THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.
THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.
Couthon concluding a speech from the Tribune. Tallien, Fouché, Carnôt, and others, standing near him. Robespierre, St. Just, and others, in their seats.
Tallien(to Fouché.)—Are you ready?
Fouché.—Doubt not my aid—denounce him where he stands—And lose no time—this hour decides our fate.
Couthon(to the Convention.)—Our country is in danger—I invokeYour aid, compatriots, to shield her now!Fain as I am to avoid confiding powerWithout control, in even patriot hands,We cannot choose—and much as I abhorTo see blood flow, let punishment descendOn traitors' heads, for this alone can save us.
Tallien(approaching him.) Thou aged fangless tiger! not yet glutted?Torrents of blood are shed for thee and thine—Must thou have more? Descend—before I trampleThee to the earth. Thou art not fit to live.(he drags Couthon down by the hair of his head and mounts the Tribune.)(addressing the Convention.) Yes, citizens, our country is imperiled,And by a band of dark conspirators,Soul-hardened miscreants, in whose grasp the tiesThat bind mankind together are rent asunderBy spies—by fraud—by hope of power and spoils—By baser fears, and by increasing terrorOf their dread engine, whose incessant strokesAnd never failing stream astound mankind.These men have pav'd the way, that open forceMay crush the hopes of France, and bend our necksUnto a despotism strange as bloody.And who, my countrymen, hath been their leader?Ye know him well—and every Frenchman breathingHath need to rue the hour which gavehimbirth—A wretch accursed in heaven—abhorred on earth,Hath dared aspire to sway most absoluteIn this Republic—and the dread tribunalsWhich for the land's protection were establishedWhen pressed by foreign arms and homebred treason,He hath converted to the deadly endOf slaughtering all who crossed his onward path.His black intrigues have occupied their seatsWith robbers and assassins—whose foul riot,Polluted lives, and unquenched thirst of gold,Have beggar'd France and murdered half her sons.Witness those long—long lists of dire proscriptionPrepar'd at night for every coming day,Even in the very chamber of the tyrant!Witness the wanton, groundless confiscations,Which ruin helpless men, to feed his minions!Witness the cry of woe too great to bear,That hath gone up to heaven from this fair land!Yes—hear it, every man who loves his country—France, for a ruler now, is ask'd to chooseThe vampire who would drain her dearest blood:A sordid slave, whose hideous form containsA mind in moral darkness and fierce passionsLike nothing, save the cavern gloom of hell,Which knows no light but its consuming fires!I need not point to him. Your looks of terror,Disgust and hatred turn at once upon him.Though there be others of his name, this Hall—This City—France—the World itself containsOnly one—Robespierre.(the Assembly in great confusion.)
Robes.(to St. Just.) This blow is sudden.
St. Just.—Up to the Tribune—speed—your life—our powerAll hang upon a moment. Art thou dumb?
Tallien(continuing.) The evil spirit who serv'd abandons him,And I denounce him as the mortal foeOf every man in France who would be free—Impeach him as a traitor to the StateIn league with Henriot, Couthon and St. Just.To overawe by force and crush the Assembly!I appeal for proof to those who plotted with him,But now repentant have abjur'd his cause.I move that he be instantly arrestedWith Henriot and all accomplices.
Robes.(to St. Just.) See how they rise like fiends and point the handOf bitterest hatred at your head and mine,Our veriest bloodhounds turn and strive to rend us.(he rushes towards the Tribune, amid loud cries of "Down with the tyrant!")
Robes.—Hear me, ye members of the Mountain—hear me,Cordeliers, who have prais'd and cheer'd me on—Ye Girondists, give even your foes a hearing—Ye members of the Plain, who moderateThe fury of contending factions—hear meFor all I have done or have designed to do,I justify myself—and I appealTo God—and——(he pauses choked with rage.)
