Chapter 2

The time however drew on, the dreaded period arrived, the Royal Guard left its quarters, and departed from S----. Henri took a fond and passionate adieu of his betrothed; and Rosalie, having summoned all her fortitude to her aid, went through the parting scene with more firmness than could have been expected from her, though her feelings, afterwards, were described as of the most agonizing kind.

Such is the difference between the ardent feelings of man, and the tender and gentle sympathies of woman, that, while his sorrow is alleviated by a thousand mitigating circumstances of ardour and excitement, which relieve his attention, and soothe, though they do not annihilate his grief; she can only brood over her feelings, and suffer in silence and in sorrow. Henri marched out with his regiment in all the vigour of manhood, and with all the "pomp, pride, and circumstance of war," while Rosalie could only retire to her chamber and weep.

Time passed on; letters were received from Henri, which spoke in ardent terms of his journey, and of the new and singular scenes unfolded to his view. He adverted also to his return, mentioned the war as a mere pastime, and as an agreeable jaunt, the termination of which he only desired, because it would once more restore him to his Rosalie. It was remarked, however, that she never recovered her cheerfulness; to all her lover's assurances she could only reply with expressions of distrust, and with feelings of sorrow; and when she wrote, it was to express her fears of the campaign, and her wish that it were over, and that they were again united in safety.

And constantly did the good and pious girl offer up her prayers for her lover, as she repaired to the church of the Holy Virgin at S----, to perform her daily devotions.

The season advanced: the French marched through Spain, and reached Cadiz. At this last hope of the Constitutionalists, a strong resistance was expected, and Henri had written from Seville, that his next letter would announce the termination of the campaign. Alas! he never wrote again! Time flew on; the journals announced the fall of the Trocadero; the surrender of Cadiz, and the restoration of Ferdinand; yet there came no news from Henri! Then did the gentle girl sink into all the despondency of disappointment; and as day after day passed and brought no tidings of her lover, her beauty and her health suffered alike, she languished and pined till she scarce retained the semblance of her former self.

At last came a letter; it was from Spain, but it was written in a stranger's hand, and its sable appendages bespoke the fatal nature of its contents. It was from a brother officer of Henri, stating that his regiment had been foremost in the attack, and that the Trocadero, the last resource of the Constitutionalists, had been carried with the loss of but few killed; but, alas! among that few, was Henri! He was shot through the body while leading his men to the assault. He fell instantly dead, and the writer expressed his desire that the sad intelligence should be conveyed as gently as possible to Rosalie.

Unhappily, by one of those chances which often occur, as if to aggravate misfortune, it was Rosalie who received the fatal letter from the postman's hands! She tore it open; read its dreadful contents; and with a wild and frenzied shriek, fell senseless to the ground! She was borne to her bed, where every care and attention was bestowed; but her illness rapidly assumed a threatening and a dangerous character. A fever seized her frame; she became at once delirious; nor did reason again resume her throne; and it was not till after months of suffering and agony, that she recovered, if that could be called recovery, which gave back a deformed and hapless lunatic, bereft of intellect and of beauty, in place of the once gay and fascinating Rosalie. The dread aberration of intellect was attributed by her medical attendants to the fatal and sudden shock which she had sustained, and to its effect on a mind weakened by previous anxiety and sorrow; while they feared her malady was of a nature, which admitted no hope of the return of reason.

Her mind, it was stated, remained an entire blank. Imbecile, vacant, drivelling--she appeared almost unconscious of former existence; and of those subjects which formerly engrossed her attention, and excited her feelings, there were scarcely any on which she now evinced any emotion. Even the name of her lover was almost powerless on her soul, and if repeated in her hearing, seemed scarcely to call forth her notice.

One only gift remained, in all its native pathos, tenderness, and beauty--her voice, so sweet before her illness, seemed, amid the wreck of youth, and joy, and love, and all that was charming and endeared, to have only become sweeter still! She was incapable or unwilling to learn any new airs, but she would occasionally recollect snatches of former songs or duets, which she and Henri had sung together, and she would pour the simple melodies in strains of more than mortal sweetness!

This, alas! was the only relic of former talent or taste that she retained; in all other respects, her mind and body, instead of evincing symptoms of recovery, seemed to sink in utter hopelessness and despair; and an early tomb seems to be the best and kindest boon which heaven, in its mercy, can bestow, on the once fair and fascinating Rosalie!

_Tales of all Nations._

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ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS.

Notings, selections, Anecdote and joke: Our recollections; With gravities for graver folk.

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TAVERNS AND CLUB-HOUSES.

