Part 5
Politeness, that cementer of friendship and soother of enmities, is no where so much required and so frequently outraged as in family circles: in near and dear connections it is continually abandoned, and the result is, that all the illusions of life are destroyed, and with them, much of its happiness.
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[Sidenote: Submission to Providence.]
Pain and pleasure, good and evil, come to us from unexpected sources. It is not there, where we have gathered up our brightest hopes, that the dawn of happiness breaks. It is not there, where we have glanced our eye with affright, that we find the deadliest gloom. _What should this teach us?_ To bow to the great and only Source of light and life humbly, and with confiding resignation.
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[Sidenote: A Gentleman.]
To constitute a perfect gentleman, the best attributes of the heart and head must be combined. He who would indeed deserve that proud epithet, must be devout, courteous, and accomplished, gentle, generous, and brave; pure in word and deed, disinterested, philanthropic, and, above all, incessant and intrepid in charitably succouring the weak, the lowly, and the poor. It was once affirmed with a pious fervour almost bordering on profanation, that our _Saviour_ was the first true gentleman that ever lived.
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[Sidenote: Love silent.]
Silence in love, bewrays more woe Than words, though ne’er so witty, A beggar that is dumb, you know, Deserveth double pity.
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[Sidenote: Note concerning the Wandering Jew.]
The story of the Wandering Jew is of considerable antiquity. It is told by Matthew Paris, who heard it from an Archbishop of Armenia, who _knew the man_. His original name was Calaphilus, Pontius Pilate’s Porter, who when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the Judgment Hall, struck him on the back, saying, “Go faster, Jesus, go faster--why dost thou linger?” upon which Jesus looked upon him with a frown, and said, “I am indeed going, but thou shalt tarry till I come.” Soon after he was converted, and took the name of Joseph. He lives for ever, but at the end of every _hundred_ years falls into a fit or trance, from which, when he recovers, he returns to the same age as he was when our Saviour suffered, being then about thirty years. He always preserves the utmost gravity of deportment. He was never seen to smile. He perfectly remembers the death and resurrection of Christ.
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[Sidenote: Statues.]
The origin of the introduction of statues instead of columns, in architecture, is thus related. “Carya, a city of Peloponnesus, sided with the Persians against the Grecian States. When the country was freed from the invaders, the arms of the Greeks were turned against the Caryans. Upon the capture of the city, the males were put to the sword, and the women led away captives. The architects of the age, in order to perpetuate the ignominy of this people, introduced statues of their women instead of columns in the porticos of their buildings; the ornaments and drapery were faithfully copied from the attire of the women, the mode of which they were never permitted to change.
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_Charles, Prince of Wales_,[4]
_By Lope de Vega._
Carlos Estuardo soy, Que, siendo amor mi guia, Al cielo de’España voy Per ver mi estrella Maria.
Charles Stuart I am, Whom love has guided afar; To the heaven of Spain I came To see Maria my star.
[4] Sung in Spain during the romantic expedition of Charles to that country, whilst his marriage with the Infanta was in agitation.
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Afflictions are sent us by Providence to teach us to recollect our ways.
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_Philadelphia, City of William Penn._
This is a _planned_ town: built according to the rectangular plan of its illustrious founder, the great and good William Penn. He who had received from his Sovereign an absolute title to the lands on the wilful subterfuge of Christian and heathen rights to the soil--but who, acting upon the principle of “uniform justice,” never would invade a foot of territory which he had not before purchased from the Indians. Penn considered immemorial occupancy superior to all other tenure, that this right of the Red-man was founded in nature, that this tenure was the free gift of Heaven, which no king, no pope, no man had a right to question, or any equitable pretence to destroy; and therefore his principles required him to commence with justice to the natural occupant of the soil. With the founder of Pensylvania, the measures he adopted, and his demeanour towards the aborigines were wise, and so happy that it became a maxim among them “never to lift the tomahawk against the race of William Penn.” The country of William Penn was called “the Poor Man’s Paradise;” poverty was unknown in all its borders.
With reference to the name given to the colony, it is stated by Penn on the 5th Jan. 1681: “This day, after many waitings, watchings, solicitings, and disputes in Counsel, my country was confirmed to me under the Great Seal of England, with large powers and privileges, by the name of Pensylvania, a name the king would give it in honour of my father. I chose _New Wales_, being a hilly country; and when the Secretary, being a Welshman, refused to call it New Wales, I proposed Sylvania, and they added _Penn_ to it, though I much opposed it, and went to the king to have it struck out. He said it was past, and would take it upon him. I feared it should look like a vanity in me, and not as a respect of the king to my father, as it really was.”
