THE PRECIPICE.

THE PRECIPICE.

Thereis a rock whose craggy browHangs beetling o’er the wave below,Adown whose sheer descent the eye,When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh,Will gaze, but vainly, to descryThe sullen waves that wash beneath,As endless and as dark as death.You see no tide—you scarcely hear—You only feel a nameless fear;The night-bird, sailing slowly by,Dares not his melancholy cry:Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing:Dares not behold this fearful thing—But far beneath, will upward soar,To cross the dread abyss no more.H. J. V.

Thereis a rock whose craggy browHangs beetling o’er the wave below,Adown whose sheer descent the eye,When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh,Will gaze, but vainly, to descryThe sullen waves that wash beneath,As endless and as dark as death.You see no tide—you scarcely hear—You only feel a nameless fear;The night-bird, sailing slowly by,Dares not his melancholy cry:Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing:Dares not behold this fearful thing—But far beneath, will upward soar,To cross the dread abyss no more.H. J. V.

Thereis a rock whose craggy browHangs beetling o’er the wave below,Adown whose sheer descent the eye,When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh,Will gaze, but vainly, to descryThe sullen waves that wash beneath,As endless and as dark as death.You see no tide—you scarcely hear—You only feel a nameless fear;The night-bird, sailing slowly by,Dares not his melancholy cry:Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing:Dares not behold this fearful thing—But far beneath, will upward soar,To cross the dread abyss no more.H. J. V.

Thereis a rock whose craggy brow

Hangs beetling o’er the wave below,

Adown whose sheer descent the eye,

When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh,

Will gaze, but vainly, to descry

The sullen waves that wash beneath,

As endless and as dark as death.

You see no tide—you scarcely hear—

You only feel a nameless fear;

The night-bird, sailing slowly by,

Dares not his melancholy cry:

Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing:

Dares not behold this fearful thing—

But far beneath, will upward soar,

To cross the dread abyss no more.

H. J. V.

THE MISTAKEN CHOICE;

OR, THREE YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE.

———

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

“Soyou are really going to be married, Charles?”

“Yes, uncle; and I hope you will agree with me in thinking that I have made a very prudent choice.”

“That remains to be seen yet,” said Mr. Waterton. “In the first place, who is the lady?”

“Miss Laura Tarleton.”

“I know hernamewell enough, for you have scarcely uttered any other one these six weeks,” was the crusty reply; “but I want to know something of her family.”

“Her father was a southern merchant, and died four or five years since, leaving only two daughters to inherit his large estate; one of these daughters married about two years since, and is now in Europe; the other I hope to introduce to your affections as my wife.”

“Has she no mother?”

“Her mother died while she was yet very young.”

“Where was she educated?”

“At the fashionable boarding-school of Madame Finesse, and I can assure you no expense has been spared in her education.”

“I dare say not: these new-fangled establishments for the manufacture of man-traps, don’t usually spare expense. How old is your intended wife?”

“Just nineteen.”

“Where has she lived since she left school, for I suppose she was ‘finished,’ as they style it, some years since?”

“She has resided lately at the Astor House, under the protection of a relative who boards there.”

“Then she cannot know much about housekeeping.”

“I dare say not,” replied Charles, with a slight feeling of vexation, “but all that knowledge comes by practice, uncle.”

“If her time has been divided between a boarding school and a hotel, where is she to learn any thing about it?”

“Oh, women seem to have an intuitive knowledge of such things.”

“You are mistaken, boy,” said the old man, “if a girl has been brought up in a good home, and sees a regular system of housekeeping constantly pursued, she will become unconsciously familiar with its details, even though she may not then put such knowledge in practice; the consequence will be that when she is the mistress of a house, her memory will assist her judgment—a quality, by the way, not too common in girls of nineteen. But how is a poor thing who has seen nothing but theskimble-skambleof a school-household or the clockwork regularity of a great hotel, to know any of the machinery by which the comfort of a home is obtained and secured?”

“Oh I am not afraid to trust to Laura,” replied Charles with animation, “she is young, good-tempered, and, I believe, loves me; so I have every security for the future. When there’s a will there’s always a way.”

“True, true, Charles, and I only hope your wife may have the will to find the right way; what is her fortune?”

“Reports vary respecting the amount—some say eighty, others, one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Don’tyou knowany thing about it?”

“I know that her fortune is very considerable, especially for a poor devil like me, who can barely clear two thousand a year by business,” answered Charles, with some irritation.

“When your father married, Charles, he was master of only three hundred dollars in the world.”

“That may be, and the consequence was that my father’s son has been obliged to work like a dog all his life.”

“The very best thing that could have happened to you, my dear boy.”

“How do you make that out? For my part, I see nothing very desirable in poverty.”

“Nor do I, Charles; poverty is certainly an evil, but it is an evil to which you have never been exposed; competence was the reward of your father’s industry and he was thus enabled to bestow a good education and good habits upon his son. The limited range of your own experience will convince you of the danger of great riches. Who are the persons in our great city most notorious for vice and folly? Who are the horse-jockies, the gamblers, the rowdies, and the fools of high life? Why, they are the sons of our rich men, and how can we expect better things from those who from their very childhood are pampered in idleness and luxury. I know you will tell me there are exceptions to this sweeping censure, and this I am willing to allow, for there are some minds which even the influence of wealth cannot injure; but how few are they, compared with the number of those who are ruined in their very infancy by the possession of riches. Depend upon it, Charles, that learning, industry, and virtue form the best inheritance which any man can derive from his ancestors.”

“It is a pity the world would not think so, uncle.”

“So it is, boy; but the fact is such as I have stated, whatever the majority of people may think. You have not now to learn that the wise and good are always in theminorityin this world. But tell me one thing, my dear boy; if Miss Tarleton was poor and friendless, instead of being rich and fashionable, would you have fallen in love with her?”

“Why yes—certainly—I don’t know—” stammered Charles, confusedly, “but that is supposing so improbable a case that I cannot determine.”

“Suppose she were suddenly to be deprived of her fortune,” said the persevering old man, “would you still be so desirous of wedding her?”

“Why, to tell you the honest truth, uncle, I do not think I should, and for an excellent reason. Laura has been brought up as a rich man’s daughter, and therefore can scarcely be expected to have had proper training for a poor man’s wife. If I were compelled to support a family on my paltry business, it would be necessary to have a more prudent and economical companion than Laura is likely to prove; but, thank heaven, that is not the case.”

“All are liable to reverses of fortune, Charles, and should such befal you in future, you might chance to find that a prudent wife without money is a better companion in misfortune than an extravagant one who brought a rich dowry.”

“My dear uncle, do not imagine all kinds of unpleasant contingencies; the idea of what you call aprudent womanis shocking to my notions of feminine character; it always conjures up in my mind an image of a sharp-voiced, keen-eyed creature, scolding at servants, fretting at children, and clattering slip-shod about the house to look after candle-ends and cheese-parings. Before a woman can become parsimonious she must in a measure unsex herself, since the foible most natural to the sex is extravagance—the excess of a liberal spirit.”

“You are mistaken, Charles; that there are such women as you describe, bustling, notable housewives, who pride themselves on their ability tomanage, as they term it, and who practise cunning because unable to use force, I acknowledge; but they are chiefly to be found among those who have been placed in an unnatural position in society,—women, who having neither father, brother nor husband to protect them, have been obliged to struggle with the world, and have learned tojostlelest they shouldbe jostledin the race of life. But bachelor as I am, I have had many opportunities of studying the sex, and I can assure you that economy, frugality and industry are by no means incompatible with feminine delicacy, refinement of thought, and elegant accomplishments.”

“Well it may be all true, uncle,” replied Charles, utterly wearied of the old man’s lecture, “but it is too late to reflect upon the matter now, even if I were so disposed. I am to be married next week, and I hope when you see Laura, you will think, with me, and give me credit for more prudence than you seem to believe I possess.”

