.
ward the engines, to which the rear of the building affords a station.
This establishment contains al- so, and under the same director, the Provident Life Assurance and Annuity Office, planned and car- ried into effect by Mr. Barber Beaumont, in the spring of 1800. The County Fire-Officewas found- ed by him in 1807, and the busi- ness carried on in Southampton-
street, Strand, until the present building was prepared, in Novem- ber 1819.
The system of both are admir- ably designed; and a statement late- ly published, shews, that in the business of the County Fire-Office alone, the increase of the yearly duty paid for 1820, above that of 1817, was no less than 8471/. 19s. llri. — this speaks volumes.
MISCELLANIES.
ASTONISHING INSTANCE We have heard within the last twenty or thirty years of many examples of precocious talent, but of none at all approaching the fol- lowing, copied from the MS. Jour- nal of John Evelyn, the well-known author of Sylva.
" 27th January, 1689, I dined at the Admiralty, where was brought in a child not twelve years old, the son of one Dr. Clench, of the most prodigious maturity of knowledge, for I cannot call it altogether me- mory, but something more extra- ordinary. Mr. Pepys and myself examined him, not in any method, but with promiscuous questions, which required judgment and dis- cernment to answer so readily and pertinently. There was not any thing in chronology, history, geo- graphy, the several systems of as- tronomy, courses of the stars, lon- gitude, latitude, doctrine of the spheres, courses and sources of rivers, creeks, harbours, eminent cities, bearings and boundaries of countries, not only in Europe, but in any other part of the earth, which he did not readily resolve
OF EARLY PROFICIENCY, and demonstrate his knowledge of, readily drawing out with a pen any thing he would describe. He was able not only to repeat the most famous things which are left us in any of the Greek or Roman histories, monarchies, republics, wars, colonies, exploits by sea and land, but all the sacred stories of the Old and New Testament, the succession of all the monarchies, Babylonian, Persian, Greek, Ro- man, with all the lower emperors, popes, heresiarchs, and councils, what they were called about, what they determined, or in the contro- versy about Easter, the tenets of the Gnostics, Sabellians, Arians, and Nestorians ; the difference be- tween St. Cyprian and Stephen about rebaptization ; the schisms. We leapt from that to other things totally different, to Olympic years and synochronisms; we asked him questions which could not be re- solved without considerable medi- tation and judgment, nay, of some particulars of the civil laws, of the digest and code. He gave a stu- pendous account of both natural
ASTONISHING INSTANC!'. OF JiAHLY PROFICIENCY.
and moral philosophy, and even in metaphysics. Having thus ex- hausted ourselves, rather than this wonderful child, or angel rather, for he was as beautiful and lovely in countenance as in knowledge; we concluded with asking him, if in all he had read, or heard of, he had ever met with any thing which was like the expedition of the Prince of Orange, with so small a force to obtain three great king- doms without any contest. After a little thought, he told us that he knew of nothing which did more resemble it than the coming of Constantine the Great out of Great Britain, through France and Italy, so tedious a march to meet Max- entius, whom he overthrew at Pons Milonis with very little con- flict, and at the very gates of Rome, which he entered, and was receiv- ed with triumph, and obtained the empire, notof three kingdoms only, but of all the then known world. He was perfect in the Latin au- thors, spoke French naturally, and gave us a description of France, Italy, Savoy, Spain, anciently and modernly divided; as also of an- cient Greece, Scythia, and north- ern countries and tracts: we left questioning further. He did this without an}' set or formal repeti- tions, as one who had learned things without book, but as if he minded other things, going about the room, and toying with a par- rot there, and as he was at dinner (tanquam aliud ageits as it were) seeming to be full of play, of a lively sprightly temper, always smiling, and exceedingly pleasant, without the least levity, rudeness, or childishness. His father assured us he never imposed any thing to
charge his memory, by causing him to get things by heart, not even the rules of grammar; but his tutor, who was a Frenchman, read to him, first in French, then in Latin; that he usually played among other boys four or five hours every day, and that he was as earnest at his play as at his study. He was perfect in arithmetic, and now newly entered into Greek. In sum, I had heard of divers for- ward and precoce youths, and some I have known, but I never did ei- ther hear or read of any thing like to this sweet child, if it be right to call him child, who has more knowledge than most men in the world. I counselled his father not to set his heart too much upon this jewel, immodicis brevis est at as et vara senectus, as I myself learned by sad experience in my most dear child Richard, many years since, who, dying before he was six years old, was, both in shape and coun- tenance, and pregnancy of learn- ing, next to a prodigy."
What became of the son of Dr. Clench we are not informed ; but the father was not long afterwards murdered in a hackney- coach. The assassin, a man of the name of Harrison, was taken and hanged. This fact is elsewhere thus related by Evelyn : " January 8, 1692. This week a most execrable mur- der was committed on Dr. Clench, father of that extraordinary learn- ed child whom I have before no- ticed. Under pretence of carry- ing him in a coach to see a patient, they strangled him in it, and send- ing awa}- the coachman under some pretence, they left his dead body in the coach, and escaped in the dusk of the evening."
f)
WHO WOULD BE AN OLD BACHELOR?
Tom Tardy began life with a good person, a tolerable property, and a large share of self-conceit. He had so high an opinion of his own deserts, that he fancied any woman on whom he bestowed his hand ought to think herself the most fortunate of beings; and he determined not to be in a hurry to marry, but to wait till he found a woman perfectly beautiful and ac- complished, and with a fortune equal at least, if not superior to his own.
In vain did his mother, a worthy and sensible matron, laugh at the picture he frequently drew of his future sposa, and tell him, that if lie did not abate something of his pretensions, the chances were a hundred to one, that he would die an old bachelor. Tardy generally listened to the good lady's ha- rangues with a smile of mingled incredulity and contempt, and usu- ally replied, by begging that she would not make herself uneasy on his account, as he had no doubt of finding a wife whenever he chose to submit to the matrimonial yoke.
A neighbour of Tardy's had a daughter, a lively and good-natur- ed girl, some years younger than Tom. They had lived together from her childhood in the closest intimacy, and she had become im- perceptibly attached to him. The attachment was, however, a secret to herself, till a proposal of marri- age, which her father was very pressing with her to accept, open- ed her eyes to the state of her heart : the vehemence with which she per- sisted in refusing this offer, and her tears and blushes when interrogat-
ed as to her reasons, gave her fa- ther suspicion of the cause. He watched her behaviour when she was iii Tardy's company, and he soon became convinced that his sus- picions were just. The discovery did not displease him ; Tardy's for- tune was indeed inferior to his own, but in other respects it would be a suitable match, and he frankly offered Tom the young lady's hand.
This proposal threw our hero in- to wonderful perplexity: the girl was pretty, amiable, and sensible; he had also that kind of attachment to her which old-fashioned people would pronounce likely to render the married state happier than violent passion, but still she was not that all-perfect being which he had determined the future Mrs. Tardy should be : so, after a strug- gle between natural feelings and absurd pride, he declined the pro- posal.
This circumstance considerably increased Tardy's importance in his own opinion ; he now began to fancy himself a complete Adonis, and to look with an eye of compas- sion on those unfortunate fair- ones whom chance exposed to the fire of his eyes. He descanted upon beauty with the air of aconnoisseur, regarded young ladies with a smile of protection, and where he was forced to pay attention, did it with the air of a man whose notice srives consequence. He made it a boast that no charms could blind his judg- ment; and whenever he heard a lady's face or figure extolled, he was always the first to discover what she wanted to make her perfectly beautiful.
WHO WOULD BK AN OLD BACHELOR ?
In this manner, year after year rolled away, and still Tardy did not find the peerless she who was to transform him into a Benedict. In the mean time, he began to meet with mortifications; girls whom he had known in frocks grew up into women, and so far from treating him with all that de- ference which he deserved, they had the impertinence to turn him into ridicule. The belles of his earlier days, who knew how to set a proper value upon his civilities, were ei- ther married or had become old maids. The male friends with whom he used to lounge away his mornings were settled into sober family men, who sometimes hinted to Tardy, that they thought he was in danger of becoming an old ba- chelor ; a hint which he always answered by declaring, that at thir- ty-nine a man has still plenty of time to choose a wife, and for his part, he was determined not to hurry himself.
Just before he attained his for- tieth 3'ear, he was attacked with a nervous fever, and as he had lost his mother some years before, he felt the want of female care and tenderness during the Ions: con- finement which his illness occa- sioned, so forcibly, that when he recovered he resumed his pursuit with more earnestness than he ever felt before ; and he soon determin- ed upon addressing the young and beautiful Celia, in whom bethought he had at last found the vara avis he had been so long in search of. But as he was now known to be a noted dangler, the fair Celia made use of him without scrnple to cover an amour which she was secretly carrying on with a handsome young
officer, with whom she eloped at the very moment that Tardy thought himself sure of her.
This disappointment was gall and wormwood to the pride of poor Tardy ; his acquaintance ridiculed him unmercifully, and he deter- mined to be revenged, by shewing them how easily he could get a a handsome wife when he chose to set in earnest about it: but some- how he did not find it such an easy matter; he was not dashingenouoh for the fashionable Miss Flutter, nor sufficiently clever for the young- widow Bon-mot, and his fortune was too small for the prudent Miss Matchwell. In short, to his asto- nishment and chagrin, he found, that although he lowered his pre- tensions, there still seemed very little chance of his getting a wife.
Tardy at last prudently deter- mined to besatisfied with a sensible and amiable woman, even though she was neither rich nor handsome; but he was now turned of fortv- five, he looked older, and lie had acquired besides certain habits ra- ther inimical to domestic comfort, and which are usually considered as the decided characteristics of an old bachelor. These peculiarities made him laughed at by young la- dies, who regarded him as an old quiz, and dreaded by staid middle- aged ones, who feared that he would turn out a tyrant. Enraged at his various disappointments, he has now, at fifty - five, forsworn matrimony, and boasts of the per- fect freedouvhe enjoys, while in re- ality he is a slave to his house- keeper, and of his happy exemp- tion from domestic cares, though he is incessantly squabbling with his servants for cheating him. In
'o
1HOLDO AND PKASILDO.
short, his abuse of the holy state jj py couple, his countenance says puts one in mind of the fable of the :| plainly enough, " Oh ! who would fox and the grapes; for, whenever you see him in company with a hap-
be an old bachelor?"
IROLDO AND PRAS1LDO.— Part II.
(Translated from Boiahoo's " Orlando Innamorato" )
When his stran ge tale the messen ger had said, At her young heart Tisbina felt a frost.
She threw herself dismay'd upon her bed, In agony inconsolable lost:
" What have I done ?" she cried, while tears she shed, Her mind upon a sea of troubles tost;
" Ah ! wretched me, my woes all hope defy,
Nor death itself can remedy supply!
" To kill myself my plighted faith would break,
I may not thus such generous zeal deceive. How idly, madly do they think and speak,
Who say love cannot every thing achieve ! All heav'n and earth compar'd with him are weak ;
He tramples upon all — in vain they grieve. Trasildo is return'd, but till this hour Who had believ'd in mortal man such pow'r ?
" Wretched Iroldo, what becomes of thee
When thou hast lost thine own Tisbina dear ? Thou bade me venture on this dangerous sea, And of our fondest hopes made shipwreck here. Yet in the scheme did my consent agree, And mine the tongue that promis'd with- out fear. Ah ! wretched tongue, why from me wer't
not torn, Ere that dire promise, which I now must mourn?"
Iroldo overheard the jad lament
Of his Tisbina, weeping in despair; He overheard her bitterly repent
All she had done to ease Prasildo's care : Speechless with grief, he rush'd incontinent Into the chamber, and embrac'd her there: Thus breast to breast they stood, while sense
and speech Approaching death appear'd to take from each.
They seem'd like melting ice beneath the sun, So fast the tears cours'd down each pallid cheek.
At last his voice return'd, and one by one These words Iroldo faintly strove to speak :
" None other suffering, other anguish none, Is half so bitter as to see thee, meek
And gentle as thou art, in grief and pain At the deep sorrows I have to sustain. " But well thou know'st, belov'd and lovely soul, By the clear reason in thyself possess'd, That love and jealousy at once controul And reign triumphant in the selfsame breast. Of this misfortune I have wrought the whole, With me Ihe suffering then alone should rest; 'Twas mine alone that promise to persuade, By me alone its consequence be paid.
" I should alone the punishment endure, If now thy plighted faith I caus'd thee break : But I entreat by all th}- beauty pure,
By that true love I cherish'd for thy sake, Perform thy promise, and preserve it sure,
And let Prasildo the rich guerdon take Of all his perils aud his labours past, By you impos'd, by him achiev'd at last. " Delay it but until Iroldo's dead,
For this sad day his utmost date shall be; Whate'er I suffer, let it not be said
That I that latest bitterest grief could see ' Oh ! let me know until ray soul be fled,
That lovely face was lovely but for me ! E'en then methinks, when life's last strug- gle's o'er, To know thee his would make me die once
more." And longer had he his lament pursued,
But that his failing voice refus'd its part ; Grief-struck, devoid of sight and sense he stood, As from his breast were torn his living heart. Nor less their hopeless lot Tisbina rued, Whose face bespoke her bosom's bitter smart. At length, as from a trance she seem'd to
wake, And thus with trembling, falt'ring tongue be- spake: " And deem'st thou me so ingrate as to live, When from thy side belov'd by death I'm torn ? Where is the love from me thou didst receive;
IHOLDO AND 1'KASILDO.
0
Or where that love by which thou oft hast sworn, That if great God another heav'n would give,
Without me it were dismal and forlorn ? Yet now desirest thou to die alone, And I survive, in life and death thine own.
" No, I am thine while vital breath is left, And thine no less will I in deatli remain ; Immortal love can ne'er by death be reft, Nor sweet remembrance from the soul be ta'en ! When death's cold dart Iroldo's heart has cleft, Think'st thou I could endure the cruel stain, That I surviv'd to be another's wife, And thus to death preferr'd dishonour'd life ?
** Still shall my latest moment be delay'd Only until my promise 1 complete,
That fatal contract which Prasildo made, Then by this hand my wish'd-for death I'll meet.
Our souls united shall death's realms invade, Our bodies in one grave, one winding- sheet :
By this embrace, and by this failing breath,
We liv'd one life, so let us die one death.
" I know a drug of subtle gentleness,
A poison wrought by art and temper'd mild ; B}' this our spirits shall wax less and less,
And finish in five hours our sorrows wild. MeanwhilePrasildo's promis'd hope I'll bless, Nor with vows' breach my memory be re- vil'd ; Then welcome death shall hide us in his
shade, And end the woe our sad delusion made."
Thus they resolv'd a willing death to seek, And truest faith in bitterest woe appears.
One 'gainst the other laid the pallid cheek, And more than ever flow'd their gushing tears ;
Each strove in vain a sad farewell to speak, As if this fond embrace must last for years :
At length Tisbina on the poison thought,
By an old leech with skilful labour wrought.
He sent the cup of gentle power but sure, By her own messenger, at her request :
Iroldo look'd on it with spirit pure,
And said, " Thy office, fatal cup, is blest;
Of wretched souls, the only hope and cure ! Fortune no more my life shall e'er molest;
Thus and thus only is her pow'r defied,
And thus we triumph o'er her tyrant pride."
When he had druken half the cup contain'd Of poisonous juice, securely, willingly,
Vol XII I. No. LXXJII.
With trembling hand he proffer'd what re- main'd, Not trembling basely that he fear'd to die, But that Tisbina's fate he inly plain'd.
Then turning from her face his tearful eye, He bent on earth an agonizing look, And seem'd to die while the dread cup she took.
Not from the poison, but from grief acute, That he the means of death to her should lend,
She with a heart, though timid, resolute, Receiv'd the cup Iroldo's hands extend;
And blaming fortune that could thus trans- mute Their joys and love to such disastrous end,
She took the venom to her inmost soul,
And draiu'd the latest drop within the bowl.
Iroldo hid his face from that dread sight — How could he look upon that horrid deed
Which gave to certain death his best delight? Tisbina's heart afresh began to bleed,
To find how slowly came death's welcome night, And that so hard a task must still succeed.
The fatal promise she must yet fulfil
Doubled each grief, augmented every ill.
To keep her faith she could not now postpone, And went to where Prasildo did reside.
She pray'd to speak with him, and him alone, For it was day, and she accompanied.
When her request was to the baron known, He scarce believ'd his senses, but he hied
With speed to meet her with all honours due,
But so confounded, what he did scarce knew.
But when they reach'd alone the secretplace, He used all efforts to revive her cheer :
With tender words, soft voice, and courteous grace, In vain he strove to cause a smile appear
Upon the features of her tearful face.
He little dreamt Tisbina's death was near ;
He little thought the tale with which the came,
But held her tears the signs of maiden shame.
With fondest earnestness the knight conjur'd, By every thing on earth that she lov'd best, To tell whence came the grief she now en- dur'd, And why such woe her flowing eyes ex- press'd. With all love's zeal the lady he assur'd, That to die for her he should hold most bless'd: And thus he fore'd from her the dreadful word, Which, when pronoune'd, he wish'd he ne'er had heard.
c
10
1HOI.DO AND PKASIt.DO.
Tisbinatlnis replied : " The love, sir knight, That by such toil and peril you obtain'd,
Is now within your power, and yours by right: For four hours only can it be retain'd.
Then must I yield to death's resistless might; Life can no longer please when honour's stain'd :
I quit the world with one of lore most true,
But first I come to keep my faith to you.
" Had it but been my fate in happier time To know thy bosom felt for mc love's pain,
I should have held it a discourteous crime Not to have met that love with love again.
It was forbidden by the powers sublime, And but one object can the heart contain :
But though on thee I could not love bestow,
I ever folt compassion for thy woe.
" Compassion for thy loving wretched state Has now o'erwhelm'd me with this woeful flood: 'Twas that which mov'd my hapless tongue when late I heard thee deeply moaning in the wood. What then I felt now hurries on my fate, And hastens death, that cannot be with- stood." She told him then, with sobs and failing breath, She and Iroldo both had taken death.
Hcartstruck with grief to hear this dreadful tale,
Trasildo stood in anguish of distress, Speechless with horror, motionless, and pale :
He saw the source of hoped-for happiness At once destroy'd, and certain death assail
Her whom he lov'd with life's devotedness. He look'd upon that face on which depended Alone his life, as if but now 'twere ended.
