* A Slaughter-man, in the interval of killing, strolled froma neighbouring abattoir to Père la Chaise. Shedding tearslike rain, and clasping his blood-stained hands, he stoodbefore the tomb of Abelard and Eloisa; while ever and anonhe blubbered out, “Oh! l'amour, l'amour!” He then wiped hiseyes with his professional apron, and returned to business!This is truly French.** Garrick was in the habit of employing a whimsical fellowwhose name was Stone, to procure him theatricalsupernumeraries. The following correspondence passed betweenthe “Sir, Thursday Noon.“Mr. Lacy turned me out of the lobby yesterday, and behavedvery ill to me. I only ax'd for my two guineas for the lastBishop, and he swore I shouldn't have a farthing. I can'tlive upon air. I have a few Cupids you may have cheap, asthey belong to a poor journeyman shoemaker, who I drink withnow and then.“Your humble sarvant,“Wm. Stone.”“Stone, Friday Morn.“You are the best fellow in the world. Bring the Cupids tothe theatre to-morrow. If they are under six, and well made,you shall have a guinea a piece for them. If you can get metwo good murderers, I will pay you handsomely, particularlythe spouting fellow who keeps the apple-stand on Tower-hill;the cut in his face is quite the thing. Pick me up anAlderman or two, for Richard, if you can; and I have noobjection to treat with you for a comely Mayor. The barberwill not do for Brutus, although I think he will succeed inMat.“D. G.”The person here designated the Bishop was procured by Stone,and had often rehearsed the Bishop of Winchester in the playof Henry VIIIth, with such singular éclat, that Garrickaddressed him at the rehearsal, as “Cousin of Winchester Thefellow, however, never played the part, although advertisedmore than once to come out in it. The reason will soon beguessed from the two following letters that passed betweenGarrick and Stone on the very evening the Prelate was tomake his début.“Sir,“The Bishop of Winchester is getting drunk at the Bear, andswears he won't play to-night.“I am, yours,“Wm, Stone.”“Stone,“The Bishop may go to the devil. I do not know a greaterrascal, except yourself.“D. G”
—hissed in the centre region of a fiery dragon in some diabolical Jewiow-stration of dramatic diablerie, brandished a wooden sword,—gallanted Columbine,—blushed blue flame and brickdust in Frankenstein,—plastered my head over with chalk for want of a Lord Ogleby white wig,—and bellowed myself hoarse with tawdry configurations and claptrap vulgarities! And (Punchhas no feelings'!) what my reward? A magnificent banquet of dry bread and ditch-water from O'Doddipool, ('Think on that, Master Brook!') peels, not of applause, but oranges! from the pit; and showers of peas (not boiled!) from the Olympus of disorderly gods. *
* The custom of pelting actors and authors upon the stage isvery ancient. Hegemon of Thasos, a writer of the old comedy,upon the first representation of one of his plays, came uponthe stage with a large parcel of pebbles in the skirt of hisgown, and laying them down on the edge of the orchestra,gravely informed the spectators that whoever desired to pelthim might take them up and begin the attack; but if, on thecontrary, they chose to hear with patience, and judge withcandour, he had done his best to amuse them! The audiencewere so delighted with his play, that though its performancewas interrupted by the arrival of very unfortunate news fromSicily, viz. the destruction of the Athenian Fleet, it wassuffered to proceed; not one of them quitting the theatre,though almost every individual had lost a relation or friendin the action. The unfortunate Athenians could not refrainfrom shedding tears on the occasion; but such was theirdelicacy and honour with respect to the foreigners thenpresent, that they concealed their weakness by mufflingtheir faces in their mantles.