Almost every tavern of note about town hath or had its club. The Mermaid Tavern is immortalized as the house resorted to by Shakspeare, Jonson, Fletcher, and Beaumont; the Devil--which, Pennant informs us, stood on the site of Child's-place, Temple Bar--was the scene of many a merry meeting of the choice spirits in old days; at Will's Coffee-house, in the Augustan age of English literature, societies were held to which Steele, and Pope, and Addison belonged; Doctor Johnson, Hawkesworth, the elder Salter, and Sir John Hawkins, were members of a club formerly held at the King's-head, in Ivy-lane; the notorious Dick England, Dennis O'Kelly, and Hull, with their associates, had, many years ago, a sporting-club at Munday's Coffee-house; the Three Jolly Pigeons, in Butcher-hall-lane, was formerly the gathering place of a set of old school bibliopoles, who styled themselves the Free and Easy Counsellors under the Cauliflower; stay-maker Hugh Kelly, Goldsmith, Ossian Macpherson, Garrick, Cumberland, and the Woodfalls, with several noted men of that day, were concerned in a club at the St. James's Coffee-house; the Kit-Cat, which took its name from one Christopher Cat, a pastry-cook, was held at a tavern in King-street, Westminster; Button's--but truly the task of enumerating the several clubs, of which we find notices "in the books," as the lawyers have it, would be endless.--_Every Night Book_.

CONVERSATION OF WOMEN.

The usual conversation of ordinary women very much cherishes the natural weakness of being taken with outside appearance. Talk of a new-married couple, and you immediately hear whether they keep their coach-and-six, or eat in plate. Mention the name of an absent lady, and it is ten to one but you learn something of her gown and petticoat. A ball is a great help to discourse, and a birthday furnishes conversation for a twelvemonth after. A furbelow of precious stones, a hat buttoned with a diamond, a brocade waistcoat or petticoat, are standing topics. --_Addison_.

BILDERDYK.

William Bilderdyk, admired as the first poet that modern Holland has produced, and not less distinguished by the brilliant qualities of his mind, did not, in his youth, seem to show any happy disposition for study. His father, who formed an unfavourable opinion of his talents, was much distressed, and frequently reproached him in severe terms for his inattention and idleness, to which young Bilderdyk did not appear to pay much attention. In 1776, the father, with a newspaper in his hand, came to stimulate him, by showing the advertisement of a prize offered by the Society of Leyden, and decreed to the author of a piece of poetry, signed with these words, "An Author 18 years old," who was invited to make himself known. "You ought to blush, idler," said old Bilderdyk to his son. "Here is a boy only of your age, and though so young, is the pride and happiness of his parents; and you----." "It is myself," answered young William, throwing himself into his father's arms.

SIR ANTHONY CARLISLE,

Who has often filled the anatomical chair at the Royal Academy, is no less abstruse and instructive than pleasant and amusing. His illustrative anecdotes are always excellent, and his way of telling them quite dramatic. We have found him even more agreeable as a private talker than as a lecturer; he is rich in the old lore of England--he will hunt a phrase through several reigns--propose derivations for words which are equally ingenious and learned--follow a proverb for generations back, and discuss on the origin of language as though he had never studied aught beside: he knows more than any other person we ever met with of the biography of talented individuals--in the philosophy of common life he is quite an adept--a capital chronologist--a man of fine mind and most excellent memory: his experience has, of course, been very great, and he has taken good advantage of it. We remember he once amused us for half a day by adducing instances of men who, although possessed of mean talents, had enabled themselves to effect wonders, by simply hoarding in their minds, and subsequently acting upon, an immense number of facts: from this subject we naturally enough fell into a discourse on the importance, in many cases and situations, of attending to trifles. As a proof of this, he mentioned a circumstance which occurred to an eminent surgeon within his own memory; it was as follows: A gentleman, residing about a post-stage from town, met with an accident which eventually rendered amputation of a limb indispensable. The surgeon alluded to was requested to perform the operation, and went from town with two pupils to the gentleman's house, on the day appointed, for that purpose. The usual preliminaries being arranged, he proceeded to operate; the tourniquet was applied, the flesh divided, and the bone laid bare, when, to his astonishment and horror, he discovered that his instrument-case was without the saw! Here was a situation! Luckily his presence of mind did not forsake him. Without apprising his patient of the terrible fact, he put one of his pupils into his carriage, and told the coachman to gallop to town. It was an hour and a half before the saw was obtained, and during all that time the patient lay suffering. The agony of the operator, though great, was scarcely a sufficient punishment for his neglect in not seeing that all his instruments were in the case before he started.