Charles Wharton possessed good feelings, and, as he believed, good principles; yet, seduced by the ambition of equalling his richer neighbors, he had persuaded himself into choosing a wife, less from affection than from motives of interest. Had Laura Tarleton been poor, he certainly would never have thought of her, since, pretty as she was, she lacked the brilliancy of character which he had always admired. But there was a sin upon his conscience, known only to himself andoneother, which often clouded his brow, even in the midst of his anticipated triumph. There was a young, fair, and gifted girl, whom he had loved with all the fervor of sincere attachment, andhe knewthat she loved him, although no word on the subject had been uttered by either. He knew that his looks, and tones, and actions had been to her those of a lover, and he had little reason to doubt the feeling with which he had been met. He had looked forward to the time when he should be quietly settled amid the comforts of a peaceful home, and the image ofthat fair girlwas always the prominent object in his pictures for the future. But a change came over the spirit of the whole nation. Wealth poured into the country—or at least what was then considered wealth—and with it came luxury and sloth. The golden stream came tosomelike a mountain torrent, and others began to repine at receiving it only as the tiny rivulet. People “made haste to be rich,” and Charles Waterton was infected with the same thirst after wealth. He met with Laura Tarleton, learned that she was an orphan heiress, and instantly determined to secure the glittering prize. Ambition conquered the tenderness of his nature; he forsook the lady of his love, and after an acquaintance of six weeks succeeded in becoming the husband of the wealthy votary of fashion.

Not long after his marriage, he discovered oneslighterror in his calculations, and found that his wife’s hundred thousand dollars had in reality dwindled down to thirty thousand. But even this was not to be despised, and Charles, conscious that he had nothing but talents and industry when he commenced life, felt that he had drawn a prize in the lottery. Grateful to his wife for her preference of him, and conscious that he had not bestowed on her his full affection, he determined to make all the amends in his power, by lavishing every kindness upon her, and submitting implicitly to her wishes. Having intimated to him that she should prefer boarding during the first year of their married life, he accordingly engaged a suite of apartments at the Astor House, where they lived in a style of splendor and ease exceedingly agreeable to the taste of both. Mrs. Waterton was extremely pretty, with an innocent, child-like face, and a graceful figure, and Charles felt so much pride in the admiration which she received in society, that he forgot to notice her mental deficiency. Their time was passed in a perpetual round of excitement and gayety. During the hours when the counting room claimed the husband’s attention, the young wife lounged on a sofa, read the last new novel, dawdled through a morning’s shopping, or paid fashionable visits. The afternoon was spent over the dinner table, while the evening soon passed in the midst of a brilliant party, or amid the pleasures of some public amusement. But living in the bustle of a hotel, with a large circle of acquaintances always ready to drink Mr. Waterton’s wine and flirt with his pretty wife, they were rarely left to each other’s society, and at the termination of the first twelvemonth, they knew little more of each other’s tempers and feelings than when they pledged their vows at the altar. Charles had learned that his placid Laura was somewhat pertinacious and very fond of dress, while she had been deeply mortified by the discovery that Charles’s deceased mother had, during her widowhood, kept a thread and needle store; but this was all that they had ascertained of each other. There had been no studying of each other’s character—no opportunity of practising thatadaptationso necessary to the comfort of married life. They had lived only in a crowd, and were as yet in the position of partners in a quadrille, associated rather for a season of gayety than for the changeful scenes of actual life.

The commencement of the second year found the young couple busily engaged in preparing for house-keeping. A stately house, newly built and situated in a fashionable part of the city, was selected by Mrs. Waterton, and purchased by her obsequious husband in obedience to her wishes, though he did not think it necessary to inform her thattwo thirdsof the purchase money was to remain on mortgage. They now only awaited the arrival of the rich furniture which Mrs. Waterton had directed her sister to select in Paris. This came at length, and with all the glee of a child she beheld her house fitted with carpets of such turf-like softness that the foot was almost buried in their bright flowers; mirrors that might have served for walls to the palace of truth; couches, divans and fauteuils, inlaid with gold and covered with velvet most exquisitely painted; curtains, whose costly texture had been quadrupled in value by the skill of the embroideress; tables of the finest mosaic; lustres and girandoles of every variety, glittering with their wealth of gold and chrystal; and all the thousand expensive toys which serve to minister to the frivolous tastes of fashion. The arrangement of the sleeping apartments was on a scale of equal magnificence. French dressing tables, with all their paraphernalia of Sevres china and chrystal; Psyche glasses, in frames of ivory and gold; beds of rosewood, inlaid with ivory, and canopied with gold and silver, were among the decorations. But should the reader seek to ascend still higher—the upper rooms—the servants’ apartments, uncarpeted, unfurnished, destitute of all the comforts which are as necessary to domestics as to their superiors, would have been found to afford a striking contrast to the splendors of those parts of the mansion which were intended for display.

With all his good sense, Charles Waterton was yet weak enough to indulge a feeling of exultation as he looked round his magnificent house, and felt himself “master of all he surveyed.” His thoughts went back to the time when the death of his father had plunged the family almost into destitution—when his mother had been aided to open a little shop, of which he was chief clerk, until the kindness of his old uncle had procured for him a situation in a wholesale store, which had finally enabled him to reach his present eminence. He remembered how often he had stood behind a little counter to sell a penny ball of thread or a piece of tape—how often he had been snubbed and scolded at when subject to the authority of a purse-proud employer—and, in spite of his better reason, Charles felt proud and triumphant. His self-satisfaction was somewhat diminished, however, by the sight of a bill drawn upon him by his brother-in-law in Paris, for the sums due on this great display of elegance. Ten thousand dollars—one third of his wife’s fortune—just sufficed tofurnishtheir new house. Thus seven hundred dollars was cut off from their annual income, to be consumed in the wear and tear of their costly gew-gaws; another thousand was devoted to the payment of interest on the mortgage which remained on his house; so that, at the very outset of his career, Charles found himself, notwithstanding his wife’s estate, reduced to the “paltry two thousand a year,” which he derived from his business. But he had too much false pride to confess the truth to his wife, and at once to alter their style of living. Each had been deceived in their estimate of the other’s wealth. Laura’s income had been large enough, while she remained single, to allow her indulgence in every whim, and Charles, ambitious of the reputation of a man of fashion, after slaving all the morning in his office, had been in the habit of driving fast trotting horses, or sporting a tilbury and tiger in Broadway, every afternoon, spending every cent of his income, and giving rise to the belief among the young men that he was very rich, while the old merchants only looked upon him as very imprudent. They were now to learn that their combined fortunes would not support the extravagancies of a household, but Laura, accustomed to the command of money from childhood, knew not its value, because she had never known its want, and her husband shrunk from the duty of enlightening her on the subject, by informing her of their real situation.

By the time the arrangements of their house were completed, and had been admired, envied and sneered at by her “dear five thousand friends,” the season arrived for Mrs. Waterton’s usual visit to Saratoga. Her husband of course accompanied her, though with rather a heavy heart, for he knew that only by close attention to business he could hope to provide the necessary funds for all such expenditures, although he had not sufficient moral courage to confess that he was so closely chained to the galley of commerce. The usual round of gayety was traversed—the summer was spent in lounging at different watering places—and the autumn found them returning, heartily wearied, to their splendid home. With the assistance of some kindsuggestors, Mrs. Waterton now planned a series of entertainments for the coming winter, and Charles listened with ill-dissembled anxiety to the schemes for balls, parties, soirees, musical festivals and suppers. There was but one way to support all this. Charles determined to extend his business, and instead of confining himself to a regular cash trade, he resolved to follow the example of his neighbors, and engage in speculation. Accordingly, he sold his wife’s stock in several moneyed institutions, and, investing the proceeds in merchandise, commenced making money on a grander scale. This was in the beginning of the year ’36, and every one knows the excitement of that momentous season; a season not soon to be forgotten by the bankrupt merchants, the distressed wives and the beggared children who can date their misfortunes from the temporary inflation of the credit system, by which that fatal year was characterized. Mr. Waterton’s books soon showed an immense increase of business, and, upon the most moderate calculation, his profits could scarcely be less than from eight to ten thousand dollars within six months. This was doing pretty well for a man who had formerly been content with a “paltry two thousand a year,” but as avarice, like jealousy, “grows by what it feeds on,” Charles began to think he might as well make money in more ways than one. He therefore began to buy real estate, andpine landsin Maine,wild tractsin Indiana,town lotsin Illinois, together with the thousand schemes which then filled the heads of the sanguine and the pockets of the cunning, claimed his attention and obtained his money; while, at the same time, the fashionable society of New York were in raptures with Mrs. Waterton’s splendid parties, her costly equipage, and her magnificent style of dress.