" It pleas'd not thee, Tisbina, nor high Heav'n,
To put to trial all I could endure," Prasildo said; " and therefore love has driven
To this extreme of woe a passion pure. That to two lovers death at once be given,
There want not in the world examples sure; But here three wretched lovers death invades,
And joins together in th' infernal shades.
" Why didst not trust the love my spring that blighted ? And wherefore not thy promise given recall, Bather than thus preserve the faith thou plighted ? Ah ! cruel maid, this proof, more hard than all, Might have been spar'd, nor thus my pas- sion slighted. If I must die, must death on thee too fall ?
Why might not I alone resign my breath, Not doubly die in witnessing thy death?
" Ah ! wert thou so offended by my love, That to fly me thy death thou would'st embrace?
Heav'n knows how often, but in vain, I strove To conquer love, and all thy charms efface.
Though in the wood compassion might thee move To linger out my days some little space,
Yet what compell'd to this extremity,
That if I fall thou too must also die ?
" Thy favour only have I hop'd so long, Thy pleasure will I seek, have ever sought,
Of my whole life the lasting purpose strong, To gain thy lore, with zealous service bought;
If ought else thou belicv'st, thou dost me wrong, And even now by latest proof be taught :
Thy late-repented row I here release,
I am content if thus thy troubles cease."
Tisbina heard what from Prasildo came, And with compassion touch'd, thus made reply :
" So conquer'd am I by thy generous flame, That for thee only would I wish to die:
Would that our fate perverse we might not blame; But death already clouds my heary eye :
Yet e'en that bitter fate is now more sweet,
For now, methinks, I could it calmly meet.''
Prasildo's frame with fiercest anguish shook, Though of his own sad end he felt no fear,
But was so lost, so dead in mind and look, Her pitying words fell seuselcss in his ear.
One only kiss of her pale lips he took,
Then left her, shedding many a bootless tear ;
He tore him from a sight his grief that fed,
And cast himself despairing on his bed.
Dying Tisbina then return'd again
To where Iroldo lay with face conccal'd ;
She made Prasildo's generous passion plain, And the sole kiss, of agonj' re.vcalM.
Iroldo started up whence he had lain,
And witli clasp'd hands and upcaat eyes appcal'd
To highest Heaven on his bended knees,
That in its grace and mercy it would please,
The guerdon for Prasildo to prepare
Of love so pure, and in its care him keep.
But while he thus address'd his fervcut prayer, Tisbina sunk, and seem'd as though asleep ;
IROLDO AND PKASILDO.
li
As if the poison o'er her person fair
Had greater power, and did more quickly creep Through all her feebler frame : a tender heart To passion soonest yields, and mortal smart.
There seem'd a frost within Iroldo's eyes, When he beheld Tisbina's senses fled ;
A filmy veil before him seem'd to rise:
TisbinalookM as though asleep, not dead.
Then he aecus'dtlie sun, the stars, the skies, That thus had heap'd new misery on his head :
Fortune he curs'd, and lore, his cruel foe,
Who by hii death would never end his woe.
Iroldo in his passion now we leave,
To look upon that other hapless knight,
Prasildo, who in chamber close did grieve, And thug bespake in anguish and despite :
" Did fortune e'er btjfore so foul deceive ? Or did the world e'er see so wretched wight ?
For if the lady I would now pursue,
Ere long my certain death I suffer toi.
" Thus a new triumph will that archer gain, Whom love 1 will not call, but deadly hate :
But take delight in all my bitter pain, And on my woes awhile luxuriate,
The time shall come thy transports to restrain, I never can endure a harder fate :
The paius of hell itself I could def)r,
And think them less than thy false tyranny."
While he gave utterance as his grief inspired, Behold with speed arriv'd an ancient leech:
To see the Lord Prasildo he required ;
None to the chamber dar'd the way to teach.
But the old man, by urgent business fired, Insitted that Prasildo grant him speech.
" If you refuse me entrance now," he said,
" Your noble lord will ere 'tis night be dead."
The chamberlain who beard this fearful news, Took courage to break in upon his lord;
For he another key did often use,
Which, when he wish'd, an entrance would afford.
He begg'd Prasildo he would not refuse To let the old man speak a single word ;
And after much entreaty, the sad knight
Allow'd the leech to come before his sight.
The oldman thus began: "Greatsignordear, To whom my love and service have been paid,
I have much reason to suspect and fear, Lest now thou shouldst be cruelly betray M :
Where love and jealousy and scorn appear, And passion that can never be allay'd,
That rarely can submit to reason's will,
They oft impel to the cxtrcmest ill.
" Thus do I say, because this very mom A secret poison was from me procur'd, And by a servant to Tisbina borne:
But a short time before I was assur'd
Your breast for her had rankled with love's
thorn ;
Then gucss'd I why the poison was sccur'd,
And hasted here, by anxious fears oppress'd,
1 To shew the deadly flame that lires her breast.
i " Yet no suspicion need'st thou entertain; lu truth I gave no draught of pois'nous powers, Tor if this subtle potion thou hast ta'en, It will but cause thee sleep for five short hours: Thus will her deadly malice prove in vain :
Would it might always in this world of ours, For in this age, it is a truth most sad, For one good woman there are hundreds bad."
When good Prasildo heard this welcome tale, It seem'd his dead heart to reanimate :
As the rude rain beats down the violet pale, And offers insult to the rose's state;
Bat when the sunshine gladdens hill and dale, Their hues return, they lift their heads elate :
Thus at the news Prasildo felt delight,
And his glad heart shone through hia features bright.
With thanks and guerdon the old leech he crown'd,
Then to the dwelling of Tisbina hied, . Where brave Iroldo desperate he found,
And told the fact that could not be denied. Then flow'd his gratitude above all bound ;
Though loving more than life or aught be- side, Iroldo own'd Prasildo's higher claim, Her the reward of his most generous flame.
Iroldo's claim Prasildo still defended, But hardly could his rival's will deny ;
One with the other strenuously contended Which should exceed in gracious courtesy:
Iroldo firmly stood, and soon he ended The noble strife, the loving enmity ;
He left Prasildo with the lovely dame,
And flying from them, thus he overcame.
He left great Babylon, again alive
Never within its wide walls to return. Soon as Tisbina did from sleep revive,
All things from first to last they caus'd her learn : Though grief at first did her of sense deprive,
And still her heart did for Iroldo yearn; But when she found he ne'er could be re-
gain'd, She took the remedy that yet rcmain'd. C 2
12
THE SHORT STAGE, OR RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ROAD Mr. Editor,
I am arrived at that time of life which others call oldish, a word that signifies a degree or two younger than old: I call myself middle-aged, or to speak more de- finitely, I am just fifty-seven. I live out of town, I cannot exactly say in the country, because it is only four miles from London; but still I imagine that I breathe air a little more pure and wholesome than when I used to live in Phil- pot-lane, Cannon-street. Still my business (for I am in trade) calls me to London generally twice or three times a week, and as I keep no vehicle of any kind, and do not like to venture on horseback, I al- ways travel by what is called a short stage. I do not know whe- ther your readers will understand what I mean by a short stage, though the term is very applicable, for it is a public conveyance drawn by only two horses, and going only a short distance from London : such are those to Highgate, Pad- dington, Hammersmiih, Camber- well, and a thousand others. Many people, especially ladies, are fond of talking on such occasions ; but I am always remarkably silent, and take all possible pains not to be drawn into conversation, even if there be no other passengers but myself and one companion, whe- ther male or female. The coach is, however, generally full, and as my hour for going to London is not that of ordinary men of busi- ness, I have the good fortune of not commonly meeting day after day with the same set of persons, with the same faces, the same ha-
bits, and the same modes of think- ing and speaking. This, by the bye, I hold to be one of the great- est nuisances to which a man of my sort can be exposed.
A very pleasant variety, however, always accompanies me in the stage to London; indeed, so great, that I shall not attempt to describe it in the outset, as (provided you think what I write worth inserting) I shall have occasion to give some- thing of their characters hereafter. Of course, I see a great deal of real life and manners, and as the people who pay their fares are ge- nerally a little above the world in circumstances, I have an opportu- nity of seeing how much above or below it they are in knowledge, opinions, and prejudices. It oc- curred to me not long since that what I see and hear might frequent- ly be useful and entertaining to my contemporaries, and as I have a good deal of leisure in the even- ing, I have been in the habit of late of putting down what passed, or what presented itself to me, up- on these occasions. I inclose there- fore a few short extracts from my memorandum-book, and if I find them in your next Number, I will follow them by other specimens of the same kind.
I cannot very conveniently give you my name and address, because that would lead to the discovery of what stage I goby, and every body who knew me and saw me in it would be afraid of placing them- selves in my company.
" A chiel's amang ye taking notes," would be the general cry, and in- stead of being a benefit to Mr. ,
THK SI1QHT stag::.
13
the owner of the coach, as at pre- sent, I might really do him and his concern a serious injury. I shall therefore only subscribe myself yours, &c. Q in a Comer.
Kow,
Nov. 23, 1821.
In the following quotations from ni}' memoranda, you will perceive that I have begun with the first day of this month, but as there are many days when nothing at all oc- curs worthy of observation, there are large intervals between the dates.
Nov. I. There were four of us in the coach this day, viz. a vene- rable-looking man in black, who I afterwards found was a clergy- man; a single lady of about forty- five, and a gajr young gentleman of about three or four and twenty. As it was the 1st of November, the month in which self-murder is said to be most frequently committed in this country, the conversation turned upon suicide. It was agreed that it was a calumny of the French to assert, that men and women more frequently destroyed them- selves in England than elsewhere; and the clergyman referred to a comparative statement he had seen of the number of suicides commit- ted in England and France in the year 1820. Hence it appeared, that in November fewer persons were found guilty ofjelo de se than in any other month of the year in both countries. The whole balance wasdecidedly in favour of England. The maiden lady (who, by the way, sat opposite to the young gentleman, and had taken care to pull off her left-hand glove more than once — (N.B. she was by no
means forbidding or ill-tempered
in her appearance) — observed, that
love in this kingdom was the great
source of self-murder: she thought
o
that coroner's juries in such cases ought never to bring it in felo de se, for it was clearly insanity. Love was nothing but madness.
Her opposite neighbour, who, it seemed, had just returned from the Continent, said, that gaming in France was considered to produce more deaths in this way than all the other vices.
" Including love ?" inquired she.
"Yes, ifyou includelove among the vices." He added : " Gaming in France is carried to an incredible extent. While I was there, a month ago, a curious circumstance oc- curred in Paris. A gamester shot himself with his last louis-d'or, having crooked it so that it would gointothe mouth of a pistol. There is a depository there for self-mur- derers, and frequently two or three bodies are in it at a time."
The clergyman said, that a very curious case of the kind had come within his knowledge a very short time before, as it had fallen to his lot to bury the body, the inquest having found a verdict of insanity.
A young man of the name of J
had drowned himself in theThames: being an expert swimmer, he had fastened a heavy weight to his legs. His family owned much property
in the neighbourhood of H ,
but from some disappointment, aided probably by natural inclina- tion, he had got into such a habit of drinking, that he did not care with whom he associated, and his ordinary companions were the men who attend the stages at the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly. He
14
THK SHOUT STAW'S.
spent or threw away all the money with which he was supplied by his friends, and has been sometimes so reduced, that he has sent his coat, waistcoat, and even his shirt, one after the other, to a pawnbro- ker's, for the sake of procuring li- quor. His relationshave frequent- ly taken him out of bed, whither the landlord had conveyed him naked, but would not allow him to be seen until all the poor wretch owed him had been paid. At times
J would appear very penitent,
and would refrain for some days, and in one of these fits of despon- dency he put an end to himself.
Nov. 7. A talkative gentleman, an apothecary in my neighbour- hood— (he does not attend me) — told us two anecdotes of Sheridan, which, if not true, are very like truth, and as I have not seen them related in an}' life of that great orator, humourist, and half-swin- dler, I will set them down. She- ridan owed a coal-merchant of the name of Mitchell (whose son is now one of the officers of the House of Commons) a heavy bill, for which he had been frequently dunned both by principal and agent. One day Mr. Mitchell call- ed, and by dint of persuasion and importunity got past the porter, who generally knew his duty bet- ter. He met Sheridan (who had heard a bustle) coming out of the drawing-room with his hat on. " Ah ! Mitchell, my dear fellow — (he always applied the term dear fellow to any man he most disliked, and whom he had made pa}r dearly for his acquaintance) — I am very glad to see you. You want mo- ney, so do I, but walk in, and for once you shall be satisfied."
Mitchell bowed his thanks, and was quickly satisfied — that he was not to be paid ; for Sheridan, as soon as his creditor was within the room, turned the key upon him on the outside, and left the house im- mediately. This was a trick he might have applied upon the stage. The second anecdote was not so good : it related to a hatter in Ta- vistock-street of the name of P — , from whom Sheridan had had ma- ny hats without paying for one of them. Entering the shop one day in a shabby hat, he took up one displayed in the window as a spe- cimen of the maker'sstyie and skill.
" I want a hat, P ; this fits me
to a nicety." — " And I want the money for the five last you have had," replied the tradesman — "Ve- ry true, my dear fellow; what you say is quite just, and the money you shall have. But I want a hat directly." — " And I the money." — " By Heaven, you cannot want money so much as I do, but you ought to be paid." — " But when?" asked P .
" When honest men are rich men, And bailifl's cease to twitch men,"
cried Sheridan, and walked off with the new hat, leaving the old one as security.
Nov. 12. The only passengers who talked in the coach on going home this afternoon, were too persons who had been attending the sale of the last property of a decayed family. They spoke with great sa- tisfaction of the excellent bargains they had made. " I would have given another hundred for the lease of that house," said one. — " Yes," replied the other, " it was very lucky they were obliged to sell in the dead of the year, when there
WHO IS INDKI'KNDKNT?
15
is little competition." — " They must have lost several thousand pounds by it," answered his friend : " but we should not have got off so well, if we had not agreed not to bid against each other." They talked about nothing but their money affairs all the way, and though in an unamiable spirit, 1 for- gave them, recollecting how much of life in these times must be em- ployed in getting and spending.
Nov. 18. One of our passen- gers, a middle-aged lady, not very well educated, had had a brother die in an apoplectic fit a day or two before, and she was in her way to make some arrangements for the funeral. She told the story of the misfortune to every person present separately, beginning always with a sigh: "I suppose you have heard of our misfortune." If the answer were " Yes, I have," it did not pre- vent her from relating all the par- ticulars with painful exactness and minuteness. Lord Bacon, in his Essays, as I remember, sa3's, " that to relate your griefs to a friend cuts them into halves." She cut hers into quarters, for she related them to three passengers, and even to the coachman, with the same preface: " I suppose you have heard of our misfortune."
A'ou. 21. A retired and infirm actor was very communicative this
morning. He remembered Garrick and Quin and Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Yates, and many more of the stars of his youth. His conversa- tion and the manner of it were very amusing, and carried us back with great liveliness to those " times gone by." Mrs. Garrick, still liv- ing, is said to have been strongly reminded of her husband by Kean ; but our loquacious friend was of a very different opinion ; he thought that no actor ever was or would be like Garrick. He told us many anecdotes of him and Quin, but I think I remember to have seen all of them in Davies's Life, but the following : Garrick, being very short and small, was to play Othello for the first time. Quin laughed at the project, and said, " I hope you will give the black boy a lea- kettle" To understand this, we should not forget that in those days black boys were usually kept in great families to bring in the hot water, and to perform little offices of that kind. A specimen of one and of his mode of dress is given in Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode. Our companion laid great stress on the force of Garrick's eye, but now our theatres are so large, that unless we sit in the two or three first rows of the pit, an actor might as well have no eyes at all.
WHO IS INDEPENDENT?
Maky persons in the world are but too apt to answer the above question in an off-hand way, ac- cording to their respectiveopinions of the value and usefulness of mo- ney, by saying that the man or wo-
five hundred, or one thousand pounds per annum, must needs be independent. Alas! what an error it is to say so ! Independence is perhaps the rarest thing on earth ; and the very poorest creatures are
man who possessed two hundred, frequently the most independent
16
WHO IS INDEPENDENT f
of any, at least they have the few- est artificial wants to gratify; and these wants often render man the most dependent on his inferiors. There are many men, and women too, who imagine themselves vastly independent, as the general idea goes, and yet would be perfectly miserable without their groom, coachman, footman, butler, cook, housemaid, &.c. tSic. ; for there is scarcely any end to artificial wants and luxuries. Surely then these people are not independent !
Again : the various manufactur- ers are all dependenton each other; indeed, the maker of any given ar- ticle, shoes for instance, is depend- ent on a variety of others for his materials; for in that article, if I mistake not, will be wanted the butcher, the tanner, the currier, the weaver, the spinner, the iron- worker, and the humble dealer in pegs and paste. I do not believe I have enumerated all even now, for I am no shoemaker, gentle reader, though you may perhaps think I am making cobbling work in this tri- fling essay. Surely then, and I have given but one instance, the mechanic and handicraftsman can- not be called independent.
I have shewn above that riches do not give independence, at least riches cannot relieve from ordinary wants, but most undoubtedly in- crease them: taking, therefore, riches only in a pecuniary point of view, how few indeed, of those who have large incomes, are at all independent! How many of them are known to be in the most miser- able and abject state of depend- ence on money-lenders, annuity lawyers, agents, stewards, and all
the train of harpies, who first pro- fess to relieve their wants, and then plunge them into deep, and often irremediable, misery ! Men of this sort are frequently driven from their country and their home for years, perhaps a whole life; and this is the result of gambling, dress, and all the numberless extrava- gancies that lead to fashionable wretchedness. Surely then of all others, rich men are the least inde- pendent; for, as respects money, we have heard of a man who was
" Passing rich with forty pounds a year."
Is an author independent ? Alas ! no. In his solitary chamber indeed, while meditating and penning his lucubrations, his ideas may soar above all sublunary matters; and at such a moment, he can look down with something like pity even on the kings and potentates of the earth : but let him descend to more earthly wants, let him feel the crav- ings of nature, in plain English, let him want his dinner, and he at once finds himself dependent — not only upon a capricious bookseller — but often upon a no less caprici- ous public ; and, if he is a drama- tic writer, upon a more capricious personage than either, the tyran- nic manager of a theatre — I had almost written winter theatre ; but, in the first place, that would have been something like a personality, and I have no particular meaning ; and in the next place, I am not quite sure if we have such a thing as a winter theatre left. Even a scribbler for a magazine, like my- self, is at the mercy of the good gentleman behind the curtain, Mr. Editor ; not that I have any reason to complain, and least of all of the
LIN IS WRITTEN 1JY A HUSBAND TO MIS WIFF.