Basil Montagu, the water drinking barrister, who was present during the narration of this anecdote, and the previous discussion, mentioned another instance of the propriety of noticing those minor circumstances in life, which are usually suffered to pass unheeded by people in general. A man of talent was introduced into a company of strangers; he scarcely spoke after his first salutation until he wished the party good night. Almost every one dubbed him a fool; the lady hostess, who, be it remarked, had not been previously informed of the abilities of her new guest, was of a different opinion, "I am sure," said she, "that you are all wrong; for, though he said nothing, I remarked that _he always laughed in the right place_."--_Every Night Book_.

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A FACT.

Pat went to his mistress: "My lady, your mare _In harness_, goes well as a dray-horse, I swear: I tried, as you're thinking to sell her, or let her, For _coming on_ thus, she'll _go off_ all the better."

"Twas very well thought of" the lady replied, "You've acted a sensible part. But Patrick, pray tell me the day that you tried, Of whom did you borrow the cart?"

"The _cart_? why, she _walk'd_ well _in harness_, I saw, But I thought not, by no _manes_, to try if she'd _draw_; For says I, by Saint Patrick, who, her comes to view, To tell him, she has been 'in harness' will do!"

M.L.B.

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THE MONTHS.

AUGUST.

All around The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam, Glow, golden lustre.

MRS. ROBINSON.

This is the month of harvest. The crops usually begin with rye and oats, proceed with wheat, and finish with pease and beans. Harvest-home is still the greatest rural holiday in England, because it concludes at once the most laborious and most lucrative of the farmer's employments, and unites repose and profit. Thank heaven, there are, and must be, seasons of some repose in agricultural employments, or the countryman would work with as unceasing a madness, and contrive to be almost as diseased and unhealthy as the citizen. But here again, and for the reasons already mentioned, our holiday-making is not what it was. Our ancestors used to burst into an enthusiasm of joy at the end of harvest, and even mingled their previous labour with considerable merry-making, in which they imitated the equality of the earlier ages. They crowned the wheat-sheaves with flowers, they sung, they shouted, they danced, they invited each other, or met to feast as at Christmas, in the halls of rich houses; and, what was a very amiable custom, and wise beyond the commoner wisdom that may seem to lie on the top of it, every one that had been concerned, man, woman, and child, received a little present, ribbons, laces, or sweetmeats.

The number of flowers is now sensibly diminished. Those that flower newly are nigella, zinnias, polyanthuses, love-apples, mignonette, capsicums, Michaelmas daisies, auriculus, asters or stars, and China-asters. The additional trees and shrubs in flower are the tamarisk, altheas, Venetian sumach, pomegranates, the beautiful passion-flower, the trumpet flower, and the virgin's bower or clematis, which is such a quick and handsome climber. But the quantity of fruit is considerably multiplied, especially that of pears, peaches, apricots, and grapes. And if the little delicate white flowers have at last withdrawn from the hot sun, the wastes, marshes, and woods are dressed in the luxuriant attire of ferns and heaths, with all their varieties of green, purple, and gold. A piece of waste land, especially where the ground is broken up into little inequalities, as Hampstead-heath, for instance, is now a most bright as well as picturesque object; all the ground, which is in light, giving the sun, as it were, gold for gold. Mignonette, intended to flower in winter, should now be planted in pots, and have the benefit of a warm situation. Seedlings in pots should have the morning sunshine, and annuals in pots be frequently watered.

In the middle of this month, the young goldfinch broods appear, lapwings congregate, thistle-down floats, and birds resume their spring songs:--a little afterwards flies abound in windows, linnets congregate, and bulls make their shrill autumnal bellowing; and towards the end the beech tree turns yellow,--the first symptom of approaching autumn.[1]

[1] _The Months_.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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LEOPARD-HUNTING.

The leopard of Southern Africa is known among the Cape colonists by the name of tiger; but is, in fact, the real leopard, the _Felis jubata_ of naturalists, well known for the beauty of its shape and spotted skin, and the treachery and fierceness of its disposition. The animal called leopard (_luipaard_) by the Cape Dutch boors, is a species of the panther, and is inferior to the real leopard in size and beauty. Both of them are dreaded in the mountainous districts on account of the ravages which they occasionally commit among the flocks, and on the young cattle and horses in the breeding season.

