Chapter 3

Oh who shall show the countenance and gestures Of Mercy and Justice; which fair sacred sisters, With equal poise doth ever balance even, The unchanging projects of the King of heaven. The one stern of look, the other mild aspecting, The one pleas'd with tears, the other blood affecting; The one bears the sword of vengeance unrelenting The other brings pardon for the true repenting. J. SYLVESTER

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I know that countenance cannot lie Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. M. ROYDON.

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INGRATITUDE.

Unthankfulness is that great sin, Which made the devil and his angels fall: Lost him and them the joys that they were in, And now in hell detains them bound in thrall. SIR J. HARRINGTON.

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Thou hateful monster base ingratitude, Soul's mortal poison, deadly killing-wound, Deceitful serpent seeking to delude, Black loathsome ditch, where all desert is drown'd; Vile pestilence, which all things dost confound. At first created to no other end, But to grieve those, whom nothing could offend. M. DRAYTON.

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HEAVEN.

From hence with grace and goodness compass'd round, God ruleth, blesseth, keepeth all he wrought, Above the air, the fire, the sea and ground Our sense, our wit, our reason and our thought; Where persons three, with power and glory crown'd, Are all one God, who made all things of naught. Under whose feet, subjected to his grace Sit nature, fortune, motion, time and place.

This is the place from whence like smoke and dust Of this frail world, the wealth, the pomp, the power, He tosseth, humbleth, turneth as he lust, And guides our life, our end, our death and hour, No eye (however virtuous, pure and just) Can view the brightness of that glorious bower, On every side the blessed spirits be Equal in joys though differing in degree. E. FAIRFAX.

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MARRIAGE.

In choice of wife prefer the modest chaste, Lilies are fair in show, but foul in smell, The sweetest looks by age are soon defaced, Then choose thy wife by wit and loving well. Who brings thee wealth, and many faults withal, Presents thee honey mix'd with bitter gall. D. LODGE.

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PRIDE.

Pride is the root of ill in every state, The source of sin, the very fiend's fee: The bead of hell, the bough, the branch, the tree; From which do spring and sprout such fleshly seeds, As nothing else but moans and mischief breeds. G. GASCOIGNE.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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NOTES FROM THE LONDON REVIEW,

NO. 1.

ANCIENT AND MODERN LUXURIES.

As a learned doctor, a passionate admirer of the Nicotian plant, was not long since regaling himself with a pinch of snuff, in the study of an old college friend, his classical recollections suddenly mixed with his present sensation, and suggested the following question:--"If a Greek or a Roman were to rise from the grave, how would you explain to him the three successive enjoyments which we have had to-day after dinner,--tea, coffee, and snuff? By what perception or sensation familiar to them, would you account for the modern use of the three vulgar elements, which we see notified on every huckster's stall?--or paint the more refined beatitude of a young barrister comfortably niched in one of our London divans, concentrating his ruminations over a new Quarterly, by the aid of a highly-flavoured Havannah?" The doctor's friend, whose ingenuity is not easily taken at fault, answered, "By friction, which was performed so consummately in their baths. It is no new propensity of animal nature, to find pleasure from the combination of a _stimulant_, and a _sedative_. The ancients chafed their skins, and we chafe our stomachs, exactly for that same double purpose of excitement and repose (let physiologists explain their union) which these vegetable substances procure now so extensively to mankind. In a word, I would tell the ancient Greeks or Romans, that the dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff, is to us what the experienced practioner of the _strigil_ was to them; with this difference, however, that while we spare our skins, our stomachs are in danger of being tanned into leather."

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THE STAGE.

We may compare _tragedy_ to a martyrdom by one of the old masters; which, whatever be its merit, represents persons, emotions, and events so remote from the experience of the spectator, that he feels the grounds of his approbation and blame to be in a great measure conjectural. The _romance_, such as we generally have seen it, resembles a Gothic window-piece, where monarchs and bishops exhibit the symbols of their dignity, and saints hold out their palm branches, and grotesque monsters in blue and gold pursue one another through the intricacies of a never-ending scroll, splendid in colouring, but childish in composition, and imitating nothing in nature but a mass of drapery and jewels thrown over the commonest outlines of the human figure. The works of the _comedian_, in their least interesting forms, are Dutch paintings and caricatures: in their best, they are like Wilkie's earlier pictures, accurate imitations of pleasing, but familiar objects--admirable as works of art, but addressed rather to the judgment than to the imagination.