17
Editor "of the Repository of Arts. Surely then an author is not an in- dependent man.
This idea might be carried much further, but enough has been said for the present: it is properly and wisely ordained by our great Crea- tor, that man should be mutually dependent on man — nay more, on beast. In this world
" Nothing is foreign ; pnrts relate to whole; One all-extending-, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; All serv'd, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; The chain holds on, and where it ends un- known." If there is any thing at all like independence fiere, it must be in the mind ; and that is as much at the command — nay more — of the recluse with his crust and his wa- ter, as it is of the nobleman with his millions; but I think we may fairly conclude, that, in the com- mon acceptation of the term, there is no such thing as independence on this side the grave, and beyond it who shall dare look? Indeed it would be a most miserable thing to be thoroughly independent, could a man be so. Independence must imply, that a man neither wants
help, nor will give it; for a man should hold himself quite aloof from the world who is really inde- pendent of it; and what number- less kindnesses and domestic cha- rities such a being would miss ! He would go about the world deeming every thing created for him, and he for nothing- but self.
" Has God, thou fool ! work'd solely for thy
good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy jittire, thy food ? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For hiin as kindly spread the flow'ry lawrU Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestrid e, Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer: The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all. " Know, Nature's children all divide her
care; The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. While man exclaims, > See all things for my
use,' — ' See man for mine!' replies a pamper'd
goose: And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one for all."
J. M. Lac FY.
LINES WRITTEN BY A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.
You'iie wrong, my Anna, to suggest That I, inconstant, have address'd,
Or love a fairer she : Would you with ease at once be cur'd Of all the pangs you've long endur'd,
Consult your glass, and see.
Then, if you fancy I can find
A fairer nymph, or one more kind,
You've reason for your fears : But, if impartial you will prove To your own beauty, and my love,
How groundless are yor.r tears !
If at diversions I by chance Receive or give an am'rous glance, I like but while I view
Vol. XIII. No. LXXIII.
Those objects, which in vain employ Mine eyes, that have no sense of joy But while they gaze on you.
With am'rous flight, the wanton bee Skips from flower to flower free,
And where each blossom blows : He slightly tastes of all he meets, But for his quintessence of sweets
He ravishes the rose.
Thus I my passions oft employ In chaste variety of joy;
From fair to fair I roam ; Perhaps, see twenty in a day : They are but visits which I pay,
My Anna is my heme.
D
IB
LIVES OF SPANISH POETS.
DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA.
dicta; per carmina sortes
Et vita> monstrata via est
Mendoza is one of the finest characters whose names have been handed down among the early po- ets of Spain. He is admired, not so much for the sweetness of his style, as for its chastity, its purity, and the fine manly and independ- ent spirit which breathes through the whole of his writings. His name is blended with the mass of poets who may be said to have swarmed in the poetical time of Charles V. and his son Philip; yet it deserves a most distinguished place among them, and few could compete with him as a wit, a scholar, or a poli- tician. The emperor well knew how to appreciate his talents, and the pages of history inform us of the high services he performed for his country at the Italian court. He is acknowledged to be the third classic poet of Spain, and its very first prose-writer. In his poetry there is a harshness, which, to the unaccustomed reader, is unplea- sant; but the spirited and lively descriptions thickly interspersed, prevent in a great measure his mo- notony from being so apparent. His prose is classically elegant, and combined with the wit and humour which sparkle in ever}7 page, is a profound knowledge of life and manners. This latter happy pow- er indeed forms one of the chief merits of his productions.
He was born at Granada in the commencement of the 16th centu- ry, but the precise period has not been ascertained. As he was sprung
from one of the most illustrious houses of Spain, he was destined to high dignities. His parents were Don Ignacio Lopez de Men- doza, Count of Tendilla and Mar- quis of Mondejar, and Dona Fran- cisca Pacheco, daughter of the Marquis de Villena. He received an education to fit him for eccle- siastical duties, and was afterwards sent to the university of Salaman- ca. Here he became acquainted with the classic languages, as well as with Hebrew and Arabic, and in his leisure hours composed that hu- morous and most celebrated Life of Lazarillo de Tormes. " Of all the ingenious children of necessi- ty," it has been observed*, " whose roguery has been sharpened by perpetual want, no wit was surely ever kept at so subtle and fierce an edge, as that of the never-to-be decently treated Lazarillo de Tormes. His cunning so truly keeps pace with his appetite, that he seems recompensed for the wants of his stomach by the abund- ant energies of his head. One half of his imagination is made up of dry bread and scraps, and the other of meditating how to get at them.'' But at present I have nothing to do with Lazarillo : of the ingenious author I am now to speak. Laza- rillo in his turn shall not be for- gotten. Shortly after Mendoza had left the
* By Leigh Hunt, in his Indicator, now, unfortunately for the literary world, i discontinued.
LIVES OF SPANISH POSTS.
19
university, the Emperor Charles V. perceived that he was a man whose talents qualified him to forward his intrigues, and brought him from his obscure retreat. He was first sent as ambassador to Venice, where he had every opportunity of becoming familiar with Italian li- terature, a taste for which Boscan had already introduced into Spain; but while he enjoyed the beauties of modern Italian poetry, he did not forget the purity and elegance of the ancient classic writers, and the Odes of Horace were the con- tinual theme of his admiration. There are few examples in the his- tory of literature, of men who were capable, like Mendoza, of turn- ing their attention with so much apparent facility from politics to po- etry. Farfrom being a mere cour- tier, he was little flattered by the title of ambassador, and he frankly tells us in one of his epistles, his real opinion on the subject. " Oh, the unhappy lot," he cries, " of us ambassadors ! When kings prac- tise their deceits, it is for us to be- gin them. The most important matter for us to do is, to hold our tongues and do nothing, at least without command." It could only be a man like Mendoza who would have dared thus publicly to express such an opinion in such times. The emperor was not displeased : he knew his minister, and felt that he could trust him. Mendoza was chosen in 1545 to address the peers at the council of Trent in the name of the Spanish nation, and acquit- ed himself entirely to the satisfac- tion of the emperor. Two years afterwards, our poet appeared as ambassador at Rome, the centre of European politics. He had ex-
press orders from the emperor, to humiliate the pope, Paul III. in the midst of his court, and to restrain the Florentines, who were then pre- paredjwith the assistance of France, to shake off the yoke of Medicis. Mendoza obeyed the emperor's commmands implicitly, and exe- cuted them with firmness, vigour, and security. Thesevigorous mea- sures rendered him odious in the eyes of the Italians, and he was esteemed little better than a tyrant. At Sienna, where he was governor, his life was continually threatened, and oneday a musket-ball directed at him, killed the horse upon which he was riding. In the midst of these perils he persisted in the per- formance of his duties, always maintaining the same haughty spi- rit towards the Italians, until the death of Paul. The succeeding pope, favouring the Spanish cause, eased him of his burden. During the six years that he filled this ar- duous situation, his mind, it would naturally be supposed in this agi- tated period, was entirely devoted to the performance of the duties of his office : it was, however, far otherwise. He not only then com- posed some of his most admired poetical pieces, but visited the uni- versities, bought Greek manu- scripts, and collected a vast libra- ry of them. He spared neither mo- ney nor trouble toobtain these Gre- cian treasures, and sent emissaries for this purpose to various parts of the globe.
But amidst the political and lite- rary occupations of this extraordi- nary man, his intrigues of gallan- try must not beforgotten. Mendo- za could not hope by his figure or face to gain the affections of the D 2
20
LIV'iS OF SPANISH POETS.
fair, for if his biographers are to be credited, they neither of them were prepossessing. His gallan- tries were, however, carried to so great an extent, that they formed, subsequently, one of the principal grounds of accusation against him. The emperor was fatigued with the frequent mention of them, and at length, in 1554, recalled his am- bassador, being- willing, previous to his abdication of the throne, to pacify all parties.
With regard to the latter period of Mendoza's life, his biographers give but a slight and imperfect sketch. According to some, here- tired into the country, and devoted himself entirely to the Muses; and others state, with equal positive- ness, that although his political in- fluence ceased on the accession of Philip II. yet that he still continu- ed a counsellor of state, and accom- panied the new monarch into France, where he was witness to the battle of St. Quintin, in 1557. There is one circumstance related of Mendoza in which all agree, and it is a singular adventurewhich happened to him while at the court of Philip. In the presence of the king, he had an altercation on a balcony with a man, whom he re- presented afterwards to have been his rival in some love affair. This rival, whose name has not been re- corded, drew his poignard upon Mendoza, and the latter immedi- ately seized him by the middle, and threw him from the balcony into the street. The affair was a seri- ous one, and the haughty Philip was determined to punish severely the man who dared to commit so glaring an insult upon his own per- son and his court. Mendoza was
immediately cast into prison; but this old minister, whose mind seem- ed suited to overcome all difficul- ties, and whose spirits were as buoy- ant as those of a thoughtless youth, amused himself in his solitude with chanting his amorous lamen- tations, and he wrote many small pieces of poetry, which are entitled, among his works, " Cartas en rcdon- dillas esiando preso. Redondillas es- tando preso par una pendencia que tu- vo en palacio." " Letters in redon- dillas while in confinement. Re- dondillas during my imprisonment for a quarrel I had in the palace." After he recovered his liberty, he was exiled from the court, and retired to Granada. Here he was an attentive observer during the re- volt of the Moors, and afterwards wrote a history of the civil wars of Granada, which alone has gained him the appellation of the Spanish Sallust. Antonio Capmany, in his " Teatro Historico - Critico de la E/oguencia Espartota," has much praised this work; and I cannot for- bear giving the opinion of so high- ly esteemed a critic as Capmany, upon the merits of Mendoza as a prose-writer. " JBtrfin" he says, " es el primer historiador Espanol que supo hermaner la eloquencia con la politica: es decir que supo juntar en tin misana obra el arte de escribir bicn con el de pcnsar. Su cxpresion que cs nerviosa if concisa, forma tin estilo grave, tan lleno de cosas como de pa- labras a I qual da el ultimo realce el uso oportuno de sentencias y reftexi- ones cortadas por el mismo flyre*."
* He is indeed the first Spanish histo- rian who knew how to combine politics and eloquence together; that is to say, who was perfectly acquainted with the ! art of writing and thinking well. His
LIVFS OF SPANISH POSTS.
21
The last subject upon which Mendoza wrote, was the philoso- phy of Aristotle, and he has given us a partial translation of his other works. Just before his death, he was occupied in these literary pur- suits, and even disease itself did not interrupt his studies. In 1575, he died at Valladolid, being then more than sixty years of age. His valuable library of manuscripts he bequeathed to the king, and it now forms a portion of that inestimable collection at the Escurial.
Mendoza has done more for the literature of his country, than his countrymen are at all aware of: he is indeed allowed, by men who know how to appreciate his merit, to pos- sess the first station after Boscan and Garcilaso de laVega. Among his works, his epistles are collected together under the simple title of Cartas (Letters). Some of these are dedicatory epistles, filled with amo- rous complaints; and others are of a didactic kind, similar to those of Horace, and possess a happy va- riety of thought. There is some- thing in them which shews that the author was no common -minded man, but one who was capable of raising himself
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, Which men call earth
He possessed a noble soul, which enabled him to overcome difficul- ties, under which other men, not so highly gifted, would have inevi- tably sunk. Among his epistles,
expressions are nervous and concise, and his elegant style is as full of matter as it is of words ; and what gives a greater beauty to his compositions, is the happy introduction of appropriate sentences and reflections, all expressed in the same pi- thy style.
that addressed to Boscan is the most celebrated. Itis an imitation in some respects of the Ode of Ho- race to Numicius. In one part of it he finely says : El hombre justo y bueno no es movido Tor ninguna distreza de exercicios, Tor oro ni metal bien esculpido :
No pur las pesadumbres de edificios, Adonde la grandeza vence al arte,
Y es natura sacada de sits quicios :
Siempre vivecontento con su suerte, Buena 6 mediana como se la pace,
Y nunca estasa mas ni menos fuerte*.
He concludes this famous epistle in these memorable words:
Yo, Boscan, no procuro otro tesoro, Suio poder vivir medianamente Ni escondo la riqueza, ni la adorof.
He writes to Luys de Quniga in the same manly strain :
Otro mundo es el mio, otro lugar,
Otro tiempo el que busco, y la occasion, De venir me a mi casa descansar ;
Yo vivere la vida sin passion,
Fuera de descontento y turbulencia, Serviendo al rey por mi satisfacion^.
This was written rather in the decline of life, when his great po- litical career, as well as that of his master, Charles V. was drawing to a conclusion.
The greater portion of Mendo- za's poetical pieces are very short,
* The honest man, in conscious virtue bold,
Is by no dext'rous artifices sway'd ; He heeds not trash of mines, nor sculptur'd gold,
Nor weight of structures in the balance laid ; Where grandeur overloads the work of art,
And nature quite unhing'd is viewless made. He only joys in his contented heart: Riches and poverty to him arc one, In his own strength he firmly stands alone, f I want no treasure, Boscan, ask no more Than liberty to live in middle state ; For riches I contemn not, nor adore. \ Another world, another place is mine,
And other times I seek — the tranquil pow'r Of home returning when I so incline.
No passions yet have rul'd me for an hour ; No discontents, no anxious troubles spring, And for my pleasure 'tis I serve the king.
22
LIVKS OF SPANISH PORTS,
such as his Letrillas, Himnos, Villan-
cicos, &c. in which lie endeavoured to combine the beauties of the Ita- lian and of the ancient Castillian school; but the most estimable of these pieces are those which have never yet been published, and the fruitof which can onlybe plucked by diving in to the interminable recess- es of the manuscript portion of the libi'ary at the Escurial. I allude particularly to his Elogios de la Za- nahoria, la Pulga, el Cnerno, la Ca- va, and such small pieces, son- nets, and other minor compositions, through which such a spirit of man- ly freedom breathes, that they have always been guardedly kept in ob- scurity. Among those which have been concealed with the greatest care, are some burlesque and sati- rical pieces, of which the Inqui- sition interdicted the publication, tending as they did toridiculesome of the glaring absurdities which were practised by the religious or- ders throughout Spain.
The least esteemed of all Men- doza's poetical productions are perhaps bis sonnets. They do not possess either the grace or harmo- ny for which Garcilaso has been so highly and so justly praised. Bos- can admitted that the difficulty he found in imitating the Italian son- net in the Castillian verse was al- most insurmountable, but he at length triumphed over them all by his indefatigable exertions, com- bined with his exalted genius ; but Mendoza, although successful in almost every other species of com- position which he attempted, has in this particular one certainly fail-
ed. In his canzonets, the same harshness is perceptible; and he has added another fault, which he is indeed rarely to be reproached with in his other pieces — obscurity. Perhaps the least harmonious of these little productions is a my- thological poem in octaves, thesub- ject of which is the history of Ado- nis. The narrative, however, in spite of this objection, is very pleas- ing.
The portions of the poetic effu- sions of Mendoza which have been most admired by his countrymen, are his lyrics, which are written in the ancient national style. Many of Mendoza's lyrics are contained in the Romancero General, without his name. The greater part of these pieces are in stanzas of four lines, to which the Spaniards have given the name of redondillas, such as these:
Hagame lugar
El placer un dia !
Dexarme contar
Est.i pena mia* !
Here then I conclude this very cursory notice of the poetical pro- ductions of Mendoza. Although he was not often seen " soaring in the high regions of his fancies, with his garland and his singing robes about him," yet few will be prepared to dispute that he well de- served the title of a poet.
The consideration of his prose works I shall reserve for the next article, conceiving that they are of sufficient importance to occupy a separate place in a succeeding Number.
* Permit me the pleasure of one day, that I may relate my grief.
zo
ORIGIN OF VAUXHALL, RANELAGH, SADLER'S WELLS, OPERAS, ORATORIOS, AND BELL-RINGING.
Towards the close of the 17th century, the professed musicians (having been long discouraged, and their occupation abused, by the Puritans and others,) assembled at certain houses in the metropolis, called music-houses, where they performed concerts, consisting of vocal and instrumental music, for the entertainment of the public : at the same period there were mu- sic-booths at Smithfield, during the continuance of Bartholomew fair. An author of the time, how- ever, speaks very contemptibly of these music-meetings, professing that he had rather have heard an old barber ring Whittington's bells upon a cittern, than all the music the houses afforded. There were also music-clubs, or private meet- ings for the practice of music, which were exceedingly fashion- able with people of opulence. The music -houses above - mentioned were sometimes supported by sub- scription ; and from them originated three places of public entertain- ment well known in the present day, namely. Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and Sadler's Wells.
Spring Gardens, now better known by the name of Vauxhall Gardens, is mentioned by Aubrey inhis Antiquities of Surrey; whoin- forms us, that " Sir Samuel More- land built a fine room at Vauxhall, the inside all of looking-glass, and fountains very pleasant to behold; which," adds he, " is much visited by strangers. It stands in the middle of the garden, covered with Cornish slate, on the point whereof he placed a punchanello, very well carved, which held a dial ; but
the winds have demolished it." — " The house," says a more modern author, " seems to have been re- built since the time that Sir Samu- el Moreland dwelt in it ; and there being a large garden belonging to it, planted with a great number of stately trees, and laid out in shady walks, it obtained the name of Spring Gardens; and the house being converted into a tavern, or place of entertainment, it was fre- quented by the votaries of plea- sure." This account is perfectly consonant with the following pas- sage in a paper of the Spectator : " We now arrived at Spring Gar- dens, which is exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year. When I considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked underneath their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise." Some time afterwards the house and gardens came into the pos- session of a gentleman whose name was Jonathan Tyers, who opened. it with an advertisement of a " ri- dotto al fresco ;" a term which the people of this country had till then been strangers to. These entertainments were several times repeated in the course of the sum- mer, and numbers resorted to par- take of them ; which encouraged the proprietor to make his garden a place of musical entertainment for every evening during the sum- mer season : to this end he was at great expense in decorating the gardens with paintings; he engag- ed an excellent band of musicians,
ORIGIN OF VAlJXil.AU., IfrANEiAGJIj &C
and issued silver tickets for ad- mission, at a guinea each; and re- ceiving great encouragement, he set up an organ in the orchestra, and in a conspicuous part of the gardens erected a fine statue of Handel, the work of Roubiliac.