Tallien.—Danton's blood is strangling him.Consummate hypocrite!—darest thou useThy Maker's name to sanctify thy crimes,Thou lover of Religion! Saintly being!The executioner! thou prayerless atheist!To thy high priest. The scaffold is thy temple—The block thy altar—murder is thy God.And could it come to this? Oh, France! Oh, France!Was it for this that Louis Capet died?For this was it we swore eternal hatredTo kings and nobles—pour'd our armies forth—Crush'd banded despots and confirmed our rights?And have we bled, endur'd and toil'd, that nowOur triumph should be to disgrace ourselvesAnd bend in worship to a man whose deedsHave written demon on his very brow?What! style Dictator—clothe with regal honorsAnd more than regal power this Robespierre,So steep'd in guilt—so bath'd in human blood!It may not be—France is at last awakeFrom this long dreary dream of shame and sorrow,And may her sons in renovated strengthShake off the lethargy that drew it on!Spirits of Earth'strueheroes!—if ye see usFrom the calm sunshine of your blest abodes,Look with approval on me in this hour!(turning to the statue of Brutus.)Thee, I invoke!—Shade of the virtuous Brutus!Like thee, I swear, should man refuse me justiceI draw this poignard for the tyrant's heartOr for my own. Tallien disdains to liveThe slave of Robespierre. I do not askNor can expect him to receive the meedWhich should be his. Death cannot punish himWhose life hath well deserv'd a thousand deaths,But let us purge this plague-spot from among us,And tell wide Europe by our vote this nightThat Terror's reign hath ceas'd—that axe and sceptreAre both alike disown'd, destroyed forever.Let us impeach him, Frenchmen, with the spiritThat springs from conscious rectitude of purpose.Patriots arise! and with uplifted handsAttest your deep abhorrence of this man,And your consent that he be now arrested!(members rising in disorder.) Away, away with him—arrest him guards!To the Conciergerie—away with him!
(President rising.) The National Convention have decreedThe arrest of Maximilien Robespierre.
Robes.(to St. Just.) The day is theirs—with wrath and with despairMy utterance is chok'd. Oh, were my breathA pestilential gale to sting their lives!(to the President.) Order me to be slain where now I stand,Or grant me liberty of speech.
(President.) Thy name is Robespierre—it is enough,And speaks for thee far more than thou wilt tell us.
Robes.(to St. Just.) Come thou with me—I see an opening yetTo victory, or a funeral pile—whose lightShall dazzle France and terrify the world.(Robespierre, St. Just and others taken out by the guards.2)
2It may be well to recall to the reader's recollection, that Robespierre subsequently escaped from his guards to the Hotel de Ville. But such partisans as rallied around him speedily deserted, when a proclamation of outlawry from the Convention was issued against him, and enforced by pointing cannon against the building. After an ineffectual attempt at suicide he was conveyed in a cart to the guillotine, July 28th, 1794.
The language put into his mouth in the following pages, is of course inconsistent with historical probability, as he had wounded himself with a pistol ball in the lower part of his face.
ROBESPIERRE AND ST. JUST IN A CART CONDUCTED BY GUARDS TOWARDS THE PLACE DE GRÊVE.
ROBESPIERRE AND ST. JUST IN A CART CONDUCTED BY GUARDS TOWARDS THE PLACE DE GRÊVE.
St. Just.—So here ends our part in a tragic farce,Hiss'd off the stage, my friend—ha, ha!(laughing.)I am content—I mean I am resigned—As well die now as later. Does your woundPain you severely that you look so gravely?Cheer thee, my comrade, we shall quickly learnThe last dread secret of our frail existence,Few moments more will cut our barks adriftUpon an ocean, boundless and unknown,Even to ourselves who have despatched so manyTo explore for us its dark and fathomless depths.Give me some wine. (they give him wine.) Here's to a merry voyage!What in the fiend's name art thou musing on!
Robes.—My thoughts were with the past—the days of youth,And peace, and innocence, and woman's love,And ardent hope—the blossoms of a lifeSo baleful in its fruits. This day, the lastOf my career, is the anniversaryOf one, from which my after life may dateIts withering influence. Wouldst thou not thinkThat I, whom thou hast known for a few years,Must ever have been, even from my earliest youth,A hard and cruel man?
St. Just.—Much like myself.I think you were no saint even when a child.