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ENGLISH WOMEN.

Nothing could be more easy than to prove, in the reflected light of our literature, that from the period of our Revolution to the present time, the education of women has improved among us, as much, at least, as that of men. Unquestionably that advancement has been greater within the last fifty years, than during any previous period of equal length; and it may even be doubted whether the modern rage of our fair countrywomen for universal acquirement has not already been carried to a height injurious to the attainment of excellence in the more important branches of literary information.

But in every age since that of Charles II, Englishwomen have been better educated than their mothers. For much of this progress we are indebted to Addison. Since the Spectator set the example, a great part of our lighter literature, unlike that of the preceding age, has been addressed to the sexes in common: whatever language could shock the ear of woman, whatever sentiment could sully her purity of thought, has been gradually expunged from the far greater and better portion of our works of imagination and taste; and it is this growing refinement and delicacy of expression, throughout the last century, which prove, as much as any thing, the increasing number of female readers, and the increasing homage which has been paid to the better feelings of their sex.

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Mr. Lee, the high-constable of Westminster, in the _Police Report_, says, "I have known the time when I have seen the regular thieves watching Drummonds' house, looking out for persons coming out: and the widening of the pavement of the streets has, I think, done a great deal of good. With respect to pick-pocketing, there is not a chance of their doing now as they used to do. If a man attempts to pick a pocket, it is ten to one if he is not seen, which was not the case formerly."

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CRIME IN PARIS.

Vidocq, in his Memoires, relates, that in 1817, with twelve agents or subordinate officers, he effected in Paris the number of arrests which he thus enumerates:--

Assassins or murderers 15 Robbers or burglars 5 Ditto with false keys 108 Ditto in furnished houses 12 Highwaymen 126 Pickpockets and cutpurses 73 Shoplifters 17 Receivers of stolen property 38 Fugitives from the prisons 14 Tried galley-slaves, having left their exile 43 Forgers, cheats, swindlers, &c. 46 Vagabonds, robbers returned to Paris 229 By mandates from his excellency 46 Captures and seizures of stolen property 39 ---- 811

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WITNESSES.

The protracted proceedings of our criminal courts are productive of one serious evil, which we have never seen noticed. Domestic servants, and others who appear as witnesses, must frequently wait, day after day, in the court-yard and avenues, or in the adjacent public-houses, until the cases on which they have been subpoenaed are called for trial. During these intervals they converse and become acquainted with others in attendance, a large proportion of whom are generally friends or associates of the prisoners. It is thus that the most dangerous intimacies have been formed; and many instances have occurred where servants, who have been seen in the courts as witnesses for a prosecution, have soon afterwards appeared there as prisoners.

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YOU'LL COME TO OUR BALL.

"Comment! c'est lui?--que je le regarde encore!--c'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est pas, mon papa?"--_Les premiers Amours_.

You'll come to our Ball--since we parted, I've thought of you, more than I'll say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted, For a week, when they took you away. Fond Fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall:-- I know you're a terrible rover: But, Clarence,--you'll come to our Ball!

It's only a year, since at College You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, And chang'd from the spur to the crown: The voice that was best when it faltered Is fuller and firmer in tone; And the smile that should never have altered,-- Dear Clarence,--it is not your own: Your cravat was badly selected, Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You _must_ have it curled for our Ball.