The success of this entertain- ment was an encouragement to an- other of a similar kind. A number of persons purchased the house and gardens of the late Earl of Ranelagh; they erected a spacious building of timber, of a circular form, and placed within it an or- gan, and an orchestra capable of holding a numerous band of per- formers. The entertainment of the auditors during the perform- ance was, either walking round the room, or refreshing themselves with tea and coffee in the recesses thereof, which were conveniently adapted for that purpose. Within the last few years, as is well known, this building has been pulled clown.
We meet with what is said " to be a true Account of Sadler's Well," in a pamphlet published by a phy- sician at the close of the 17th cen- tury. "The water," says he,"of this well, before the Reformation, was very much famed for several ex- traordinary cures performed there- by, and was thereupon accounted sacred, and called Holy Well. The priests belonging to the priory of Clerkenwell using to attend there, made the people believe that the virtues of the water proceeded from the efficacy of their prayers: but at the Reformation the well was stopped, upon the supposition, that the frequenting of it was alto- gether superstitious; and so by degrees it grew out of remem- brance, and was wholly lost, until
I a gentleman named Sadler, who had lately built a new music-house there, and being surveyor of the I high-ways, had employed men to I dig gravel in his garden, in the ' midst whereof they found it stop- | ped up, and covered with an arch ! of stone." After the decease of I Sadler, one Francis Forcer, a nm- ! sician, and composer of songs, be- i came occupier of the well and music-room : he was succeeded by I his son, who first exhibited there [ the diversion of rope-dancing and tumbling, which were then per- formed abroad in the garden. There is now a small theatre ap- propriated to this purpose, fur- nished with a stage, scenes, and other decorations proper for the representation of dramatic pieces and pantomimes. The diversions of this place are of various kinds, and form upon the whole a suc- cession of performances, till lately, very similar to those displayed in former ages by the gleemen, the minstrels, and the jugglers.
To the three preceding places of public entertainment, we may add a fourth, not now indeed in ex- istence, but which, about forty years back, was held in some de- gree of estimation, and much fre- I quented : I mean Mary-bone Gar- dens, where, in addition to the music and singing, there were bur- lettas and fire-works exhibited. The site of these gardens is now covered with buildings.
The success of these musical as- semblies,! presume, first suggested the idea of introducing operas up- on the stage, which were contrived at once to please the eye and de- light the ear; and this double gra- tification, generally speaking, was
OI11UIN OF VAUXHALL, KANSLAGU, &C.
25
procured at the expense of reason and propriety. Hence also we may trace the establishment of oratorios in England. I need not say that this noble species of dra- matic music was brought to great perfection by Handel : the ora- torios produced by him display in a wonderful manner his powers as a composer of music; and they continue to be received with that enthusiasm of applause which they most justly deserve.
It has been remarked by foreign- ers, that the English are particu- larly fond of bell-ringing ; and in- deed most of our churches have a ring of bells in the steeple, partly- appropriated to thatpurpose. These bells are rung upon most occasions of joy and festivity, and sometimes at funerals, when they are muffled with a piece of woollen cloth bound about the clapper, and the sounds then emitted by them are ex- ceedingly unmelodious, and well fitted to inspire the mind with me- lancholy. Ringing of rounds, that is, sounding every bell in succes- sion, from the least to the greatest, and repeating the operation, pro- duces no variety ; on the contrary, the reiteration of the same caden- ces in a short time becomes tire- some : for which reason the ring- ing of changes has been introduc- ed, wherein the succession of the bells is shifted continual^ ; and by this means a varied combina- tion of different sounds, exceed- ingly pleasant to the ear, is readily produced. This improvement in the art of ringing is thought to be peculiar to the people of this coun- try. Ringing the bells backwards is sometimes mentioned, and pro- bably consisted in beginning with tol. XIII. No.LXXIIL
the largest bell, and ending with the least : it appears to have been practised by the ringers as a mark of contempt or disgust.
The antiquity of bell-ringing in England cannot readily be ascer- tained. It is said that bells were invented by Paulinus, Bishop of Nola, at the commencement of the fifth century ; they were afterwards used in Brittany, and thence per- haps brought into this country. In- gulphus speaks of them as well known in his time, and tells us, that "Turketullus, the first Abbot of Crowland, gave six bells to that monastery ; that is to say, two great ones, which he named Bartholo- mew and Betteline; two of a mid- dling size, called Turketullum and Betterine; and two small ones, de- nominated Pega and Bega : he also caused the greatest bell to be made called Gudhlac, which was tuned to the other bells, and produced an admirable harmony, not to be equalled in England.
I know not how far the pastime of bell-ringing attracted the notice of the opulent in former times; at present, it is confined to the lower classes of the people, who are paid by the parish for ringing upon cer- tain holidays. At weddings, as well as upon other festive occur- rences, they usually ring the bells, in expectance of a pecuniary re- ward.
Hand-bells, which probably first appeared in the religious proces- sions, were afterwards used by the secular musicians, and practised for the sake of pastime. The jo- culator had usually two large hand- bells, and nearly of a size ; but in general they are regularly dimi- nished from the largest to the least; E
26
lMCTl/*£i3QUfi TOUIt IN Til* OB Kit I. AND.
and ten or twelve of them, rung in rounds or changes by a com- pany of ringers, sometimes one to each bell, but more usually every ringer has two. I have seen a man in London, who I believe is now living, ring twelve bells at one time: two of them were placed upon his head ; he held two in each hand ; one was affixed to each of his knees, and two upon each foot; all of which he managed with great adroitness, and performed a vast variety of tunes.
The minstrels and joculators seem to have had the knack of converting every kind of amuse- ment into a vehicle for merriment; and among others, that of music has not escaped them. These, and such like vagaries, were frequently practised in the succeeding times;
and they are neatly ridiculed m No. 570. of the Spectator, where the author mentions " a tavern- keeper who amused his company with whistling of different, tunes, which lie performed by applying the edge of a case-knife to his lips. Upon laying down the knife, he took up a pair of clean tobacco- pipes, and after having slid the small ends of them over a table in a most melodious trill, he fetched a tune out of them, whistling to them at the same time in concert. In short, the tobacco-pipes became musical pipes in the hands of our virtuoso, who confessed ingenu- ously, that he had broken such quantities of pipes, that he almost broke himself before he brought this piece of music to any tole- rable perfection."
PICTURESQUE TOUR IN THE OBERLAND.
PLATE 2.— VIEW OF THE FALL OF THE OLTSCHENBACH, AND THE BRIDGE OF
WYLER.
Til fi tourist has the choice of two | routes from Meyringen to Brientz. One of these, by far more roman- tic, but also longer and more fa- tiguing than the other, leads over the llasliberg; while the other, which is level and commodious, runs along the bottom of the val- ley. The former is practicable on- ly on foot or horseback, but the latter may be travelled in a carri- age.
Whoever prefers the usual road through the valley, crosses the ri- ver Aar, by what is called the new bridge, near Meyringen, and soon discovers on his left the naked ca- taract of the Falcherenbach, which
of 150 or 200 feet perpendicularly. Near it may be perceived the trac- es of an ancient fall of matter from the mountain, which overwhelmed the village of Balm. Only two houses of that name are now stand- ing, and these do not seem to oc- cupy the site of the former village. The traveller has the Aar con- stantly at some distance on the right; and very near the road, on the left, rise the menacing cliffs of a calcareous mountain, piled, in extraordinary forms, upon one an- other, the sides studded with patch- es of dark fir-trees, and the sum- mit crowned with verdant pastures, in which are seated the villages of
precipitates itself from the verdant Falcheren, Brasti, ami Zaun, side of the mountain to the depth || From this ridge descend several
PICTURESQUE TOUR IN Tii'C OliKULAND.
£7
torrents, forming cascades of the ! greatest beauty, the most remark- | able of which are those of the Wan- I delbach and Oltschenbach. The j waters of the former have hollowed I out a deep chasm, and fall into a \ naked basin, out of which they run j foaming in several branches, near- j ly to the feet of the traveller. The : latter, which is represented, in the j plate, at a distance resembles an j immense column of alabaster, and possesses a certain majesty and ! sublimity from the volume of its water and the height of its fall. To form a due estimate of these cir- cumstances, it is necessary to bear in mind, that in the Alps the trans- parency of the air, the distances and the magnitude of objects, de- ceive the eye in regard to their real dimensions. To guard in some measure against the illusion inevi- tably produced by these causes, the spectator should take neigh- bouring objects for a standard : such a standard is furnished in this instance by the trees and houses. The vegetation covering the sides of the mountain from which the \ Oltschenbach descends, and hav- ing the appearance of low shrubs, is an immense forest of pine-trees, great numbers of which are from sixty to eighty feet high.
After crossing theOltschenbach, the road turns off to the river Aar, over which the traveller passes a second time, by the bridge of Wy- ler or Weiler, which is also seen in the plate. It has received its name from the neighbouringvillage of Wyler, delightfully situated on the slope of the Rufrberg, which forms the northern boundanrof the valley.
The cottages in the fore-ground
of the annexed view convey an idea of the mode of building com- mon among all the inhabitants of the Alps. Trunks of pine-trees, cut square, are laid one upon ano- ther with the ends crossing. These ends are cut down to half the thick- ness, so that smaller interstices may be left between the logs. The roofs are in general much flatter than those represented in the plate. The frame-work of the roof is external- ly covered with planks, and on each transverse row is laid a piece of wood as long as the roof; and upon these pieces are placed large stones, which are also to be seen on the huts in our engraving. The stones are designed to secure the roof against the extreme fury of the wind. Nothing, observes a Swiss writer, can be more simple or more solid than this mode of building.
About a league below the bridge of Wyler, the Aar, increased by the various streams descending from the mountains on either side of the valley of Hasli, rushes im- petuously into the lake of Brientz.
Near the western extremity of the lake, the road passes the scat- tered hamlet of Kienholz. Seve- ral streams in the vicinity of this place have for ages washed down immense quantities of rubbish, and as the first hills of the range called the Brienzenn'at seem to be com- posed entirely of loose matter, with- out any solid nucleus, the effects of earth-slips and streams of mud are to be apprehended here for ages to come. One of these torrents of mud, composed of dissolved shale, destroyed, in the year 1797, thirty- seven houses, and a great number of gardens and fertile meadows, E 2
28
COIUtKSl'ONDKNC?.: OF THK ADVISJi!'..
belonging to the neighbouring vil- lages of Hofstetten and Schwan- tlen ; and the water of the lake con- tinued turbid several months, ow- ing to the quantity of mud dis- charged into it.
In like manner, according tocur- rent tradition, Kienholz, then a considerable village, was, together with the castle of Kien, partly overwhelmed with stones, mud, and rubbish, and partly washed down into the lake of Brientz, in the course of the 1 5th, or at latest the ICth century. The spot where it stood was long marked only by a few miserable huts. Habitations of a superior class are now begin- ning to make their appearance; and the traveller observes with pleasure the revival of a place which once witnessed the admission of Berne into the Swiss confederacy. That event occurred here in 1353; and Kienholz continued, during its prosperity, to be the place of meeting between Berne and thefour Forest cantons.
According to an indistinct tra- dition, the same inundation of mud which destroyed Kienholz, drove before it the waters of the lake of Brientz, which are said to have an- ciently extended to the foot of the Ballenberg. There is still a fami-
ly of the name of Kienholz, in which the following story is trans- mitted from generation to genera- tion.
After the place was overwhelmed in the manner related above, a car- man, they say, who frequently had occasion to cross the high heap of rubbish, observed, that at one par- ticular spot his horse always mani- fested symptoms of great discom- posure. His dog too would scratch up the ground, and both animals were extremely unwilling to quit the place. At length, the man ob- tained permission to dig there, and soon came to the arch of a cellar, in which he found an old man and a boy belonging to the devastated village, who had subsisted for a considerable time on wine, cheese, and thewaterjwhich filtered through the roof of their dungeon. Both were immediately removed: the man died soon after being exposed to the air; but the boy survived his confinement, and his name was changed, in memory of this extra- ordinary event, from Schneitter, as he was before called, to Kienholz.
Proceeding along the banks of the lake of Brientz, the tourist reaches the village of Tracht, and soon after he has crossed the stream of that name, arrives at Brientz.
CORRESPONDENCE
I iUVK this month so many let- ters to answer, that, as I cannot publish them all, I must decline inserting any of them. I shall, however, endeavour to reply to such of them as appear to me most pressing, in this paper.
If Melissa has the least regard for her honour or her peace, she
OF THE ADVISER.
must instantly dismiss Philander. It is not sufficient that he protests he repents of his behaviour, and vows he will never more offend her ears with such a proposal as lie has lately presumed to make to her. If his repentance were indeed sincere, he would hasten to efface the re- membrance of his dishonourable
<;oitRr;sroNin':NCP: or tfira ai>vis::k.
m
conduct, by an offer of his hand. As lie has not done that, I am con- vinced hissorrow is merely feigned, in order to throw her off her guard. Her letter convinces me that she is truly virtuous, hut let her not be too confident in her own strength; she must remember that
" He comes too near who comes to be denied."
The fair Luc ilia, who, at eigh- teen, has formed a resolution to die an old maid, is very angry with Mr. J. M. Lacey for his portrait of Eliza, and very desirous that I should write a paper in defence of the venerable sisterhood, and to re- commend the single state to the ge- nerality of my fair readers. I am so charmed with they're simplici- ty of my pretty correspondent's let- ter, that I shall certainly, at my earliest leisure, comply with one of her wishes. As to the other, she must excuse me. I would do any thing in the world to oblige her, except risk my reputation for sa- gacity; and I cannot hazard that, by giving my fair readers advice, which I am certain none of them would willingly follow.
Harriet Hideall has sent me a long philippic on the present fa- shionable style of ladies' dress, and expresses herself surprised that I do not pay some attention to the toilets of my countrywomen. I believe that I should ere now have touched upon the subject, but for two reasons : the first is, that I ne- ver knew a woman in my life, old or young, handsome or ugly, who could be induced, either by advice or argument, to model her dress by any other rules than those of the mode; and, on the other hand, I was afraid of drawing upon myself the resentment of our English re-
porter of fashions, who I suspect bears me a grudge ever since 1 ad- vised the Editor to abolish the ar- ticle of dress altogether, and to substitute a greater portion of my paper in its place.
A misanthrope of five and twenty has written to deter me from con- tinuing my labours, because he considers mankind are unworthy of the trouble I take for their hap- piness. Notwithstanding the de- tail which he gives me of his mis- fortunes, I consider him more de- serving of blame than pity: for I see clearly from his account, that he has dissipated his fortune in a most shameful manner; and what right has he to expect gratitude from those whom he knew to be destitute of principle? Let him, before he inveighs against his spe- cies, look into his own heart, and review the motives which prompted him to lavish his property on those whom reason aud virtue would have told him were unworthy of confi- dence or esteem, and I fancy he will find that he has more cause to be angry with himself than with his former associates. As to the rest, his case is not desperate, he has still the means of existence; but if he follows my advice, he will not bury himself in obscurity. Industry and talent may do much towards retrieving his fortunes, and at his age we owe ourselves to the world : it is only by a life of virtuous exertion, that a man can fairly purchase the privilege of ending his days in tranquil retire- ment.
The heart of Will Waver is fluc- tuating between a fair beauty and. a brown one, and he is terribly at a loss to know which of them he
30
COIMRSPOMJKNCE Ol" TJIk ADVIST-.R.
ouglit to make his wife. If he had j given me some account of their , respective tempers and disposi- j tions, I might have been able to advise him on the subject; but as he has confined himself entirely to a description of their persons, it is impossible for me to offer an opinion. I can therefore only ad- vise him to postpone marrying till he is sufficiently come to his sen- ses, to be aware that there are con- siderations of more moment in choosing a wife, than the colour of her eyes or her complexion.
I have received at the same time letters from a husband and wife, who are each of them very angry with the other, without perceiving that each is guilty of the same fault. The fact is, both parties want to govern, and neither know how to submit. Now, I desire that none of my male readers will cavil at my using this word in speaking of The conduct of a husband. He may and ought to preserve his au- thority in matters of moment; but wretched indeed must the lot of that couple be, who have not learn- ed the lesson of mutual concession on all points where concession is not forbidden by duty or principle. It is in trifles especially that a spi- rit of mutual forbearance is requi- site, to enable a married couple to pass through life with any degree of tranquillity. The pair of whom I am speaking seem each of them bent upon shewing on every occa- sion the most determined opposi- tion to the will of the other. For instance, the lady assures me that her husband refused the other da}* to oblige her by reading aloud for an hour, though he knew that a complaint in her ejes prevented
her amusing herself with a book. And the gentleman complains bit- terly, that on entering his wife's apartment a short time ago, when she was playing on the piano, she suddenly stopped, in spite of his most pressing en treaties to proceed. Each was very probably prompted to this want of complaisance by a recollection of similar conduct on the part of the other. I shall give no advice, but merely endeavour to place before them, the portraits of two married couples whom I hap- pen to know, leaving it to them- selves which of the two is most worthy of imitation.
