In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and as we carry a crowd of canvass, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the sea—Oh, horror upon horror! the ice opens suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily in immense concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny—the circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and shrieking of ocean and of tempest, the ship is quivering, oh God! and—going down.
BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.
BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.
The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva—hiding their poniards in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcæus; misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes,—so fully in unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily for the paternity of this ode, he diedeighty yearsbefore the event it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be greatly troubled. It never was in print before—I believe.
IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON.
IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON.
greek verseTRANSLATION.
greek verseTRANSLATION.
Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one byCharles Abraham Elton, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows:
It is a proof of the fairness with which Mr. Elton has aimed at a literal rendering of his author, that he has made even the name of ARISTOGEITONretain its place; as inharmonious a one, perhaps, as ever "filled the trump of future fame." In the Edinburgh Review for January, 1833, we find a translation of considerable merit, in the stanza of "Bruce's Address:" less literal than Mr. Elton's, yet more brief and simple, and partaking more of the thrilling energy of the original. In its arrangement, the edition of Ilgen is followed. It is due to the author of the foregoing translation to say, that it was written long before the year in which this one was published; and before he had seen the seven or eight others above mentioned.
1Sword.
P.
1Samuel II. Chap. xii.—22, 23.
* * *
IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV.
IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV.
From the second volume of a Collection of Original Letters written during the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III. By John Fenn, Esq., M.A. and F. R. S.
Right reverend and worshipful, and my right well beloved Valentine, I recommend me unto you, full heartilie desiring to hear of your welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his pleasure, and your heart's desire.
And if it please you to hear of my welfare, I am not in good heele (health) of bodie, nor of heart, nor shall be till I hear from you
And my lady my mother hath labored the matter to my father full diligently, but she can no more get than ye know of, for the which God knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily that ye do, ye will not leave me therefore; for if that ye had not half the livelihood that ye have, for to do the greatest labour that any woman alive might, I would not forsake you.
No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping; and I beseech you that this bill be not seen of none earthlie creature save only yourself.
And this letter was endited at Topcroft, with full heavy heart &c.
By your ownMARGERY BREWS.
Right worshipful and well beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise, I recommend me unto you &c.
And heartilie I thank you for the letter, which that ye send me by John Beckerton, whereby I understand and know that ye be purposed to come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter, but only to have a conclusion of the matter betwixt my father and you; I would be the most glad of any creature alive, so that the matter might grow to effect. And thereas (whereas) ye say, an (if) ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business for that cause a good while after, which causeth my heart to be full heavie; and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should I be much more sorry, and full of heaviness.
And as for myself I have done, and understand in the matter that I can or may, as God knoweth; and I let you plainly understand, that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf, but an 100l. and 50 marks (33l. 6s. 8d.) which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire.
Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, I would be the merriest maiden on ground; and if ye think not yourself so satisfyed, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you afore; good, true, and loving Valentine, that ye take no such labor upon you, as to come more for that matter, but let what is, pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover and beadwoman during my life.
No more unto you at this time, but Almighty Jesu preserve you both bodie and soul &c.
By your ValentineMARGERY BREWS.
Topcroft 1476.7.
* * *
BY L. A. WILMER.
BY L. A. WILMER.
LEILA.
The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard.
Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of women—of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit, humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by the hand?—who so lost as not to have cultivated thy acquaintance?—who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy companionship?—who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable, inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical.Every bodyhas read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unhappy as not to have done this thing. But if such there be—if by any possibility such person should exist, we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly man, and purchase forthwith "The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina."
The Heroine was first published many years ago, (we believe shortly after the appearance of Childe Harold;) but although it has run through editions innumerable, and has been universally read and admired by all possessing talent or taste, it has never, in our opinion, attracted half that notice on the part of the critical press, which is undoubtedly its due. There are few books written with more tact, spirit,näïveté, or grace, few which take hold more irresistibly upon the attention of the reader, and none more fairly entitled to rank among the classics of English literature than the Heroine of Eaton Stannard Barrett. When we say all this of a book possessing not even the remotest claim to originality, either in conception or execution, it may reasonably be supposed, that we have discovered in its matter, or manner, some rare qualities, inducing us to hazard an assertion of so bold a nature. This is actually the case. Never was any thing so charmingly written: the mere style is positively inimitable. Imagination, too, of the most etherial kind, sparkles and blazes, now sportively like the Will O' the Wisp, now dazzlingly like the Aurora Borealis, over every page—over every sentence in the book. It is absolutely radiant with fancy, and that of a nature the most captivating, although, at the same time, the most airy, the most capricious, and the most intangible. Yet the Heroine must be considered a mere burlesque; and, being a copy from Don Quixotte, is to that immortal work of Cervantes whatThe School for Scandalis toThe Merry Wives of Windsor. The Plot is briefly as follows.