So finding, though in Ireland, my capital wasn't doubling, I gave the bog-trotters the “Glass of Fashion” (they never gave me a glass of anything!) to a sausage-maker's Polonius; took my leave and two and six-pence; bolted to Ballinamuck; (my Farce of Ducks and Green Peas never had such a run?) starred it from Ballinamuck to Bartlemy, and engaged with the man that lets devils out to hire, and deals in giants of the first enormity. My crack parts are Othello and Jim Crow; so that between the two, the lamp black never gets washed off my face, and I fear I shall die a Negro—
“Thus far,” added the great Tragedian, rolling up the papers into a bundle and tossing them over to Mr. Titlepage, “the Autobiography of Bonassus! From Smithfield we march to the Metropolitans. 'The Garden' is sadly in want of a fine high comedy figure at a low one; and Drury, of a Tragedy Queen who can do Dollallolla. I smother a new debutante, Miss Barbara Bug-gins; beat Liston * hollow in Moll Flaggon; and put out of joint the noses of all preceding Mac-beths. The Tumbletuzzy opens in Queen Katherine (which she plays quite in a different style to Siddons).”
* Of an actor so extensively popular, let us indulge a fewreminiscenees. We remember his first entrée upon the boardsof old Covent Garden, in Jacob Gawky; but his presentamplitude of face and rotundity of person were then wantingto heighten the picture; and flesh, like wine, does wonders.His voice, too, has Avaxed more fat and unctuous; andbroader (like his figure) has grown his fun. The stagebecame possessed of a new character, such as humourist hadnever before conceived, or player played—Mr. Liston!—Thetown roared with laughter; actors split their sides at hisdeepening gravity; caricaturists, in despair, cast offinvention, and trusted solely to his unique lineaments; oursigns bore aloft his physiognomical wonders; and walking-sticks, tobacco-stoppers, snuff-boxes, owned the queerimpeachment.Liston! the Knight of the comieal countenance, where Momussits enthroned in every dimple, crying aloof to the sons ofcare and melancholy! He is the very individual odditydescribed in the epigram—“Here, Hermes” says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,“Go, fetch me some clay, I will make an odd fellow.”And forth sprang Liston, a figure of fun! Not for theamusement of gods, but of men!To Suett Ave owe our first impression of drollery, but hisglimmering spark was soon extinct. The sun of Liston hasbeen before us from its rising to its setting. We hailed itsgrotesque ascension, basked in its-broad meridian, and now(when time has somewhat sobered down its comet-likeeccentricities) sorrowfully contemplate its going down.Liston's last season! and the cruel old boy looks soprovokingly hale and comical! What years of future laughterare in his face, scored over with quips and cranks! drawn upin farcical festoons! furrowed with fun!Liston's last season!—Why should he retire? Are not thetimes sad enough?—How will the world wag, wanting itsmerriest one?
To this the satirical nosed gentleman nodded assent.
“With fifteen new readings to electrify the diurnal critics of Petticoat Alley and Blow-bladder Lane!”
Mr. Bubangrub guaranteed for the brethren. One new reading he would take the liberty of suggesting to Mr. Bigstick. John Kemble had entirely mistaken Shakspere's meaning. “Birnam Wood” comes not to “Dunsinane” a town; but to “Dunce inane” Macbeth! who was blockhead enough to put his trust in the witches. The great Tragedian danced with ecstasy at this “palpable hit,” and promised pipes and purl for the critical party after the performance.
“Egg-hot,” said he, “is not my ordinary tipple; but on this occasion (pardon egotism!) I will be an egg-hot-ist! And now, to the Queen's Arms for a supper, and then to Somnus's for a snooze!”
With a patronising air he conducted us down the ladder. To Uncle Timothy he said a few words in private, and our ears deceived us, if “gratitude” was not among the number.
We fancied that the jovial spirit of the good Prior, on a three days' furlough from Elysium, hovered over the holiday scene; and that a shadowy black robe and cowl, half concealing his portly figure and ruddy features, flitted in the moonlight, and disappeared under the antique low-arched door that leads to his mausoleum! *
* Each of the monks that kneel beside the effigy of Raherehas a Bible before him, open at the fifty-first chapter ofIsaiah. The third verse is peculiarly applicable to his holywork. And as it was the Star that guided him to convert anunhealthy marsh, “dunge and fenny” on the only dry part ofwhich was erected “the gallows of thieves,” into a templeand a “garden of the Lord so it was his divine assurancethat he would live to see, in his own case, the prophecyfulfilled; and hear the “voice of melody” echo through thesacred walls his piety had raised.“The Lord shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her wasteplaces; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and herdesert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shallbe found therein, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody.”