Sir Thomas Tightrein married with an idea that all husbands who did not begin by reducing their wives to absolute subjection, were sure in a little time to be complete- ly hen-pecked. He knew that his lady was of a high spirit, and be- ing determined, as he said, never to live under petticoat government, he resolved to shew himself master even in the first week of the honey- moon. He thought that by taking at once the tone of a tyrant, he should frighten his wife out of all inclination to dispute his will, but such was not the case. Lady Tight- rein was a beauty and an heiress ; accustomed from her infancy to have her own way, it never struck her that any body could dream of disputing it, and it was doubly matter of anger and surprise to her, that Sir Thomas of all people should have the hardihood to do so; but she spiritedly protested it should avail him nothing, for that she never would recognise his au- thority in any way whatsoever ; a resolution which, to do her justice, she has very faithfully kept. The
TIIK G.REEN MANTLK OF VliNICK
*>l
consequence is, that they live in a state of perpetual hostility; they are too well bred to quarrel openly before company, but one may see in their angry glances, short re- plies, and flat contradictions of each other's opinion, that peace is a stranger to their duelling. Pride, however, will not suffer them to make the smallest concession to each other. Sir Thomas boasts among his male friends, that he is the master in his own house ; and my lady assures her coterie, that no tyrant husband shall ever rule her. Very different is the conduct of Sedley and his Amelia: his tem- per is naturally warm, but he is too reasonable, as well as too kind- hearted, not speedily to atone for any little ebullition of it. On the other hand, his wife, knowing his disposition, is careful toavoid every occasion of irritating him, and the graceful submission with which she sometimes yields her wishes to his, is as frequently rewarded by a like compliance on his part. So far from striving for mastery, they seem to have but one will between them. But there is no studied
complaisance, no affectation of giv- ing up a point as if it were a sa- crifice. All is free, easy, and na- tural. I asked Sedley the other day, how they had managed to make the torch of Hymen burn so brightly during a union of ten years. " We make allowance for each other's failings," replied he. " I am of a hasty temper, but though soon moved to anger, it subsides almost in an instant. Ame- lia is not so easily provoked, but her resentment lies deeper, and j she feels perhaps the more keenly, | because her strict sense of duty I will not permit her to express her anger. When she sees me in a passion, she is careful to avoid everything that can increase it; and if I incautiously say a word that can wound her feelings, I hast- en to atone for it."
Such is the plan pursued by Sedley and his Amelia; and I heartily advise not only Mr. Surly and his helpmate, but all my mar- ried readers, to adopt it, as the only one for converting the fetters of Hymen into bands of roses.
S. Sagephjz.
THE GREEN MANTLE OF VENICE
A true Story ; from the German. (Continued from p. 344, vol. XII.)
WuiiN Wilmsen again met Em- meline, he saw plainly that she had been weeping: this confirma- tion of what Stipps had asserted, was welcome to his heart. She gave him her hand, saying, in a mournful tone of voice, " You will leave us then, dear Wilmsen ! I thought that, for the sake of our house, you would have staid with us ; but still 1 honour your resolu-
tion : our private advantage ought not to be put in competition with the public welfare. It is a fearful time; thousands". — she continued, while her eyes filled with tears — " thousands must be sacrificed ere the crisis is past. You go," she added more firmly, after a short pause, " to offer yourself upon the altar of patriotism and loyalty — on this holy altar offer likewise what
32
THE GRSXN MANTLE OF VKN1CR.
I have to give." She delivered to him all her jewels and ornaments, and a considerable sum in gold. " I cannot, like you, offer my blood and my existence at the shrine, but when our wives and daughters as- semble in the churches to offer up their prayers for the safety of those they love" — she stopped, overcome by her feelings. Wilmsen seized her hand, and pressing it to his lips, cried, " Yes, dearest, heaven- ly girl, pray for me, and God will be with me. This moment, Em- meline" — he had never before tnus familiarly addressed her — " this moment repays me for all I have hitherto suffered in this house. A few hours only now are mine. My situation here is changed : jl no longer see in you the respect- ed daughter of my patron — Em- meline, my Emmeline is before me. From the moment — on this subject I may now at least speak freely, although on others a pain- ful mystery weighs upon my heart — from the moment when I knelt beside you at the altar, every feel- ing has been devoted to you. — The consciousness of my inferio- rity of station, of my poverty, add- ed to the coldness and occasional haughtiness of your manner to- wards me, has hitherto repressed every hope which my vanity might at other times have suggested to me. But now, in these few last moments, I am richly recompensed by these tears for all that love and duty have imposed upon me."
" The coldness and haughtiness of my manner!" repeated Emme- line, smiling through her tears; " 1113'' dear friend, how little you know of the female heart! Per- haps we see each other now for the
last time; let there be no longer any mystery between us. The coldness of which you complain was occasioned only by the caution I was compelled to observe towards all your sex, in consequence of the fortune I was known to possess, the various suits to which I must be exposed, and the secluded nature of my education. If I had been poor, the sincerity of any attach- ment would have been obvious, but being rich, I was obliged to be reserved. Towards you I had also other reasons for it."
She ceased, and laid her hand upon her heart : Wilmsen placed it upon his. " Other reasons!" cried he ; " you have promised that there shall be no concealment now."
" Your excessivediffidence made you blind, or you would not ask for other reasons. You might have found them," added she, casting down her eyes, " in yourself."
" Oh, Emmeline!" cried Wilm- sen, pressing her to his breast, " speak the delightful word. Tell me what you mean."
" Wilmsen," sheanswered trem- bling, and in a low voice, " it was your part first to tell me that you loved me."
" My own Emmeline!" cried Wilmsen, overcome with joy, and a kiss sealed the union of the hap- py pair.
They then went on to talk with the utmost unreservedness of the difficulties they might have to over- come. Wilmsen suggested that her father might refuse his consent; but Emmeline, confident that he only wished for the happiness of his daughter, endeavoured to re- move all apprehension upon this
TJIIi GREEN MA NT I.:'. OT' VENICE.
33
account. Slie assured him that Mr. Mellinger was acquainted with their love. Wilmseii was astonish- ed at the intelligence, and she re- lated circumstantially the mode in which he had obtained the know- ledge of it, without disapproving or it. At length they reverted to the subject of Wilmsen's departure, and with bitter sorrow he told her, that there was no alternative — that his honour was en<raoed, and that he must proceed to Breslau. Em- meliue expressed her grief that he was resolved to keep his word to his friends and break it to her; but at length she became convinced of the necessity, and consented. She re- solved, however, to accompany him the first stage, and the moment of departure arrived.
Wilmsen had fixed the rendez- vous for his friends at an inn about three hours' journey distant. The commandant began to be suspici- ous, and kept a watchful eye over them. To this inn, Emmeline, ac- companied by her aunt, to whom she had explained the whole affair, attended Wilmsen. They reached it at four in the morning, the hour appointed for the rendezvous. He found sixteen of his companions ready to receive him ; and they urg- ed the utmost haste, fearing that the commandant might overtake and interrupt them.
The parting moment between Wilmsen and Emmeline was one of the severest agony: they vowed unchangeable affection, and just before he tore himself away, over- come with the grief and love of Emmeline, he whispered in her ear, " Emmeline, lam notWilmsen — I am William Sponseri — I am the Green Mantle of Venice!"
foi. xrri. No. Lxxin.
All at once they heard twenty voices exclaim, that thegeits-cVai rnes were approaching, and they looked and beheld the commandant at the head of a troop. One of his friends forced Wilmsen from the arms of Emmeline into a carriage, which instantly disappeared. She was re- called to recollection by the exe- crations of the military at finding themselves too late.
"William Sponseri!"sherepeated the name man}' times, as if she had awakened from a horrid dream, and fancied she seen a being returned from the grave: the recollection of his warm lips, his sparkling eyes, his fervent embrace, however, con- vinced her that he could not be the same person who had so great a share in the destiny of their house. On her return home, she found the whole town in a state of rejoic- ing : within the last half hour, an order had arrived, that all the mi- litary quartered there should make a forced march to the north, to op- pose the Russian and Prussian forces. The commandant himself was obliged to depart, and before morning they all marched. Em- meline could not recover her com- posure during the whole day. In the evening she retired to her soli- tar}' chamber, and scarcely was she there, when somebod}^ rapped gentl}' at the door, and in walked old Tobias!
She started with astonishment and horror from her seat. Tobias, who had been found with a mortal wound on his body — who had been dragged from the water half putri- fied,and afterwards disinterred and recognised by so many, stood now in a neat and sober dress before her, and said, in his wonted cheer- I'"
34
THE GRKffN MANTLE OF VENICE.
ful tone, " Do not be frightened, it is only I."
" Heavens! how is that possi- ble?1' exclaimed Emmeline ; and Tobias shortly related what had happened to him. Wilmsen had said to him on the morning: of the day when Emmeline' s father was taken into custody, " Your master is accused of murder — to-morrow he will appear before a military commission — or in other words, to- morrow he will be shot. You are a worthy soul, and we all rely up- on you. The **** have the watch : you are acquainted with them : give them this wine, as if from your master. Do not you drink of it, and leave them at eleven at night. They will not die, but may chance to take a long sleep. When your master sees that the guard is asleep, it is his business to escape, and you may be sure of your reward. You must not go home that night, but to the house of the executioner, and wait there till I come and give you further orders." Rebecca, the executioner's girl, must already have expected the arrival of Tobi- as, for she waited for him, and led him softly to the back of the house, and silencing the blood -hounds kept in the yard, prepared a lodg- ing for him among the horses and cattle.
Towards morning, the gais- iV amies arrived, and asked Rebec- ca if she had seen any thing of Mr. Mel linger, who had escaped from prison, and, as they heard, had taken that way. Rebecca said that she had seen no one, but they per- sisted that he was concealed there, and dismounted from their horses. " Wemustsearch,"saidoneof them. " Open the door."— " Directly,"
cried Rebecca, shutting the win- dow from which she had spoken. She opened the house-door, and instantly fifteen or twenty dogs rushed out barking furiously. They ordered her to call them in, but she refused,asthedogsdid not belong to her, and she was alone in the house. The gens-sarnies would have fired upon them, but she deterred them, by telling them that they be- longed to the prince. In the end, the soldiers thought it safest to abandon their search. After a fort- night, Rebecca called Tobias in the middle of the night, and told him that he must get into a carri- age with a gentleman, whom he found to be a wine-merchant. He complied, and with the utmost speed they travelled to Herman - stadt, and after an absence of three weeks, both returned. Tobias had heard that the commandant was still in the place, and through Re- becca, acquainted Mr. Wilmsen with his arrival. Rebecca had shrieked when she saw him, ima- gining that he had been drowned. For the purpose of recovering the 2000 dollars, Wilmsen had given out that the drowned body was that of Tobias, and as all people wish- ed him to succeed, it was not very difficult to find witnesses that such was the fact.
11 And where is my father r" ask- ed Emmeline, who had listened to this relation with the utmost impa- tience.
" I do not know a word about him," replied Tobias. " It is cer-, tain that.he escaped behind the ex- ecutioner's house. Rebecca saw him go, but whither, God knows."
The entrance of the parents of little Charlotte interrupted their
THS GRXSN MANTLR OP VENICE.
..)5
discourse. The child had till now been perfectly silent with respect to the death of the courier. Her father and mother had often en- treated her to tell them what she knew, hut she always replied, " I shall be shot if I do." But since the commandant and his troops had departed, she felt free from her promise, and related every thing from beginning to end; and her parents hastened to acquaint Em- meline with the whole story.
Mr. Mellinger, with Charlotte in the chaise, had gone as far as the wood, when the child saw a beau- tiful green beetle*, and wishing to have it, Mr. Mellinger made her hold the reins while he alighted, and running it through the body with a pin, fastened it to the elbow of the chaise. This was the whole story of the murder.
The commandant would proba- bly have released Mr. Mellinger the morning after he had examined the child, if he had not escaped ; but had threatened the child with death if she allowed a word to es- cape regarding the blunder he had committed, lest he should be ex- posed to public ridicule.
Mr. Mellinger saved all parties the trouble of a search for him, by returning one evening in safety and health. In the mean time he had travelled to Raab, and from thence to Smyrna, living securely under a feigned name. Upon the subject of his escape he refused to
* In German, a sundldufcr. It has a green back, with five white spots on each wing; the rest of the body, the feet and horns have a hluish tinge. It is found in sandy grounds, is very swift, and is thence called by the common people a courier.
say any thing, alledging that time would clear up the mystery. He regretted deeply the departure of Wilmsen. Emmeline longed to be alone with him to acquaint him with her love, and late in the even- ing an opportunity occurred. She found that her father in his absence had lost much of his mercantile calculating habits — he saw nothing but his beloved daughter before him : he pressed her to his breast, and said, " You have gone through much, my poor child. I have learn- ed that gold is a perishable com- modity, and man a miserable being when he has no one to love. Your filial affection has made my old age cheerful, and I ought to fulfil your wishes — what can I do to make you happy ?"
Emmeline laid open the secrets of her heart, reserving only Wilm- sen's last words. Her father em- braced her, and replied, " Wilm- sen is poor, but he is a brave and worthy fellow. You love him, and if God spares him in the field of battle, and he remains faithful, I will bless your union."
I saw William in Breslau : after the battle of Culm, I found him among the wounded in the hospital: he had been shot through the left foot, and was lying on a wretched bed of straw. He recollected me, and called me to his side. He was ve- ry pale, and his dark eyes appear- ed more brilliant than ever. A green mantle was accidentally laid over him, which he had borrowed of an officer in a rifle regiment. I con- gratulated him on his cheerfulness, and while we were talking, an offi- cer who had been taken prisoner, and was lying on the straw severe- F 2
30
TIITi GREEN MANTLE OF VENICE.
]y wounded, moved: he raised his ghastly countenance, stared in William's face wildly, and ex- claimed, " By Heaven, that is the Green Mantle of Venice ! I know thee, fearful being," he cried in the phrenzy of his fever, and tearing the bandages from his wounded head, " the first day of hell's tor- ments is the eternal night of death." At these words he foamed at the mouth, and with a heart-rending shriek, sank hack in the straw, and expired in convulsions. 1 sprang towards him, but he was dead. William recognised in him the commandant, and told me of many of the evil deeds by which he had drawn down upon himself eternal execration. At this moment I was called into another room, and as on the following day the sick and wounded were removed to Prague, I had no opportunity of obtaining an explanation of the mysterious words of the commandant. My duty soon led me to Prague, and I inquired after Wilmsen, and was directed to a mansion where he had been taken care of as a son of the family. He was sitting with an elderly gentleman on one side, and a beautiful girl on the other — Mr. Mellinger and Emmeline. They had both arrived a few days before to convey him home, as he was declared incapable of further service at present. He was re- ceived with joy and triumph, half the town coming out to welcome him; and he was soon rewarded with the possession of Emmeline.
powers of the Green Mantle of Venice.
William Sponseri had been des- tined by Ids father to marry Em- meline, with her fortune of two millions of dollars. Though he had no other attachment, he felt the greatest reluctance to unite himself for ever to a person whom he had never seen, for the sake of money, of which Heaven had al- ready given him sufficient. His filial duty induced him to leave Venice, to pursue his studies of trade, if we may so say, under Mr. Mellinger, and, at the same time, to see his daughter Emmeline. If she did not turn out to be what he could wish, he intended to write to his father, to remonstrate against the marriage.
Some stages before he reached Mr. Mellinger's dwelling, he met with young Wilmsen from Bremen: they soon became acquainted, went to the same inn on their arrival, and slept in the same room. Young Sponseri, contrary to his father's directions, delayed going to the house of Mr. Mellinger, until he had made some inquiries regarding the family; and to do so more ef- fectually, he assumed Wilmsen's name, who was too ill to quit the inn. Wilmsen, on his part, had no objection to pass for the young Sponseri, and thus the one was taken for the other. William heard but one opinion regarding Mr. Mellinger and his daughter : the latter was reputed to be very beau- tiful and accomplished, but con- fined herself principally to the cir- It will now be necessary that we cle of her family, although she should offer sqrne explanation of had many admirers: of the for- that part of the subject which re- mer, he heard nothing but what was lates to the apparent supernatural II bad: people went too far in their
TUB BEGGAn-WOMAN OF LOCARNO.
57
detraction ; they did not leave him one good quality, and asserted, that the greatest part of his wealth was gained by unjust means, and that he was deterred by nothing when a prospect of pecuniary ad- vantage was afforded. William resolved to have nothing to do wiih any branch of the family*: though Emmeline might please him, her wealth could bring no blessing with it, since it had been unjustly obtained. He thanked Heaven that he had remained unknown, and determined to return to his father. An accident completely changed his mind.
On his mother's birthday he went to church to offer up his pray- ers, and as he rose from the altar, his glance fell upon Emmeline. The lovely and pious girl was wrapt in deep devotion : he was struck by the beauty of her figure and appearance, and thought he never had seen so delightful a creature. When she left the church, he fol- lowed her at a distance, and saw her bestow her liberal charities at the porch to the lame and miser- able. On arriving at the street
where Mr. Mellinger lived, " If that," thought William, " should be Emmeline!" On approaching her father's door, she was gracious- ly greeted by all the neighbours, and at length knocked at Mr. Mel- linger's door. It was opened by Tobias, and the angel disappear- ed. " If that should be Emme- line !" said he murmuring, and standing still, with nothing but Mr. Mellinger's house in his eyes, and nothing but Mr. Mellinger's daugh- ter in his heart. He soon learned that he was not mistaken, and from this moment he became another man. With his wonted rashness, he formed a plan to enter Mr. Mel- linger's house under a feigned name, and if while she was igno- rant of his wealth and station he could secure her affections, he re- solved to offer her his hand. He would then work upon the old man to abandon his unjust dealings, and to make reparation wherever he had done injury. The blessing of Heaven might then light upon his union.
(To be concluded in our next.)
THE BEGGAR-WOMAN OF LOCARNO.
At the foot of the Alps, near of compassion, afforded this lodg-
Locarno, in Upper Italy, formers- stood an ancient castle, the ruins of which may still be seen by the traveller as he comes from the St. Gothard. This castle, the pro- perty of a ntarchese, contained lofty and spacious apartments, in one of which, upon straw, spread for the purpose, once lay an old sick woman, who had applied for
Lng for the night. The marchese, on his return from shooting, hap- 1 pened to go into this room, in ! which he was accustomed to put | his gun, and angrily desired the woman to remove from the corner where she was lying, and to go be- hind the stove. The poor creature rose as well as she was able; but the floor being smooth, her crutch
charity at the gate, and to whom slipped, she fell, and injured her- the mistress of the castle had, out self so severely, that she had the
3S
THE BEGGAR-WOMAN OF LOCARNO.
utmost difficult}' to get up again, and hobble across the apartment to the prescribed spot, where pi- teously groaning, she sank down, and expired.
Several years after this event, the marchese, whose circumstances had become embarrassed through the accidents of war and unpro- pitious seasons, proposed to sell his castle and domain. A gentle- man of Florence called to inspect the place, and charmed with the beauty of its situation, offered him- self as a purchaser. The murc/iese, anxious for the success of the ne- gociation, instructed his wife to lodge the stranger in the above- mentioned apartment, which was unoccupied, though very hand- some, and splendidly furnished. But what was their astonishment, when, in the middle of the night, their guest came down stairs to them pale and trembling, protest- ing by all that was sacred, that the room was haunted; for something, invisible to the eye, seemed to rise with a rustling, like that of straw, in a corner of the apartment, to hobble with slow, tottering, and distinctly audible steps across the floor, and sink down with heavy sighs and moans behind the stove.
