At the extremity of this bench, which touches that of the ministers, you have recognized Lord Brougham; he is the very living caricature of whom the printshops in the Strand have shown you so many portraits. Observe his long face, his long legs, his long arms, the whole incoherent mass of his person. The expression of his countenance has something ferocious about it; there is certainly in this brain a small grain of madness; his small piercing eyes sparkle from the bottom of their sockets; a convulsive motion opens and shuts incessantly his enormous mouth; you would be alarmed did not the good nature of that thick, cocked-up nose, reassure you.
Do not be alarmed that the learned lord starts and appears so violently agitated—he is on a gridiron; he is tortured, because others are speaking, and he is constrained to be silent. To speak is to do an injury to Lord Brougham.
But the speaker is now seated; Lord Brougham has leapt from his seat; he is on his feet; he has regained the floor; he retains it, and will not easily part with it; he has declared that he has but two words to say; if you have any business to attend to, go about it; at the end of two hours you may return, you will find him in the midst of his argument. It is much to be regretted that long experience of the bar and the parliament have not moderated a mind of this temper. He has just uttered a most cutting sarcasm—observe how he dulls its effect by reiterating and expanding it. He has perfectly established the impregnable strength of an argument; he proceeds to overthrow it himself, that he may build up others upon its ruins; it is thus his indiscretion injures the best cause and deforms his ablest discourses. Like an imprudent æronaut, he bursts his balloon and falls with it to the earth, in consequence of having filled it too full. We who are hearers, like well enough to be convinced by an argument, or to smile at a piece of irony; but we can comprehend an allusion. We are mortified at having every thing explained so elaborately. The more you persist in it, the more weary we become. Your obstinacy in doubting our intelligence—wounds and vexes us.
This excess of pedantry is the principal defect in the oratory of Lord Brougham. He has been well called the school-master. I do not deny his extraordinary gifts as a learned debater, always caustic and indefatigable; but these extravagant discourses are out of all proportion, above all in the House of Lords, which treats all questions in a summary way, and in some degree after the fashion of the drawing room. It is a great want of tact not to suit oneself to one's audience. The manner of Henry Brougham was much more suitable to the House of Commons, where discussions are more full, and where one is less prepared to come to an early conclusion; he still retains the lawyer. He has never been able to throw off the violent and comic gestures of the gown, storming and thundering, in reciting a date or a section of a law. Without doubt his harangues fatigue him as much as they do those who listen to him; he does not spare himself, bawling and gesticulating without any regard to his own person; he bends and twists himself like a posture master; he dances and leaps with his words; he perspires and grows heated, but he leaves the hearer cold; his is not the eloquence which inflames the blood.
I would censure Lord Brougham more severely as a writer than as a speaker; for Lord Brougham is also a writer, and a good deal too much of one. The melancholy activity which distinguishes him, pushes him on incessantly to fill the reviews with his economical, political, scientific, historical, and theological essays, and to heap up pamphlet on pamphlet; if his writings were characterized by a finished style or new ideas, the evil would not be half so great; there is, however, eternally the same excessive flood of words; and on paper, where they cannot evaporate, it becomes even more intolerable. Though on his own part it has not been an interested speculation, I cannot pardon him for having been the father of that leprous, cheap literature, which, pretending to diffuse useful knowledge, has only displayed false opinions, ignorance, and bad writing. In France, where this disastrous invention has been so quickly perfected, there is good cause to curse in all sincerity its author. It is not his fault however, that the French have permitted their worthless laborers to infect, as they have done, all their literary field, with these tares which threaten to choke the promising harvest of their young poetry.
Let us examine Lord Brougham as a politician. Here we find him still more imperfect. I acquit him of the charge of having offered his support to the conservatives, on the condition of their securing him his chancellorship; this is a calumny of his enemies. I wish he had never had any thing to do with toryism. It is not his fault however, that he has not again become a whig officer. It is said that it is the whigs who object to his joining their ministry, and who have refused him the seals. Experience has proved that he is less dangerous as an enemy than as a friend. He is neither tory nor whig; nor is he a radical; he is however at present among the radicals. He is of no party, if it be not his own, the party of Lord Brougham.
The case of Lord Brougham ought to afford a salutary example to M. Dupin, his friend. There are many curious analogies between these two celebrated lawyers; they resemble each other strikingly in their countenances, in their fortune, in their inconsistencies, and in their extravagancies. M. Dupin does not preside more soberly over the Chamber of Deputies, than Lord Brougham did over that of the Lords. He is also alawyer who fills the speaker's chair, and speaks himself much more willingly than he accords the permission to another. I grant you that his eloquence is of better metal, more powerful, more solid, more triumphant; that his blows are heavier and more mortal; but should he ever succeed in reaching the power after which he aspires, I doubt if his temperament will allow him to sustain himself half the time that the petulance of our ci-devant chancellor remained seated on the woolsack.
BY MORNA.
BY MORNA.
