Part 3
Last week I received yours of the 31st and Mrs. Shipley’s of the 8th of October, by which I am happy to find you have at last effected your exchange, and that you have the additional satisfaction to receive it at the hands of your affectionate wife. My best wishes and compliments attend Mrs. Shipley. Assure her from me I shall always preserve her letter as a proof of her real affection for her husband and children. I hope and believe the time will come when I shall have the power to exert my friendship in your behalf; and be persuaded, that this instance of Mrs. Shipley’s fortitude and exertions for her family will ever find in me the warmest friend. I shall be happy to hear from you of those events which may both tend to the honour of our country and the advantage of you and your family. Adieu, my dear friend: God bless you and yours again and again, and ever believe me, my good Sir,
Yours sincerely,
WILLIAM.
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[Sidenote: Joan of Arc.]
It is not possible to reflect on the fate of this hapless Visionary without the deepest interest: whether she be considered as really believing herself as _Heaven-sent_, or as a young and uneducated enthusiast, quitting her humble path in life, and by the sole aid of her own talents obtaining the confidence of the greatest heroes of the day. If policy rendered her a necessary victim to its purposes, it must be lamented that such was the case.
Her statue in the market place at _Rouen_, is the first object to which the Cicerone of that town conducts the curious traveller; but I would recommend my countrymen to avoid this spot: as an _Englishwoman_ I felt uncomfortable, when I turned from the meek placid features shaded by the plumes of the warrior’s casque. The comments of my Norman guide were needless, and in reply to his invectives against “les Anglais,” I could only sigh, “’Tis true, ’tis pity--pity ’tis ’tis true.”
“Jeanne d’Arc, known by the designation of the ‘Maid of Orleans,’ was born at the village of Domremi sur Meuse, and was a servant at an inn: being endowed with bodily strength, and a hardihood of character beyond her sex, she introduced herself to the brave _Dunois_, as the chosen champion of France, and distinguished herself in the cause of Charles VII. She was taken prisoner at _Compiegn_ in 1430, and conducted to _Rouen_, where, being condemned as a sorceress by the Ecclesiastical Power, to which she was given up by the English chiefs, she was burnt alive in the public market place. In speaking of this unfortunate Amazon, _Malherbe_ aptly observes that, having lived like _Alcides_, it was just she should die as he died.
L’ennemi tous droits violant, Belle Amazone, en vous brûlant Témoigna son âme perfide; Mais le destin n’eut point de tort; Celle qui vivoit comme _Alcide_, Devoit mourir comme il est mort.
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_Bear and forbear._
The longer I live in this world of roses and thorns, the more I learn to revere those philanthropic axioms, “Bear and forbear,” “Live and let live,”--and to reverence a faith, whose Christian founder has made it a condition of having our trespasses forgiven, that we should forgive the trespasses against us.
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Liberality and generosity of feeling is the surest test of a gentleman.
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[Sidenote: The awakened Idolater.]
Until I sought and found the living God, I was an Idolater. I asked the carved wood to lengthen my days, and the sapless image to give me health. I fashioned a statue of molten silver, and bowed down before the works of my hands. I adored the brute nourished by my care, and demanded protection from the herbs planted by my labour. But when I reflected that all things perished, I asked how I could be indebted for life to that which could not ensure life to itself? The glorious sun then appeared to me deserving of worship, until my mind enquired by whom that sun was made.