The marchese, alarmed, though he knew not exactly for what rea- son, laughed at the gentleman with affected hilarity, and told him he would rise immediately, and for his satisfaction, pass the remainder of the night with him in his cham- ber. His visitor, however, request- ed permission to lie down till morn- ing on a sofa in the marchess' s room ; and as soon as the family was stir- ring, he ordered his carriage, took his leave, and departed.
This circumstance, which ex- cited an extraordinary sensation, deterred several purchasers, to the no small mortification of the mar- chese. At length it began to be rumoured among his own servants, that unaccountable noises were heard at night in this apartment : he therefore resolved to prove in the most decisive manner the fal- lacy of the report, by investigat- ing the matter himself the very next night. He accordingly had a bed prepared in the apartment in question, in which, without sleep- ing, he anxiously awaited the hour of twelve. His alarm may be con- ceived, when, as soon as the castle clock had proclaimed midnight, the incomprehensible noise struck his ear. It was exactly as though a person rose from a bed of straw, which rustled under him, crossed the floor, and sank, with deep sighs and the death-rattle, behind the stove.
Next morning, when lie went down stairs, the marchcsa inquired the result of his experiment. He looked shily round, and after cau- tiously shutting the door, assured her, that the room was actually haunted. The lady, though more terrified than she had ever been in her life, begged him, before he made the matter public, to submit it to one more cool examination in her company. He complied the next night with her wish : but both of them, as well as a trusty ser- vant whom they took with them, actually heard thesame unaccount- able, spectre-like noise; and no- thing but the ardent wish to dis- pose of the castle at any rate could have enabled them to conceal the horror they felt in the presence
VICISSITUDES OF HALF-'A-GBlNfiA.
m
of their servant, and to ascribe the i circumstance to some indifferent ! and accidental cause, which time could not fail to discover.
Determined to dive to the bot- tom of this mystery, in the even- ing of the third day they ascended the stairs with beating hearts to the haunted chamber, and found the house-dog, which happened to be loose, lying at the door. With- out any remark from either, but probably from the secret wish to have another living creature along with them, they admitted the dog into the apartment. Two lighted candles were placed upon the ta- ble. About eleven o'clock the murchesa reclined upon the bed without undressing ; and her hus- band did the same, with a sword and pistols, which he brought out of the closet, by his side. While the}7 sought to pass the time as well as they could with conversation, the dog curled himself up in the middle of tiie floor, and went to sleep.
Twelve o'clock arrived, accom- panied by the same horrid noise as in the preceding nights. Some- thing invisible to human eye rose upon crutches in the corner of the room; the straw was heard rattling
under it. At the first step it took the dog awoke, started up, pricked his ears, and began to growl and bark, exactly as if some stranger was approaching him, and retired backward towards the stove. The marchesa's hair stood erect at this sight: she rushed out of the room, and while the rnarchese, who had seized bis sword, was calling out " Who's there?" — and as he re- ceived no answer, was cutting the air like a madman, in all directions, she ordered the carriage, deter- mined to proceed immediately to the town. But scarcely had she packed up a few valuables and reached the gate, when she observ- ed that the castle was in flames. The marchese, maddened with hor- ror, and weary of life, had taken a candle, and set fire to it in seve- ral places. The building being wainscoted throughout, the flames made a rapid progress. In vain did the murcliesa send her servants to rescue her unfortunate husband ; he had already perished in the most miserable manner, and his blanch- ed bones, collected by the country- people, still lie in the corner of the very room from which he drove the beggar-woman of Locarno.
VICISSITUDES OF HALF-A-GUINEA.
(Continued from p. 204, vol. XII.)
The sightof this general confu- sion made me entertain strong hopes of being liberated, and in fact, in a few moments a charwo- man, who was assisting the house- maid, perceived me as she helped to remove the drawers under which I was lying, and hastily snatching me up, concealed me in her bosom,
without being perceived bj' the house-maid. I learned from their conversation that the family were about to return to town somewhat sooner than usual, in consequence of the expected accouchement of La- dy S , who was far advanced in
pregnancy: she would have pre- ferred remaining in the country,
40
VICISSITUDES Ol HALF-A-GIHNT'.A.
but she yielded to the entreaties of her lord, whom the servant repre- sented as being the most anxious and tender of husbands.
My new mistress performed her task with a quickness which ob- tained her the commendations of her employer, who little suspected the reason of her being so expedi- tious, which was in truth no other than a longing desire to change me for some gin. Accordingly, as soon as she had finished, she hied to the nearest wine-vaults, where I spee- dily became the property of the landlord, a bloated consequential- looking personage, whose life did not offer, any more than that of the person from whom he took me, any thing worth relating.
Just after he took me, a very young girl, meanly dressed, and with eyes swollen with weeping, entered, and casting a timid look around her, supplicated the land- lord to give her a little wine, for God's sake, for her sick father.
As she spoke in broken English, lie did not rightly comprehend her, till a seafaring man, who was stand- ing by, explained what she said.
" Well," cried the landlord, " here's French impudencefor you ! Wine, forsooth! it would be long enough before an English beggar, though they have brass enough too, would have thought of asking for such a thing. I say, ma'amselle, you had better go home; you wont find wine so plenty in England."
" Me no understand," said the poor girl.
" So much the better," cried the sailor abruptly. " I say, Master Tosspot, you must be joking to be sure ; though it is not a time to jest
neither, when the poor thing's fa- ther mayhap is dying; so give her a drop of your best, and let her go and comfort him."
" Give her a drop of my best ! fine talking, Master Mizen ; I shant do no such thing. I say, mistress, get about your business, you shall have nothing here, I promise you."
" But I say she shall though," cried Mizen vehemently, and at the same time flinging a guinea on the counter. "I say she shall have a bottle of wine; but curse me, if it should come out of the cellar of such a hard-hearted brute as you arc, only that there is no other house very near us."
My master affected not to hear the latter part of this speech, and the sailor taking the wine and some biscuits, signified to the girl in French, his wish to accompany her to her father.
Never was gratitude more forci- bly expressed than in her counte- nance; she surveyed the wine with as much delight as if she thought it possessed the power to cure her father's malady.. The sailor took up his change, of which I formed a part, and they set out together. A few minutes brought them to the dwelling of the poor Frenchman : he was in bed, and appeared in a state of the greatest weakness; he opened his eyes languidly as his daughterapproached him, butclos- ed them again, without speaking. Terrified at his apparent uncon- sciousness, " Oh, my God !" ex- claimed she, in a tone of agony, " he is dying !"
My master approached and felt his nulse. " Have courage, ma- demoiselle," said he, " there is life
VICISSITUDES OP IIALF-A-GUINEA.
41
still: let us try to get a little warm wine down his throat j it will revive him."
He was right : a little wine, cau- tiously administered, brought the invalid to his senses, though slowly. Mizen watched the progress of his recovery with extreme solicitude. As he gazed upon the pallid fea- tures, to which animation gradual- ly returned, they appeared every moment more familiar to him ; at last, unable to restrain himself, he exclaimed, " My eyes must de- ceive me, it cannot be Trevernel"
" Ah !" cried the girl, " you then know my father ?" At this confir- mation of his suspicions, my mas- ter's emotion became excessive, though he exerted himself to re- strain it. " If I am right," said he, " j'our father once saved my life. Many and many a time have I wished to meet him, though I little thought ever to find him in this plight. But don't cry, my dear mademoiselle; life's a rough voy- age, and by the blessing of Provi- dence,he will weather this gale yet."
In a few minutes, Treverne was so far recovered as to take a little of the biscuit soaked in wine, and Mizen, with a delicacy and cau- tion which one would not have ex- pected from his rough appearance, made himself known to him. The sight of one on whom he had the strongest claim was in his desolate situation a cordial indeed. He thanked Heaven fervently for hav- ing graciously spared him the pang of leaving his Therese wholly un- protected.
The rough sailor wept like a child, while he endeavoured to persuade Treverne, that there was still a hope of his recovery; and in fact he was
hi. Kill. No. LX XIII.
right. Want, rather than disease, had reduced him to the state in which my master found him, and of want, Mizen bluntly assured him. there was no farther danger, for his pouch was well line;! with yel- low boys, and he was puzzling his brain how in the world to get rid of them, when good fortune gave him an opportunity of paying off a little of his old debt of gratitude.
The countenance of Treverne expressed the inquiry which he had not strength to make : my master understood him. " Ah!" cried he, in a melancholy tone, " poor Nance has been gone this many a day : but I must not talk of old grievances now, but see what can he done to tow you into a more comfortable birth."
He then hastened away in search of medical aid, and as I was curi- ous to learn the cause of his at- tachment to Treverne, I took a glance at his past life.
He was of mean origin, and had while yet a boy entered the navy ; he was fond of his profession, and soon became a credit to it. In an engagement with a French frigate he had his leg shattered, and what was in his opinion a still greater misfortune, he was taken prisoner. Theship-surgeon, after examining his wound, declared that nothing but amputation could save his life; but Mizen protested so strenuous- ly against submitting to the ope- ration, that the surgeon, having argued the matter with him for some time in vain, at last complied with his desire, to be left to sink or swim, as it might please Provi- dence. His young assistant, de Treverne, could not see, without feelings of compassion, a fellow-
m
THI-: FEMALE TATTLER.
creature thus resolutely bent upon throwing away his life, and lie hast- ened to try the effect of his elo- quence upon the obstinate Eng- lishman. His entreaties were not successful,' but they were made with so much feeling, that they wrung from Mizen the secret rea- son of his refusal to submit to the amputation of his limb. He was passionately attached to a very pretty girl, and he feared that her constancy would not be proof to so severe a trial. "If Nance was to prove false-hearted," said he, " I know it would be all over with me, I should never hold up my head again ; and even if her mind did not change, and she consented to have me, still the thought that the poor wench might afterwards re- pent, would render me miserable. So you see, doctor, if so be as you can't splice the limb, it is my deter- mination to die like a man, rather than run the risk of being miser- able myself, or making the girl of my heart so."
Poor Mizen's heroism would not
have stood the test of sound rea- soning, but a Frenchman is never much disposed to reason in affairs of the heart; and Treverne was just then of an age to enter very strongly into the feelings of the young sailor. " I own," said he, after he had carefully examined the wound, " that without amputa- tion I have scarcely a hope of sav- ing you, but nevertheless every means shall be tried." He flew to his master, who willingly gave him leave to make whatever experi- ments he chose, assuring him at the same time, that they would be in vain. Treverne was almost of the same opinion himself, but he persevered; day and night he at- tended his patient with unwearied diligence : his generous cares were at last rewarded, Mizen recovered, and never perhaps had Treverne experienced a sensation of such pure and exquisite delight, as when he supported the steps of Mizen in the poor fellow's first effort to walk after his wound.
THE FEMALE TATTLER.
No. LXXIII.
Happy the man who, innocent, Grieves not at ills he can't prevent : His skiff does with the current glide, Not puffing, pull'd against the tide: He, paddling by the scutlling crowd, Sees unconcern'd life's wager row'd, And when he can't prevent foul play, Enjoys the follies of the fray.— — —
•The Spleen.
Where or from whom my re- collection has borrowed the follow- ing fable, I cannot tell ; I only wish it were in my power to say, with truth, that it was an original of my own. Labour is a term which is not appropriate to the delicacy of the female character; but call it
employment, and the application will be found to suit the character of the Female Tattler.
Labour, the offspring of Want, and the mother of Health and Con- tentment, lived with her two daugh- ters in a little cottage by the side
TlfH PtMALH T.ATTLMU.
A3
of a hill, at a great distance from any town. They were totally un- acquainted with the great, and had kept no better company than the
neighbouring villagers: but hav- es O o '
ing a desire of seeing the world, they forsook their companions and habitation, and determined to tra- vel. Labour went soberly along the road, with Health on her right hand, who, by the sprightliness of her conversation, and songs of cheerfulness and joy, softened the toils of the way; while Content- ment went smiling on the left, sup- porting the steps of her mother, and by her perpetual good -hu- mour, increasing the vivacity of her sister. In this manner they travelled over forests, and through towns and villages, till at last they arrived at the capital of the king- dom. At their entrance into the great city, the mother conjured her daughters never to lose sightof her ; for it was the will of Jupiter, she said, that their separation should be attended with the utter ruin of all three. But Health was of too gay a disposition to regard the counsels of Labour; she suffered herself to be seduced by Intem- perance, and at last died in child- birth of Disease. Contentment, in the absence of her sister, gave herself up to the enticements of Sloth, and was never heard of af- ter; while Labour, who could have no enjoyment without her daugh- ters, went every where in search of them, till she was at last seized by lassitude in her way, and died in misery.
If we make observations on hu- man nature, either from what we feel in ourselves or see in others,
we shall perceive that almost all the uneasinesses of mankind owe their rise to inactivity, or idleness of body or mind. A free and bus3r circulation of the blood is absolute- ly necessary towards the creating easiness and good-humour, and is the only means of securing us from a restless train of idle thoughts, which cannot fail to make us bur- thensome to ourselves and dissatis- fied with all about us.
Providence has therefore wisely provided for the generality of man- kind, by compelling them to use that labour, which not only pro- cures them the necessaries of life, but peace and health to enjoy them with delight. Nay, further, we find how essentially necessary it is, that the greatest part of mankind should be obliged to earn their bread by labour, from the ill use that is so often made of those rich- es which exempt men from it.
Even the advantages of the best education are too frequently found to be insufficient to keep us within the limits of reason and modera- tion. How hard do the very best of men find it to force upon them- selves that abstinence or labour, to which the narrowness of their cir- cumstances does not immediately compel them ! Is there really one in ten, who, by all the advantages of wealth and leisure, is made more happy in respect to himself, or more useful to mankind r What numbers do we daily see of such persons, either rioting in luxury or sleeping in sloth, for one who makes a proper use of the advan- tages which riches give, for the improvement of himself or the happiness of others ! And how ma- ny do we meet with, who, for their G 2
44
THii FEMALE TiVTTl.lt R.
abuse of the blessings of life, are given up to perpetual uneasiness of mind, and to the greatest ago- nies of bodily pain !
Whoever seriously considers this point, will discover that riches are by no means such certain blessings as the poor imagine them to be : on the contrary, he will perceive that the common labours and employ- ments of life are much better suit- ed to the majority of mankind, than prosperity and abundance would be without them.
It was a merciful sentence which the Creator passed on man for his disobedience," By the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat thy bread;" for to the punishment itself he stands indebted for health, strength, and all the enjoyments of life. Though the first paradise was forfeited for his transgression, yet, by the pe- nalty inflicted for that transgres- sion, the earth is converted into a paradise again, in the beautiful fields and gardens which we daily see produced by the labour of man ; and though the ground was pro- nounced cursed for his disobedi- ence, yet is that curse so ordered, as to be the punishment, chiefly, and almost solely, of those who, by intemperance or sloth, inflict it up- on themselves.
Even from the wants and weak- nesses of mankind, are the bands of mutual support and affection derived. The necessities of each, which no man of himself can suffi- ciently supply, compel him to con- tribute to wards the benefit of others; and while he labours only for his own advantage, he is promoting the universal good of all around him.
ry one wishes to enjoy; but the multitude are so unreasonable, as to desire to purchase it at a cheap- er rate than it is to be obtained. The continuance of it is only to be secured by exercise or labour. But the misfortune is, that the poor are too apt to overlook their own en- joyments, and to view with envy the ease and affluence of their su- periors, not considering that the usual attendants upon great for- tunes are anxiety and disease.
If it be true that those persons are the happiest who have the few- est wants, the rich man is more the object of compassion than envy. However moderate his inclinations may be, the custom of the world lays him under the necessity of living up to his fortune. He must be surrounded by a useless train of servants; his appetite must be pall- ed with plenty, and his peace in- vaded by crowds. He must give up the pleasures and endearments of domestic life, to be the slave of party and faction ; or if the good- ness of his heart should incline him to acts of humanity and bene- volence, he will have frequently the mortification of seeing his cha- rities ill bestowed ; and by his ina- bility to relieve all, the constant one of making more enemies by his refusals, than friends by his be- nefactions. If we add to these considerations a truth, which I be- lieve few persons will dispute, namely, that the greatest fortunes, by adding to the wants of their possessors, usually render them the most necessitous men, we shall find greatness and happiness to be at a wide distance from one another. If we carry our inquiries still high-
Health is the blessing which eve- II er, if we examine into the state of
ANKCDOTES, &C. HISTORICAL, LITJiRARY, AND PKIISONAL. 45
a king, and even enthrone him, like our own, in the hearts of his people — if the life of a father be a life of care and anxiety, to be
the father of a people is a pre-emi- nence to be honoured, but not to be envied.
ANECDOTES, &p. HISTORICAL, LITERARY, and PERSONAL.
No. VII.
COUNTESS OF DERBY.
This intrepid lady, being sum- moned a second time by Lord Fair- fax to surrender Latham House, in the Isle of Man, replied, " I have not forgotten what I owe to the Church of England, to my prince, and to my lord : I will de- fend the place until I have either lost my honour or my life."
The countess occasionally went out of the gates of the fortress, and often passed near the trenches. During the siege, she always be- gan the day with prayer, and end- ed it with thanksgiving.
Colonel Rigby having one day sent her an impertinent summons to surrender, she exclaimed, " Tell that insolent rebel Rigby, that if he presumes to send another sum- mons within these walls, I will have his messenger hung up at the gate."
THE DUKE OF OSSUNA.
The Duke of Ossuna, Viceroy of Naples, passing by Barcelona, and having got leave to release some slaves, he went aboard the Cape galley, and passing through the crew of slaves, he asked divers of them, what their offences were ? Every one excused himself upon several pretences; one saying, that he was put in out of malice, an- other by bribery of the judge; but all of them unjustly. Among the rest there was one sturdy little black man } and the duke asking
him what he was in for, " My lord," said he, " I cannot deny but I am justly put in here; for I wanted money, and so took a purse hard by Tarragona, to keep me from starving." The duke, with a trun- cheon he had in his hand, gave him two or three blows on the shoulder, saying, " You rogue, what do you do among so many honest, innocent men? Get you out of their com- pany:" so he w.is freed, and the rest remained still to tug at the oar.