The South African panther is a cowardly animal, and, like the hyena, flies from the face of man. The leopard also, though his low, half-smothered growl is frequently heard by night, as he prowls like an evil spirit around the cottage or the kraal, will seldom or never attack mankind, (children excepted,) unless previously assailed or exasperated. When hunted, as he usually is with dogs, he instinctively betakes himself to a tree, when he falls an easy prey to the shot of the huntsman. The leopard, however, though far inferior in strength and intrepidity to the lion, is yet an exceedingly active and furious animal; and when driven to extremity, proves himself occasionally an antagonist not to be trifled with. The colonists relate many instances of arduous and even fatal encounters with the hunted leopard. The following is one of these adventures, which occurred in a frontier district in 1822, as described by one of the two individuals so perilously engaged in it.

Two boors returning from hunting the Hartebeest, (_antelope bubalis_,) fell in with a leopard in a mountain ravine, and immediately gave chase to him. The animal at first endeavoured to escape by clambering up a precipice; but being hotly pressed, and slightly wounded by a musket-ball, he turned upon his pursuers with that frantic ferocity which on such emergencies he frequently displays, and springing upon the man who had fired at him, tore him from his horse to the ground, biting him at the same time very severely in the shoulder, and tearing his face and arms with his talons. The other hunter, seeing the danger of his comrade, (he was, if I mistake not, his brother,) sprung from his horse, and attempted to shoot the leopard through the head; but, whether owing to trepidation, or the fear of wounding his friend, or the sudden motions of the animal, he unfortunately missed.

The leopard, abandoning his prostrate enemy, darted with redoubled fury upon this second antagonist; and so fierce and sudden was his onset, that before the boor could stab him with his hunting-knife, he had struck him in the eyes with his claws, and torn the scalp over his forehead. In this frightful condition the hunter grappled with the raging beast, and struggling for life, they rolled together down a steep declivity. All this passed so rapidly, that the other boor had scarcely time to recover from the confusion in which his feline foe had left him, to seize his gun, and rush forward to aid his comrade, when he beheld them rolling together down the steep bank in mortal conflict. In a few moments he was at the bottom with them, but too late to save the life of his friend. The leopard had torn open the jugular vein, and so dreadfully mangled the throat of the unfortunate man, that his death was inevitable; and his comrade had only the melancholy satisfaction of completing the destruction of the savage beast, already exhausted with several deep wounds in the breast from the desperate knife of the expiring huntsman.--_London Weekly Review_.

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GLOAMING.

BY DELTA.

There is a beauty in the grey twilight, Which minds unmusical can never know, A holy quietude, that yields to woe A pulseless pleasure, fraught with pure delight: The aspect of the mountains huge, that brave And bear upon their breasts the rolling storms; And the soft twinkling of the stars, that pave Heaven's highway with their bright and burning forms; The rustle of the dark boughs overhead: The murmurs of the torrent far away; The last notes of the blackbird, and the bay Of sullen watch-dog, from the far farm-stead-- All waken thoughts of Being's early day, Loves quench'd, hopes past, friends lost, and pleasures fled.

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

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ON READING NEW BOOKS.

There is a fashion in reading as well as in dress, which lasts only for a season. One would imagine that books were, like women, the worse for being old;[2] that they have a pleasure in being read for the first time; that they open their leaves more cordially; that the spirit of enjoyment wears out with the spirit of novelty; and that, after a certain age, it is high time to put them on the shelf. This conceit seems to be followed up in practice. What is it to me that another--that hundreds or thousands have in all ages read a work? Is it on this account the less likely to give me pleasure, because it has delighted so many others? Or can I taste this pleasure by proxy? Or am I in any degree the wiser for their knowledge? Yet this might appear to be the inference. _Their_ having read the work may be said to act upon us by sympathy, and the knowledge which so many other persons have of its contents deadens our curiosity and interest altogether. We set aside the subject as one on which others have made up their minds for us, (as if we really could have ideas in their heads,) and are quite on the alert for the next new work, teeming hot from the press, which we shall be the first to read, to criticise, and pass an opinion on. Oh, delightful! To cut open the leaves, to inhale the fragrance of the scarcely-dry paper, to examine the type, to see who is the printer, (which is some clue to the value that is set upon the work,) to launch out into regions of thought and invention never trod till now, and to explore characters that never met a human eye before--this is a luxury worth sacrificing a dinner party, or a few hours of a spare morning to. Who, indeed, when the work is critical and full of expectation, would venture to dine out, or to face a _coterie_ of blue stockings in the evening, without having gone through this ordeal, or at least without, hastily turning over a few of the first pages while dressing, to be able to say that the beginning does not promise much, or to tell the name of the heroine?

[2] "Laws are not like women, the worse for being old."--_The Duke of Buckingham's Speech in the House of Lords, in Charles the Second's time_.