“Dreams are the children of an idle brain.” Yet ours was a busy one through the live-long night. The grotesque scene acted itself over again, with those fantastical additions that belong to “Death's counterfeit.” Legions of Anthropophagi; giants o'ertopping Pelion and Ossa; hideous abortions; grinning nondescripts; the miniature, mischievous court of Queen Mab, and the fiddling, dancing troop of Tam O'Shanter passed before us in every variety of unearthly combination. Clouds of incense arose, and the vision, growing dim, gradually melted away,—a low, solemn chant leaving its dying notes upon the ear.
Let gratitude's chorus arise,
If gratitude dwell upon earth,
To hymn thy return to the skies,
Benevolent spirit of mirth!
Long flourish thy frolicsome fair,
Where many odd bargains are driven;
And may peccadilloes done there,
For thy merry sake be forgiven!
The sentinel sleeps when off his post; the Moorfields barker enjoys some interval of repose; moonshine suffers a partial eclipse on Bank holidays among theomnium gatheremof Bulls and Bears; the doctor gives the undertaker a holiday; Argus sends his hundred eyes to the Land of Nod, and Briareus puts his century of hands in his pockets.—But the match-maker, ante and post meridian, is always at her post!
“The News teems with candidates for the noose:—A spinster conjugally inclined; a bachelor devoted to Hymen; forlorn widowers; widows disconsolate; and why not 'A daughter to marry?' Addresses paid per post, post paid! For an introduction to the belle, ring the bell! None but principals (with a principal!) need apply.”
“Egad,” continued Mr. Bosky, as we journeyed through the fields a few mornings after our caravan adventure, to pay Uncle Timothy a visit at his newrus in urbenear Hampstead Heath, “it will soon be dangerous to dine out, or to figure in; for a dinner may become an action for damages; and a dance, matrimony without benefit of clergy! But yesterday I pic-nic'd with the Muffs; buzzed with Brutus; endured Ma, was just civil to Miss; when early this morning comes a missive adopting me for a son-in-law!”
We congratulated Mr. Bosky on the prospect of his speedily becoming a Benedick.
“Bien oblige!What! ingraft myself on that family Upas tree of ignorance, selfishness, and conceit! Couple with triflers, who, having no mental resources or amusement within themselves, sigh 'O! another dull day!' and are happy only when some gad-about party drag them from a monotonous home, where nothing is talked of or read, but petty scandal, fashions for the month, trashy novels, mantua-makers' and milliners' bills! I can laugh at affectation, but I loathe duplicity; I can pity a fool, but I scorn a flirt. This is a hackneyed ruse of Ma's. The last coasting season of the Muffs has been comparatively unprolific. From Margate to Brighton Miss Matilda counts but five proposals positive, and half a dozen presumptive; in the latter are included some broad stares at Broadstairs from the Holborn Hill Demosthenes! and even these have been furiously scrambled for by the delicate sisters for their marriageable Misses! 'Everybody! says Lord Herbert of Cherbury, 'loves the virtuous, whereas the vicious do scarcely love one another.”
An oddity crossed our path. “There waddles,” said the Lauréat, “Mr. Onessimus Omnium, who thrice on every Sabbath takes the round of the Conventicles with his pockets stuffed full of bibles and psalm books, every one of which (chapter and verse pointed out!) he passes into the hands of forgetful old ladies and gentlemen whom he opines 'Consols, and not philosophy, console!' Pasted on the inside cover is his card, setting forth the address and calling of Onessimus! You may swear that somebody is dead in the neighbourhood, (the pious Lynx is hunting up the executors!) by seeing him out of 'the Alley' at this early time of the day.”
Farther a-field, rambling amidst the rural scenes he has so charmingly described, we shook hands with Uncle Timothy's dear friend, the Author of a work “On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature.” * Happy old man! Who shall say that fortune deals harshly, if, in taking much away, she leaves us virtue?