I examined the texture of a flower, and called it admirable: I watched the motions of an insect, and beheld its organs perfect: I strove to build a nest, but the sparrow was the better workman. I saw the cranes fly against the wind, and the fishes against the stream, and I asked, who had taught them thus to protect their feathers and their scales. I marked the birds of passage, and said to the new-fledged swallow prepared for flight, Why thus leave thy home for distant and unknown regions? Wilt thou find good and congenial air whither thou goest? Who instructs thee when to depart? Who will guide thy course through the trackless firmament? and how wilt thou know the season to return? I saw the woodpecker turn her eggs, that they might equally receive the vital warmth; and the partridge trail her wing before the ensnarer, to beguile his footsteps from her young. I observed that the wild beasts slept while man was abroad, and that they sought their prey while man slept. How equally, said I, are the waters balanced, and how great the influence of the stars! The movements of the planets, the changes of the moon, the repelling and attracting qualities of the sun, all--all alike marvellous and sublime. Whom do these things obey? what hand doth direct the great machinery of the universe? and for whom were all these goodly wonders created? I then looked upon myself: I examined my limbs, my powers, my senses. There is a Providence! I cried, and the idols of wood dropped from my hand. There is but one God! I exclaimed, the Almighty, Creator of all things in heaven and on earth, Source of all good and harmony; and henceforth, Him only will I worship!
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[Sidenote: Henry IV. of France.]
“Henry, par la grâce de Dieu, roi de Navarre, prince souverain de Béarn, premier pair et prince de France, s’oppose à la déclaration et excommunication de Sixte V. soi-disant pape de Rome, la maintient fausse et en appelle comme d’abus en la cour des pairs de France, desquels il a l’honneur d’être le premier; et en ce qui touche le crime d’hérésie, de laquelle il est faussement accusé par cette déclaration, dit et soutient que Monsieur Sixte, soi-disant pape, sauve sa sainteté, en a malicieusement menti, et que lui-même est hérétique. Ce qu’il fera prouver en plein concile libre et légitimement assemblé; auquel, s’il ne consent, et ne s’y soumet, comme il est obligé par ses droits canons mêmes, il le tient et déclare pour anté-christ et hérétique: et en cette qualité veut avoir guerre perpétuellement irréconciliable avec lui; proteste cependant de nullité; et de recourir contre lui et ses successeurs, pour réparation d’honneur et de l’injure qui lui est faite, et à toute la maison de France: que si, par la passé, les rois et princes ses prédécesseurs ont bien su chatier la témérité de tels galans, comme est ce prétendu pape Sixte, lorsqu’ils se sont oubliés de leurs devoirs, confondant le temporel avec le spirituel: le dit roi de Navarre, qui n’est en rien inférieur à eux, espère que Dieu lui fera la grâce de venger l’injure faite à son roi, à sa maison et à toutes les cours des parlemens de France, sur lui et ses successeurs; implorant, à cet effet, l’aide et secours de tous les princes, rois, villes et communautés vraiment chrétiennes, auxquelles ce fait touche: aussi, prie tous alliés et confédérés de cette couronne de France, de s’opposer, avec lui, à la tyrannie et usurpation du pape et des ligués conjurateurs en France, ennemis de Dieu, de l’état, de leur roi, et du repos général de toute la chrétienté. Autant en proteste Henry de Bourbon, prince de Condé. Affiché en la ville de Rome, le 6 Novembre, 1585.”
Cette protestation fut placardée pendant la nuit dans les rues principales de Rome, contre les palais des cardinaux, et sur les portes même du Vatican.
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[Sidenote: Time.]
Time is but a name; it is what is done in time that is the substance: what are twenty-four centuries to the hard rock, more than twenty-four hours to man, or twenty-four minutes to the ephemera? Are there not periods in our own existence in which space, computed by its true measure of thoughts, feelings, and events, mocks the penury of man’s artificial scale, and comprises a lifetime in a day.
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[Sidenote: Charles I.]
Authorised by the doctrines of the age, by his consequent education, and by the natural gravity and elevation of his own mind to ascend the throne as the anointed of his Creator, it was the doom of Charles I. to witness the divine authority of his crown trampled upon, the might of his magnificent hierarchy overwhelmed, the civil institutions of his realm swept away, all that he deemed sacred profaned, all that he revered denied, all that he considered established subverted, and in their stead new doctrines and new practices introduced, much of which was monstrous, and all extraordinary. In this unparalleled state of affairs, instead of disappearing from the stage like an insignificant actor overwhelmed by the unexpected importance of his part, we find on the contrary the English monarch the most energetic and the most interesting personage during the long, the fearful, and the dubious struggle. When the struggle was over, the king came forward, and closed his career by a most miserable death--dying with the same decision with which he had lived; and while he was covered with execration and obloquy as the _tyrant_, by one party, who feared that if he were not a tyrant, they might perhaps be considered traitors, he was hailed by the greater portion of the nation with tears and prayers as the martyr.