“Have you counted the cost of all these things, Charles?” said his old uncle, as he entered the house one morning, and beheld the disarray consequent upon a large party the previous night.

“Yes, uncle, I think I have,” said Charles, smiling, as he sipped his coffee, at the old man’s simplicity. “The fellows who manage these affairs soon compel us to count the cost, for when I came down this morning, I found on the breakfast table this bill for nine hundred and fifty-four dollars.”

“Nine hundred dollars, Charles! You don’t mean to say that your party last night cost that sum?”

“I do, my dear sir, and considering that the bill includes every thing but the wines, I do not consider it an exorbitant one; however, the elegant colored gentleman who takes all this trouble for me does not charge me quite so much as he would if I employed him less frequently.”

The old man looked round and sighed. The apartments were in sad disorder, for the servants, overcome by the fatigues of the previous day, had followed the example of their master, and stolen from the morning the sleep they had been denied at night. A bottle lay shivered in one corner of the supper room, the champaigne with which it had been filled soaking into the rich carpet—a piece of plum-cake had been crushed by some heedless foot into the snow-white rug which lay before the drawing-room fire—the sweeping draperies of one of the curtains was still dripping with something which bore a marvellous resemblance to melted ice cream, and the whole suite of apartments wore that air of desolation which usually characterizes a “banquet hall deserted.”

“Do you calculate the destruction of furniture in counting the cost of your parties, Charles?” asked Mr. Waterton.

“Oh no—that of course is expected; furniture, you know, becomes old-fashioned and requires to be renewed about every three years, and therefore one may as well have the use of it while it is new.”

“You must have a vast addition to your fortune if you expect to pay for all these things.”

“My dear sir,” replied the nephew, with a most benignant smile at his uncle’s superlative ignorance of his affairs, “my dear sir, you do not seem to know that, in the course of about three years, I shall be one of the richest men in New York.”

“Do you sell on credit?” asked the old man, significantly.

“Certainly; everybody does so now.”

“Well, then, my boy, take an old man’s advice, and don’t count your chickens before they are hatched; don’t live on ten thousand a year when that sum exists only in your ledger. Call in your debts, and when your customers havepaid, then tell me howmuchyou havegained.”

“My dear uncle, you are quite obsolete in your notions. I wish I could induce you to enter with me into a new scheme; it would make your fortune.”

“I am content with my present condition, Charles; my salary of eight hundred a year is quite sufficient for the wants of a bachelor, and leaves me a little for the wants of others; nor would I sacrifice my peace of mind and quiet of conscience for all the fortunes that will ever be made by speculation.”

“It is not necessary to sacrifice either peace or principle in making a fortune, uncle.”

“You have not seen the end yet, my dear boy; I have lived long enough to behold several kinds ofspeculative mania, and all terminated in a similarly unfortunate manner. It is a spirit of gambling which is abroad, and I am old-fashioned enough to believe that money thus obtained never does good to any one. It is like the price of a soul: the devil is sure to cheat the unhappy bargainer.”

“How I hate to hear people talk about business,” lisped Mrs. Waterton, as she sat listlessly in her loose wrapping-gown at the breakfast table; “I think no one ought to mention the word before ladies.”

The old man looked at her with ill-disguised contempt.

“It will be well for you, young lady,” said he, “if you never have to learn the necessity of a knowledge of business.”

Laura put up her pretty lip, but was silent, for she was much too indolent, and rather too well bred, to get angry.

Charles Waterton had given his uncle what he believed to be an accurate view of his circumstances. Excited beyond the bounds of sober sense by his seeming success, he was as sanguine a dupe as ever bled beneath the leech-craft of speculation. His real estate, which hevery moderatelyestimated atquintupleits cost, formed,at such prices, an immense fortune. His book debts were enormous, for his money was scattered east, west, north and south, and in consequence of giving long credits, he was enabled to obtain exorbitant profits. But the Eldorado whose boundaries seemed so accurately defined on paper, became exceedingly indistinct as he fancied himself about to approach its shores. The following year began to afford tokens of coming trouble. Credit was still good, but money had entirely disappeared from the community, and men who had learned to make notes in order toacquire fortunes, were now obliged to continue their manufacture in order toavoid ruin. Rumors of approaching distress arose in the money market; men began to look with distrust upon their fellows, and as unlimited confidence in each other had been the foundation of the towering edifice of unstable prosperity, the moment that was shaken, the whole structure fell crumbling to the earth. As soon as doubt arose, destruction was at hand, and at length one wild crash of almost universal bankruptcy startled the dreamers from their golden visions.

One fine morning in the spring of 1838, the doors of one of the most stately houses in —— street, were thrown open to the public, and the auctioneer’s flag waving from the window gave a general invitation to every passer by. That ominous red flag! no less significant of evil than the black banner of the rover of the seas; for it is ever the signal of the disruption of household ties. That ominous red flag! sometimes betokening the instability of fortune—sometimes the work of death—sometimes telling of blighted fortunes—sometimes of broken hearts, butalwaysof discomfort and disquiet. And yet few things will so readily collect a concourse of people as that scarlet harbinger of destruction. There may be found the regular auction-haunters, men of idleness, bachelors, perhaps, glad to find an hour or two killed beneath the auctioneer’s hammer—single ladies of small fortunes, who have nothing to do for themselves, and have not yet learned the luxury of doing something for their neighbors—notable housewives, actuated by a sense of duty and a love of economy, who wastenothing but timein their hunt after bargains—young ladies who come to see how such persons furnished their houses—and perhaps some would-be connoisseur in search of old pictures, which, if they have only hung long enough over a smoky fire-place, may be classed with the works of the old masters. On the morning in question, however, unusual attractions were offered to the visiters of such places, for it was the abode of wealth, and luxury, and taste which was thus desecrated—the mansion of the Watertons! The rich carpets were disfigured by many a dirty footstep,—the velvet couches bore the impress of many a soiling touch, and many a rude hand was laid upon the delicate and costly toys which had once been the admiration of the fashionable visitants of the family. Among the crowd were two of thatnumerous tribefound in the very midst of fashionable life, who have learned the trick of combining meanness and extravagance—women who will spend hundreds upon a shawl, and at the same time beat down the wages of a poor sempstress until she is almost compelled to purchase with life itself the bread which ought to sustain life. Such were the two who now seated themselves in the drawing-room of the ruined family, in order to be in theright placewhen certain articles were put up for sale.

“I want nothing here,” said one, with a half scornful air, “except those mosaic tables; the carpets and curtains are ruined by carelessness, and no wonder, for Mrs. Waterton was a wretched house-keeper.”

“And I only mean to buy that workbox,” said the other; “Mrs. Waterton told me it cost a thousand francs in Paris, and I am sure it will not sell for one fourth its cost.”

“By the way, have you seen her since her husband’s failure?”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t think of calling upon her when in so much distress; besides, I am told she has refused to see any one. Did you hear how she behaved when she heard of Mr. Waterton’s reverses?”

“No, I know nothing about her since she gave her last grand party, which was followed in a few days by his bankruptcy.”

“Why I was told she raved like a mad woman, reproached her husband in the vilest terms for thus reducing her to poverty, taunted him with his low origin, and accused him of the basest deception.”

“I can easily believe it, for these mild, placid milk-and-water women have got the temper of demons when once aroused.”