* To Charles Bucke,On hearing that he is engaged upon another Work, to be entitled Man.“Man!” comprehensive Volume!—busy Man—A world of warring passions, hopes and fears;Good, evil—all within one little span!Pride, meanness; wisdom, folly; smiles and tears;Th' oppressor, the oppress'd; the coward, brave;Fate's foot-ball from the cradle to the grave!These records of thy studious days and eves,Thy musings and experience, are to meA moral, that this sure impression leaves;Man never yet was happy—ne'e?' can be!The feverish bliss, my friend, that dreamers feign,Binds him a prisoner faster to his chain.The miser to his treasure, and the proudTo pride and its dominion;—to his gorgeThe glutton;—and the low promiscuous crowdTo sordid sensualities, that forgeThe unseen fetters, which so firmly bind,Are all ignobly bound in body;—mind.He only is a free man, who, like thee,Does stand aloof, and mark the wild uproarThat shakes the depths of life's tempestuous sea;And steers his fragile bark along the shore.The swelling canvass and the prosperous galeHerald the shipwreck's melancholy tale!Nature, all beauteous Nature!—thou hast sungIn prose poetic, through each various scene;And when thy harp upon the willows hung,She kept thy form erect, thy brow serene;And breathed upon thy soul; and peace was there:The soft, still music of a mother's prayer.She gave thee truth, humility, content;A spirit to return for evil good;A grateful heart for bliss denied, or sent;And sweet companionship in solitude!Candour, that wrong offence nor takes, nor gives;A brother's boundless love for all that lives!Pursue thy solemn theme.—And when on a ManThe curtain thou hast dropp'd, return once moreTo Nature. She has Beauties yet to scan,New Harmonies, Sublimities, in store!She will repay thy love; and weave, and spread,A garland—and a pillow—for thy head.Uncle Timothy.
Winding through a verdant copse, we suddenly came in sight of an elegant mansion. From a flower-woven arbour, sacred to retirement, proceeded the notes of a guitar.
“Hush!” said the Lauréat, colouring deeply,—
“breathe not! Stir not!” And a voice of surpassing sweetness sang
Farewell Autumn's shady bowers,
Purple fruits and fragrant flowers,
Golden fields of waving com,
And merry lark that wakes the mom I
Earth a mournful silence keeps,
See, the dewy landscape weeps!
Hark! thro* yonder lonely dell
Gentle zephyrs sigh farewell!
Call'd ere long by vernal spring,
Trees shall blossom, birds shall sing;
The blushing rose, the lily fair
Deck sweet summer's bright parterre—
Flocks and herds, the bounding steed
Shall, sporting, crop the flowery mead,
And bounteous Nature yield again
Her ripen'd fruits and golden grain.
Ere the landscape fades from view,
As behind yon mountains blue
Sets the sun in glory bright—
And the regent of the night,
Thron'd where shines the blood-red Mars,
With her coronet of stars,
Silvers woodland, hill and dell,
Lovely Autumn! fare thee well.
Was Mr. Bosky in love with the songstress or the song? Certes his manner seemed unusually hurried and flurried; and one or two of his forced whistles sounded like suppressed sighs. So absent was he that, not regarding how far we had left him in the rear, he stood for a few minutes motionless, as if waiting for echo to repeat the sound!
We thought—it might be an illusion—that a fair hand waved him a graceful recognition. At all events the spell was soon broken, for he bounded along to us like the roe, with
“Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires at a mile-a.”
The laughing Autolicus! It was his blithesome note that first made us acquainted with Uncle Timothy!
The remembrance of boyhood is ever pleasing to the reflective mind. The duties that await us in after-life; the cares and disappointments that obstruct our future progress cast a shade over those impressions that were once interwoven with our existence. But it is only a shade; recall but one image of the distant scene, and the whole rises in all its freshness and verdure; touch but one string of this forgotten harmony, and every chord shall vibrate!
“Arma, vi-rump que cane-o!” exclaimed the Lauréat, pointing to his old schoolmaster, who was leaning over his rustic garden-gate, reading his favourite Virgil. And how cordial was their greeting! The scholar played his urchin pranks over again, and the master flourished a visionary birch. Mr. Bosky hurried us into the playground; (his little garden was still there, but it looked not so trim and gay as when he was its horticulturist!) led us into the school room, pointed out his veritable desk, notched at all corners with his initials; identified the particular peg whereon, in days of yore, hung his (too often) crownless castor; and recapitulated his boyish sports, many of the sharers of which he happily recognised in the full tide of prosperity; and not a few sinking under adverse fortune, whose prospects were once bright and cheering, and whose bosoms bounded with youth, and innocence, and joy!