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[Sidenote: Calumny.]
As I have myself felt the arrows of calumny, I should be inexcusable if I readily believed what is said of others. What I have suffered ought to regulate my conduct with regard to those who may be in like manner traduced. When I have the evidence of my senses that what is said of such a one be true, I must then examine my heart, to see if I cannot discover an excuse for errors that may have been the result of weakness; and in no case ought I to pronounce a decided judgment.
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[Sidenote: Constancy.]
Remember--never to divest the person of your wife of the diversity with which your imagination clothed it while she was your mistress, and be sedulous yourself in the preservation of every attraction as well of the person, as of the heart.
Recollect--that it is vacuity which requires the charm of novelty: keep the soul replete with genuine bliss, and the desire of change will never make head against the power of pure and mutual love. The cooling of the heart towards the object once adored, proceeds in general from the weakness of unoccupied hours, and the inaction of sensibility. Kind attentions mutually kept up, will always endear even indifferent persons to each other; and will not the very name of husband, and wife, lead to those attentions, to those endearments? The flame of love once raised, will burn long if fanned by both the votaries; but will inevitably expire if left only to the care of one.
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_The Baths of Schlangenbad._
Schlangenbad, a short distance from Mayence: the effect of the Schlangenbad waters on the skin is really wonderful; it seems like exaggeration or fancy on the part of those who have described them already, to say that one quarter of an hour’s luxurious lying under their clear soft surface, should be able to produce such an impression. Yet so it is, in sober earnest. I think it was two days at least before the effect of even one bath went off; and when, forgetting what manner of man or woman we had become in it, we afterwards happened to pass our hands over our foreheads, either for want of thought, or in search of some stray thought that had made its escape, the agreeable contact waked us suddenly to the sense of the soothing, softening influence of the waters.
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[Sidenote: Traditions.]
In the thirteenth century the two chief meals were dinner and supper, the first at nine in the morning, the supper at five in the afternoon. The greatest luxury and magnificence were displayed at those repasts, and the side tables were highly ornamented, and covered with various fermented liquors, as mead, ale, beer, and, above all, rich wines of English growth. At the celebration in London of the marriage of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and Cincia, daughter of Redmond, Earl of Provence (A. D. 1243), there were above thirty thousand dishes served at the marriage dinner.
An unlimited hospitality reigned in the castles of great barons: their gates were ever open to strangers of condition, as well as their own vassals, friends, and followers. It is evident that the immense halls to be seen in the remains of ancient structures, were built to accommodate vast numbers of guests of all ranks; and the little window above, opening from a recess of the state apartment, was evidently intended in order that the guests should be seen assembling, before the lord of the mansion and persons of dignity went down to the common repast. In the middle of each table stood a large salt-cellar, and it was a mark of distinction whether a person sat above or below the salt. Particular care was taken to place the guests according to their rank.
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[Sidenote: Serenades.]
It has been wittily said of the Sicilians, that no person could pass for a man of gallantry who had not got a _cold_, and was sure never to succeed with his mistress unless he made love in a _hoarse voice_. This arose from the custom of serenading the object of preference during the hours of the night, by the execution of vocal and instrumental music under their balconies. The Sicilians are a nation of poets; and the lover who cannot celebrate his mistress’s charms in verse, would be thought unworthy of her attention.
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[Sidenote: Ancient Poetry.]
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou would’st as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words: The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamel’d stones; Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage: And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course; I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love: And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
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[Sidenote: The Hottentots.]
Among the Hottentots, if a widow marries again, she is obliged to cut off the joint of a finger for every husband she marries after the first: this she presents to her new husband on her wedding day, beginning at one of the little fingers first.
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[Sidenote: Sir Charles Sedley.]
The painter’s art is done, the features hit, Of Sedley’s face. No art can show his wit.
He appeared in public about the year 1667, and is to be considered as one of the first among the men of genius who adorned that age. Charles II. used to tell him, that nature had given him a patent to be Apollo’s viceroy. However, he knew as well how to conceal his own excellencies with modesty, as the rest of the world knew how to value them. It was at the acting of his play called _Bellamira_, that the roof of the play-house fell down. But it was singular, that very few were hurt except himself. His merry friend, Sir Fleetwood Shepherd, told him, “there was so much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, house, and all.” He replied, “No! The play was so heavy, it broke down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish.”
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_To a Gentleman, on his complaining of having lost his Gold Watch._
Grieve not, my friend, or peevish say Your luck is worse than common, For “GOLD takes wings, and flies away,” And “TIME will stay for no man.”
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_Lines by Lord Erskine, on being asked whether he preferred great Sensibility or Indifference._
The heart can ne’er a transport know, That never felt a pain; That point thus settled long ago, The present question’s vain.