Robes.—Such is the common blunder of the worldTo think me, like the demon they believe in,From the beginning, "murderer and liar;"So let it be—I would not change their thoughts.But I, St. Just, strange as it seems to you,Even I, whose name, even in this age of crime,Must stand aloft alone a blood-red beaconAnd warning to posterity, was onceYoung, warm, enthusiastic, generous,Candid, affectionate, a son and brother,But proud and sensitive. I lov'd a maid—Yes, if entire and all-absorbed devotionOf life and soul and being to her, were love—If to be willing to lay down my life,My hopes of fame and honorable notice,And all the world holds dear, for her dear sake,May be call'd love, then I most truly lov'd her.I was a thriving lawyer, and could raiseMy voice without reward to shield the oppress'd,I lov'd my kind and bore a stainless name.(a funeral crosses the street.)
St. Just(to the officer.) Whose obsequies are these,That look as if the dead one hadnotperishedBy trying our Republican proscription,The guillotine?
Officer.—'Tis Madame de la Harpe.Your worthy friend there sent his satellitesTo bring her to the bar of your tribunal,The high-soul'd lady sooner than be madeA gaze for all the outcasts in the city,As you are now, hurl'd herself from a window.
Robes.—How strange a meeting this! Ah! foolish woman,Had she but dar'd to live another day,She might have died at ninety in her bed,And I, who sought to escape her threatened doom,Baffled of self-destruction, could not die.(they pass on.)(to St. Just.) How small a thing may sometimes change the streamOf a man's life even to its source, to poison!A trifle scarcely worthy of a name,The sarcasms of a brute, while I was pleadingAn orphan's cause, convulsed the court with mirth,Marr'd all my rhetoric, and snatch'd the palmOf truth and justice from my eager grasp—My wrath boil'd forth—with loud and fierce reproachI brav'd the judge, and thunder'd imprecationsOn all around. This passion ruin'd me.And she too laugh'd among that idiot throng—Oh, tell not me of jealousy or hateOr hunger for revenge—no sting so fierce,So all tormenting to a proud man's soulAs public ridicule from lips belov'd.Have they not rued it? Let yon engine tell:(pointing to the scaffold in the distance.)What I have been since then mankind have seen,But could they see the scorpion that hath fedWhere once a heart beat in this breast of mine,They would not marvel at my past career.I quit the world with only one regret,I would have shown them how the scrivener,Who with his tongue and pen hath rack'd this land,Could plague it with a sword. Had yonder cowardsWho vainly hope to save themselves, but stoodAs prompt to follow me as I to lead them,Our faction would have rallied. Might the criesOf death and rapine through this blazing cityHave been my funeral knell I had gladly died.Then had they seen my spirit whelm'd and crush'd,Yet gazing upward like the o'erthrown arch fiendTo aloftierseat than that from which he fell.But now——
St. Just.—Regrets are useless! such as weMay not join hands or say farewell, like others;But since we die together, let us faceThis reptile crowd, like men who've been their lords,And show them, though they slay, they cannot dauntThose who were born to sway their destinies.(men and women surrounding the cart.)
1st Woman.—Descend to hell, I triumph in thy death!Die, thou accurs'd of every wife and mother!May every orphan's wail ring in thy ears,And every widow's cry, and matron's groan!
2d Woman.—Thine execution maddens me with joy:Monster, depart—perish, even in thy crimes,And may our curses sink thee into depthsWhence even omnipotent mercy will not raise thee!(they shout and hiss him.)
Robes.—Silence awhile these shouts, unfetter'd slaves,Hear his last words, whose name but yesterdayStruck terror to your souls! Dare ye so soonThink that your lives are safe, and I still breathing?Deem ye the blow that speeds my dissolutionAnd gives my body to the elements,Will be the signal to call freedom hither?Will peace and virtue dwell among yethen?Never! ye bondmen of your own vile passions;For crested serpents are as meet to rangeAt large and poison-fang'd among mankind,As ye who claim a birthright to be free.Thank your own thirst of plunder and of blood,That I, and such as I, could reign in France.A tyrant yemusthave. I have beenone,Andsucha one, that ages hence shall gaze,Awe-struck on my pre-eminence in blood,And men shall, marvelling, ask of your descendantsIf that my name and deeds be not a fable.I die—and, Frenchmen, triumph while you may!The man breathes now and walks abroad among ye,Who shall be my successor. I can seeBeyond the tomb—and when ye dare to riseAnd beard the tyrant faction, now victorious,His rule commences. He shall spill more bloodIn one short day to crush your hopes of freedom,Than I in half my reign—but God himselfNe'er had the homage ye shall renderhim.Champions of freedom, ye shallworshiphim,And in the name of liberty be plunder'dOf all for which your sons have fought and died;And in the name of glory he shall lead yeOn to perdition, and when ye have plac'dYour necks beneath his feet, shall spend like dustYour treasures and pour forth your bravest bloodTo be the scourge of nations and of kings.And he shall plant your eagles in the west,And spread your triumphs even to northern snow,Tormenting man and trampling every law,Divine and human, till the very nameOf Frenchmen move to nought but hate and scorn.Then heaven with storms, and earth with all her armiesShall rise against ye, and the o'erwhelming tideOf your vast conquests ebb in shame and ruin.Then—false to honor, native land, and chief!—Ye who could swarm like locusts on the earthFor glory or for plunder, shall desert,Or Judas-like betray, the cause of freedom,And tamely crouch to your now banish'd king,When foreign swords instale him in his throne:And laugh and sing while Prussians and CossacksParade the streets of this vice-branded city,And see without a blush the Austrian flagAnd England's banner float o'er Notre Dame.