“Let me die in autumn! that the withered blossoms of summer may bestrew my grave, and the mournful breeze that scatters them, sigh forth my requiem!”
These were the words of the poor widow's only son, at whose tomb, in the village church-yard, we paused in sorrowful contemplation. Its guardian angels were Love and Pity entwined in each other's arms. Uncle Timothy, after recording the name and age of him to whom it was raised, thus concluded the inscription:—
Mysterious Vision of a fitful dream!
Pilgrim of Time thro* Nature's dark sojourn!
Then cast upon Eternity's wide stream—
To Know Thyself is all thou need'st to learn:
And that thy God, omnipotent and just,
Is merciful, remembering thou art Dust!
—When the friends of our youth are fast dying away; when the scenes that once delighted us are fading from our view, and new connections and objects ill repay the loss of the old, how welcome the summons that closes our disappointments and calls us to rest! The mourners walk the streets, but the man is gone; the body dissolves to dust, but the spirit returns to Him that gave it!
The Village Free-School was at hand, (the morning hymn, chanted by youthful voices, rose on the breeze to heaven! ) and the Alms-houses, where Uncle Timothy first met the poor widow and the good pastor. A troop of little children were gathered round one of the inmates, listening to some old wife's tale. 'Tis the privilege of the aged to be reminiscent: the past is their world of anecdote and enjoyment. Let us then afford them this pleasure, well nigh the only one that time has not taken away; remembering, that we with quick pace advance to the closing scene, when we shall be best able to appreciate the harmless gratification they now ask of us, and which we, in turn, shall ask of others.
The ancient church spire rising between the tall elms, and the neat Parsonage House gave an exquisite finish to the surrounding scenery. Happy England! whose fertile hills and valleys are spotted with these Temples of the Most High, where “the rich and the poor meet together, for the Lord hath made them all and the humble dwellings of the shepherds of his flock. The good pastor scattered blessings around him. His genius and learning commanded admiration and respect; his piety, and Christian charity conciliated dissent; and his life exemplified the beauty of holiness.” He had confirmed the faithful; fixed the wavering; and reclaimed the dissolute.
“The wretch who once sang wildly—danc'd and laugh'd,
And suck'd down dizzy madness with his draught,
Has wept a silent flood—reversed his ways—
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays.”
Place us above the sordid vulgar; light us on that enviable medium between competency and riches, and there we shall find the domestic virtues flourishing in full vigour and grace. In the rank hotbed of artificial life spring up those noxious weeds that choke and destroy them.
We now arrived at Uncle Timothy's cottage, reared in the midst of a flower garden. In a summer-house fragrant with roses, woodbine, and jessamine sat our host and the good pastor. A word of introduction soon made us friends; and from the minister's kind greeting, it was clear that
Uncle Timothy had not been niggard in our praise.
An old lady in deep mourning walked slowly up the path. Uncle Timothy went forth to receive her. It was the poor widow! The mother of that only son!
“Welcome, dear Madam! to this abode of peace. To-day—and what a day! so cool, so calm, so bright! we purpose being your guests.”
“Mine?” faltered the poor widow, anxiously.
“Yours!” replied Uncle Timothy; “sit down, my friends, and I will explain all.
“My childhood was sorrowful, and my youth laborious. A near relation wasted my patrimony; and with no other resource than a liberal education, wrung from the slender means of my widowed mother, I began the world. In this strait, a generous friend took me by the hand; first instructing me in his own house of business, and then procuring me an eligible appointment abroad. From time to time I acquainted him with my progress, and received in return substantial proofs of his benevolent and watchful care. Years rolled away,—fortune repaid my ardent endeavours,—and I resolved to revisit my native land. I embarked for England; when, almost in sight of her white cliffs, a storm arose, the ship foundered, and I lost half my possessions. Enough still remained to render me independent. My mother and sister were spared to bid me welcome,—my early oppressor (the infidel may laugh at retribution; but retribution begins, when a man is suspected in the society of others, and self-condemned in his own) had descended remorseful to the grave,—and my noble benefactor—
'O grief had changed him since I saw him last;
And careful hours, with time's deforming hand,
Had written strange defeatures in his face—'
by pecuniary embarrassments, heightened by ingratitude, was brought very low. Cheerfully would I have devoted to him my whole fortune, and began the world again. For then I possessed strength and energy to toil. But ere I could carry this my firm resolution into effect, three days after my arrival,
'As sweetly as a child,
Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers,
Tired with long play, at close of summer day,
Lies down and slumbers!'
he pressed his last pillow, requiting my filial tears with a blessing and a smile.