Who’d wish to travel life’s dull round, Unmov’d by pain or pleasure? ’Tis reason’s task to set the bound, And keep them all in measure.
The Stoic who with false pretence Each soft emotion stifles, Thinks want of feeling shows his sense, Yet frets and fumes at trifles.
And he, who vainly boasts the heart Touch’d by each tale of woe, Forbears to act the friendly part That tender heart to show.
Th’ unfeeling heart can never know, By cold indifference guarded, The joy, the transport, that will flow From love and truth rewarded.
True sensibility we find Shares in another’s grief; And pity yields the generous mind From sympathy relief.
The point discussed, we find this rule, A rule both true and sad; Who feels too little is--a fool; Who feels too much--runs mad.
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“_L’amicale persévérance_,” was the term by which the _Countess de Lichtenau_ designated her connection with Frederick William II. King of Prussia. In speaking of the attachment of our Henry VIII. to the Lady Elizabeth, wife of Sir Thomas Boleyn, and mother to Anne, afterwards his Queen, Lloyd says, she was _his solace, not his sin_.
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_Epigram on reading an article in the Newspapers, stating that the Garrison of Dantzic had eaten their last Horse._
By the newsmen we’re told, and believe it of course, That the people of Dantzic had eat their last horse; In resources, how much should we Dantzic surpass Could we only hold out, till we eat our last _ass_.
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_To the May Fly._
Thou art a frail and lively thing Engender’d by the sun; A moment only on the wing, And thy career is done.
Thou sportest in the evening beam An hour--an age to thee-- In gaiety above the stream Which soon thy grave must be.
Although thy life is like to thee, An atom--art thou not Far happier than thou e’er could’st be, If long life were thy lot?
For then deep pangs might wound thy breast, And make thee wish for death; But as it is thou’rt soon at rest, Thou creature of a breath!
And man’s life passeth thus away, A thing of joy and sorrow; The earth he treads upon to-day Shall cover him to-morrow.
“As the sun declines the misnamed ‘May-fly’ is to be seen emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a time till its wings are dried for flight. Escaping after a protracted struggle of half a minute from its watery birth place, it flutters restlessly up and down over the same spot during its whole era of a summer evening, and at last dies as the last streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. Yet, who shall say, that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between _its_ four hours, and _our_ fourscore years?”
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[Sidenote: From my Mother.]
When shall those hours whose loss I dread, Return to soothe my aching heart? Ah! never more; for stifled sighs Announce that soon, too soon, we part. Maternal cares, and anxious fears, Alternate fill my sorrowing breast; And many a sigh, and many a tear, Moisten my pillow, and impede my rest. Supported by affections dear, The casual frowning of the world I brave; ’Tis only where I truly, fondly love, That disappointment can my peace invade. My children are my treasures, whence I draw All I can know of happiness below: And O! how rich, if certain there to find, Not wealth of gold, but sterling wealth of mind. ’Twas you, my Jane, who were my first fond hope, And smiling, told the blessing you had brought. Though years on years have passed since that glad hour, A mother’s memory still retains the power To bring thy infant image to her view, Such as it was, and such as since it grew. Matured in education, and in life, I view thee now a mother and a wife. Grant that these duties with thy pleasures blend, The wife at heart, not only wife, but friend. These sacred ties, these precious gifts of heaven, The first of human comforts to be given, Cherish with care; and let affection bring Thy share of love to make it ever spring. Nourish the sentiments thy principles approve, And put thy trust and confidence in God.
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[Sidenote: To revive a fading Flower.]
Cut the stalk, and hold it a few moments in the flame of the candle, and then set the flower again in the cold water, when it will recover its strength almost visibly after this violent assistance, and blossom immediately.
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[Sidenote: Scenes from the Life of Titian.]
Titian Vecelli was born in 1477, at the Chateau of La Pieve, on the frontiers of Friuli, one of the seven Communes of Cador. He was by birth a gentleman, his father was Gregorio Vecelli, and his ancestors were traced to the twelfth century.
Here may be corrected an absurdity often committed in designating him as “_Le_ Titien,” _that_ being his baptismal name; as well say _the_ Raphael--or _the_ Michael Angelo. The artist may certainly be denominated “_The Vecelli_.”
Titian was not six years of age when he first gave notice of the great art in which he was to shine so bright a star: and even then, may be traced his transcendent genius in the power of colouring. The infant artist took his tints from nature. The fields, the gardens were his palettes; it was his custom to gather flowers, from which he expressed the juices; he required no pencil, no pen, to sketch his designs, he had discovered the fresco; instinct perfected his work; the perfume of the flower was unheeded by this wonderful child, but he would fall in extacies at the whiteness of the lily, the carnation of the rose, the purple of the iris.