Gregory Wilkinson, an English farmer worth 50,000 pounds, has a pretty daughter called Cherry, whose head is somewhat disordered from romance reading. Her governess is but little more rational than herself, and is one day turned out of the house for allowing certain undue liberties on the part of the butler. In revenge she commences a correspondence with Miss Cherry, in which she persuades that young lady that Wilkinson is not her real father—that she is a child of mystery, &c.—in short that she is actually andbonâ fidea heroine. In the meantime, Miss Cherry, in rummaging among her father's papers, comes across an antique parchment—a lease of lives—on which the following words are alone legible.
This IndentureFor and in consideration ofDoth grant, bargain, releasePossession, and to his heirs and assignsLands of Sylvan Lodge, in theTrees, stones, quarries, &c.Reasonable amends and satisfactionThis demiseMolestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson.The natural life ofCherry Wilkinson only daughter ofDe Willoughby eldest son of ThomasLady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.
This "excruciating MS." brings matters to a crisis—for Miss Cherry has no difficulty in filling up the blanks.
"It is a written covenant," says this interesting young lady in a letter to her Governess, "between this Gregory Wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate that would devolve to him at my death) stipulating to give Wilkinson 'Sylvan Lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, &c.' as 'reasonable amends and satisfaction' for being the instrument of my 'demise,' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson' for taking away the 'natural life of Cherry Wilkinson, only daughter of' —— somebody 'De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas.' Then follows 'Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.' So that it is evident I am a De Willoughby, and related to Lady Gwyn! What perfectly confirms me in the latter supposition, is an old portrait which I found soon after, among Wilkinson's papers, representing a young and beautiful female superbly dressed; and underneath, in large letters, the name of 'Nell Gwyn.'"
Fired with this idea, Miss Cherry gets up a scene, rushes with hair dishevelled into the presence of the good man Wilkinson, and accuses him to his teeth of plotting against her life, and of sundry other mal-practices and misdemeanors. The worthy old gentleman is astonished, as well he may be; but is somewhat consoled upon receiving a letter from his nephew, Robert Stuart, announcing his intention of paying the family a visit immediately. Wilkinson is in hopes that a lover may change the current of his daughter's ideas; but in that he is mistaken. Stuart has the misfortune of being merely a rich man, a handsome man, an honest man, and a fashionable man—he is no hero. This is not to be borne: and Miss Cherry, having assumed the name of the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, makes a precipitate retreat from the house, and commences a journey on foot to London. Her adventures here properly begin, and are laughable in the extreme. But we must not be too minute. They are modelled very much after those of Don Quixotte, and are related in a series of letters from the young lady herself to her governess. The principal characters who figure in the Memoirs are Betterton, an olddebauchéwho endeavors to entangle the Lady Cherubina in histoils—Jerry Sullivan, an Irish simpleton, who is ready to lose his life at any moment for her ladyship, whose story he implicitly believes, without exactly comprehending it—Higginson, a grown baby, and a mad poet—Lady Gwyn, whom Cherubina believes to be her mortal enemy, and the usurper of her rights, and who encourages the delusion for the purpose of entertaining her guests—Mary and William, two peasants betrothed, but whom Cherry sets by the ears for the sake of an interesting episode—Abraham Grundy, a tenth rate performer at Covent Garden, who having been mistaken by Cherry for an earl, supports the characterà merveillewith the hope of eventually marrying her, and thus securing 10,000 pounds, a sum which it appears the lady possesses in her own right. He calls himself the Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci. Stuart, her cousin, whom we have mentioned before, finally rescues her from the toils of Betterton and Grundy, and restores her to reason, and to her friends. Of course he is rewarded with her hand.