I've often been out upon Haldon, To look for a covey with Pup: I've often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up: In spite of the terrors of Aunty, I've ridden the filly you broke; And I've studied your sweet, little Dante, In the shade of your favourite oak: When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished: We've set up a National School, And waltzing is utterly banished-- And Ellen has married a fool-- The Major is going to travel-- Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout-- The walk is laid down with fresh gravel-- Papa is laid up with the gout: And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick of the measles,-- And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You'll meet all your Beauties;--the Lily, And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm-- Miss Manners, who always abused you, For talking so much about Hock-- And her sister who often amused you, By raving of rebels and Rock; And something which surely would answer, A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal-- So, though you were seldom a dancer, You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the world!--from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth; It blights the green leaves in the bowers, It makes an old age of our youth: And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sullen degrees-- Time treads o'er the grave of Affection; Sweet honey is turned into gall. Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball.

You once could be pleased with our ballads-- To-day you have critical ears: You once could be charmed with our salads-- Alas! you've been dining with Peers-- You trifled and flirted with many--- You've forgotten the when and the how-- There was _one_ you liked better than any-- Perhaps you've forgotten _her_ now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you've many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song-- They tell me (and what does it matter?) You like to be praised by the throng-- They tell me you're shadowed with laurel, They tell me you're loved by a Blue-- They tell me you're sadly immoral, Dear Clarence, _that_ cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you Before you grew clever and tall-- And you'll think of the spell that once bound you-- And you'll come--_won't_ you come?--to our Ball!

_London Magazine._

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PARTY.

Two dogs cannot worry one another in the streets without instantly forming each his party among the crowd; much more then does the principle apply to higher contests.

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THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

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MOLIERE.

At the town of Pezénas they still show an elbow-chair of Molière's (as at Montpelier they show the gown of Rabelais,) in which the poet, it is said, ensconced in a corner of a barber's shop, would sit for the hour together, silently watching the air, gestures, and grimaces of the village politicians, who, in those days, before coffee-houses were introduced into France, used to congregate in this place of resort. The fruits of this study may be easily discerned in those original draughts of character from the middling and lower classes with which his pieces everywhere abound.

Molière's celebrated farce of _Les Précieuses Ridicules_; a piece in only one act, but which, by its inimitable satire, effected such a revolution in the literary taste of his countrymen, as has been accomplished by few works of a more imposing form--may be considered as the basis of the dramatic glory of Molière, and the dawn of good comedy in France. The satire aimed at a coterie of wits who set themselves up as arbiters of taste and fashion, and was welcomed with enthusiastic applause, most of them being present at the first exhibition, to behold the fine fabric, which they had been so painfully constructing, brought to the ground by a single blow. "And these follies," said Ménage to Chapelin, "which you and I see so finely criticised here, are what we have been so long admiring. We must go home and burn our idols." "Courage, Molière," cried an old man from the pit; "this is genuine comedy." The price of the seats was doubled from the time of the second representation. Nor were the effects of the satire merely transitory. It converted an epithet of praise into one of reproach; and a _femme precieuse_, a _style precieux_, a _ton precieux_, once so much admired, have ever since been used only to signify the most ridiculous affectation. There was, in truth, however, quite as much luck as merit, in this success of Molière; whose production exhibits no finer raillery, or better sustained dialogue, than are to be found in many of his subsequent pieces. It assured him, however, of his own strength, and disclosed to him the mode in which he should best hit the popular taste. "I have no occasion to study Plautus or Terence any longer," said he, "I must henceforth, study the world." The world accordingly was his study; and the exquisite models of character which it furnished him, will last as long as it shall endure.

Though an habitual valetudinarian, Molière relied almost wholly on the temperance of his diet for the reestablishment of his health. "What use do you make of your physician?" said the king to him one day. "We chat together, Sire," said the poet. "He gives me his prescriptions; I never follow them; and so I get well."

In Molière's time, the profession of a comedian was but lightly esteemed in France at this period. Molière experienced the inconveniences resulting from this circumstance, even after his splendid literary career had given him undoubted claims to consideration. Most of our readers no doubt, are acquainted with the anecdote of Belloc, an agreeable poet of the court, who, on hearing one of the servants in the royal household refuse to aid the author of the _Tartuffe_ in making the king's bed, courteously requested "the poet to accept his services for that purpose." Madame Campan's anecdote of a similar courtesy, on the part of Louis the Fourteenth, is also well known; who, when several of these functionaries refused to sit at table with the comedian, kindly invited him to sit down with him, and, calling in some of his principal courtiers, remarked that "he had requested the pleasure of Molière's company at his own table, as it was not thought quite good enough for his officers." This rebuke had the desired effect.