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Notre mérite nous attire l’estime des honnêtes gens, et notre étoile celle du public.
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The late Lord Chancellor Erskine was at the commencement of his career in life in the army, and when a young Ensign was quartered at Minorca, under the command of General Johnston, whose wife, the Lady Cecilia, had a favourite monkey, which had so incurred her disgrace from its mischievous propensities, as to have been ordered to be sent out of the house. Mr. Erskine having learnt the sad fate which awaited the culprit monkey, and being invited to dine at the Government house, wrote the following lines, and placed them in Peter’s paw; they were thus offered to his mistress’s attention as the party passed on to the dining room, and obtained Peter’s pardon.
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_The Petition of a Monkey under Sentence of Exile._
The humble petition of sorrowful Peter! With submission set forth, and runs thus in metre. I think if I’m rightly informed of the crime For which I am banish’d, it stands thus in rhyme; For tearing of books, for mischief and stealing, And tricks of all kinds, from the ground to the ceiling. All culprits are punished, if Lord Coke says true, Not for love of revenge, but for harm that they do; On this common maxim my pleadings I found, And th’ affair of the book must soon fall to the ground. There was never a book, I’ll be bound to engage, Above all, in our day, but might well spare a page, And mankind, as well as e’en authors, might look With smiles on a monkey devouring a book. ’Tis as well for a volume, I’ll hazard an oath, To be chew’d by a monkey, as by critic or moth: And then, as to reading, all wits have confest it, You never can profit, unless you digest it; And monkeys and men, from the north to the south, Can only digest what they put in their mouth. Much more might be said, if I chose to enlarge, But I’d rather proceed to the rest of my charge. To accuse me of mischief, and tax me with stealing, Is really a want of all sense and all feeling, Since Nature, who ripens the figs and the grapes, Is no nearer kindred to man than to apes; And the fair teeming Earth, our bountiful mother, Loves Peter as dearly as Adam his brother. ’Tis because you are strongest, you seize upon all, And the weakest, we know, must be forc’d to the wall. Equipt as I am, in my shabby old gray, I cannot quite hazard what other folks may; But could I, yet I speak with respect and submission, By some lucky hit get an Ensign’s commission-- I see you all laugh, but titter away, I’m not the _first_ monkey, I’ll venture to say. ’Tis no such hard matter to play well at cards, And I think I should soon be the _ton_ in the Guards. As to height, I confess with regret I’m not tall, But Lord A--c--m and I might parade in the Mall. And a bag from Miss Brace,[3] with a good handsome wig, Might, I think, pretty soon put on foot an intrigue. What might not be done with my air, and my shape, At a Court where ’tis the fashion to look like an ape? What duels! what battles! what murders! what slaughters! What tears would be shed both by mothers and daughters! What groups in the anguish of cutting a horn, Would wish in despair I had never been born! Yet faith, to my sorrow I fear I should see Ten thousand much more like to monkeys than me, And mad for some fair one might steal forth to meet her, And find her eloping with some other Peter. Yet spite of these rubs, I should have the renown, To be one of the finest young fellows in town. Then since exile’s my fate, I implore with a tear, To be shipped off for England, for that is my sphere. If to this my petition, you start no objection, My cousin, Tom Erskine, has pledged his protection, I suppose, like the Scots--on account of connection!
[3] A celebrated Milliner of the day. Lord Ancram was of particularly low stature.
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[Sidenote: Taste and Custom.]
Taste and custom govern the opinion in this day, as in those more ancient. An Athenian and a Lacedemonian lady being placed near to each other at an assembly where they met, each hastily, and with apparent disgust, turned her head from the other. The Athenian, because she could not endure the smell of _oil_ which came from the Spartan, and the latter from her dislike to the perfumes of the Grecian.