Oh! if to die in life's young hours,Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers;While Hope still soars on tireless wing,Where skies are bright with changeless Spring;Ere Sorrow's tear has dimm'd the eye,That late with rapture's glance was swelling;Or Grief has sent the bursting sighIn silence to its lonely dwelling:Oh! if to part with this world only,Where all is cold, and bleak, and lonely—To welcome in those happier spheres,The loved and lost of parted years;If this give pain, or waken sadness,Oh! who can tell the more than madnessCircling thro' life the hearts that bearThe chains that wounded spirits wear—To live, and yet to feel thro' lifeThe aching wish, the ceaseless strife—The yearnings of a bleeding breast,To sink within the grave to rest;To smile, when every smile must wearThe hue and coldness of despair;To weep, or only strive in vainTo waken tears, that ne'er againShall cool the fever of that eye,Whose fountains are forever dry:When joys are gone, and hope has fled,And friends are changed, and love is dead,And we are doomed alone to wait,And struggle with a bitter fate—Left like some lone and towering rock,To brave the ocean's battling shock,'Till broken by some mightier wave,That bears it to a lonely grave.My early years, how coldly brightThe memory of their parted lightFalls round the heart, whose cords are broken,Or, only strung to suffering's power,When struck in grief's o'erwhelming hour,Give back to sorrow's touch a token.My sire, alas! they say he diedWhen in the flower of manhood's pride:I stood beside that parent's bier,And wondered why the big bright tearWas coursing down my mother's cheek;She took my hand, but could not speak—I kiss'd her then, and sadly smiled,Nor felt I was an orphan child.My Mother! how the thoughts of years,With all their smiles, and all their tears,Rush with the memory of her nameUpon me—and I seem the sameBright, careless child she looked upon,And joyed to call her fair-haired son:—Oh, I remember well the timeShe led me to our favorite bower;It was in Spring's sweet, sunny prime,And just at sunset's dying hour,When woods, and hills, and waters seemWrapt in some soft, mysterious dream—When birds are still, and folded flowersTheir dark green lids are peering through,Waiting the coming evening hours,Within each bright cup to renewThe wasted wealth of morning dew—When spirit voices seem to sighIn every breeze that wanders by—And thoughts grow hushed in that calm hour,Beneath its soft, subduing power.She knelt, and breathed to heaven a prayer,“That God would guard that orphan there”—Then turned, and with a faltering tone,She took my hand within her own,And said, “I ne'er should find anotherTo love me as she loved me then”—And I could only say, “my Mother!”And fall upon her neck again,And bathe it with my burning tears—The bleeding heart's most precious rain—That I had hoarded there for years,And hoped to never shed again;Nor knew, alas! how soon the heart,When all its early ties are parted,Will link it to some kindred heart—That wounded bird and broken-heartedAre soonest won, and cling the longestTo those who seek their ruined wealth.* * * * *She died, and then, alas! I thoughtMy cup of suffering was o'erfraught—No voice to cheer, when sorrow's powerAssailed me in her darkest hour—No lip to smile, when hope was bright,No eye to glad me with its light—No heart to meet my throbbing heart—No prayer to lift my thoughts above,When murmuring tears were forced to start—No Father's care!—no Mother's love!Ye, that have known in life's young spring,The fondness of a Mother's love,Oh guard it, 'tis an holy thing,A priceless treasure from above!And when, on life's tempestuous sea,Thy shatter'd bark by storm is driven,'Twill be a beacon-light to thee,A guiding star, by memory given,To lead thy wandering thoughts to Heaven.The Spring renews the leafless tree,And Time may check the bosom's grief—And thus it wrought a change on me,But oh! mine hour of Spring was brief.They are who tell us, “love's a flower,That only blooms in cloudless skies—That gaily thrives in pleasure's bower,But touched by sorrow, droops and dies.”Not so was ours! we never loved'Till suffering had our spirits proved,And then there seemed a strange communion,Sinking our souls in deathless union:Such power hath love to render dearThe hearts that grief hath made so near,That we had loved each other less,Save for our very loneliness.Her gentler spirit was not formedTo war with stern misfortune's storm,And soon we felt, that day by dayShe yielded to a slow decay,Wearing unseen her life away.And yet so sweet the smile that playedOn lips that ne'er a sigh betrayed—So calm the light that lingering sleptIn eyes that ne'er for pain had wept,We could not grieve, but only pray,That when that light should pass away,The faint, sad smile might linger yet,And vainly teach us to forget.She died! I know not when or where—I never knew—for silent thereI stood, unconscious, strange and wild,In all save thought and tears, a child;For sorrow's channels then were sealed,Or flowed too deep to be revealed.I stood beside her grass-grown grave,And saw the boughs above it wave;And then I felt that I was changed—That reason, late so far estranged,Had won me from my spirit's madness,To settled grief and silent sadness:I placed bright flowers above her grave,And nursed them with my warmest tears,And for my grief a balm they gave,The memory of departed years.Ianthe! o'er thine early tombThe Summer's winds are gently blowing,And fair white flowers, the first to bloom,Around thy narrow home are growing;And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle,Fit emblem of thy spirit's love!And near it mourns the gentle turtle,And I, how like to that lone dove!While every leaf, and flower, and treeIs fraught with memory of thee.And oh! if true, who tell us deathCan never quench its purer fires—That not with life's last faltering breath,The soul's immortal love expires;If heart meets kindred heart above,Shall we not greet each other there?Say, was not ours a deathless love?Too deep, too strong for life to bear!Then let us hope to meet again,Ere long, in guiltless transport there,With bliss for all the grief and painWe here on earth were doomed to share,And love on, through unending years,Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears.
Oh! if to die in life's young hours,Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers;While Hope still soars on tireless wing,Where skies are bright with changeless Spring;Ere Sorrow's tear has dimm'd the eye,That late with rapture's glance was swelling;Or Grief has sent the bursting sighIn silence to its lonely dwelling:Oh! if to part with this world only,Where all is cold, and bleak, and lonely—To welcome in those happier spheres,The loved and lost of parted years;If this give pain, or waken sadness,Oh! who can tell the more than madnessCircling thro' life the hearts that bearThe chains that wounded spirits wear—To live, and yet to feel thro' lifeThe aching wish, the ceaseless strife—The yearnings of a bleeding breast,To sink within the grave to rest;To smile, when every smile must wearThe hue and coldness of despair;To weep, or only strive in vainTo waken tears, that ne'er againShall cool the fever of that eye,Whose fountains are forever dry:When joys are gone, and hope has fled,And friends are changed, and love is dead,And we are doomed alone to wait,And struggle with a bitter fate—Left like some lone and towering rock,To brave the ocean's battling shock,'Till broken by some mightier wave,That bears it to a lonely grave.My early years, how coldly brightThe memory of their parted lightFalls round the heart, whose cords are broken,Or, only strung to suffering's power,When struck in grief's o'erwhelming hour,Give back to sorrow's touch a token.My sire, alas! they say he diedWhen in the flower of manhood's pride:I stood beside that parent's bier,And wondered why the big bright tearWas coursing down my mother's cheek;She took my hand, but could not speak—I kiss'd her then, and sadly smiled,Nor felt