“I have not told you all yet; she refused to give up her jewels, which were known to be of great value, and having secretly employed a person to dispose of them for her, she took passage for France, and actually set sail a few days since; merely informing her husbandby letterthat such was her purpose. This letter she placed in such hands that she knew he would not receive it until the vessel was underweigh, and he thus learned that she had deserted him forever. She pretends to have gone to join her sister; but there is a whisper of a certain black-whiskered foreigner who is the companion of her voyage. At any rate, whether he goes with her or not, he is a fellow passenger.”

“Where is Mr. Waterton?”

“At the house of his old uncle, who will probably be obliged to transfer him to a lunatic asylum before long; but hush, the auctioneer is coming.”

I have told you thedénouementas related by the heartless women of the world, but like most of their species, they were onlyhalf right. Mrs. Watertondidgo with the intention of seeking her sister’s protection, but ere she arrived there, she was persuaded to travel farther under the protection of her fascinating friend. Mr. Waterton did not enter a lunatic asylum, but recovered his senses so fully that he obtained a divorce from his wife, and is now a fellow-clerk with his uncle; enjoying as much tranquility as a remembrance of his former follies, his imprudent choice, and his three years of wedded life will allow.

Brooklyn, N. Y.

Brooklyn, N. Y.

A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE.

———

BY MRS. M. ST. LEON LOUD.

———

Thereis an isle in the far south sea,Sunny and bright as an isle can be;Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;And from the shell that upon the strandLies half buried in golden sand—A thrilling tone through the still air rings,Like music trembling on fairy strings.Flowers like those which the Peris findIn the bowers of their paradise, and bindIn the flowing tresses, are blooming there,And gay birds glance through the scented air.Gems and pearls are strew’d on the earthUntouch’d—there are none to know their worth;And that fair island death comes not nigh:Why should he come?—there are none to die.My heart had grown, like the Misanthrope’s,Cold and dead to all human hopes;Fame and fortune alike had provedBaseless dreams, and the friends I lovedVanish’d away, like the flowers that fadeIn the deadly blight of the Upas shade.I long’d upon that green isle to be,Far away o’er the sounding sea;Where no human voice, with its words of pain,Could ever fall on my ear again.Life seem’d a desert waste to me,And I sought in slumber from care to flee.Away, away, o’er the waters blue,Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.Deep ocean furrows her timbers plow,As the waves are parted before her prow;And the foaming billows close o’er her path,Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,To the lonely island she steers her way.The heavens above wore their brightest smile,As the bark was moor’d by that fairy isle;The sails were furl’d, the voyage was o’er:I should buffet the waves of the world no more.I look’d to the ocean—the bark was gone,And I stood on that beautiful isle, alone.My wish was granted, and I was blest;My spirit revell’d in perfect rest,—A Dead Sea calm,—even thought repos’dLike a weary dove with its pinions closed.Beauty was round me: bright roses hungTheir blushing wreaths o’er my head, and flungFragrance abroad on the gale, to meSweeter than odors of Araby;Wealth was mine, for the yellow goldLay before me in heaps untold.Death to that island knew not the way,But life was mine for ever and aye,Till Love again made my heart its throne,And I ceased to dwell on the isle, alone.Long did my footsteps delighted rangeMy peaceful home, but there came a change;My heart grew sad, and I looked with painOn all I had barter’d life’s ties to gain.A chilling weight on my spirits fell,As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell—Or the bee’s faint hum in the flowery wood,Was all that broke on my solitude.Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,That earth had no power the heart to bless,Unwarm’d by affection’s holy ray;And hope was withered, as day by dayI watch’d for the bark, but in vain, in vain;She never sought that green isle again.I stretch’d my arms o’er the heaving sea,And pray’d aloud, in my agony,That Love’s pure spirit might with me dwell—Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,Higher and higher, till nought was seenWhere slept in beauty that islet green.The waters pass’d o’er me,—the spell was broke;From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,With a heart redeem’d from its selfish stain,To mingle in scenes of the world againWith cheerful spirit—and rather shareThe pains and sorrows which mortals bear,Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,’Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems, alone.

Thereis an isle in the far south sea,Sunny and bright as an isle can be;Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;And from the shell that upon the strandLies half buried in golden sand—A thrilling tone through the still air rings,Like music trembling on fairy strings.Flowers like those which the Peris findIn the bowers of their paradise, and bindIn the flowing tresses, are blooming there,And gay birds glance through the scented air.Gems and pearls are strew’d on the earthUntouch’d—there are none to know their worth;And that fair island death comes not nigh:Why should he come?—there are none to die.My heart had grown, like the Misanthrope’s,Cold and dead to all human hopes;Fame and fortune alike had provedBaseless dreams, and the friends I lovedVanish’d away, like the flowers that fadeIn the deadly blight of the Upas shade.I long’d upon that green isle to be,Far away o’er the sounding sea;Where no human voice, with its words of pain,Could ever fall on my ear again.Life seem’d a desert waste to me,And I sought in slumber from care to flee.Away, away, o’er the waters blue,Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.Deep ocean furrows her timbers plow,As the waves are parted before her prow;And the foaming billows close o’er her path,Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,To the lonely island she steers her way.The heavens above wore their brightest smile,As the bark was moor’d by that fairy isle;The sails were furl’d, the voyage was o’er:I should buffet the waves of the world no more.I look’d to the ocean—the bark was gone,And I stood on that beautiful isle, alone.My wish was granted, and I was blest;My spirit revell’d in perfect rest,—A Dead Sea calm,—even thought repos’dLike a weary dove with its pinions closed.Beauty was round me: bright roses hungTheir blushing wreaths o’er my head, and flungFragrance abroad on the gale, to meSweeter than odors of Araby;Wealth was mine, for the yellow goldLay before me in heaps untold.Death to that island knew not the way,But life was mine for ever and aye,Till Love again made my heart its throne,And I ceased to dwell on the isle, alone.Long did my footsteps delighted rangeMy peaceful home, but there came a change;My heart grew sad, and I looked with painOn all I had barter’d life’s ties to gain.A chilling weight on my spirits fell,As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell—Or the bee’s faint hum in the flowery wood,Was all that broke on my solitude.Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,That earth had no power the heart to bless,Unwarm’d by affection’s holy ray;And hope was withered, as day by dayI watch’d for the bark, but in vain, in vain;She never sought that green isle again.I stretch’d my arms o’er the heaving sea,And pray’d aloud, in my agony,That Love’s pure spirit might with me dwell—Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,Higher and higher, till nought was seenWhere slept in beauty that islet green.The waters pass’d o’er me,—the spell was broke;From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,With a heart redeem’d from its selfish stain,To mingle in scenes of the world againWith cheerful spirit—and rather shareThe pains and sorrows which mortals bear,Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,’Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems, alone.

Thereis an isle in the far south sea,Sunny and bright as an isle can be;Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;And from the shell that upon the strandLies half buried in golden sand—A thrilling tone through the still air rings,Like music trembling on fairy strings.Flowers like those which the Peris findIn the bowers of their paradise, and bindIn the flowing tresses, are blooming there,And gay birds glance through the scented air.Gems and pearls are strew’d on the earthUntouch’d—there are none to know their worth;And that fair island death comes not nigh:Why should he come?—there are none to die.

Thereis an isle in the far south sea,

Sunny and bright as an isle can be;

Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,

As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;

And from the shell that upon the strand

Lies half buried in golden sand—

A thrilling tone through the still air rings,

Like music trembling on fairy strings.

Flowers like those which the Peris find

In the bowers of their paradise, and bind

In the flowing tresses, are blooming there,

And gay birds glance through the scented air.

Gems and pearls are strew’d on the earth

Untouch’d—there are none to know their worth;

And that fair island death comes not nigh:

Why should he come?—there are none to die.