Bye-word among the nations! Fickle France!Distant and doubtful is your day of freedom,If ever it shall dawn, which it ne'er will,Until ye learn, what my hate would not teach ye.On, to the scaffold! May my blood infectWith its fierce mania every human heart—Mourn'd as I am by none! May ye soon proveAnother ruler o'er this land like me.
To woman is assigned the second grade in the order of created beings. Man occupies the first, and to him she looks for earthly support, protection, and a "present help" in time of need. The stations which they occupy—the pursuits which they should engage in—the legitimate aim to which their thoughts and wishes should tend, are widely different, yet inseparably connected. To show the error so prevalent in respect to these subjects, the improper mode of education so generally adopted, and if possible, to assign to woman her proper sphere, privileges and pursuits, is the object of the present sketch. We have stated that woman is secondonlyin the scale of created beings, and proceed to examine, first, the important station which she occupies—secondly, the means usually adopted for preparing her for this station—thirdly, the results produced by those means—fourthly, the proper means—and lastly, endeavor to illustrate the ideas advanced by the testimony of history, and the observations drawn from real life.
1st. The important stations which she occupies. A daughter, a sister—the friend and companion of both sexes and all ages—the wife, the mistress, the mother—stations high, honorable, important.
In the second place, we will examine the means usually adopted for preparing her for these elevated and important duties. View her first the helpless infant—her heart uncorrupted by external influences, and her mind, like the unsullied mirror, to be made the reflector of those images and lessons, to which it is to be subjected and exposed. Soon, however, the innocence of the infant gives way to the frowardness and turbulence of the child. Generally, no restraints of a salutary nature have been exercised over her mind. The hacknied axiom, that "she is too young to understand," has prevented any examination into her powers of perception or reflection, and she has been left to followthe desires of her own heart. The petulance of a nurse, impatience or thoughtlessness of a mother, may have frequently thwarted her little plans, or denied her some indulgence. Her feelings were most frequently soured by these restraints, ill humor or obstinacy was the usual result—both either suffered to pass by unnoticed, or treated in a manner calculated to engender feelings and passions, which in future life are destined to exercise a powerful and painful influence over her own happiness and that of others. Soon the child exchanges the nursery for the school room. If her circumstances in life are prosperous andrefined, humorous studies and indiscriminately selected accomplishments are forced upon her mind, or crowded upon her hands; the former, impaired by early neglect, and enervated by improper indulgences, is wholly incompetent to the task assigned it. A superficial knowledge of many things is the usual result, while her vanity, long fed by the praises of menials and imprudent commendations of friends, visitors, &c. steps in and whispers to her credulous ear, that sheis, orwillbe, all that womancanoroughtto be. During these school-day exercises, her mind has frequently been edified by relations of future scenes of pleasure in ball-rooms, theatres, assemblies, &c.—that she may shine in them being the object of her present course of study; while tales of rivalry, conquest, hatred and revenge, are frequently related in her presence, or placed in her hands; things which, if not really praiseworthy in themselves, are related and heard with aneclat, that induces the belief that they are the inevitable attendants on fashionable pleasures and high life. If a stimulant is applied to urge her on to diligence, it is to excel some companion, or some other like inducement, which must inevitably foster feelings of envy or emulation, calculated to poison the fountain from which is to flow the future stream of life. Such is a fashionable or popular education. The next stage on which we behold her, is the broad theatre of gay life. The duties of the daughter and sister she was never taught, and is now acting under her third station—that of the companion and friend of both sexes and most ages. If possessed of personal attractions, she moves about—the little magnet of her circle. Meeting with no events to arouse evil passions, she contents herself with exercising a petty tyranny over the hearts of the admiring swains, who