“My debt of gratitude I hoped might still in part be paid. My friend had an only daughter—Did that daughter survive?
“The most diligent inquiries, continued for many years, proved unsuccessful. On the evening of an ill-spent and wearisome day, Heaven, dear sir, (addressing the good pastor) led me to your presence while performing the sacred duty of comforting the mourner. What then took place I need not repeat. You will, however, remember that on a subsequent occasion, while looking over the papers of the widow's son, we discovered a sealed packet, in which, accompanying a mourning ring, presented to his mother, were these lines:—
Pledge of love for constant care
Let a widow'd mother wear;
Filial love, whose early bloom
Proves a garland for the tomb.
Ever watchful, ever nigh,
It breaks my heart, it fills my eye
To see thee hide the falling tear,
And hush the sigh I may not hear!
Heaven thy precious life to spare
Is my morning, evening prayer,
When I rise, and sink to rest,
'Tis my first and last request.
If, when deep distress of mind
Press'd me sorely, aught unkind
I have said or done, forgive!
Error falls on all that live.
Beneath the sod, where wave the trees,
And softly sighs the whispering breeze,
Fain I would the grassy shrine,
Mother! guard my dust and thine.
What are grief and suffering here?
Are they worth a sigh or tear?
What is parting?—transient pain,
Parting soon to meet again!
The second enclosure was the miniature of his grandfather. But that miniature! Gracious God! what were my sensations when I beheld the benignant, expressive lineaments of my early benefactor. The object of my long and anxious inquiries was thus miraculously discovered! 'Till that moment I had never felt true happiness. This cottage, dear Madam, with a moderate independence, the deed I now present secures to you; in return, I entreat that the miniature may be mine: and I hope some kind friend (glancing at his nephew) will, in death, place it upon my bosom.”
“What darkness so profound,” exclaimed the good pastor, “that the All-seeing Eye shall not penetrate? What maze so intricate and perplexed that our Merciful Father shall not safely guide us through? 'Throw thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return to thee after many days.'”
The village bells rang a merry peal; for the good pastor had given the charity children a holiday. They were entertained with old English fare on the lawn before the cottage, and superintended in their dancing and blindman's-buff by Norah Noclack and the solemn clerk. Nor were the aged inmates of the bountiful widow's Almshouses forgotten. They dined at the Parsonage, and were gratified with a liberal present from Uncle Timothy. And that the day might live in grateful remembrance when those who now shared in its happiness found their rest in the tomb, the Lauréat of Little Britain (some, like the sponge, require compression before they yield anything; others, like the honey-comb, exude spontaneously their sweets,) expressed his intention of adding two Alms-houses to the goodly number, and liberally endowing them.
Many a merrier party may have sat down to dinner, but never a happier one. It was a scene of deep and heartfelt tranquillity and joy. The widow—no longer poor—presided with an easy self-possession, to which her misfortunes added a melancholy grace.
Time passed swiftly; and the sun, that had risen and run his course in splendour, shed his parting rays on the enchanting scenery. Suddenly a flood of light illumined the chamber where we sat with an almost supernatural glory, beaming with intense brightness on the countenance of Uncle Timothy, and then melting away. Ere long in the distant groves was heard the nightingale's song.
“One valued relic” said the widow, addressing
Uncle Timothy, “I have ever carefully preserved. You, dear sir, were an enthusiast in boyhood: and when, as your senior, I once presumed to counsel you, this was your reply.”
And she read to Uncle Timothy his youthful fancy.
Let saving prudence temper joy,
Curtail of wit the social day;
Excitement's pleasures soon destroy,—
The spirit wears the frame away.