My heart had grown, like the Misanthrope’s,Cold and dead to all human hopes;Fame and fortune alike had provedBaseless dreams, and the friends I lovedVanish’d away, like the flowers that fadeIn the deadly blight of the Upas shade.I long’d upon that green isle to be,Far away o’er the sounding sea;Where no human voice, with its words of pain,Could ever fall on my ear again.Life seem’d a desert waste to me,And I sought in slumber from care to flee.

My heart had grown, like the Misanthrope’s,

Cold and dead to all human hopes;

Fame and fortune alike had proved

Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved

Vanish’d away, like the flowers that fade

In the deadly blight of the Upas shade.

I long’d upon that green isle to be,

Far away o’er the sounding sea;

Where no human voice, with its words of pain,

Could ever fall on my ear again.

Life seem’d a desert waste to me,

And I sought in slumber from care to flee.

Away, away, o’er the waters blue,Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.Deep ocean furrows her timbers plow,As the waves are parted before her prow;And the foaming billows close o’er her path,Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,To the lonely island she steers her way.The heavens above wore their brightest smile,As the bark was moor’d by that fairy isle;The sails were furl’d, the voyage was o’er:I should buffet the waves of the world no more.I look’d to the ocean—the bark was gone,And I stood on that beautiful isle, alone.

Away, away, o’er the waters blue,

Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.

Deep ocean furrows her timbers plow,

As the waves are parted before her prow;

And the foaming billows close o’er her path,

Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.

But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,

To the lonely island she steers her way.

The heavens above wore their brightest smile,

As the bark was moor’d by that fairy isle;

The sails were furl’d, the voyage was o’er:

I should buffet the waves of the world no more.

I look’d to the ocean—the bark was gone,

And I stood on that beautiful isle, alone.

My wish was granted, and I was blest;My spirit revell’d in perfect rest,—A Dead Sea calm,—even thought repos’dLike a weary dove with its pinions closed.Beauty was round me: bright roses hungTheir blushing wreaths o’er my head, and flungFragrance abroad on the gale, to meSweeter than odors of Araby;Wealth was mine, for the yellow goldLay before me in heaps untold.Death to that island knew not the way,But life was mine for ever and aye,Till Love again made my heart its throne,And I ceased to dwell on the isle, alone.

My wish was granted, and I was blest;

My spirit revell’d in perfect rest,—

A Dead Sea calm,—even thought repos’d

Like a weary dove with its pinions closed.

Beauty was round me: bright roses hung

Their blushing wreaths o’er my head, and flung

Fragrance abroad on the gale, to me

Sweeter than odors of Araby;

Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold

Lay before me in heaps untold.

Death to that island knew not the way,

But life was mine for ever and aye,

Till Love again made my heart its throne,

And I ceased to dwell on the isle, alone.

Long did my footsteps delighted rangeMy peaceful home, but there came a change;My heart grew sad, and I looked with painOn all I had barter’d life’s ties to gain.A chilling weight on my spirits fell,As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell—Or the bee’s faint hum in the flowery wood,Was all that broke on my solitude.Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,That earth had no power the heart to bless,Unwarm’d by affection’s holy ray;And hope was withered, as day by dayI watch’d for the bark, but in vain, in vain;She never sought that green isle again.

Long did my footsteps delighted range

My peaceful home, but there came a change;

My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain

On all I had barter’d life’s ties to gain.

A chilling weight on my spirits fell,

As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell—

Or the bee’s faint hum in the flowery wood,

Was all that broke on my solitude.

Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,

That earth had no power the heart to bless,

Unwarm’d by affection’s holy ray;

And hope was withered, as day by day

I watch’d for the bark, but in vain, in vain;

She never sought that green isle again.

I stretch’d my arms o’er the heaving sea,And pray’d aloud, in my agony,That Love’s pure spirit might with me dwell—Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,Higher and higher, till nought was seenWhere slept in beauty that islet green.The waters pass’d o’er me,—the spell was broke;From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,With a heart redeem’d from its selfish stain,To mingle in scenes of the world againWith cheerful spirit—and rather shareThe pains and sorrows which mortals bear,Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,’Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems, alone.

I stretch’d my arms o’er the heaving sea,

And pray’d aloud, in my agony,

That Love’s pure spirit might with me dwell—

Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,

Higher and higher, till nought was seen

Where slept in beauty that islet green.

The waters pass’d o’er me,—the spell was broke;

From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,

With a heart redeem’d from its selfish stain,

To mingle in scenes of the world again

With cheerful spirit—and rather share

The pains and sorrows which mortals bear,

Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,

’Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems, alone.

Philadelphia.

Philadelphia.

LINES.

Whydo we live? Is it to fadeFrom glory to the tomb,Wrapt in its melancholy shade,Inheritors of gloom?Struck like the stars from Heav’n we die:Quench’d is the spirit’s light;Youth’s cheer and Hope’s sweet melodyAre hush’d in sorrow’s night.Why are we here! but to depart?’Tis anguish thus to fade.Shall grief oppress a single heartWhen we are lowly laid?Thank God! th’ immortal soul no blightOf earth can e’er decay;On high, to realms of endless lightIt flashes far away.

Whydo we live? Is it to fadeFrom glory to the tomb,Wrapt in its melancholy shade,Inheritors of gloom?Struck like the stars from Heav’n we die:Quench’d is the spirit’s light;Youth’s cheer and Hope’s sweet melodyAre hush’d in sorrow’s night.Why are we here! but to depart?’Tis anguish thus to fade.Shall grief oppress a single heartWhen we are lowly laid?Thank God! th’ immortal soul no blightOf earth can e’er decay;On high, to realms of endless lightIt flashes far away.

Whydo we live? Is it to fadeFrom glory to the tomb,Wrapt in its melancholy shade,Inheritors of gloom?Struck like the stars from Heav’n we die:Quench’d is the spirit’s light;Youth’s cheer and Hope’s sweet melodyAre hush’d in sorrow’s night.

Whydo we live? Is it to fade

From glory to the tomb,

Wrapt in its melancholy shade,

Inheritors of gloom?

Struck like the stars from Heav’n we die:

Quench’d is the spirit’s light;

Youth’s cheer and Hope’s sweet melody

Are hush’d in sorrow’s night.

Why are we here! but to depart?’Tis anguish thus to fade.Shall grief oppress a single heartWhen we are lowly laid?Thank God! th’ immortal soul no blightOf earth can e’er decay;On high, to realms of endless lightIt flashes far away.

Why are we here! but to depart?

’Tis anguish thus to fade.

Shall grief oppress a single heart

When we are lowly laid?

Thank God! th’ immortal soul no blight

Of earth can e’er decay;

On high, to realms of endless light

It flashes far away.

THE HEAD AND THE HEART.

———

BY W. LANDOR.

———

“Thisis certainly the most charming opera that was ever produced,” said Mrs. Althorp, as the curtain fell after the first act of Sonnambula, and she turned round to entertain the company in her box; “yet, after all, what an absurdity it is! However, I must remember that I am growing old.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Hartford, who sat behind her, “elegance and beauty have no age.”

“Surely elegance has its Age, and it is that in which Mr. Hartford lives.”

“Mrs. Althorp’sfiathas, indeed, such potency that it can make even me, in fact at least, the model of elegance.”

“My stamp,” she replied, “like that of the mint, only ascertains the value of the metal.”

“But, in the mint of fashion which you administer, there is such a seignorage as makes the coin far more valuable than the bullion.”

“Mr. Hartford, you talk operas,” said Mrs. Althorp, who knew she could never beat him in the charming absurdities of compliment, and was willing to retire from the contest.

“What do you think of the Prima Donna to-night?” said Miss Stanhope.

“I think she has miscarried in nothing but her singing, her acting and her speaking,” replied Mr. Hartford.

“She certainly does not sing as well as she did. She has sung too much; her voice is worn out.”