Molière died in 1673, he had been long affected by a pulmonary complaint, and it was only by severe temperance that he was enabled to preserve even a moderate degree of health. At the commencement of the year, his malady sensibly increased. At this very season, he composed his _Malade Imaginaire_; the most whimsical, and perhaps the most amusing of the compositions, in which he has indulged his raillery against the faculty. On the 17th of February, being the day appointed for its fourth representation, his friends would have dissuaded him from appearing, in consequence of his increasing indisposition. But he persisted in his design, alleging "that more than fifty poor individuals depended for their daily bread on its performance." His life fell a sacrifice to his benevolence. The exertions which he was compelled to make in playing the principal part of _Argan_ aggravated his distemper, and as he was repeating the word _juro_, in the concluding ceremony, he fell into a convulsion, which he vainly endeavoured to disguise from the spectators under a forced smile. He was immediately carried to his house, in the _Rue de Richelieu_, now No. 34. A violent fit of coughing, on his arrival, occasioned the rupture of a blood-vessel; and seeing his end approaching, he sent for two ecclesiastics of the parish of St. Eustace, to which he belonged, to administer to him the last offices of religion. But these worthy persons having refused their assistance, before a third, who had been sent for, could arrive, Molière, suffocated with the effusion of blood, had expired in the arms of his family.

Molière died soon after entering upon his fifty-second year. He is represented to have been somewhat above the middle stature, and well proportioned; his features large, his complexion dark, and his black, bushy eye-brows so flexible, as to admit of his giving an infinitely comic expression to his physiognomy. He was the best actor of his own generation, and by his counsels, formed the celebrated Baron, the best of the succeeding. He played all the range of his own characters, from _Alceste_ to _Sganarelle_; though he seems to have been peculiarly fitted for broad comedy.

He produced all his pieces, amounting to thirty, in the short space of fifteen years. He was in the habit of reading these to an old female domestic, by the name of La Forêt; on whose unsophisticated judgment he greatly relied. On one occasion when he attempted to impose upon her the production of a brother author, she plainly told him that he had never written it. Sir Walter Scott may have had this habit of Molière's in his mind, when he introduced a similar expedient into his "Chronicles of the Canongate." For the same reason, our poet used to request the comedians to bring their children with them, when he recited to them a new play. The peculiar advantage of this humble criticism, in dramatic compositions, is obvious. Alfieri himself, as he informs us, did not disdain to resort to it.

Molière was naturally of a reserved and taciturn temper; insomuch that his friend Boileau used to call him the _Contemplateur_. Strangers who had expected to recognise in his conversation the sallies of wit which distinguished his dramas, went away disappointed. The same thing is related of La Fontaine. The truth is, that Molière went into society as a spectator, not as an actor; he found there the studies for the characters, which he was to transport upon the stage; and he occupied himself with observing them. The dreamer, La Fontaine, lived too in a world of his own creation. His friend, Madame de la Sablière, paid to him this untranslateable compliment; "En vérité, mon cher La Fontaine, vous seriez bien bête, si vous n'aviez pas tant d'esprit." These unseasonable reveries brought him, it may be imagined, into many whimsical adventures. The great Corneille, too, was distinguished by the same apathy. A gentleman dined at the same table with him for six months, without suspecting the author of the "Cid."

Molière enjoyed the closest intimacy with the great Condé, the most distinguished ornament of the court of Louis the Fourteenth; to such an extent indeed, that the latter directed, that the poet should never be refused admission to him, at whatever hour he might choose to pay his visit. His regard for his friend was testified by his remark, rather more candid than courteous, to an Abbé of his acquaintance, who had brought him an epitaph, of his own writing, upon the deceased poet. "Would to heaven," said the prince, "that he were in a condition to bring me yours."

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DOMESTIC HABITS OF NAPOLEON.