HORSES' TAILS.
Among the Tartars and the Chi- nese, a horse's tail is the standard under which they go to war ; and in Turkey it is considered as a markof dignity; the reason of which is, that their standard having been once taken by the enemy, the ge- neral of the army cut off his horse's tail, fastened it to the top of a pike, and displayed it to the army; by which he rallied the soldiers, who were in great confusion, ex- hilarated their courage, and gain- ed a complete victory.
The bashaws of three tails are those who are entitled to have car- ried before them, three horses' tails fastened to a pike with a gold button.
SIR EDWARD COKE.
Echard says, " that this great lawyer lost his preferment by the same means by which he got it — by
46 AWMCDOTKS, &C. HISTORICAL, I.lTIvKARY, AM) PI'ItSONAL.
his tongue. His recess," adds he, " was far from being inglorious; and he was so excellent at improv- ing a disgrace, that King James used to compare him to a cat, that whatever happened, would always light upon her feet." Finding a cloud at court, he met with fair weather in the country, where he so espoused the cause of the peo- ple, that in succeeding parliaments the prerogative felt him as its most able and active opposer. We are told that the Duke of Bucking- ham would have restored him, if he would have given a gratuity; but he answered, " A judge ought not to give or take a bribe." He was an upright judge, and an able arguer. His usual saying was, " Matter lies in a little room ;" an aphorism not often put in practice by the advocates of our times.
THE POETIC CALIPH.
There is nothing so remarkable in the character of the Arabians as their love for poetry, which is universal among them. A talent for making verses was reckoned by them a qualification equal to the greatest military capacity. The Abbe de Marigriy, in his History of the Arabians, furnishes us with these anecdotes of the Caliph Moavviyah :
" An Arabian robber being con- demned to have his hand cut off, was brought before Moawiyah, in order that the sentence might be confirmed. The criminal, being in the caliph's presence, and re- flecting on his great love for poe- try, made and repeated four very ingenious and beautiful verses on the spot, with which Moawiyah was so highly pleased, that he imme-
diately pardoned the Arabian, and ordered him to be set at liberty.
" The great fondness which Mo- awiyah had for poetry, also enabled a young Arabian to obtain a speedy redress for a severe injury com- mitted against him by the governor of Cufah, in forcibly taking from him his beauteous and beloved wife. The wretched husband came to make his complaint to the caliph, and expressed his grievance in so pathetic an elegy, that Moawiyah, both interested and delighted with the energetic softness and lively fancy of the young poet, protract- ed the determination of other bu- siness, -that he might render him immediate justice. He sent an express to the governor, and com- manded him to resign the woman without dehty. In the mean time he kept the husband at court, and treated him with the greatest re- spect.
" The governor returned a very extraordinary answer, which shew- ed the excess of his passion. He informed the messenger, that if the caliph would permit him to retain her only twelve months, he would consent to have his head cut off at the end of that time ; but the caliph rigidly insisted on her beinggiven up, and she wasbrought before him.
" So extraordinary an event ex- cited the caliph's curiosity. He was desirous of seeing a woman, whose beauty was so much talked of. When she appeared, he found that her perfections had not been exaggerated, and that her charms were capable of inspiring love in the hearts of every one who saw her. But when she spoke, her elegant manner and refined ex-
ANf'.CDOTKS, Ike HISTOK ICAL, LITFHAUY, AND PP.USONAL.
47
pressions were such, that he de- clared, notwithstanding the many embassies he had received, and the various conversations he had held with the greatest men of his countr}', he never hefore heard such a torrent of eloquence as flowed from the lips of the charm- ing Arabian.
" After a long conversation, with which the caliph was enraptured, he assumed a very serious tone, and asked her, for which she had the greatest affection, the govern- or or her husband ? The fair Ara- bian remained some time silent. Moawiyah thought she did not wish to answer the question, and was getting very angry, when she, with a modesty becoming her sex, answered him in verse, full of fire and spirit, in which she expressed the greatest love and attachment to her husband, and begged she might be restored to him.
" £ What a prodigy of wit and beauty!' exclaimed the caliph in amaze; ' how highly would my kingdom behonoured, if you would please to share my throne! But since you are resolved to return to your husband and country, I will not prevent you. Go then, and if you would enjoy your husband without fear of some fresh misfor- tune, keep within doors; and if you must go out, let a thick veil cover your matchless charms from the eyes of men.'
"The caliph then dismissed the happy pair, with large presents ; and the young poet and his wife publicly acknowledged the many favours they had receivedfrom him."
LADY WALLACE.
Lady Wallace, celebrated in
Scotland for wit and beauty, hap- pening to be at an assembly at Edinburgh, a young gentleman, the son of his Majesty's printer, who had the patent for publishing bibles, made his appearance, dress- ed in green and gold. Being a new face, and extremely elegant, he attracted the attention of the whole companj\ A general mur- mur prevailed in the room, to know who he was. Lady Wallace in- stantly made answer, loud enough to be heard, " Oh ! don't you know him? It is young Bible, bound in calf and gilt, but not lettered"
CARDINAL D'ESTE. This magnificent prince of the church invited Cardinal de Medi- cis to sup with him. After supper they played at primero for a consi- derable sum of money, and the Cardinal d'Este had prime, which he concealed, and lost his money to the Cardinal de Medicis. When he was gone, one of Cardinal d'Este's attendants observed to his eminence, that he had really won the game. " So I had, sir," re- plied he; " but I did not invite my brother cardinal here to win his money."
MENAGE AND MARIGNY.
Menage mentions, that when Marigny contracted a friendship with him, he told him he was upon, liis nail. It was a method he had of speaking of all his friends; he also used it in his letters; one which he wrote to Menage begins thus : " Oh! illustrious of mt/ nail."
When Marigfiy said to any one, You are upon mi/ nail, he meant two things — one, that the person was
4a
MUSICAL RKVJGW.
always present,nothing being more easy than to look at his nail; the other was, that good and real friends were so scarce, that even he who had the most, might write their names on his nail.
THE EMPEROR CHARLES IV.
A merchant of Prague had lent a hundred thousand ducats to this emperor. The day afterwards he invited him to dinner, with many of his nobles, and treated them with great magnificence. During the dessert, he set before the emperor a bason of gold, in which was his note for the money he had borrow- ed, and said, " Sire, all the other dishes are in common for the rest of the company who have done me the honour to partake of my re- past. This dish is destined for your Sacred Majesty> and I re-
quest you to accept of what it con- tains*."
JAMES I. King James once went out of his way to hear a noted preacher. The clergyman seeing the king enter, left his text to declaim against swearing, for which that king was notorious. When done, James thanked him for his sermon, but asked, what connection swear- ing had with it? He answered, " Since your Majesty came out of your way, I could not do less than go out of mine"
* A generous action of die same kind is told of thai great actor, Mr. Garrick. He had lent Mr. Berenger 5001. on his bond; soon afterwards he was invited to dine with him on his birthday, to meet some friends. He sent his excuses in a letter that inclosed in it his bond, which he requested him to apply to the good cheer and entertainment of his company.
MUSICAL
Introduction, and Rossini's celebrat- ed Air " Di tanti pulpit i" ar- ranged, with Variations, as a Du- et for two Performers on the Pia- no-forte, and respectfully dedicated to Miss and Miss Maria Bishop, by J. C. Nightingale. Pr. 3s. — (Monro, Skinner-street.) Vkry proper, agreeable, and ea- sy music for two performers. The short introduction is conceived in the spirit of the theme; and the theme itself has been limited to the regular portion of the air. The variations are all in a satisfactory style; they constantly adhere, per- haps too closely, to the subject. No. 2. may be mentioned as exhi- biting a flowing succession of de- misemiquaver passages; No. 3. ex-
REVIEW.
cites some interest from the well- twined interlacement of the first part into the second, and a clever imitation or two; No. 4. exhibits a range of legato semiquavers in the relative minor key; and the march of No. 5. will be found spi- rited and showy.
" Tu cite accendi," Rossini's celebrat- ed Cavalina, zcith Variations, for the Piano-forte or Harp, compos- ed by S. F. Rimbault. Pr. 2s. — (Hodsoll, High Holborn.) The same air as the preceding, with this difference, that the intro- ductory recitativo, "Tuche accen- di," has been prefixed to the air of " Di tanti palpiti," which forms the theme for the variations. The general opinion which we have
MUSICAL KEVI.'iW.
49
given on the preceding publica- tion might fairly be applied to this. Mr.Rimbault's variations are pleas- ing, and free from any intricacies. No. 2. represents the theme satis- factorily in the bass, while the tre- ble intersprinkles it with triplets. The demisemiquavers in No. 3. proceed through the air with bus- tling and tasteful activity. Thus far the more regular portion of the air only has made its appearance, but in the two next, and conclud- ing, variations, the remainder of Rossini's original has been judici- ously introduced : in var. 3. we have the famous strong transition from the tonic to the major key of its upper minor third ; and in No. 4. Rossini's fanciful conclusion is ap- propriately made to terminate Mr. Rimbault's variations. In the lat- ter half of bar 2. 1. 3, p. 1, there is, we believe, a material and unfa- vourable deviation from the au- thentic melody : the notes F, A, C, in the treble, should be D, F, A. La petite Bagatelle, for the Piano- forte or Harp, composed by S. F. Rimbault. No. 6. Pr. Is.— (Hod- soll.)
Several numbers of Mr. R.'s ba- gatelles have had favourable com- ment in preceding critiques of ours. The present trifle is a little polacca, which, although not very original, will interest the juvenile performer by its regularity, and a fair proportion of variety. There is a little minore, and a tasty can- tabile passage in the dominant. PleyeVs celebrated Symphony, adapt- ed for the Piano-forte, with Ac- companiments for a Flute, Violin, and Violoncello (ad lib.),by S. F. Rimbault. No. 2. Pr. 5s.; with- Vol. XIII. No. LXXIIL
out Accompaniments, 3s. --(Hod- soil.)
This symphony is universally known among amateurs, and pro- bably is the best of any that Pley- el has composed. The allegro is in D major, andante A major, minu- et and rondo in D major. Mr. Rimbault's arrangement is entitled to great praise; it is excellent throughout, and capable of pro- ducing all the effect that could be expected from so limited a num- ber of instruments. Indeed the piano-forte alone conveys a pretty correct idea of the score. Airs and Chorusses, selected from Mo- zart's celebrated Opera, " // Flaw to Magico," arranged as Duets for two Performers on the Piano- forte, by S. F. Rimbault. No. 3. Pr. 3s.— (Hodsoll.) The earlier numbers of this col- lection of duets from the Magic Flute have already been submitted to the notice of our readers. In this book we find the following airs : " Ladove prende" (the manly heart) — " ColombaeTortorella" — " Regna Amore in o«;ni luogo'' — " Oh cara Armonia" — " Grand Isi, grand' Osiri" — " Gia. fan' ritorno" — " Qui segno non s'accende" — ■ " Piede snello, ardito cor." — All these airs are veiy neatly arranged, and they form certainly a very in- teresting, and by no means diffi- cult, set of duets. " Oh! saijnot that woman," a favour- ite Song, with an Accompaniment for the Piano-forte or Harp ,• the Poetry by Henry Prcntis, Esq. ; the Music composed, and respect- fully dedicated to Wm. Paine Bee- eham, lisq. by W. T. Parke. Pr. Is. 6d.— (Hodsoll.) H
50
MUSICAL RKVIRW.
Mr. Parke's song is well enough ; but it is too much in the common ballad style, without any feature of originality. There is nothing crude, but also nothing to excite peculiar interest, or fix itself on our memory.
Fourth Fantasia, consisting of the most favourite Airs from Mozart1 s celebrated Opera " Le Nozze di Figaro" composed, and arranged for the Piano -forte, with Flute \ Accompaniments (ad lib.), per- , formed on the Apollonicon,hy John : Purkis. Pr. 3s.— (Hodsoll.) We should rather entitle this | book, a collection of airs from Mo- zart's Figaro, arranged for the pi- ano-forte, than a fantasia; because the latter appellation implies a free and highly diversified treatment of a given subject or subjects : where- as the present publication, if we except the introduction, and the general arrangement for the pia- no-forte, exhibits a comparatively small proportion of what may strict- ly be designed as Mr. Purkis' s own inditing. With this reservation, we are free to give Mr. P. all the credit that is due to him for the satisfactory arrangement of the airs contained in the book. They are, " Non piu andrai" — " Dovesono i bei momenti" — " Giovani lieti spargete fiori" — and " Su l'aria" — The first is transposed into ra- ther a high key, but its adaptation, as well as that of the others, is cer- tainly very tasteful and effective, without being anywise intricate. The introduction too is replete with interest, and hints prettily at the motivo, and the more striking- points of the piece which it pre- cedes.
Georgethe Fourths Coronation grand March and Waltz, for the Pia//o- forte, and Flute Accompaniment (ad lib.), composed, and performed with the greatest applause on the Apollonicon, by John Purkis. Pr. 2s.— (Hodsoll.) Brilliancy, regularity, and good style are conspicuous features in this march of Mr. Purkis ; the ideas are satisfactory and well connect- ed, but we cannot assign to them any high degree of originality. The waltz, too, does not convey any novel impressions, but it is well conceived and arranged, and its effect isthroughout such as might be expected from an experienced pen like that of Mr. P. The trio in four flats is very pleasing, and the coda particularly showy. Handel's Coronation Anthem ?iewh/ arranged for the Organ or Piano- forte, by John Purkis. Pr. is. — (Hodsoll).
We merely notice this new edi- tion, conceiving that its moderate price, and the name of its adapter, may induce one or other of our readers to procure it. The Coronation Hondo for the Piano- forte, composedby Samuel Poole. Pr. Is. 6d.— (Hodsoll). A pastorale by way of introduc- tion, and an allegretto, both in G major. The first of these move- ments has a good subject, and would be altogether unobjectionable, were it not fringed out by a variety of decorative passages, which really distress the melody. Flourishes of the description introduced by Mr. P. ought to be very sparingly administered, especially in a pas- torale, where chaste simplicity is an indispensable requisite. Were
MUSICAL KfiVIKW.
51
the movement longer, there might have been room for some of these amplifications. The allegretto is of small extent; it exhibits no new ideas, but what there are, appear to us satisfactory upon the whole, and fit for beginners. The Christmas Rose, a Duet, zvith an Accompaniment for the Piano- for- te, composed by J. F. Danneley, the IVords by Mrs. Col/bold. — Pr. Is. 6d.— (Chappel and Co.) This duet, in D major, is written in the style of the works of the good old masters, in which contra- puntal contrivance predominates over melody ; and, considered ac- cording to that standard, its merits are conspicuous : the voices and the accompaniment are entwined into each other with much clever- ness, and very good effect. The motivo is lively, and it is well car- ried through a number of bars un- der various modifications. The in- strumental part at the bottom of the second page does not suit our taste : its third bar, owing to the concurrence of a fifth in the se- cond, and an octave in the third crotchets, feels very hard, although the notes observed upon are but passing notes. It surely required not so much effort to go from the tonic to the subdominant. The conclusion in the fourth page ap- pears to us too serious and im- portant for a piece of this descrip- tion; it certainly is of a character very opposite to the subject of the duet.
" Farerrell,bright illusions," theWords by G. L. Chesterton, Esq. sung by Mr. Leoni Lee at the Theatre Royal Hay market, with an Ac- companiment for the Harp or Pia- no-forte, and most respectfully de-
dicated to Dr. Jay, by Charlotte
Ferrier. Pr. 2s. — (Mayhew and
Co. Old Bond -street.)
We are occasionally called upon to pass our critical verdict upon compositions of female authors, and our experience always renders us reluctant to enter upon that duty. On the one hand, we would not for the world give offence; while, on the other, we have found it in most cases very difficult to award applause. The attempt is general- ly made by amateurs ver}? superfi- cially conversant with the rules and requisites of one of the most ar- duous and intricate of the fine arts; an art which, besides natural genius, demands the stud}' and ex- perience of many years. Hence it is that we have often thought it best to reconsign some of these fair productions to a state of dor- mancy in our portfolio, rather than incur displeasure. The song of Miss Ferrier was taken up with an anxious prepossession of this kind, but its perusal set our fears at rest, and placed us in that state of com- placency which every well-organ- ized male being must experience when he can conscientiously speak well of any individual of the fairer part of the creation. They con- stitute the solace of our lives, but when they play and sing to us, and play and sing con anima, nay, cre- ate the song, they render life a very paradise. Miss F.'s composition, we repeat it, has caused us great pleasure. There is a vein of pa- thetic tenderness in the melody, which bespeaks good inward feel- ing and a cultivated taste. The rhythmical construction is perfect, all the parts are in proper symme- try, and the harmony is throughout II L>
52
MUSICAL IfJiVIfiW.
remarkable as to purity and pro- priety of treatment. Among the more select instances of the latter description, may be reckoned the very apt and well managed intro- duction of the extreme sixth in the concluding symphony. " My native land, a long goodnight /" a Ballad, sung with the greatest applause by Mr. Horn, at the The- atre Royal Drury-lane ; written, composed,andinscribed to his friend, J. F. Johnston, Esq. by Geo. E. Linley, Esq. Pr. 2s. — (Penson and Robertson, Edinburgh.) It is rare in modern times to find poet and composer united in one individual, and more rare still, to see a successful resultfromsuch a com- bination. In the above produc- tion, we will own, the poetic ta- lent predominates; but it presents features of merit in a musical point of view. In the symphony, we ob- serve a considerable degree of ori- ginality, and a progress of harmo- ny which would do credit to a pro- fessor in the art. In the melody of the song itself, there is a feel- ing of tenderness and sympathy consonant with the text, and a suf- ficient variety of expression : the passage, " I love the dark blue waters," p. 2, would have been pre- ferable, had it been throughout in the dominant, in which it set out, instead of relapsing into the key at its second bar. In the accompani- ment, we observe nothing substan- tially objectionable, but in its ar- rangement there appears too great a sameness, and too much alterna- tion of the common chord and do- minant seventh ; and the bass, es- pecially towards the conclusion, is father naked.