We repeat that Cherubina is a book which should be upon the shelves of every well-appointed library. No one can read it without entertaining a high opinion of the varied and brilliant talents of its author. No one can read it without laughter. Its wit, especially, and its humor, are indisputable—not frittered and refined away into that insipid compound which we occasionally meet with, half giggle and half sentiment—but racy, dashing, and palpable. Some of the songs with which the work is interspersed have attained a most extensive popularity, while many persons, to whom they are as familiar as household things, are not aware of the very existence of the Heroine. All our readers must remember the following.
And this also.
TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT.
TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT.
We have already exceeded our limits, but cannot refrain from extracting Chapter XXV. It will convey some idea of the character of the Heroine. She is now at the mansion of Lady Gwyn, who, for the purpose of amusing her friends, has dressed up her nephew to represent the supposed mother of the Lady Cherubina.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXV.
This morning I awoke almost well, and towards evening was able to appear below. Lady Gwyn had invited several of her friends; so that I passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all.
When I retired to rest, I found this note on my toilette.
To the Lady Cherubina.
To the Lady Cherubina.
Your mother lives!and is confined in a subterranean vault of the villa. At midnight two men will tap at your door, and conduct you to her. Be silent, courageous, and circumspect.
What a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as I laid down the billet, and lifted my filial eyes to Heaven! Mother—endearing name! I pictured that unfortunate lady stretched on a mattress of straw, her eyes sunken in their sockets, yet retaining a portion of their youthful fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. Fondly did I depict our meeting—our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, and baring my forehead, to gaze on the lineaments of my countenance. All, all is convincing; and she calls me the softened image of my noble father!
Two tedious hours I waited in extreme anxiety. At length the clock struck twelve; my heart beat responsive, and immediately the promised signal was made. I unbolted the door, and beheld two men masked and cloaked. They blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led me along. Not a word passed. We traversed apartments, ascended, descended stairs; now went this way, now that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; till I began to imagine we were all the time in one spot.
At length my conductors stopped.
'Unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while I light a torch.'
'We are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.'
'Then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first.
'Thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second.
'Take that!' exclaimed the first. A groan followed, and the wretch tumbled to the ground.
'You have killed him!' cried I, sickening with horror.
'I have only hamstrung him, my Lady,' said the fellow. 'He will be lame while ever he lives; but by St. Cripplegate, that won't be long; for our captain has given him four ducats to murder himself in a month.'
He then burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and we hurried forward with incredible speed, while moans and smothered shrieks were heard at either side.
'Gracious goodness, where are we?' cried I.
'In the cavern of death!' said my conductor; 'but never fear, Signora mia illustrissima, for the bravo Abellino is your povero devotissimo.'
On a sudden innumerable footsteps sounded behind us. We ran swifter.
'Fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and there came a discharge of arms.
I stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak.
'I am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft, long ways and cross ways, Death and the Devil!' cried the bravo.
'Am I bleeding?' said I, feeling myself with my hands.
'No, blessed St. Fidget be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is safe, for the banditti have turned into the wrong passage.'
He then stopped, and unlocked a door.
'Enter,' said he, 'and behold your mother!'
He led me forward, tore the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked the door after him.
Agitated by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, I felt additional horror in finding myself within a dismal cell, lighted with a lantern; where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a corpulency unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. Her dress was a patchwork of blankets and satins, and her gray tresses were like horses' tails. Hundreds of frogs leaped about the floor; a piece of mouldy bread, and a mug of water, lay on the table; some straw, strewn with dead snakes and sculls, occupied one corner, and the distant end of the cell was concealed behind a black curtain.
I stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the prodigious prisoner sat examining me all over.
At last I summoned courage to say, 'I fear, madam, I am an intruder here. I have certainly been shown into the wrong room.'
'It is, it is my own, my only daughter, my Cherubina!' cried she, with a tremendous voice. 'Come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of the departed Theodore!'
'Why, ma'am,' said I, 'I would with great pleasure, but I am afraid—Oh, madam, indeed, indeed, I am quite sure you cannot be my mother!'
'Why not, thou unnatural girl?' cried she.
'Because, madam,' answered I, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her portrait proves.'