Thanks, gentle monitor! I greet
This friendly warning, well design'd;
For Stellas voice is ever sweet,
And Stellas words are ever kind!
I would not lose, to linger here,
One happy hour of wit and glee;
If e'er of death I have a fear,
It would with friends the parting be!
Then wear, my frame, and droop, and fade,
And fall, and dust to dust return;—
With friendship's rites sincerely paid,
'Tis sweeter to be mourned than mourn.
For mourn we must—it is a pain,
A penalty that man must pay
For dreaming childhood o'er again,
And sitting out last life's poor play.
Sad privilege! too dearly bought,
To sorrow over those that sleep;
Sadder, in apathy and naught,
To lose the will, the power to weep!
Ere thought and memory are obscur'd,
Let me, kind Stella! say adieu;
I would not ask to be endur'd,
No, not by e'en a friend like you!
Love, friendship, interchange of mind,
Celestial happiness hath given;
These glorious gifts she left behind,
Her foot-prints as she fled to Heaven!
“And so, Eugenio,” said Uncle Timothy, “you intend to visit the Eternal City, and muse over the mouldering ruins of the palaces of the Cæsars. But rest not there—take your pilgrim's staff and pass onward to that Land made Holy by the presence of our Redeemer! Would that I could accompany you to the sacred hills of Zion!”
“O for such a guide!” exclaimed Eugenio. “But I should be too—too happy—and I may no more expect light without darkness, than joy without sorrow.”
“If Uncle Tim goes, I go!” whispered the Lauréat. “With him I am resolved to live—with him it would be happiness—” the last few words were inaudible.
“Eugenio,” said the good pastor, laying his hand on the young traveller's head, who knelt reverently to receive his blessing, “you are in possession of youth, health, and competence. How enviable your situation!—how extensive your power of doing good! Fortune smiled not on the widow's son,—yet, to him belongs a far higher inheritance; the inexhaustible treasures of Heaven, the eternal affluence of the skies! A man's genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended with success, that he dares think himself equal to certain undertakings in which those who have succeeded have fixed the admiration of mankind. Be then what our lost friend would have been, under happier circumstances. A stagnant, unprogressing existence was never intended for man. Action is the mind's proper sphere, ere time obscures its brightness and enfeebles its powers. And carry with you these truths, that the foundation of domestic happiness is faith in the virtue of woman; the foundation of political happiness is confidence in the integrity of man; the foundation of all happiness, temporal and eternal, is reliance on the goodness of God. If, amidst more important occupations, the Muse claim a share of your regard, let not the ribald scorn of hypercriticism discourage you on the very threshold of poetry—f Know thine own worth, and reverence the Lyre—'”
The night proved as lovely as the day. But with it came the hour of parting. Parting!—What a host of feelings are concentrated in that little word! The Lauréat bore up heroically.—The glare of the candles being too much for his eyes, he walked in the moonlight, while Eugenio sang—
Our sails catch the breeze—lov'd companions, adieu!
Farewell!—not to friendship—but farewell to you!
When Alps rise between us, and rolls the deep sea,
Shall I e'er forget you? Will you forget me?
Ah! no—for my hand you at parting have press'd,
In memory of moments my brightest and best!
How sad heaves my bosom this tear let it tell,
How falters my tongue when it bids you farewell!
Eugenio was on ship-board early the following morn. His friends attended, to wish himbon voyageand a safe return. And as the noble vessel moved majestically along the waters, high above the rest wavedadieuthe hand ofUncle Timothy!
Thus, gentle reader, we have led thee through a labyrinth of strange sights, of land-monsters and sea-monsters, many of man's own making, others the offspring of freakish nature, of Jove mellow with nectar and ambrosia. If the “proper study of mankind is man,” where can he be studied in a greater variety of character than in the scenes we have visited? The well-dressed automaton of a drawing-room, (a tailor made him!) fenced in with fashions and forms, moving, looking, and speaking but as etiquette pulls the wires, exhibits man in artificial life, and must no more be taken as a fair sample of the genus, than must pharmacy, in the person of the pimple-faced quack * mounted on his piebald pad, or charlatan's stage.