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[Sidenote: Filial Duty.]
It was the commandment of the Eternal God himself, delivered amid the lightnings and thunders of the holy mountain, “Honour thy father and mother;” and there was no reservation found upon the tablet of stone. Man may persecute, sickness may change, grief may depress, poverty may chill, or grief may blacken the heart of the parent, but the bonds of the child are never loosened.
The affection of a child for a parent, in its strongest degree does not amount to a hundredth part of that which a parent feels for a child; and it is not until the child becomes a parent, that he is aware of this. If the voice of infancy should ever call you “Mother,” you will then know (but never till then) how hard, how impossible it is to dry up the fountain of a parent’s love, or teach the trunk to shake off and cast from it the blossoms which thence derive their being.
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[Sidenote: King of Prussia and Voltaire.]
Kings who affect to be familiar with their companions, make use of _men_ as they do of _oranges_; they take oranges to extract their juice, and when they are well sucked they throw them away. The King of Prussia applied this observation to himself in his dispute with Voltaire.
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[Sidenote: To a daughter on her marriage.]
Dear to my heart, as life’s warm stream Which animates this mortal clay, For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day: And thus beguile the present pain With hopes that we shall meet again!
Yet will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o’er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affections, finely wrought? Ah no! the groundless hope were vain For so, we ne’er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart, Deserve its love, as I have done; For kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved thou’rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again.
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[Sidenote: James I.]
It was said of King James I. that there were two sorts of men he never had kindness for; those whose hawks flew, and dogs ran as well as his own, and those who were able to speak as much reason as himself.
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_On the death of the Hon. John Gore, who commanding his Majesty’s ship Scorpion, was drowned off the coast of Africa, after having by his heroic exertions saved the lives of two of his ship’s company who had fallen overboard, February 18th, 1812._
A few months prior to this melancholy event, I was on board the Scorpion, when its noble commander at the same risk, but with less fatal consequences, rescued from a watery grave two men who had been swept overboard while taking in sail, during what is termed in the West Indies “a white squall.” This intrepid captain without hesitation sprung from the deck into the ocean, and after buffeting with the element to which he was the destined victim, he swam back to his vessel, supporting in each hand a fellow creature, preserved by his courageous exertions. Fadeless is the memory of the Hero, though “The waters have closed upon the passing furrow, and again hold on their accustomed course.”
[Sidenote: On the death of the Hon. John Gore.]
“Peace to thy noble spirit, gallant Gore; Dried be the tear that steals down sorrow’s cheek; Soothed be their grief, who thy sad fate deplore; Stifled the sigh that does that grief bespeak.
Long shall the generous act that brought thee death Live in the hearts of those who love the brave, While friendship hallows with its latest breath The fate that doom’d thee to a wat’ry grave.”
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[Sidenote: Abraham to Isaac on his marriage with Rebecca.]
Prepare thy mind to meet her, and commune with thyself on thy future moments. It is easier to win love than to retain it, and once fled it can never be recalled: be this thy care. Leave to herself the management of her household, and when she is employed therein reward her with kind looks; commend the fruits of her industry, and taste with double relish that which her hands have prepared. Flatter her not in the early days of marriage, neither subject thyself to her smiles or her frowns; for ill-placed obedience cannot long exist. But though thy helpmate must submit to thee, let thy authority fall so lightly, that she may not feel it; so shall thy hours be rich in new springing delights.
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[Sidenote: Zarapha to Rebecca on her marriage with Isaac.]
In all things seek to please him, for by increasing his felicity thou wilt increase thine own. Give way to his voice, and never let it be asked, Which of us twain shall yield? Boast not of thy perfections in his hearing, for if he truly love thee, he will be the first to discover them, and if, which God avert! his affection decrease, vanity will but give birth to disgust, and self-importance to neglect. Behold his faults with compassion, and conceal them from the eyes of thy neighbour. Refrain from frequent weeping; for when thy tears have lost their power, and flow unheeded, then hast thou lost the love of thy husband. But, above all, oh! above all, let thy mind be as open as thy hand, do nothing without his knowledge: deceive him not: Oh! never deceive him; never let even thy best intentions betray thee to act unknown to him.