I was an orphan child.My Mother! how the thoughts of years,With all their smiles, and all their tears,Rush with the memory of her nameUpon me—and I seem the sameBright, careless child she looked upon,And joyed to call her fair-haired son:—Oh, I remember well the timeShe led me to our favorite bower;It was in Spring's sweet, sunny prime,And just at sunset's dying hour,When woods, and hills, and waters seemWrapt in some soft, mysterious dream—When birds are still, and folded flowersTheir dark green lids are peering through,Waiting the coming evening hours,Within each bright cup to renewThe wasted wealth of morning dew—When spirit voices seem to sighIn every breeze that wanders by—And thoughts grow hushed in that calm hour,Beneath its soft, subduing power.She knelt, and breathed to heaven a prayer,“That God would guard that orphan there”—Then turned, and with a faltering tone,She took my hand within her own,And said, “I ne'er should find anotherTo love me as she loved me then”—And I could only say, “my Mother!”And fall upon her neck again,And bathe it with my burning tears—The bleeding heart's most precious rain—That I had hoarded there for years,And hoped to never shed again;Nor knew, alas! how soon the heart,When all its early ties are parted,Will link it to some kindred heart—That wounded bird and broken-heartedAre soonest won, and cling the longestTo those who seek their ruined wealth.* * * * *She died, and then, alas! I thoughtMy cup of suffering was o'erfraught—No voice to cheer, when sorrow's powerAssailed me in her darkest hour—No lip to smile, when hope was bright,No eye to glad me with its light—No heart to meet my throbbing heart—No prayer to lift my thoughts above,When murmuring tears were forced to start—No Father's care!—no Mother's love!Ye, that have known in life's young spring,The fondness of a Mother's love,Oh guard it, 'tis an holy thing,A priceless treasure from above!And when, on life's tempestuous sea,Thy shatter'd bark by storm is driven,'Twill be a beacon-light to thee,A guiding star, by memory given,To lead thy wandering thoughts to Heaven.The Spring renews the leafless tree,And Time may check the bosom's grief—And thus it wrought a change on me,But oh! mine hour of Spring was brief.They are who tell us, “love's a flower,That only blooms in cloudless skies—That gaily thrives in pleasure's bower,But touched by sorrow, droops and dies.”Not so was ours! we never loved'Till suffering had our spirits proved,And then there seemed a strange communion,Sinking our souls in deathless union:Such power hath love to render dearThe hearts that grief hath made so near,That we had loved each other less,Save for our very loneliness.Her gentler spirit was not formedTo war with stern misfortune's storm,And soon we felt, that day by dayShe yielded to a slow decay,Wearing unseen her life away.And yet so sweet the smile that playedOn lips that ne'er a sigh betrayed—So calm the light that lingering sleptIn eyes that ne'er for pain had wept,We could not grieve, but only pray,That when that light should pass away,The faint, sad smile might linger yet,And vainly teach us to forget.She died! I know not when or where—I never knew—for silent thereI stood, unconscious, strange and wild,In all save thought and tears, a child;For sorrow's channels then were sealed,Or flowed too deep to be revealed.I stood beside her grass-grown grave,And saw the boughs above it wave;And then I felt that I was changed—That reason, late so far estranged,Had won me from my spirit's madness,To settled grief and silent sadness:I placed bright flowers above her grave,And nursed them with my warmest tears,And for my grief a balm they gave,The memory of departed years.Ianthe! o'er thine early tombThe Summer's winds are gently blowing,And fair white flowers, the first to bloom,Around thy narrow home are growing;And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle,Fit emblem of thy spirit's love!And near it mourns the gentle turtle,And I, how like to that lone dove!While every leaf, and flower, and treeIs fraught with memory of thee.And oh! if true, who tell us deathCan never quench its purer fires—That not with life's last faltering breath,The soul's immortal love expires;If heart meets kindred heart above,Shall we not greet each other there?Say, was not ours a deathless love?Too deep, too strong for life to bear!Then let us hope to meet again,Ere long, in guiltless transport there,With bliss for all the grief and painWe here on earth were doomed to share,And love on, through unending years,Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears.
Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist.BY A YANKEE DAUBER.
Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist.BY A YANKEE DAUBER.
Painting is welcome;—The painting is almost the natural man;For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,He is but outside. These pencilled figures areEven such as they give out.Timon of Athens.
Painting is welcome;—The painting is almost the natural man;For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,He is but outside. These pencilled figures areEven such as they give out.Timon of Athens.
III.
III.
Chagres—The Castle—Mine Host—No English and no Spanish for two—Mule Riding—A Fit-out for Panama—Up in the World—The Stone Ladder—A Yarn.
It is now some weeks since I opened my note book, and I confess the cause to be pure idleness alone. However, my pencil meanwhile has not lain dormant, as my portfolio will convince you. After all,cui bono?Why should a fellow be expected to write a journal on shipboard? The record of one day upon a voyage is the record of all others. This day we see “a booby,” (an animal not rare, you will say, on shore) the next, perhaps, a turtle, and on the next we may be amused with a short skirmish between a whale and a sword-fish, or a more deadly one between contending shoals of hostile sharks: then we see “Cape Fly-away,” and after that we see——nothing!
Our voyage to Chagres, instead of five days, was extended to fifteen. The pilots live on board, and make a point of lying out for a wind or a tide, until they have laid in sustenance enough to last them while another ship shall demand their services, and then convoy their patient victims into port. But we got in at last, and were thankful.
The scenery here is surpassingly lovely, rich beyond any description of which my pen or pencil is capable. I found great delight in being once more on land, after my tedious passage—for I profess, without a blush, to be a determined land-lubber, you are aware—and began to look about me with as much greenness as a country boy on his first visit to the Metropolis. With the exception of the old Gothic castles of my own country, that at Chagres is the finest I have ever seen. It occupies a great space of ground, and is remarkable for its strong and massive walls, reaching to a great height, and commanding the whole town as well as the river and coast. The prospect from this castle's walls is full of the richest and most varied beauty.
Finding that our vessel was likely to be detained for some days at Chagres, I determined to cross the Isthmus, and visit Panama. Owing to the want of industry, or rather to the most consummate laziness, which is a characteristic of the natives, I was three whole days endeavoring to engage any one to carry me up the river. The consequence was that, the river, in the mean time, having risen prodigiously, I was four days and a half, including of course the four nights, on a route of about forty or fifty miles! During this time I went on shoreat night, sleeping on the ground with a billet of wood for my pillow, and disturbed in my slumbers by droves of pigs, which as they rooted up the soil around me, paid no sort of attention to my convenience. Occasionally a horse would browse down to my couch, and reach his long neck over me as I lay, to nibble a cornhusk or a yam on the other side of my pillow—and as to the cows, they were perpetually snuffing at me. I say nothing, though I felt much, of the musquitoes!