" Oh! blame me not that pleasure's dream," a BcUlad, adapted to a fa* vourite Melody by Mozart, with new Accompaniments and Sympho- nies, by C. S. Smith. Pr. Is. 6d. — (Wheatstone, Strand.) One of the prettiest, most sim- ple, and graceful songs of Mozart, called the Violet, has furnished the melody to two stanzas written by Mr. Selvvyn. The words fit very fairly, and the air is given correct- ly ; but we cannot say that the new accompaniment has added to its interest: surely Mozart's simple and highly characteristic accom- paniment would have been prefer- able to an accompaniment of strong harpeggios, which only obscure the delicate and unaffected pro- gress of the melody. The con- cluding symphony is not to our lik- ing ; the modulation into the sub- dominant is out of place, and the rhythm irregular, even with the appenriageof the terminating com- mon chords.
ON THE ORTHOGRAPHY OF THE SUR- NAME OF THE COMPOSER OF THE MESSIAH.
The publisher of the Repository has put into our hands a letter from a subscriber, desiring to be informed whether " Handel," or" Handel," is the name of the composer whose works have for so long a period fas- cinated the British public.
The question is not liable to a doubt. The composer's name was " Handel," or " Ylaendel," writ- ten with the German diphthong a or ae, both being used alike by the Germans; precisely as in the case of Miilzel, or Maelzel, the inven- tor of the Metronome. The Eng- lish a in " hand," " band," &c.
LONDON FASHIONS.
55
having the same sound as the Ger- man diphthong, may have led to the disuse of the latter in this case ; or it may have been dropped in the same manner as is daily the case with Germans of similar names re- siding in England, such as " Kb- nig," " Kbhler," &c. who are in- variably called Konig, Kohler, &c. and many of whom adopt this mutilation in their own signatures. All the German biographers of our composer spell his name with a, and there are medals extant on which it is spelt in thesame manner.
It is not improbable, however, that, in our own musical critiques, we may have been guilty of the charge brought against us of writ- ing the name sometimes with a diphthong, and sometimes without it. If so, we can only plead, in excuse, the more frequent occur- rence of the erroneous orthogra- phy, which may occasionally have led our pen astray. We shall en- deavour to be more consistent in future.
FASHIONS.
LONDON FASHIONS.
PLATE 1.— MORNING DRESS. A high gown composed of bright rose-coloured levantine : the bot- tom of the skirt is trimmed with a broad bouilloiine of the same ma- terial, above which is a flounce edged with velvet to correspond, and disposed in a scroll pattern; there are two rows, each turned the same way, and a rouleau of levan- tine placed between. The body meets in front: it is ornamented with straps placed bias, and each finished with a Brandenbourg ; the back is plain, and extremely nar- row at the bottom. Spring collar, trimmed with a full fall of the same material. Sleeve moderately wide; cuff cut in three points, finished by Brandenbourgs. The epaulette, for which we must refer to our print, is extremely novel and pret- ty. Head-dress, a demi- ct/rnette composed of Urling's lace; the caul is something higher than they have been lately worn; narrow bor- of roses, and tied in full bows and
der, made very full : a bouquet of roses is placed rather far back. The hair is parted so as to display almost the whole of the forehead, and is dressed lightly at the sides. Black kid shoes. Limerick gloves.
PLATE o.— FULL DRESS.
A white satin round gown ; the bottom of the skirt is trimmed in a very novel stjde with blond in- termixed with white satin. The corsage is cut low and square ; the bust is edged with a plaiting of satin, and the lower part of it is ornamented in front with satin edir-
o
ed with narrow blond, and dis- posed in a scroll pattern. The sleeve is a mixture of blond and white satin; the former full, and confined by lozenges of the latter, the point of each finished by a Provence rose: the bottom of the sleeve is confined by a band to correspond. White satin sash, em- broidered at each end in a bouquet
54
GENERAL OBSERVATIONS ON FAS1/10N AND DRESS.
long ends. Head-dress, en ckeveux. The front hair is parted to display the forehead, and falls very low at the sides of the face in light loose ringlets. The hind hair is disposed in plaits, through which a wreath of Provence roses is carelessl}' twisted. Ear-rings and necklace diamonds : the latter is a neglige. White kid gloves, and white gros de Naples slippers.
We are indebted to Miss Pier- point of No. 12, Edwards-street, Portinan-square, inventress of the corset a la Grecque, for both these dresses.
GENERAL OBSERVATIONS ON FASHION AND DltiiSS.
It is about the middle of January, generally speaking, that the winter fashions may be regarded as fixed, at least as far as respects the ma- terials of dresses: as to the forms or the trimmings, those our fair readers know are always varying.
Plain walking dress is of a de- scription extremely appropriate to the time of year : it does not, however, afford much novelty. Cloth pelisses, or dark silk ones lined and wadded, are very gene- rally adopted. We see scarcely any but fur trimmings, which is somewhat singular, considering the unusual mildness of the season. Muffs are universally adopted, and tippets were very generally worn in the beginning of December, but they have since been more partially adopted : those most in favour are of the round kind, and very large.
It is now some time since we have noticed any marked alteration in the length of waists ; but the backs of pelisses and dresses con- tinue to be much sloped at the sides,
so as to be ver}' narrow indeed at the bottom of tbe waist. This fa- shion is now, we think, rather car- ried to excess. The bodies of cloth pelisses are frequently ornamented with braiding: it is employed to mark the shape of the back, and a Brandenbourg of a lozenge form is placed at the bottom of each seam. The busts of some pelisses are ornamented in the hussar style with braiding and Brandenbourgs; others have the braiding put bias, and terminated at each end by small silk buttons. Pelerines, ex- cept those of fur, are now rarely seen.
Velvet and beaver are the ma- terials most in favour for plain walking bonnets; they are always ornamented with feathers to cor- respond, and the plumes are very long and full. Black Leghorn is worn, but not generally.
Pelisses are equally in favour for carriage dress and for the public promenade. Velvet is fashionable, but it is not so generally worn as those rich silks which we have so often had occasion to mention un- der the French names of velours epingle, velours natte, &c; they are always wadded, and lined either with white, cherry - coloured, or blue silk. There is some variety in trimmings, but not so much as might be expected, for fur is upon the whole most prevalent. The other trimmings are composed in general of a mixture of velvet and satin, velvet and gros de Naples, or velvet only. We shall endeavour to give our fair readers an idea of the forms of such as are most fa- shionable.
A chain trimming of satin, above which a row of leaves is placed in
GENERAL OBSERVATIONS ON FASHION" AND DRKSS
a bias direction, and at some dis- tance from each other: the leaves are of velvet ; they are very large, and are notched at the edges, and finished by a very narrow silk braid. Another fashionable style of trim- ming consists of a wreath of leaves composed of satin and velvet laid on in waves. A satin rouleau, made very full, and with a plain velvet band twisted round it, is also fa- shionable. Those trimmings com- posed of velvet are cut like the teeth of a saw, but always in a bias direction, and very deep.
Unless the head-dress be black, it is either the colour of the dress, or cherry colour. The chapeau a la pai/sanue, which we mentioned in our last Number, is at present much in favour ; toque hats also'-be- gin to be a good deal worn. There does not appear, however, to be any settled standard for the form or size of carriage head-dress, for we still see a good many large bon- nets, though not, we must confess, of so preposterous a size as they were a year or two ago.
Feathers are almost universally adopted; we see, indeed, a few bonnets ornamented with flowers, but their number is comparatively very trifling. Long full plumes of curled ostrich feathers may, per- haps, be considered as most fa- shionable, but marabouts are also worn by very elegant women. We have observed, that these latter were arranged upon toque hats, in the form of a diadem, and placed ex- actly in front. The effect was no- vel and pretty.
Let us now take a peep at in- door costume. The muslin robedu matin is at last discarded, and the high gown of warmer materials
substituted in its place. Poplins and bombasins are much in fa- vour; tabbinets are also worn, but not so generally as the two former; and we see several morning dresses of gros de Naples and levantine. The very elegant dress given in our print is the only striking no- velty which this month affords.
The materials for dinner dress are the same as last month, with the addition of white merino; we have seen several dresses composed of it : the trimmings were of velvet and satin ; the latter white, the former of some very full colour, as ponceau, deep blue, purple, or dark turtle green. The satin is dispos- ed in bouillonne, in various forms, and the spaces filled with the vel- vet.
We have seen several dinner gowns made so high as to leave but very little of the bust exposed : we are sorry, however, to say, that this fashion is but partially adopted. Gowns continue to be made tight to the shape : short sleeves are ge- nerally worn, but we have seen recently a few gowns made in the French style, with white lace or gauze long sleeves, tight to the arm, and with satin rouleaus, dis- posed in a bias direction, twisted round the arm to the wrist; the sleeve terminated with, a full ruffle of blond or thread lace. We must observe, that there is always a very full epaulette of the same material as the gown.
Toques, turbans, and small dress hats are all in favour in full dress. One of the prettiest of the latter is a hat with a small brim somewhat in the Spanish shape, but turning up at the side instead of in front. The brim is considerably deeper
56
FRENCH FEMAt.fi FASHIONS.
at one side than the other; it is edged and looped with pearls, and adorned with a full plume of down feathers.
For the very juvenile belle, how- ever, a head-dress en cheveux is still more fashionable than any co-
vering for the head. The hair is decorated either with flowers of the season, roses, or pearls.
Fashionable colours for the month are, dark ruby, lavender, deep blue, bright rose colour, and dark green.
FRENCH FEMALE FASHIONS
Paris, Dec. 18
My dear Sophia,
Our present style of pro- menade dress presents rather more variety than when I wrote to you last month. Pelisses, which we call rcdingotesy and cloaks, which you will recollect we style pelisses, are nearly equally fashionable; spencers and shawls are likewise in favour. The redingotes are made in a very plain style : the skirt is a good deal gored ; it is very wide at the bottom, but drawn unbecom- ingly tight round the figure at the waist, which is still worn as long as ever. The body is tight to the shape, and made sometimes with a short full jacket; the collar stands very much out at the neck, and is a little pointed in the middle of the back. The sleeve is nearly tight to the arm ; but the epaulette is very full. I should have observ- ed, that rcdingotes are always of le- vantine, or gros de Naples. The trimming is a chain of plaited sa- tin, which goes all round. The hottom of the sleeve is edged with it, and the epaulette is also inter- sected with bands, placed in a straight line, which confine the ful- ness. I must not forget to say, that the dress wraps a little to the right side.
I need not speak to you about cloaks, because they have not al-
tered since I wrote last. Spencers are principally made of velvet; the colour of the most novel is ftamme de punch: they are lined and edged with cherry-coloured satin; a good many have the seams of the back marked by a cherry -co- loured welt: the edge of the gir- dle corresponds. The most fa- shionable epaulettes aTethosein lo- zenge puffs, confined by narrow straps edged with cherr}' colour. Sometimes the front of the spen- cer is adorned with these puffs, which form a stomacher, but it is not pointed at the bottom of the waist.
Our red in gales and pelisses are always of stout silk ; but gowns are made either of silk or merino, and of the two, the latter is most fashionable. The skirts of these dresses are trimmed at the bottom with bands of satin, four or five in number. The corsage is slashed up the front, and each of the slashes finished b}' a Brandenbourg. Full epaulette, the upper part of which consists of bands welted at the edge ; there are two folds of these bands; the lower part of the top sleeve is plain, but very full.
Our chapeaitx are either of black velvet, or of gros de Naples, to cor- respond with the colour of the dress. Cherry -coloured linings are very much in favour; but we
J'H iiisrcij FgMALE t'A^UlOis'S.
51
still see a good many chapeaux of black velvet, lined with black satin. The edges of the brims of these bonnets are frequently finished by a black satin rouleau, which is, how- ever, made very small, and rather resembles a welt. Those made in silk have a trimming of pluche tie sweat the edge of the brim. Cha- peaux at present are ornamented on- ly with feathers: plumes of cocks' feathers, placed so as to droop to the right side, are very fashiona- ble.
While I am on the subject of promenade dress, I must not for- get to observe, that black gros cle Naples, levantine, &c. &c. are very much in favour for it; and as the c/iapeau is now so frequently lined and trimmed with black, the dress would have altogether a mourning- appearance, were it not that the petit sautoir is always of vivid, I might say glaring colours, such as raspberry-red, with a palm bor- der, the ground of which is white. Long narrow cachemire shawls of this description are the most used ; but they are simply tied round the throat, and do not prevent the wearer from having either a large shawl or a pelisse.
Black is not less in favour in in- door than in out-door dress; it is particularly fashionable in full dress. Velvet is the material most in favour: we see, however, a few satin dresses, but very few. Ruches are still the trimmings most in fa- vour ; they are disposed in various ways : some are arranged in crowns, and tied by full bows of satin, which are fastened by a knot in the middle ; others are disposed in crescents, and a good many are put
Vol. XIII. No-. LXXIII.
on one above another, and each row progressively smaller than the other. I should observe that for velvet or satin dresses, the trim- ming is always composed of gauze.
Flounces are next in favour to ruches; they are disposed in deep plaits, and have narrow bands of satin put near the edge; two are placed nearly close together, and headed by a rouleau; there are three rows each at some distance from the other.
The bodies of dress gowns are variously made, but always cut low ; they are square round the bo- som ; the shoulder-strap is cut nar- row, and the neck much display- ed, except with unmarried ladies, who do not with us expose their charms so freely to the public gaze as the married belle: they adopt gauze tuckers, drawn up round the neck, which always reminds me of the modesty-piece mentioned by the Spectator. I know not whe- ther ni}' memory is correct, but I think that Addison somewhere complains, that this said modesty- piece dwindled away by degrees, till it became in fact no covering at all : this is not the case, however, with the tuckers of the fair Pari- sians; they shade the neck very delicately, and are, in my opinion at least, extremely becoming.
The backs of gowns are always plain ; but the busts may be either plain, or else disposed in drapery, or ornamented in the stomacher style. The drapery consists of deep folds, which are fastened down in the middle of the bosom by a band of the same material as the sown. The stomachers are formed by bands, placed one above
,08
I'ASIIIONABLK rUKXITlJUr'.
another, each forming a half-cir- cle; these stomachers are very wide at the bosom, hut terminate nearly in a point.
Cachemire and white merinoare next in favour to velvet. The ground of the former is always white, and the trimming consists of the border of the shawl ; a very narrow border to correspond goes round the bosom, and the fulness of the epaulette is intersected with bands of a similar description, placed lengthwise, but in bias. In speaking of trimmings, I forgot to observe, that gowns composed of white merino are frequently trimmed with bands of striped silk cut bias, but always to correspond in colour with the gown. Sleeves in full dress are very short: some- times a long transparent sleeve is
worn with a full ep;iulette ; the long sleeve as tight as possible to the arm ; it is finished by a ruffle, and white satin rouleaus are fre- quently twisted across the arm to the wrist.
The colours most decidedly fa- shionable in evening dress are, white, flamme de punch, and cherry colour. Forthe promenade, bronze, bright olive, a He de mouche, and black, are most in favour. The linings are always cherry colour, ovjiamme de punch.
Adieu, my beloved friend ! Need I say how much the approaching festival recalls clear England to my mind, or how heartily I wish that your Christmas festivities could be shared by your
Eudocia?
FASHIONABLE FURNITURE.
PLATE 3.— A DRAWING-ROOM LUSTRE.
Although the lustre represent- ed in the annexed plate is not so splendid a piece of furniture as the girandole given last month, its shape is at least quite as elegant, and it is adapted to more general use. It is, like the girandole, the manufacture of Messrs. Pellatt and Green of St. Paul's Church-yard, and the ornaments peculiar to it are of their patent crystallo ceramie, or "lass incrustation. These orna- ments, it will be observed, consist of a head of Apollo between lyres, and in two suspended pieces of glass are additional subjects, all formed of the metallic composition, incrusted over with the glass, and producing a most rich and striking appearance
larger the scale upon which the lustre is made, the better will be the effect of the crystallo ceramie, and if it be displayed by means of French lamps, as in the accompa- nying plate, the incrustations will be set off to the utmost advantage by means of the intense and power- ful light thrown upon them.
In our last we were too much circumscribed for room to be able to introduce an}T specimen of the small work to which we referred, by Mr. Apsley Pellatt, junior, en- titled " A Memoir of the Origin, Progress, and Improvementof Glass Manufactures," which includes an account of the patent crystallo ce- ramie, of which we have spoken. As we have now a small space
It is to be observed, that the which we can devote to the further
.
FASHIONABLE FUUNITUIi:
59
illustration of this interesting sub- ject, we gladly avail ourselves of it to quote some passages from the tract above-mentioned, which give particulars regarding the introduc- tion and advantages of this new invention. The author, after cur- sorily going through the history of glass - manufactures generally, proceeds as follows:
" Glass was first used by the Ita- lians for the purpose of making cameos and intaglios, by impress- in": it while warm into a mould of tripoli : the glass is sometimes fill- ed up behind with plaster of Paris. Foreigners visiting Italy are thus supplied with copies of antique fjems for the formation of cabinet collections. They seldom exceed, however, an inch in diameter, and perhaps could not be made much larger. The manufacture of these artificial gems has been very suc- cessfully carried on by Mr. Tassie of Leicester-square, whose collec- tion is extensive and valuable.
" The first English glass-houses for the manufacture of fine flint glass were those of the Savoy and Crutched Friars, established about the middle of the 16th cen- tuiy. It appears, however, that the English manufactures were for a considerable time much inferior to the Venetian ; for in 1635, near- ly a hundred years later, Sir Ro- bert Mansel obtained a monopoly for importing the fine Venetian flint drinking-glasses. The art of making these was not brought to perfection in this country till the reign of William III. Since then, the art of glass-making has made a rapid progress, and the glass- works of England indisputably ex- cel at this moment those of anv
other country in the world. The essential and distinguishing quali- ties of good glass are, its freedom from specks or rings, and its near resemblance to real crystal in its colourless transparency. In both these respects, the productions of the British glass-houses exceed those of any other nation. It only remained for them to evince their superiority in the ornamental branches of the art; and this has been fully accomplished by the per- fection to which recent discoveries have enabled them to carry the art of incrustation.
"The ancients, we haveseen, were not altogether ignorant of this art, but their incrustations were very imperfect. The picture of a duck, described by Winkelman, is but a partial incrustation, as the paint- ing is neither completely inclosed nor protected from the air. The