Go hand in hand through life, and neither strive to linger behind nor gain upon his steps.
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[Sidenote: The Mansion of Rest.]
I talk’d to my flattering heart And chid its wild wandering ways; I charg’d it from folly to part, And to husband the rest of its days. I bade it no longer admire The meteors that fancy had drest: I whisper’d ’twas time to retire, And seek for a Mansion of Rest.
A charmer was list’ning the while, Who caught up the tone of my lay; “O come then,” she cried with a smile, “And I’ll show you the place and the way.” I followed the witch to her home, And vow’d to be always her guest: “Never more,” I exclaim’d, “will I roam In search of the Mansion of Rest.”
But the sweetest of moments will fly; Not long was my fancy beguiled; For too soon I confess’d with a sigh, That the syren deceived while she smiled. Deep, deep, did she stab the repose Of my trusting and unwary breast; And the door of each avenue close, That led to the Mansion of Rest.
Then Friendship enticed me to stray Through the long magic wilds of romance; But I found she meant to betray, And shrunk from the sorcerer’s glance. For experience had taught me to know, That the soul that reclined on her breast Might toss on the billows of woe, And ne’er find the Mansion of Rest.
Pleasure’s path I determined to try, But Prudence I met in the way: Conviction flash’d light from her eye, And appear’d to illumine my day. She cried, as she showed me a grave, With nettles and wild flowers dress’d, On which the dark cypress did wave, “Behold then the Mansion of Rest.”
She spoke, and half vanish’d in air, For she saw mild Religion appear With a smile that would banish despair And dry up the penitent tear: Doubts and fears from my bosom were driven; And pressing the cross to her breast, And pointing serenely to heaven, She showed me the Mansion of Rest.
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[Sidenote: National Taciturnity.]
The taciturnity of the Spaniards is attributed by Voltaire, to their horror of the influence of the Inquisition. Hence, a general jealousy and suspicion took possession of all people; friendship and sociability were all at an end; brothers were afraid of brothers, fathers of their children.
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[Sidenote: Election by Balls.]
The origin of electing members by balls may be traced to the Grecians. When a member was to be elected, every one threw a little pellet of bran, or crumb of bread into a basket, carried by a servant on his head round the table, and whoever dissented flattened their pellet at one side.
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[Sidenote: Anecdote of Robespierre.]
How often does the eye rest unconsciously upon mute inanimate objects, which, had they voices, would utter tales of stirring remembrance, and to some eyes, perhaps, do seem to speak such tales.
I was remarking one evening to a friend of my mother’s, the extreme magnificence in the style of the still beautiful though faded furniture of the apartments she occupied in Paris, and in which, at that moment, a large and gay party were assembled. “True,” replied he, “and I have seen these rooms in all their splendour, whilst their lovely, though frail mistress, dispensed her fascinating smiles upon an admiring circle. This house was fitted up by the celebrated St. Amaranthe, whose fate offers one of the most striking instances of revolutionary despotism.
“It is well known that even the stern heart of the tyrant Robespierre had felt her power, but this was no security against his atrocious cruelty. He was one of thirteen guests assembled on the preceding night in the _Rue de Gramont_, where he had partaken of the hospitality of the beauteous hostess. The next morning, whilst employed in the duties of his toilette, his Secretary observed to him that he had drunk too freely the night before. ‘What leads you to think so?’ inquired Robespierre, ‘Your unguarded conversation, Citizen, which I do not think passed unobserved, either by St. Amaranthe or her guests.’ ‘It matters not,’ said the tyrant with apparent indifference, ‘they will do me no harm,’ writing at the same moment a note which he dispatched by a servant, and then with the utmost composure continued to shave himself.
“That note conveyed his orders for the arrest of St. Amaranthe and the eleven individuals who had supped with her, one of whom was her son, a boy of thirteen; and on the following day, the only two of the party of fourteen who were not led to the guillotine were _Robespierre_ and _his Secretary_.