follow, bow to, and flatter her. After a few brief months or years of pleasure, she determines to marry; and at length selects from hertrainthe wealthiest, handsomest, or most admired of her suitors. Her heart has no part in this transaction. Ignorant of the nature of love—ignorant of the principles necessary to ensure happiness in the married state, she remains ignorant of the exalting, ennobling influence, which it exercises over minds capable of appreciating or enjoying its blessings. She is now the wife—the mistress—the mother. Thus are rapidly crowded on her duties, for which she was never prepared by education, and which she is consequently incompetent to perform. Perhaps, for a season, the current of her life runs smooth. Her husband—either blindly devoted to her, or bent on the gratification of his own pleasures—allows her unrestrained to mingle in the same pleasures and gay scenes in which he found her. She is still seemingly amiable, and perhaps considered quite a notable woman by the most of her companions.
But a change comes! the sun of prosperity withdraws his rays. She is now forced to abandon that, which has hitherto formed all her happiness. Need I describe the result. Her heart, unaccustomed to disappointments or restraints, unfortified by holy principles, unsustained by mental resources, and perhaps too little influenced by conjugal devotion or maternal tenderness, either frets away the smile of peace and rose of health; or, sunk in self-consuming mortification, envy or some unholy passion, abandons itself to the darkness of despair, the rust of inactivity, or the canker of discontent. Her husband, if his pride and principles have survived his ruined prospects, may struggle for a time to keep up the dignity of a man; but his heart is chilled, his exertions are paralyzed—domestic happiness he cannot find, and too frequently he is driven abroad in search of those comforts and that peace, which can be found at home alone.
This is no ideal picture—it is only one of the thousands which may be found in real life. If we leave our own land and direct our attention to those countries where women hold the reins of state, we will only see the principles of early education more powerfully displayed. Among savage nations (and what but want of early culture makes a savage?) see the horrid Zingha, queen of Matamba and Angola. Nursed in scenes of carnage and blood, what could she be but a monster, the existence of whom would fain be believed to have sprung but in the heated imagination of a dream? In a more civilized country, behold Christina of Sweden. She was reared by her father to be any thing but a useful woman. She knew no restraint when young, and when she ascended the throne, knew no law but her own will—and what was the result? Despised at home, and finding that even on a throne she must in self-defence yield some of her feelings to demands of others, rather than do so she abdicated it, and leaving her native land, roamed among other nations, a reproach to her sex and a general object of disgust. Look at Mary, Queen of England. Her first lessons were malice and revenge, and faithfully did she practise them when exalted to power. And we may name the beautiful Anne Boleyn. Ambition was the goal to which all her early energies were directed, and to ambition she sacrificed honor, humanity, and eventually her life. In more modern times, the lovely lady Mary W. Montague may be noticed. Endowed with talents, accomplishments, beauty, rank, fortune, she seemed formed to move a bright and favored star in the world's horizon. But no early discipline had prepared her to be happy. United to a man who idolized her, and whom she loved—what but the want of self-control and submission to the will of others, caused her separation from a husband every way worthy of her? But why enumerate other cases? These are but a few, taken from among thousands of both modern and ancient times.
In the fourth place, we proceed to point out the remedy for these evils, by briefly shewing some of the proper plans to be adopted in education. We again assert, that in the nursery are first sown the seeds of future character. Where is the prudent and observing parent, that will not acknowledge, that at a very early age the infant is capable of forming good or bad habits, and of discriminating between the approbation ordispleasure shown towards it. None, we presume, will gainsay this point. As soon then as this intelligence on the part of a child is discovered, so soon does a parent's duties begin, and if faithfully discharged, the task of rearing up a useful and ornamental member of society, will be found comparatively easy.