With what delight did I behold the landing place, which, after my rough journey, was pointed out to me by my conductor. They who are accustomed to travel in Europe and America, can have no idea of it. Here I hastened to present my letters to Signor P——, a gentleman who was to be my host while I staid. Our conversation was rather limited, as you may readily conceive, when I mention that he could not speak a word of my language, nor I a syllable of his, which was Castillaña—(they never say ‘Spanish’ there.) But the language of actions is often more eloquent than that of words—at least so thought I, when my host ordered a comfortable repast to be placed before me, consisting of fricasseed fowl, and Vermicelli soup, with a magnum of generous claret. This was certainly a delightful exchange for my five days fast upon half boiled rice and plaintains, as were my soft pillow and quiet apartment a great improvement upon my nocturnal accommodations while on the route.
Early the next morning I found myself mounted on the back, or to be more exact, I should say something like a half mileabovethe back, of an animal which I had at first some difficulty in naming. In all my life, (albeit something of an equestrian, asyouknow,) I was never so put to it to take an advantage of my knowledge of horsemanship. Conceive me placed high above a tall raw-boned mule's back, (the saddle one of the old Saracenic or Moorish pattern, fastened by a multiplicity of strands, made of hair rope, to a ring tied to the saddle by a single loop of leather,) and at the mercy of this single string to guide not one of the gentlest of beasts, reminding the reader of Peter Pindar of the ass, “with retrograding rump and wriggling tail,” jumping alternately to each side of the street, and occasionally turning round and kicking sidewise, like a cat in search of her tail, or a dog vainly attempting to rid himself of theaddendumof a tin-kettle! What a merry figure I must have cut!
My mule was a picture in himself. I have already called him raw-boned,—and you may deduce hiscoup d'œilfrom this attribute. Add, however, the details of the beast, and you shall acknowledge that he wassui generis. His ears stuck straight out to the front, sure sign of wicked intentions, and the nose was curled into a thousand ill-natured wrinkles. The horse-cloth was made like a hearth-rug, heavy, matted, and thick, and on the top of that was placed a straw pad about four inches thick, to prevent the pressure of the saddle from hurting him. Surmounting this mountainous ridge was the saddle itself, and such a one! It was the real demipique of the middle ages, and was doubtless two hundred years old itself. The leather was originally a bright tan-color, but was now grown black and glossy by age and wear, and as hard as if made of iron. So hard was it that I turned the edge of my knife, in endeavoring to cut a strap which gave way during my ride. On this pyramidal pinnacle, which I have described stone by stone, as it were, behold me seated. The reins are handed me by the groom, who undertakes the whole guidance and direction of the process of mounting, as any departure from his regulations in this respect would result in the total overthrow of the whole mass upon which the rider is doomed to sit. Being mounted, I discovered that the stirrups were thrown over the saddle, and the strap connecting them tied in a knot, beside which was another, formed by the tying of the girth in a similar manner; this last being improved by the strap of the crupper brought through a hole behind in the saddle and made fast to the pommel. All these knots (reminding me of Obadiah's in “Tristram Shandy,”) stood up in front and rear, and as there was no pad above as there was below, to prevent the manifold injuries that were like to result to the rider upon such an establishment, you may judge of the consequences of riding a hard trotting mule, thus caparisoned, for twenty seven miles. I shall carry the scars I got, to my grave, if I survive to the age of Methusalem. The bridle was a rope of hair, as was the halter beneath, and the bit—oh ye gods! what a bit! It weighed at the very least ten pounds avoirdupois, and hung down full twelve inches below the jaws of the mule. Lo, there was I, in a coarse straw hat, and a queer cotton travelling toggery, with a pair of spurs, such as John of Gaunt might have used, being made of brass, with a shank six inches long, tied by a strap which first went round the foot, and then three or four times round the leg, each spike in the rowel being an inch and a half long, the whole forming atout ensemble, worthy of the pencil of George Cruikshank or Horace Vernet. As neither of them are at hand, take the accompanying sketch, rudely done to the life by my own pencil.
You will see by the foregoing description, the sort of animal and equipments with which Signor P—— favored me. I assure you it is not in the least caricatured, either as the figure or accompaniments are concerned. The pencilling will give you an idea of the sort of road upon which I travelled from Cruzes, the residence of my host, to Panama. About halfway on, I stood upon a hill overlooking two oceans at once. I saw on the one side the bay of Panama, and the Caribbean sea on the other. As I proceeded, I came to a spot, where, for several yards, the ascent is up a kind of stone ladder. It is in a narrow pass, where, between two banks of twelve to eighteen feet in height, there is a continued face of black rock, worn so smooth by a constant run of water, as to afford the mules only the small holes made in the crevices by their predecessors, as the means of ascent. As they dragged themselves up in this manner by these rude steps, I could not but admire the sure footedness of the animals. While on the open ground, they are full of tricks, and are constantly trying to displace their rider, but so soon as they find themselves in a difficult pass like that I have described, they seem to say to themselves—“Come, come, no fooling now—let's be steady,” and in a moment they are the steadiest and soberest of animals.
This pass is called the Governor's Fall, from this circumstance. A governor of the territory, in the times of the early Spaniards, was ascending it, on his way to Panama, when his mule, less sure footed than my own, fell backward with him, and killed him instantly. Theanecdote startled me a little, as may be easily imagined, related to me as it was on the very spot, and under circumstances precisely similar to those under which it occurred. However, vanity came to my aid, and prompted me to endeavor to perform what the governor had so fatally failed in accomplishing, and my attempt was successful.
IV.
IV.
Panama—A Scotsman—Architecture—A Gold Story—Tobago—A Beauty—The Sketcher in Love—The way to live on Pine Apples—Snakes—A Perilous Bath.
I arrived at Panama in eight hours, an astonishingly short time considering the roads, and as there are no boarding or lodging houses in the town, I made my way at once to the grand square, where I had a letter of introduction to a braw Scot, Mr. McK——, who received me like a brother Briton. His hospitality displayed itself in some novel ways. As my luggage was still on the road, I was stripped and bathed in brandy, to counteract the effects of a severe wetting I had received on my journey, and equippedcap à piefrom the wardrobe of mine host. He was very tall, and his linen trowsers hung around me “as a purser's shirt upon a handspike,” to use a nautical simile of more expressiveness than elegance. I was indebted to my new friend even for the loan of a hat, mine having been substituted at Cruzes for a negro hat to ride in. This last article of my travelling equipments seemed to scandalize the good Panamians not a little.
It was a treat to me, living as I had been for six years in a new country, to find myself once more among such stately ruins and antique edifices, as the churches, monasteries, colleges and nunneries, which, erected upon the first introduction of christianity into Southern America, are still standing either in part, or entire. My portfolio will show you with what warmth and enthusiasm I greeted them. The ruins of the monastery of St. Francesco, and the college of the Jesuits, are as beautiful specimens of architecture as can be imagined. They were built with all that taste of design and gorgeousness of finish, which the founders of them derived from the Moors of Grenada. I spent much time in wandering among their massive columns and fallen entablatures, their heavy lofty walls and sculptured ruins.
The wealth of the town is not great at present, although I heard many Panamians speak of the abundance which existed ten or fifteen years ago, when sacks of gold were wont to lie like any other heavy merchandize, all night in the principal street, with no one near to watch them. No one thought of stealing, for no one wanted aught. It was, in truth, “the golden age.” I, of course, as you will do, probably, received this legend with some few reserved doubts of its authenticity. As apendantto it, I was also informed of a curious custom that at the same time prevailed in the Isthmus. In the dance, if a gentleman wished to make himself acceptable to a lady, he would take his hand full of small golden coin, and throw it among the circle of spectators, (every one is admitted to the dances,) so that it became a matter of fashionable boast among the fair ones, “I have had so many pieces thrown for me,” etc. etc. But things are not now “as they used to was,” and a Panamian is now apt to consider the possession of a real regular immutilated doubloon a god-send: the currency being in what they callcut money—that is, the large coin cut or divided into bitts of the denomination of dollars, reals, &c. &c.
While at Panama I made a trip to some of the Pacific Islands in the neighborhood: the principal one I visited was Tobago, one of the most curious and striking spots I have ever seen. The island is about eight miles in length, and four or five in breadth, rising into a high hill in the centre, thickly wooded, and yet there is not a tree upon the island, that does not bear a fruit. I was there during a church festival, and there was uninterrupted dancing the whole week. Some of the women are very beautiful, and among them there was one to whom I had nearly lost my heart during the short time I was at Tobago, so transcendant was her beauty. I do not call it loveliness—it was passion, (and so my fit was soon over.) She had no face—do you know what I mean? it was allfeature. Excuse a dauber's smacking of “the shop.” And then what a model was she for the sculptor! A fine though not a high forehead, upon which the jetty hair was most simply yet tastefully parted; eyes large and dark as the hair; but withsucha fire in them! Her nose was beautifully chiselled, and her disparted lips disclosed teeth more white than pearl. Her form, so youthful was she, was not developed, and figure, as such, she had none. But what passion was in that soul! She crossed my path in the dance, at church, on the island's beach, and every where it was the same—she was all soul. I saw her angry, and I thought I would not rouse her for the world; and then,reveriedI, what must she be, if in love! The thought threw me into a brown study, out of which I awoke, and I soon began to feel completely in love—but it was with thepineapples of Tobago! Never ate I such delicious fruit before as this, the abundant product of the island I have described. For my own part I quite forgot my Katinka, and gave myself up to the fascinations of a cheaper and more easily accessible luxury. I used to consume, upon an average, eight pine applesper diem, without fear of cholera, dispepsia, or any of the train of “ills that flesh is heir to.” There was a place they called “The Bishop's Bath,” formed in a rock by the constant running of a stream of pure water, and sufficiently deep for a bath. Here several of us were wont to meet every day and refresh ourselves with the delicious coolness of the water—our host always despatching a servant with a hamper of pines, as an accompaniment of our bath. Upon our return a profusion of fruits awaited us: melons, pines, cocoas, mangoes, &c &c. These we would eat from the table, or as we lay upon our beds. All this was too luxurious for me, and I began to feel sure that if I were to give myself up unyieldingly to the fascinations around me, while at this island of Pomona, I should never be fit for any thing else again as long as I lived.
I enjoyed my rambles about the island very much at first, but soon began to learn the old lesson of the thorn under the rose, the bitter mingled with the sweet, the drop of poison in the cooling cup, &c. Throughout New Grenada, there are thousands of snakes, the bite of almost all of which is fatal. That of the black snake, the species so common and so innocent in the United States, is as poisonous here as the rattlesnake is there. So I soon began to confine myself to the coast, and gave up rambling. I remember one occasion, upon which Igot a deuse of a fright. I had been bathing, and had left the water but about five minutes, when a gentleman, who was undressing to go into the same bath, perceived and pointed out to me a small snake swimming about in it, very much at his ease. We took the reptile out and killed it on the margin of the basin. It was a small red snake, marked with black rings, and its bite is instant death. It is a common opinion that island snakes are harmless. It may be so—but I had rather take the theory for granted without a practical illustration of it in my own person.
We returned to Panama in time to witness the bull fights, which last three or four days, in August, the anniversary of the revolution which resulted in the independence of New Grenada. I must sharpen my pencil, and nib my pen afresh to tell you of my amusement during those three or four days.
* * * * *
* * * * *
“Where are now the blooming bowers.”
“Where are now the blooming bowers.”
Where are now the blooming bowersThat I saw in early May?Where are all those fairest flowersThat were soon to pass away?And the Loves my bosom nourished,And the Joys that still came on?Like those flowers, once they flourished,Like those flowers, they are gone.Fancy now no more shall borrowBeams of beauty from the skies;Hope no more, to soothe my sorrow,Whisper, “brighter suns shall rise.”Yet one thought my soul shall cherish,For the word of God is sure,And the heavens and earth shall perish,But his mercy shall endure.
Where are now the blooming bowersThat I saw in early May?Where are all those fairest flowersThat were soon to pass away?And the Loves my bosom nourished,And the Joys that still came on?Like those flowers, once they flourished,Like those flowers, they are gone.Fancy now no more shall borrowBeams of beauty from the skies;Hope no more, to soothe my sorrow,Whisper, “brighter suns shall rise.”Yet one thought my soul shall cherish,For the word of God is sure,And the heavens and earth shall perish,But his mercy shall endure.
BY MADAME JULIE DELAFAYE-BRÉHIER.[Translated from the French.]
BY MADAME JULIE DELAFAYE-BRÉHIER.[Translated from the French.]
... On a peu de temps à l'être (belle,)Et de temps à ne l'être plus!Madame Deshoulières.
... On a peu de temps à l'être (belle,)Et de temps à ne l'être plus!Madame Deshoulières.
In a parlor furnished with much taste, and from the half-opened windows of which were seen the winding walks, and “alleys green,” of a park, filled with magnificent and shady trees, two young ladies were employing themselves in those delicate works, which have become the portion of our sex, and which, whilst they appear to occupy the fingers only, serve also to divert the mind in a pleasant manner, and even to give a greater facility to the current of thought. One of the females, either by chance or design, had placed herself opposite a mirror, where she could not lift her eyes from her work, without seeing herself reflected therein, adorned in all the brightness of a beauty of seventeen years, who might have served as a model to the sculptor, as a study to the painter. A rich profusion of black hair, in the tasteful adjustment of which, Art had so nicely seconded the gift of Nature, that it was scarcely possible to say to which its elegance was owing, set off the snowy whiteness of the neck and face; and I would add, (if I may once more be permitted to avail myself of the superannuated comparison,) that the freshest rose could alone compare its beauty with the carnation of her cheek and lip; to these charms were added, a form of the most graceful proportions; and, all that the youthful may borrow, with discernment, from the art of the toilette, had been employed to increase, still farther, beauty already so attractive.
Half concealed beneath the draperies of the window, near which she had placed herself to obtain a more favorable light, the other female pursued her occupation with undistracted attention; a certain gravity appeared in her dress, in her countenance, and in her physiognomy altogether. Her eyes were beautiful, but calmness was their chief expression; her smile was obliging, but momentary; the brilliant hues of youth, now evidently fading on her cheeks, less rounded than once they were, appeared but as the lightest shadings of a picture; sometimes, indeed, deepened by sudden and as transient emotion, like the colors which meteors throw on the clouds of the heavens in the evening storms of summer. The gauzes, the rubies, the jewels, with which the young adorn themselves, were not by her employed merely as ornaments; she availed herself of them, to conceal with taste, the outrages of years; for the weight of more than thirty years was already upon her; and the ingenious head dress with which she had surmounted her hair, served to hide, at the same time, some silvery tell-tales, which had dared thus prematurely, to mingle with her long tresses of blond.
“There's broken again! look at that detestable silk!” said the younger female, throwing her work on to a sofa; “I will not do another stitch to day.”
She rose, and approaching the mirror before her, amused herself by putting up afresh the curls of her hair.
“You want patience, Leopoldine,” answered her sister, looking on her affectionately, “and without that will accomplish nothing. You will require patience as well to conduct you through the world, as to enable you to finish a purse.”
“I know the rest, my sister,” replied the younger, smiling. “Do you forget that a certain person has charged himself with the duty of teaching me the lesson? Ten purses, like that which I am embroidering, would not put me out of patience so much as this silence of M. de Berville. Can you conceive what detains him thus?” added she, seating herself near her sister, “for, in fact, he loves me, that is certain, and nothing remains but for him to avow the fact to my aunt Dorothée.”
“This looks very like presumption,” my dear Leopoldine, pursued the elder sister, “and that is not good; what can it signify to you what hethinks!I hope your happiness does not depend on him.”
“My happiness? oh! doubtless not, but, in a word, Stephanie, he is a suitable person, and if he will explain himself——”
“It will then be time to think of him; until then, my sister, I beg of you to see in M. de Berville but anestimable friend of our family, an amiable man whose society we honor. A young person should never hasten to give up her heart—above all, to one who has not asked it.”
“Be easy on that subject, sister; I mean to keep a good watch over mine; the venture of your heroine of romance will never tempt me; but this is the fact, sister, I do not wish to remain anold maid.”
At these words, which Leopoldine spoke inconsiderately, the countenance of Stephanie was flushed with a sudden crimson, and for a moment shone with as beautiful a brightness as that of her young sister.
“There is a condition worse than that,” answered the former, with lively emotion; “it is, to have formed an ill-assorted union.”
“Indeed, my sister, I did not dream I should give you offence,” replied the young female, much embarrassed, “but the world is so strange! you know this yourself. Thus I cannot conceive how it is that you have remained single.”
“If no one has wished to espouse me,” added Stephanie, smiling.
“What! In reality? Can such a thing be possible?”
“Assuredly, although I believe it is a case which rarely happens, and I grant didnothappen to me, for I found many opportunities of entering the married state, but not one which was suitable.”
“You were, perhaps, difficult to please?”
“I think not. Whilst yet young, about your age, my hand was sought by one who lacked nothing but a fortune, or at least, an estate, capable of supporting him in respectable society. Our parents, at that time, deprived of the rich heritage which they have recovered since your birth, refused him my hand, for a motive, which I have since, though by slow degrees, learnt to appreciate, but which then rent my heart. My thwarted inclination left me with an indifference as to marriage; it was the way in which my youth resented its injury. I would have none but a husband after my own heart; not finding such a one, I resigned myself to be no more than anold maid, finding it more easy to bear the unjust scorn and ridicule of frivolous people, than to drag on to my tomb under a yoke, troublesome and oppressively heavy.”
“Do you not sometimes feel regret?”
“No, Leopoldine; that condition, which appears to you so frightful, has its happinesses, as well as the other states of life. I have shaped my resolution with a regard to the wounds of self-love, which I have had to endure; I have called into my aid the arts and letters, which it is so difficult for married females to cultivate with constancy, without prejudice to their domestic duties; and lastly, when by the death of our dear parents, I found myself in charge of your childhood, in concert with our worthy aunt, my liberty became doubly dear to me. Had I been a wife and mother, I should not have been able to devote myself to you as I have done. Have I not had reason, then, to remain unmarried?”
“Well, if I should tell the truth, Stephanie, after all you have said, I should better like to be ill matched, than not matched at all.”
“This perverseness gives me pain, my child,” replied the elder sister, “but I will believe that it is for want of reflecting on the matter that you talk thus.”
An aged lady, the aunt of the two sisters, came in at this moment, holding in her hand a closed parasol, which she used as a support. She seated herself in an arm chair, resting her feet on a footstool, which Leopoldine placed for her. After regarding for a while both her nieces, with a look of complacency, she thus addressed them.
“They tell me that M. de Berville is at the entrance of the avenue. For which of your sakes is it he honors us with so frequent visits? For my own part, I am quite at a loss to say. The more I observe him, the less I can divine his intentions.”
“You would be jocular with us, aunt,” answered Stephanie, “there can be no doubt as to his choice; it is as if any one could hesitate between a mother and her daughter.”
“But he has not explained his views,” rejoined the aunt, “and it is very fine for you to make out you are old, my niece; I find you still very young, compared with me.”
“You forget too, aunt,” added Leopoldine, in a lively tone, “that M. de Berville is, to the full, as old as my sister. If merit alone was sufficient, I should have reason to fear in her a dangerous rival; but my amiable sister is without pretensions; she knows that youth is an all-powerful advantage, although in reality a very frivolous one, perhaps——”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the aunt, “take heed, my child; reckon not too much upon that youth, nor even on the beauty which accompanies it; I have seen strange things in my time; and a man capable of holding himself neutral so long, is not one of those who may be subjugated with a ruby, or caught by a well-disposed bouquet of flowers.”
A smile of incredulity passed upon the lips of Leopoldine, who was about to make an answer in accordance with that smile, when M. de Berville was announced. Although of an age somewhat too mature for averyyoung man, his dignified and elegant manners, his fine figure, his distinguished intellect, his reputation as a man of honor, together with his fortune, made him “a match” which no young lady could deem unworthy; and I have made the reader already acquainted with the favorable sentiments entertained towards him by the beautiful Leopoldine. Stephanie entertained full as high an opinion of his merits as her younger sister; it may be even, that being best able to appreciate the estimable character of M. de Berville, she rendered to it the most justice; but she received him simply as a mother who believes she has met the future protector of her daughter, and endeavored, by innocent means, to bring to a successful issue the plan of happiness which she had secretly conceived. The aunt, piquing herself on her skill in finesse, sat observant of the actors in that scene, hoping to penetrate from their behavior, into their most secret thoughts. As to Leopoldine, the veil of modesty, beneath which she sought to conceal her real feeling, was not sufficient entirely to conceal the joy of the coquette, rejoicing in the triumph of her charms. Yet that joy and that triumph received some checks; for she did not appear, even during that visit, to occupy exclusively the attention of M. de Berville, as though she alone was the object he came to visit. The conversation took a serious and instructive turn—one little suited to the taste of the young and frivolous. They discoursed of the sciences, the arts, and ofliterature: I have said that Stephanie had made these things a source of comfort and recreation—that she had occupied her mind in such pursuits, not for the purpose of display, but as a charm to her leisure hours; such a companion as M. de Berville was well adapted to value rightly the mind and the knowledge of Stephanie. She suffered herself to be drawn into the current of the various topics of conversation with a pleasure very natural; and Madame Dorothée plainly perceived that de Berville was even more pleased than her amiable niece.
Proud of her youth and beauty, Leopoldine had disdained instruction—neglecting, for childish gaiety, the lessons of her masters and the recommendations of her sister; music and dancing were the only arts that she would consent to cultivate; those, because they might serve to make her shine in the world. Incapable of taking part in the interesting conversation which was going on before her, ennui began to show its effects on her charming figure—moodiness took possession of her spirits, and fits of yawning, ill suppressed, threatened each moment to betray her. M. de Berville, altogether occupied in the pleasure he was enjoying, perceived it not, but Stephanie, guessing the misery of her sister, contrived adroitly to introduce the subject of music; and, thereupon, begged of her sister to sit down to the piano. She knew that her sister's voice was considered remarkably fine by M. de Berville, and hoped by this means to recall his attention to her, but the old aunt thought she could perceive that M. de Berville found need to task all his politeness to hide the disagreement he felt to the proposition; and Stephanie herself discerned much of coldness in the compliments which he addressed to the pretty songstress.
Botany is a science peculiarly suitable to females who reside in the country; it is a source of ingenious discoveries, and of pleasures equally elevated and delightful. Under the shade of trees, or the fresh greensward, on the banks of the river and the brook, and on the sides of the rock, are its charming lessons inscribed. M. de Berville loved the science, and offered to teach it to the two sisters; they accepted the offer, the elder from taste, the young Leopoldine from coquetry, seeing no more in it than an opportunity of displaying her lightness and her gracefulness, in running here and there over the grass, to gather the flowers. She insisted upon one condition, however, which was, that they should only go out in the mornings and evenings, so as not to expose their complexions to the heat of the sun. Stephanie approved of these precautions. The care taken by a female to preserve her personal advantages has in it nothing blameable, and Stephanie was the first in setting the example of this to her sister; but on more than one occasion, the desire to possess herself of some flower, rare or curious, carried her above the fear of darkening her skin a little; whilst Leopoldine, the miserable slave of her own beauty, could not enjoy any of the pleasure freely and without fear. One circumstance—and it is of a grave character—will show to what an extent she was capable of sacrificing every thing to her frivolous vanity.
A burning state of the atmosphere was scorching up all nature; the sun at its highest point of splendor, presented the image of that celestial glory, before which the angels themselves bow down and worship; the withered plants bent beneath the solar ray; the birds were silent in the depth of the wood; the locust alone, interrupted by his shrill cry, the silence of creation. Bathed in sweat, the reaper slept extended on the sheaf, whilst the traveller, in a like repose by the side of some shaded fountain, awaited the hour when the sun, drawing nearer to the horizon, should permit him to continue his journey.
In an apartment, from which the light and heat were half excluded, surrounding a table covered with plants, Stephanie and Leopoldine were listening to M. de Berville, whilst he explained to them the ingenious system of Linnæus, or the more easy system, the “greatfamilies” of Tournefort, when a letter was brought in for Madame Dorothée, who was engaged in reading.
“Sad news! sad news!” she exclaimed, addressing her nieces. “Our excellent neighbor, Madame Rével, has met with a horrible accident; it is feared that her leg is broken.”
“Good heavens! can such an accident have happened?” cried Leopoldine. “And yesterday she was so well! We will go to see her to-morrow morning. Shall we not, Stephanie?”
“To-day rather, Leopoldine, to-day. Let us not defer for an instant the consolation which it may depend on us to impart to her.”
“Well, then, this evening, after the sun has set.”
“No, no, let us set out immediately, and we will pass, beside her, the rest of the day; M. de Berville will, I know, excuse us.”
“Impossible!” answered Leopoldine, “go out, so hot as it is! it would be wilfully to seek acoup de soleil, which would make us perfect blacks for the rest of the summer.”
“We can shield ourselves with a veil—with our parasols——”
“I should not feel myself safe in a sack; and for nothing in this world would I leave this house till the day is over.”
“You forget, Leopoldine, with what courage Madame Rével came from her house alone, on foot, in the middle of a December night, in spite of the frost and the snow, to attend you when you had the measles, because they told her you had expressed a wish to see her instantly.”
“Well, sister, I would sooner confront a cold north wind than the sun.”
“The heat can no more be stopped than the cold, Leopoldine.”
“Nothing is so frightful as a black skin.”
“Sister, though I knew I should become as black as an African, I would not leave our friend without consolation at such a time; I will go with our servant girl; believe me, you will hereafter be sorry you did not follow my example.”
“Permitmeto accompany you, Miss,” said M. de Berville, taking his hat.
“Really,” answered Stephanie, “I do not know that I ought to consent to it; an hour's walk beneath a burning sun——”
“I fear not the sun any more than yourself,” interrupted de Berville, “and perhaps the support of my arm may not be altogether unserviceable to you.”
Leopoldine permitted them to depart, in spite of the reproaches with which her conscience now addressed her. She remained at home, sad and humiliated,arguing within herself, that M. de Berville ought to have joined her in endeavoring to prevent Stephanie from going, whom, for the first time, she secretly accused of wishing to appear virtuous at her expense. Madame Dorothée very shortly added to her discontent, by reflections which her niece was far from wishing to hear.
“Don't reckon, Leopoldine, upon having made any impression on M. de Berville,” said she; “decidedly, the more I observe him, the more I am assured he does not dream of marryingyou.”
“With all the respect which I owe to your sagacity, aunt,” responded Leopoldine, in a peevish tone, “permit me to be of a different opinion: it is impossible but that the assiduities of M. de Berville must have some object, and as to that object there cannot be any doubt. If he delays to make it known, it is because he wishes tostudyme, as my sister says. I do not think I have any cause for alarm on the subject.”
“Suppose it should be of your sister he thinks——”
“She would be nearly the last he would think of,” exclaimed the young maiden, breaking out into a fit of immoderate laughter. “What! ayoungdamsel of thirty-two, who has gray hairs, wrinkles, (for she has wrinkles round the eyes—I have seen them plain enough;) a young lady in fact, whom people take to be my mother! what an idea! But I see what has suggested it; it is that promenade at noonday—a mere act of politeness, at which M. de Berville was, I doubt not, enraged at heart.”
“Not so; that circumstance has only weight from that which preceded it. I grant, my dear niece, that there is between you and your sister a difference of fifteen years; and that certainly is a great difference; you dazzle at first sight; but only whilst they regard her not. M. de Berville was in the beginning charmed by your graces; but if I am not deceived, it is not those which retain him here. You have been to him as the flambeau which conducts into the well illuminated hall, which instantly makes pale, by outshining, the light of the flambeau. Pardon me for the comparison.”
“That is to say, it is by me he has been drawn to my sister, and now she has eclipsed me.”
“She cannot eclipse you in beauty, nor youthfulness; but her mind, her knowledge, the qualities of her heart, appear perhaps advantages sufficiently precious to cause to be forgotten those which she lacks; and I shall not be astonished to hear that M. de Berville had taken a liking to, and had actually espoused her, in spite of her thirty-two years.”
“If he is fool enough to prefer my sister to me, I——Away with such an absurd thought; it is impossible,” added Leopoldine, casting at the same time, a glance towards a mirror.
In spite, however, of the very flattering opinion which she entertained of herself, a jealous inquietude had crept into her heart, and she examined more attentively her sister and M. de Berville when they returned together. The accident which had befallen Madame Rével was found to be less serious than it was at first thought to be; the limb was not broken; but through the satisfaction which she felt on this account, Stephanie exhibited in her countenance an expression of uneasiness which was not usual with her. The two sisters were at length alone together, when Leopoldine questioned Stephanie as to the cause of her apparent agitation.
“I feel, I confess, a surprise, mixed with chagrin,” she replied. “M. de Berville, whom I so sincerely desired to see you accept as a husband—who appeared to come here only on your account——”
“Well, sister!”
“He has offered me his hand.”
“I don't see any thing that there is soverysad in all this,” responded Leopoldine, dissimulating, (for she was choaking with rage) “if M. de Berville likesold maids, it is not me, certainly, that he should choose.”
“This it is, which is to me a matter of sadness,” continued Stephanie, “that rivalry, which was as little wished for as foreseen, will, I fear, alienate your affection from your sister, since you can already address me in words of such bitterness.” And the tears suddenly inundated her face.
At sight of this, Leopoldine, more frivolous than insensible, convinced of her injustice, threw herself into the arms of Stephanie.
“Pardon me, my kind sister, I see well that it is not your fault, but you must also agree that this event is humiliating to me; for, in truth, I was the first object of his vows: that man is inconstant and deceitful.”
“No, Leopoldine, that is unreasonable. Attracted by the advantages which you have received from Nature, he had hoped to have found in you, those also which you would have acquired, if my counsels could have had power to persuade you. Your want of information, your coquetry, the ridiculous importance you attach to your beauty, have convinced him that you could not be happy together. What do I say? You never can be happy with any one, unless you come to the resolution to count as nothing those charms so little durable, which sickness may destroy at once, and which time, in its default, is causing every instant to disappear. To adorn her mind, mature her reason, form her heart, are all things which the young female should not neglect to do, whether homely or handsome. That beauty, on which you have reckoned with so much confidence—to which you have sacrificed the sacred duties of friendship—in what way has it benefitted you? One who is neither young nor beautiful has carried away your conquest, although she, perhaps precisely,becauseshe dreamed not of doing it. Profit by this lesson, so as, during the beautiful years which remain to you, to instruct and correct yourself. Another Berville will, I hope, present himself, who, won like the first, by your external graces, shall recognize, on viewing you more nearly, those good qualities, more surpassingly beautiful.”
Leopoldine opened her soul to her sister's persuasions; she followed her counsels with docility, and soon reaped the benefits. Stephanie became Madame de Berville, and continued to act as a mother to her sister till she too was married. The sufferings and the fatigues of maternity were not slow, when they came, in effacing the remarkable beauty of Leopoldine; but there remained to her so many precious qualities, so much of solid virtue—of the graces of the mind, that the loss of personal charms were scarcely perceived, and the young wife was neither less cherished by her family, nor less courted by the world, than if her beauty had been an abiding charm.