Titian was united in a band of most intimate friendship with Giorgione, who had arrived from Castel-Franco, to study under Bellini, (Titian’s master) and who called himself simply “George.” He soon became the friend, the brother, the model of Titian; and when, in after years, his jealousy of Titian’s talent went to such lengths as to separate them, the latter left Venice, not being able to endure a residence in the same city, with Giorgione thus alienated from him, nor did he ever return to Venice till after the death of Giorgione.
In 1514, Alphonso d’Este, the reigning Duke of Ferrara, called Titian to his court, which at that period was considered the most brilliant and magnificent in Italy. Poets, Painters, every artist of celebrity was there admitted, and honoured in proportion to his talents. Titian’s long cherished dream of ambition and well earned fame, were now about to be realized, and his glorious talent to be estimated as it deserved. Although poor in fortune, there was no gentleman at the court of Alphonso who could vie with him in the good taste and elegance of his appearance. His manners were those of a high bred man: his conversation full of charm. The Prince soon felt the superiority of his new guest, and treated him with peculiar courtesy.
“Signor Titian,” said Alphonso, “consider our house as your own, and be at perfect ease and freedom: my dearest wish is to render it so agreeable to you, as to induce you to remain with us. It shall be our care that your residence at Ferrara may lessen your regret at quitting your beautiful Venice! Recollect though, that here pleasure takes the precedence of business; however, if in your leisure hours you should take up your pencil, we know too well how to appreciate your reputation and your talent, not to recollect at proper seasons that our court is honoured by the presence of the first painter in Venice.”
Alphonso’s conduct towards Titian fully bore out his professions, and his favour, by giving to the artist the full scope of his enthusiasm in his art, left to Titian nothing to desire. His sojourn at this court was terminated by an event which not only proves the estimation with which the duke honoured him, but gives also some idea of the morals of the period of which we speak.
Alphonso, thinking the favour which he had bestowed on Titian entitled him to make the request, one day entreated the great artist would gratify him by taking the portrait of Dona Laura Eustochio d’Este, the reigning Duchess of Ferrara.
“Listen to me, my dear Titian,” said the prince, in a tone of cordial intimacy, “you are not ignorant (for every thing is known at a court), that it was the surpassing beauty of my wife which induced me to marry her, and you will easily believe how much it will gratify me, if by your pencil her charms are rendered immortal. I know not whether the ducal mantle will be allowed to fall at your request, this favour it must be your task to obtain of the Duchess, but understand me well, great master, that my ardent desire is that by your talent I should be possessed of the faithful copy of those transcendent charms, which have so enslaved me; and divested of all veil or drapery, as though reflected in a mirror, such as are seen in your delightful paintings--so that in after times, when she is represented (such as I knew and adored her), it may be said, ‘her beauty was perfect; he was not to blame for marrying her!’”
“Monsignore,” replied Titian, “although the artist sees and thinks only as of a model, in the woman who is before him, were she a queen, yet I will confess to your Highness, that I have so seldom seen the Duchess since I have had the honour of residing at your court, and at such times she has appeared to look on me with so much coldness and dignity, that even by your order, I never could venture to prescribe what attitude and costume would be most suitable: and I really think that this would be best intimated by your Highness.”
“Not at all, my dear Titian, you know nothing of women. It suffices that a husband wishes one thing, for them to press another. What objections, what remonstrances, what reproaches I should have to endure! She would insist that I had ceased to love her, and was no longer jealous--whilst you would only speak as the painter, and would be listened to and believed, for when Titian had said ‘On my honour, Madam, I can make you a Venus,’ where is the woman who could oppose him? In short, Titian, you know my wishes, do the best you can; the Duchess expects you;” and in fact the Prince had scarcely left the room, when two pages announced that the Duchess of Ferrara waited for him.
In a room richly embellished with all the luxury of art, and which would have inspired Ariosto with the enchantment of Armida’s palace, the Duchess reclined on cushions, which yielded to every movement, a young page of such beauty as is described in Raphael’s angels, gently waved a fan of peacock’s feathers, and a little Ethiopian slave knelt at his mistress’s feet, as though placed there in order to display the whiteness of her skin by the contrast.
Into this scene Titian followed his conductor, but was struck dumb, and seized as if with vertigo: he thought himself transported into some region of fancy. On a sign from their mistress a seat, the easel, the palette, the pencils and the colours were presented to the artist, and the attendants lowly bowing withdrew, leaving Titian and the Duchess alone.