If taught then to yield its desires to parental wishes and commands—taught that the path of duty is the path of pleasure—convinced by every day's experience that the object of all restraints is her good, and proving continually that her happiness is her parent's great delight, she soon becomes, both by habit and nature, submissive,—and consequently is at peace with herself and all around her. If a sister, early does she learn, that affection and tenderness to those so closely united to her, is a duty, the performance of which, brings a sweet reward. Gradually are her duties enlarging, and gradually is she prepared by judicious government and good habits, to fulfil them.
When the nursery is exchanged for the school room, easy is the task to lead that child on from knowledge to knowledge. The mind is not crowded with many and incongruous studies—but gradually is it enlarged, and its wants supplied by a well regulated course. If in a situation to permit the acquirement of ornamental branches, she is taught to regard them as the light dressings of the mind, intended not to interfere with what is useful and solid, but as a recreation and source of future pleasure to herself and friends. When the mental powers are sufficiently expanded, to digest what is presented to them, books of general knowledge and taste are allowed, while the manners have been formed by good society, and the ideas arranged by conversation, &c. If intended to mingle in a gay circle for a season, her character is so formed as to be able to resist, in a great degree, the snares to which such scenes usually expose the young and thoughtless. Taught to regard these things as trifles compared to the other pursuits of life, she enjoys without abusing them, and willingly returns to the sweet domestic fireside, and the pleasures and amusements within her own bosom.
The feelings which will exist between that daughter and her parents, deserve to be considered. The filial care and tenderness which was exercised over her mind, will not be forgotten or unrepaid. In all times of doubt or difficulty, to a parent's bosom and counsel will she fly, as her surest refuge. If about to settle in life, prudence and the heart directs her choice. To her parents she confides the feelings and hopes that agitate her bosom. On their judgment she relies, and knowing their sentiments are governed by the desire to see her happy, she is prepared to weigh all their reasons, and to act with prudence. She was early taught to reflect, and is now capable of acting, with dignity. Her heart is capable oflove—she has been taught the nature of the flame, and the only solid grounds on which it could be reared. She is capable of discriminating between a man oftonand a man of worth. Most generally, such a woman will marry well. The man of lightness, dissipation and folly, rarely seeks her hand. He may and does admire her, but he feels his own inferiority, and rarely wishes to form such an alliance.
The man of sense, of virtue, and of solidity, would seek such a companion to share his pleasure and sooth his pain. Mutual sympathies would engender mutual esteem, and on that foundation it is easy, very easy to rear the altar of love. A union formed with such feelings would most generally prove a happy one. If prosperous, such a woman is qualified to use without abusing her blessings. The lessons learnt at her firsthomewould be practised in her second, and she would be likely to discharge with credit the duties of a wife, a mother, and a mistress. If misfortunes came, she would be prepared to brave the storm. Her affections, never set on earthly pleasures and splendid scenes, would relinquish them without grief. Her mind, stored with useful and ornamental information, would furnish a treasury from whence her family and herself could draw with profit and delight. In the humblest vale of poverty, such a woman would be a blessing to her whole circle of associates, and in most cases preserve the affection of her husband and raise a family, respectable and useful. This too is no ideal picture. Such women have been found in all ages, and such women may be raised up in almost every circle of society. If denied the extended advantage meant by a liberal or elegant education, the principles here laid down may be carried to the peasant's cottage, as well as to the splended domes of the rich and great. Among the biographies of women in all civilized nations, many beautiful examples might be adduced.
Among the wives and mothers of our own land a rich collection might be found. One thing is here worthy of record. In tracing the history of nearly all the great men, with whose history we are acquainted, whether remarkable for valor, piety, or any other noble attribute, to a mother's influence is their eminence to be attributed, in a greater or less degree. But it is needless to enumerate instances on this occasion, as our sketch is already extended beyond the intended limits. Should it give rise to inquiry and serious investigation on this important subject, or furnish a hint worthy the attention of the serious and anxious parent, the utmost ambition of the author will be realized.
PAULINA.
M.
NO. III.Legere sine calamo est dormire.—Quintilian.
NO. III.Legere sine calamo est dormire.—Quintilian.
21. "There is a pride, in being left behind, to find resources within, which others seek without."—Washington Irving.