“You were speaking of the absurdity of the opera, Mrs. Althorp,” said Hartford. “The matter has certainly not been improved since the time when the Earl of Chesterfield settled it, that when you go to the opera, you must take leave of your understanding and your senses with your half guinea at the door, and give yourself up to the dominion of the ears and eyes; in other words, you must live by sight, and not by faith. But the repugnancy to reason is increased by the manner of performing them in this country, where part of the dialogue is spoken. The illusion of the opera is by that means destroyed. You may in time become accustomed to a race of beings whose natural dialect is poetry, and whose common cadences are music; but a set of people who let us see from time to time that they can talk like ourselves, and who yet, whenever they are excited, break out into modulated strains of song—who speak their common-places, and warble their exclamations—such people shock our credulity.”

“Yet it would seem that at Athens, where they knew something about these things,” said Mr. Temple, “the same confusion of the natural and the impossible prevailed on the stage. The chorus usually chanted its part, and was accompanied by music; and as we find that the persons of the drama, in conversing with them, frequently adopt the measure of verse which they sung, we must suppose that the former at such times sang. The chorus also often employs the rhythm which was used in speaking, and thus seems to have used the double dialect of recitation and singing. Nay, the chorus, as it circled the altar, employed a gliding step which resembled dancing; so that the Greek drama partook of the threefold nature of our tragedy, opera and ballet.”

“I have lost all my respect for the taste of the Greeks,” said Mrs. Althorpe, “since I heard that they painted their temples.”

“It was savage, indeed, to paint their temples,” said Mr. Hartford; “the more refined moderns only paint their cheeks.”

“The French are the modern Athenians,” said Miss Stanhope. “De Bourrienne says that the soldiers who were with Napoleon in Egypt complained bitterly of their privations, and longed especially for the opera.”

“Do you know who that person is that is talking to the leader of the orchestra?” said Miss Stanhope, directing the attention of Mrs. Althorpe to a young man of very striking appearance, who stood just within the door of the orchestra, and who seemed to be giving some directions that were listened to with great attention.

“Oh! that is Mr. Nivernois,” said Mrs. Althorpe; “a very odd person, by the by; I intended to have sent for him to sup with us to-night.”

After a few moments, the door of the box opened, and Mr. Nivernois came in. There was something very remarkable in his appearance: regular, well-chiselled features, of an Italian cast; pale complexion; large, black, vivid eyes, and long, straight black hair; in his countenance was an aspect of force and fire, keen intellectual action, and the power of deep passion. He was negligently dressed, and was very careless in his manner.

“This opera does not seem to be very popular to-night,” said Mrs. Althorpe to him. “And yet it is a fine one.”

“Nay,” he replied, “if you were to set Austerlitz or the Angel Gabriel to music, people would still complain.”

He turned round to Mr. Hartford, and began to put to him a variety of questions about music, with such rapidity as gave him no time to answer one of them. Hartford was ambitious to display his knowledge, and would have been glad to confound his interrogator by his superior taste. But the answer which he had begun to one question was cut off by another, and before that could be attended to, a third had succeeded. When the string was ended, he was so perplexed as to what he should reply to, and so stunned by the fiery fervor of the questioning, that he remained silent.

Nivernois fixed his keen eyes upon him, and waited an instant for the reply, which came not. He then turned aside.

“Humph!” said he; “for my part, I know nothing of music; not I. I thought I did, until I played three months every morning with Paganini. I would not give up the struggle sooner. At the end of that time I broke my fiddle, and abandoned fiddling forever. It was necessary to do that, or throttle the old hair-scraper. I should strangle with anguish in my chair, if I knew that there was a man living who could excel me in any thing I undertook. But what can one do? We have but one life to live. We are like felons, fumbling with a bunch of keys at the outer door of the sanctuary of immortality, while the police of death are hurrying after us round the corner; and who knows whether he has got the right key? No lasting fame can be founded on music. No melody is immortal but that of the drum and the cannon. That alone is eternally re-produced. How the Corsican knew to touch that instrument!—the Handel of the iron flute! What brave tunes they played off at Borodino and at Eylau! What a concert was given under the pyramids—the companies in squares, the musicians at the angles, and the shod feet of the Mameluke cavalry marking time upon the crusted sand! For the rest, what composer is there whom you recognise asgreat—whose name rushes on the breathless soul, and echoes through the spirit with a sound like thunder, or the voice of Milton? Fashions vary; tastes change. Who plays Purcell?—who sings Arne? The musician cannot throw himself upon that broad, unchanging instinct of popular judgment which, after the subtleties of criticism are exhausted and the disputes of the schools are at an end, must decide upon questions of taste, and to which literary creators may directly appeal. Thepeoplecannot get at music to judge of it. Overtures cannot play themselves; and the professors, whose taste is corrupted by the over-refinements of science, take good care that the world at large shall not hear that great, universal music of a past age which would sweep away their conspiracies against taste. Lightning itself would go out of fashion, and thunder be pronounced exploded, if you could prevent the people from hearing them; if the learned had the playing of them, they would swear to us that steam-guns and rockets were more sublime. Still it is better to compose good choruses than to write bad poetry, like the great Frederic, or read worse, like Napoleon. We must multiply and spin out the offices of life. We must cram full the charge of life, if we would have a loud report. We must coin sleep into immortality, and mould the waste of leisure into stars of glory. We have but one life to live.”

The curtain rose, but Mr. Nivernois still went on with his harangue. There presently occurred in the opera a passage of extraordinary beauty, and Mrs. Althorpe began to be annoyed by the unceasing voice behind her. Her impatience presently got the better of her courtesy.

“Tell Mr. Thingembob there to hush,” said she to Mr. Temple.

But the discourse still continued, and above the rapid din of words could be occasionally heard, “Napoleon,” “genius,” and “We have but one life to live.”

Mrs. Althorpe turned round.

“Mr. Nivernois, hush!”

Mr. Nivernois was silent. Mrs. Althorpe relented of her severity, and began to fear that the unfortunate man might pine away in despair under the infliction of her rebuke. She turned round again with one of her most gracious smiles, and begged the favor of his company at supper after the opera.

The passage in the play struck most of the company in the box as new; they did not remember to have heard it at the previous representations of the opera. The house seemed to agree with them as to its beauty. It was called for a second and even a third time, and the applause was loud and long.

“What do you think of that?” said Mrs. Althorpe to Nivernois.

“Read the prophecies of Isaiah to this people,” he replied; “if they applaud that fittingly, I should think their praise of this worth something.”

In a few moments, he left the box. Presently the leader of the orchestra came in, between the acts.

“I thought I saw Mr. Nivernois here.”

“He has just gone. But where did you get that magnificent passage you just played? It surely does not belong to the play.”

“You are indebted to Mr. Nivernois for it. He gave me, the other day, a mass of musical manuscripts of his own composition. I picked this out of them, not as being by any means the best, but the most suited for insertion in this play. He has more genius than all the men I have ever seen put together; but he has abandoned composition, because he says it is impossible to beat Bellini. The violin that I played with to-night was presented to him by Paganini, as a mark of his admiration; he gave it to me.”

“I wonder that he would part with such a gift,” said Miss Stanhope.

“I believe that he gave it to me,” said the other, “lest he should seem to himself to value the tribute of any man.”

“What a singular person he must be!” said Miss Stanhope, who had been much struck with his appearance, and greatly interested by the oddness and novelty of his character.

The company which had formed Mrs. Althorpe’scortègeat the opera, together with two or three other invited guests, were seated around her small but elegant supper-table. A double circle of wax candles in anor-moluchandelier, which hung over the centre of it, cast their pure white light upon the numerous silver dishes and richly cut glass which covered it. After a little while, Mr. Nivernois strode into the room. He was a small man, and the strides which he made were as long as himself. He took his place in a vacant seat which had been reserved for him, opposite to Miss Stanhope. They were talking about Napoleon. He listened in silence, till a pause occurred.

“When nature had finished making the devils,” said he, pouring out for himself a capacious goblet of Chambertin, “it threw together all the rubbish that remained, and out of it formed Napoleon.”

Miss Stanhope laughed. “Do you mean that for praise or censure, Mr. Nivernois?”

“Napoleon’s soul,” he replied, “was something larger than to be enkernelled in the shell of any definition. Put together all the moral epithets the lexicons furnish, of wisdom and of folly, of greatness and of littleness, of magnanimity and meanness, force and feebleness, and every thing else, and fling the whole mass, in a lump, at his character, and you may have some chance of hitting the mark. It would be difficult to say anything of him that would be wholly false; impossible to say anything altogether true. When you have circumnavigated him, you have sailed round the whole world. His character was somewhat like the poet’s vision of the temple of Fame. On one side you behold the severe and classic beauty of a Doric front, with images of antique strength and grace: on another, the grandeur and the gloom of a Gothic structure: on a third, the pride and splendor and magnificent exaggeration of Eastern pomp: on the fourth, the dull, impenetrable mystery of Egypt. His spirit was as various as the morning sky, and his chamberlain, on two successive days, never woke up the same man. The truth is, his life was an acted drama; not of the Æschylus kind, with some unity in it, but a Nat Lee drama of five-and-twenty acts. If we take it that he displayed his sincere character, and was that which he appeared to be, we must conclude that he was a glorious fool, among greater fools; a madman, whose frenzy was, however, the fatality of Europe. So viewed, he was born for bombast, as a trout for rising; his sentences have not a grain of sense to five quarts of syllables; a fortunate adventurer, who appeared at such a conjuncture of politics that his daring served him for talent, his selfishness for sagacity, his passion for power. But I suppose that Bonaparte always wore the buskin; that the historical Napoleon was but a character which the real one put on to dazzle and delude the fancies of men, and fire their passions, till, drunk as with wine, they might be bound and led by him. In his own more actual being, he was a cold, calculating, shrewd and wholly interested schemer. His performances were always for the author’s benefit. This Garrick sometimes blundered in the assumed characters in which he spent his life. He too frequently mistook ferocity for majesty; imagined he was royal when he was only brutal, and thought he was playing the hero when he was only playing the fool. He assumed the madman, generally, when he dealt with men, and only put on the blackguard when he talked to women. He knew the truth of Bacon’s saying that there is in human nature more of the fool than of the wise, and that that which addresses itself to the foolish part of men’s minds will prevail over that which speaks to the wiser. He built a great temple of delusion, in which he, the priest, should continually shout “Glory,” and all the people answer “Amen.” His breast was a natural mirror and antitype of all the passions and follies of the fools called Frenchmen. By studying his own foolishness, he knew what ropes to pull to make their fool’s bells jingle. He is, therefore, of the weaknesses and worser powers of men, the ablest metaphysician that has appeared. One of his remarks opens the mind, as snuff opens the head. He was a poet in practice. Sydney’s rule, “Fool! look into thy heart and write,” he obeyed; and wrote empires. Of course, an adventitious power like this cannot be measured; in fact, when supplied by so seething a fancy and so combining an intellect as he had, it is altogether illimitable; he had only to conceive a new idea to possess a new power. He therefore belongs to that class of men of whom Du Quesnay has said that one and one make a hundred and eleven. When you can define the genius of Shakspeare, you will be able to describe thecharacterof Napoleon; the two things are cognate. As we see him, he was not an entity, but a mere crystallization of ideas, which were continually depositing around him like the successive layers of an oyster shell. A philosophical Haüy might split off crystal after crystal of ideas, and he would find the ultimate crystal still an idea. Every thing of him was visionary, and not substance. Squeeze him in your hand, and he crushes like a dandy’s locks. Try that process on such a man as Wellington, and you soon feel the bone. In sooth, the Duke is all bone.”

“But you would not think of comparing Wellington and Napoleon,” said Mr. Temple.

“No more than I would compare the frothy forms of the rock with the granite substance of the Alps. There are some sentiments,” said he, with a fervent, suppressed tone, “which lie so deep within us that they seem to be a part of our souls; in me, veneration of Wellington is such. Since the Duke of Marlborough was buried, there has not lived, nor lives there, a man to whom I bow with an entire reverence, excepting Wellington. When I stood face to face with him, I felt how truly Scott had said that he was the only man in whose presence he felt himself nothing.”

“But do you think that he has Bonaparte’s genius?”

“Perhaps not; but where you see a man who is great without genius, you see the greatest kind of man the world knows any thing of; and where you see a poet who prevails without passion, you see an order of poetry high and enduring; such, on the one hand, is Wellington; on the other, Pope. All that such men do is done by force of intellect and might of character, and the results are true and permanent.”

“No doubt the Duke is a great man.”

“A greater there never lived. It is the misfortune of this age that it has no guides or leaders; no profound, thinking men, who, knowing the past and caring for the future, can judge rightly of the present, and give laws to the opinions of the time. Now, the multitude decide on every thing for themselves; and every thing is despised which is beyond the taste of the vulgar. Napoleon was essentially a hero for the vulgar; fools, who have no idea of power but in tumult, or of strength but in struggle, cannot comprehend the calm, unapproachable grandeur of Wellington—a grandeur too high for sympathy. I have studied him in his despatches; I have talked with him—I have seen him all round—there is in that man more of innate, imperturbable greatness than in all the world beside. When Napoleon was about to strike a blow, he raised up around him a cloud, a very tempest, of passions and fancies, through which every thing was magnified and mistaken. Wellington goes to work plainly, indifferently, frigidly, and it is only by the result that you recognisein scena Roscium. In the deep perturbation which came over the spirit of Napoleon when he essayed any vast work: in the mighty effort, the tremendous strain—inevitably successful though it may have been—you see one whose undertakings are above his nature; who must lash his energies to make them efficient enough. In the cool, common-place, regular, business-like proceedings of Wellington—never erring or unprosperous—we behold one whose native, unalterable strength is so high that the loftiest enterprise is to him not exciting; who, in conquering glory, is doing his ordinary work. His trade was to be always successful, and he was perfect master of it. There is the same difference between the two that there is between the youth and manhood of genius: in the former, more fervor and greater consciousness of power; in the latter, far more real might. The distinction may be marked by the names of the two demons who, in Æschylus, bind Prometheus to the rock; one was Force, the other Strength. There is the same diversity which exists between the calm, grey light of the sun, and the lurid, flashing, noisy brilliance of fire-works. Wellington is the representative of the genius of England, which, from the beginning of history, bearing aloft the standard of integrity, good sense and solid freedom, has stood like a rock in the sea of human passions and powers: one while baffling the frantic tyranny of the Papacy, and at another stamping under its iron heel the struggling fiend of Jacobinism. Napoleon is the type of France—a nation which has no power save of paroxysms, and cannot cease to be frivolous but by becoming ferocious. Wellington rides through life like a Tartar horseman, with one perpetual posture, that of the lance in rest; with one fixed gaze, that on the object of his attack. Napoleon scoured through his existence like a monkey on a circus horse, brandishing a flag, stooping over his nag’s head or under his body, jumping down to jump up again, and all to gain the wonder and applause of the spectators; going round and round, and ending where he began. I must finish the parallel by saying that his course was marked out for him by the whip of a base necessity. Napoleon was the slave and courtier of opinion, which he at length flattered into the belief that it was a master. Wellington despised and neglected opinion, till it has come fawning about his feet. Vanity had grasped Napoleon by the throat, and he was her garlanded victim. You never see in Wellington that sycophancy to circumstances, that obsequiousness to fortune. He seized Destiny by the collar, and fairly swung her round. Consider the wonderful, sublime achievement of Assaye; study the political skill which he displayed in the Peninsula, the miraculous combination of ingenuity, temper, firmness and authority by which he threw order into a chaos of difficulties, and, himself alone, sustained a world of jarring interests; contemplate the glorious action of the Arapeiles, of which Austerlitz was a dull and broken reflection; ponder the campaign of Torres Vedras, the master-piece of art, the wonder of history—a conception as felicitous as the brightest of Newton’s, and executed with a perfection which delights the observer even to mirthfulness—a model ofbeautyin war, by which victory was reduced to certainty, and war became one of the exact sciences: review these, and tell me by what proofs of intellectual power in Napoleon’s history they are exceeded. Remember, too, that of all Wellington’s doings we have unvarnished and exact accounts; while of Napoleon’s actions we have in many cases only the statements of himself, the most enormous liar that ever breathed the upper air. Wellington was a great man; Napoleon was a child, who, by the despair of an infinite and hopeless ambition, had strengthened himself into a giant.”

“There is this remarkable consideration in Wellington’s case, that the whole of his wide and free career was wholly run within the limits of duty. In that respect, no man in history may be compared with him, except Belisarius. What such men do is done without the inspiration of the passions.”

“Yes: when a man flings himself free from all human ties, and is self-hurled into the infinite abandonment of the lusts of the mind, his soul becomes charged with the might and the magnificence of all the fires of Hell. The infernal saints all minister their power to his spirit:—Vanity, with its craving eyes—Pride, with its vaulting restlessness—the steel-tipped thongs of Ambition, the fiendish vigor of Despair. It was a dangerous thing to conquer Napoleon; he recoiled from defeat with the spring of a demon. When you remember that Wellington had neither this power, which was possessed by Alexander and Gustavus and Napoleon, nor yet the religious enthusiasm of Cromwell, but did all by the natural and native strength of his ordinary intellect, you must yield him a respect which the others cannot share. He has considered that, in politics as in geometry, the shortest line is the straightest. Napoleon was made up of artifice, of which Mirabeau has said that it may indicate intellect, but it never exists in intellect of a superior order, unless accompanied with meanness of heart; it is a lie in action, and it springs from fear and personal interest, and consequently from meanness.”

“To be sure, the moral eminence of the men will bear no comparing.”

“Persons of great souls and lofty meditations recognise the dignity of nature even in the degradation of fate. They are conscious of its great origin, its mournful condition, its high destiny; henceforth there is for them no scorn, but a sympathising tolerance, a respectful compassion. Napoleon’s moral power was the power of ferocious contempt; it was based upon a disdainful hatred of his species. Depend upon it, that no thinking man can cherish an habitual disgust who has himself a soul, or abhor his fellows who has any self-respect. You find in Wellington none of these wild, these savage sentiments, these extremenesses of counsel or of motive. He is always sane, practical, right-hearted and right-minded. His actions illustrate that useful wisdom which the affairs of life demand, and I know no writer from whom so valuable precepts may be learned. In or out of Oxford, he has been the hardest student of his times; for the saddle is, after all, the true chair of thought. As for Napoleon being great, it seems to me that the idea is an absurdity. Alfred, William the Conqueror, Charlemagne, these were great men; and such men build up all that is built, and the history of a nation from their time till you come to another great man, is only the record of pulling down what they built up. But Napoleon pulled down everything, and built up nothing. He built, to be sure, ideally or in opinion; that is, he made systems and structures and constitutions, on paper, notionally, and by name, but not in things, in substance, of the elements of real existence; else by a word, or a reversed look, they could not have been destroyed. What the hand creates, only the thousand hands of Time can destroy; what the breath makes, a breath obliterates, for the thing made was no more than a breath. Draw a line around certain states on the map, and call it the confederation of the Rhine; give geographical nicknames to a quantity of soldiers, and call it an aristocracy: behold the creations of Napoleon! Alfred established tithings, hundred courts and county courts; that principle of self-government—for the administration of law is the most important part of government—that little flame, shrined in those humble vestal temples, and there kept safe against the blasts of ages of tyranny’s turbulence, blazed up eight centuries later, and wrapt the throne of Charles in combustion. Plantaganet kings might call their system an absolute monarchy; the Tudors and Stuarts might diffuse the idea of divine right; but Alfred, by establishing juries and the common law, had made thethingrepublic, and that was sure to beat down thename, monarchy. Call you a man great whose life-work is swept away in half an hour, without any principle of re-action or re-establishment showing itself? Nay, his works always carried with them the germ of their own destruction. The light that shone around his system was the phosphorescence of decay.”

“This much,” said Mr. Temple, “may be said for Napoleon, that he raised himself to absoluteism without degrading others to slavery.”

“Why, ’tis a monkey’s trick to mount up on people’s heads. Richelieu got there, as a man does; not by walking up men’s backs, but by making them stoop for him to get on. In effect, the true and bright view of Napoleon’s empire is, to consider it a democracy. Viewed as a monarch, rising and reigning in a constitution fashioned after the old forms, he was a mountebank and an impostor; considered as the controlling spirit in a democracy of powerful spirits, the head-idea in a nation—tumult of ideas—the odd man who is pushed up in a crowd of men—he becomes a spectacle of wonder, a riddle of infinite wisdom. The last of the old system, he is nothing; the first of a new one, everything. Regarded as the type of that democratic system which will overrun the world, his empire is a splendid, infinitely-crowded rehearsal of the coming drama of ages. He who would understand the whole nature, power and philosophy of democracy, must study that empire. Many thoughts belong to that subject. But I have harangued too long. Pitt was the man who said with absolute truth, that Napoleon was “the child and champion of democracy.” The spectacle of the force of old monarchy in the person of the stern, iron duke, slowly advancing and destroying this young system, is the picture of the gloomy Saturn relentlessly devouring his joyous giant-boys. The Jupiter of that old deity nestles yet a babe near his bosom; his begetting was in Pitt’s time, his birth at the Reform Bill.”

“Napoleon must certainly be tried by new principles of judgment. The maxims upon which the fame of Turenne and Marlboro’ has been settled, will not give him his true position.”

“Napoleon made glory according to a receipt of his own. But the misfortune is, that he not only imposed this false stuff upon us, but he revolutionized the chemistry by which its spuriousness should be detected. He depraved the opinions, and bent backwards the consciences of people. But upon the whole, I think we may say, that in life, the most beautiful of the fine arts, his taste was anything but classical. He belonged to the David school, and painted on the canvass of Time, such pictures as that man hung up in the Louvre—bombast conceptions, executed in the daub. But after all he was a splendid creature; he made a glorious pastime in Europe; he showed the world a magnificent sport; he filled the pages of history with matter which possessed an endless interest. Strike out his career, and what blankness remains! The truth is, this life of ours is enveloped in endless coverings, coats, over-coats and blankets of common-place—an atmosphere of common-place, dull, dense, unbreathable—a waking, inlaid with sleep—life overlaid with death. Walled in, and under-buried in a mass of tedium, one cannot get one’s breath. Sometimes, the world becomes intensely conscious of this imprisonment, and goes mad in trying to get free from itself. What wonder, if suffocated by being wrapped in a dun, drowsy, over-growing thraldom of common-place—its eye sick with sameness, its ear vexed with a cracked monotony, its soul should grow convulsive, become volcanic, and throwing off the whole disgusting encumbrance of the social system, it should rush forth to the free wilderness where it may once more see the fresh, eternal stars, and breathe a living air. And we must thank Napoleon for his battles; for war is the glory of our disgraced existence. Struggle is the parent of all the greatness of our being. It is only when minds wrestle in the energy of desperation with other minds, or with things, as in war, that the last degrees of intellectual and moral power are seen. The literary man goes half to sleep, and keeps awake only enough to purr his satisfaction at his demi-unconsciousness. In this world we must fight even to keep ourselves alive. The politicians of this piping time doze away their days as if they had a hundred existences to enjoy: as if life were a chair to loll in, a corridor to walk, or a hall to dance in, and not a general battle-field on which to fight for everything.”

There was that in the appearance and manner of Mr. Nivernois—his eye, his glowing countenance, the intense life which there was about him, rendered amiable by an entire simplicity of spirit—which was admirably adapted to captivate the heart and fancy of a woman, especially an enthusiastic one. What effect had been produced upon the imaginative temperament of Miss Stanhope, we cannot say. As she was going away, Mrs. Althorpe said to her,

“This Mr. Nivernois is certainly a man of genius, but he is mad, stark mad—like Mazeppa’s steed—

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