I have pondered a good deal on this passage, and find a beautiful moral in what, when I first read it, I was fain to fancy but a misanthropic, or, at the least, an unsocial sentiment. I now feel and acknowledge its truth. "Thereisa pride in being left behind, to find resources within, which others seek without." What concern have I in the greater brightness that another's name is shedding? Let them shine on whose honor is greater. Their orbit cannot interfere with mine. There may be something very grand and sublime in the wide sweep of Herschel and Saturn: but planets, whose path is smaller, are more cheered by the rays of light and warmth from the sun, which is the centre of their revolutions.
22. "Oh the hopeless misery of March in America. Poetry, taste, fancy, feeling,—all are chilled by that ever-snowing sky, that ever snow clad earth. Man were happy could he be a mole for the nonce, and so sleep out this death-in-life, an American six months' winter."—Subaltern in America.
What a querulous noodle! He is one of those who can "travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, All is barren!" It is March, and "March in America," while I write. The air is bracing and full of reviving springlike influences. I disagree with the would-be mole from whom I quote. I love to watch every month's sweep of the sun,—while he is performing his low wintry arc, as if almost ashamed to revolve around the cheerless earth, and while he daily performs a wider and wider circle, until at length he comes to stand nearly over my head at noon. I enjoy the result the more intensely for watching its progress. I love to watch him gradually calling out the green on the black hills around me, whose only beauty now are the narrow stripes of fading snow, forming white borders that intersect each other, thus dividing the mould into something not altogether void of the picturesque. So, on yonder field, where the sun now shines quite cheeringly, there is a remnant of beauty. The dead grass, with its yellow and reddish tinge, is divided by small crystal ponds and canals, glistening in the bright ray, and seeming like the gratitude of the poor,—able to return but little, yet determined to return that little gladly.
23. "There is no motion so graceful as that of a beautiful girl in the mazy meanderings of the dance. Nature cannot furnish a more perfect illustration of the poetry of motion than this."—Ibid.
Yes she can. I will give the traveller two far more perfect illustrations. Theon deggiandomovement of a light breeze, as it passes, wave upon wave, over high grass: and the gradual and rapid passing away of a shadow, when the sun leaves a cloud, from a hill side of rich foliage.
24. "I have been thinking, more and more, of the probability of departed friends' watching over those whom they have left behind."—Henry Kirk White.
I have often done so; and whether the idea be a delusive one or not, there is no delusion in believing that the Deity sees them and us at the same instant. They turn, and we turn, at the same moment, to him, and thus through him we enjoy a communion. If two hearts were once preserved in reciprocal love by contemplating, when parted from each other, the same star, how close will be the bond with those who have gone before us, when, at such a distance, we are worshipping the same God!
25. "When one is angry, and edits a paper, I should think the temptation too strong for literary,which is not always human nature."—Lord Byron.
There is a couple of young Irishmen who "edit a paper" not far from the place of this present writing, who might furnish a striking corroboration of this opinion of the noble poet. Think of a couple of boobies, pretending to be oracles in literature, wreaking their petty vengeance upon the productions of one against whom they have a personal pique! Such and so contemptible are some of the "critics!" God save the mark! of this generation!
J. F. O.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
"Let us hurry to the walls"—said Abel-Shittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi, and Simeon the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of the world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one—"let us hasten to the ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David, and overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised—for it is the last hour of the fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the sacrifices."
Simeon, Abel-Shittim, and Buzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or Sub-Collectors of the offering in the holy city of Jerusalem.
"Verily"—replied the Pharisee—"let us hasten: for this generosity in the heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of the worshippers of Baal."
"That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the Pentateuch"—said Buzi-Ben-Levi—"but that is only towards the people of Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to their own interest? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver shekels per head!"
"Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi"—replied Abel-Shittim—"that the Roman Pompey, who is now impiously beseiging the City of the Most High, has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar to the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit."
"Now by the five corners of my beard"—shouted the Pharisee, who belonged to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner ofdashingand lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees—a stumbling block to less gifted perambulators)—"by the five corners of that beard which as a priest I am forbidden to shave!—have we lived to see the day when a blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated elements? Have we lived to see the day when"——
"Let us not question the motives of the Philistine"—interrupted Abel-Shittim—"for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or by his generosity. But rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of Heaven cannot extinguish—and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside."