Part 3

On the whole, we are convinced that St. John Long will be seriously missed at the West-end. His house was a pleasant lounge; his chocolate was unimpeachable, whatever his honesty might be; no one could ever question the strength of his coffee, whatever might be surmised of his science; and the sandwiches which promenaded the rooms regularly every half-hour, were a triumphant answer to all the aspersions that his patients lived upon air. We have no doubt that it was a much pleasanter place than the bazaars, to which such hosts of old peeresses order their carriages every day at one, with such matchless punctuality, to buy sixpence-worth of ribbon, and kill three hours. To this, St. John Long's promenade was a paradise. The comfortable manner in which all the comforts of the old ladies were provided for; the pleasantries arising from the nature of the scene between the various _rubbed_: the files of young women, with their mouths fixed to gas-pipes, and imbibing all sorts of vapours; and, never to be forgotten in the catalogue of attractions, the men of all ages who came to learn the art of being cured of all calamities, that of the purse inclusive. Then, too, St. John's own judicious generosity; the presents of invaluable snuff, of first-growth Champagne, of Mocha coffee to one, and of gunpowder tea to another, showed a knowledge of women and human nature, that must, but for the malice of justice, inevitably have led to fortune. What will now become of the countess, who led her daughters to this palace of Hygeia as regularly as the day came; and with a spirit worthy of the great cause, declared that, if she had twenty daughters, she would take every one of them every day to the same place, for the same rubbing? What will become of the heavy hours of him who declared St. John's gas a qualification for the Cabinet, and that a sick minister applying to this dispenser of all virtue, would be on his legs in the House, and making a victorious speech within the twenty-four hours? What will become of the battalion of beauties who, at every puff of the gas-pipe, ran to their mirrors, and received the congratulations of the surrounding dandies, or the revived carnation of their cheeks? "Othello's occupation's o'er." But a St. John Long, of some kind or other, is so essential to the West-end world, that a successor must be rapidly erected in his room. Every age has its St. John Long, formed by the mere necessities of the opulent and idle. A new Perkins, with a packet of metallic tractors on a new scale would be extremely acceptable in any handsome street in the neighbourhood of Grosvenor-square. Animal magnetism would thrive prodigiously between this and the dust-months, when London is left to the guardsmen and the cab-drivers; and when, as Lady Jersey says, nobody who is anybody is to be seen in the streets from morning till night, that is, from three till six. But the true man of success would be Dr. Graham, of famous memory; the heir of his talents would make a fortune in any season of the year; and now that St. John Long has vacated the throne, nothing could be more favourable for his ambition, than to take advantage of the interregnum, and make himself monarch of charlatanry without loss of time.--From "Notes of the Month," by far the most piquant portion of the _Monthly Mag_.

* * * * *

FLOWERS IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

"I desire, as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more!--whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they _have_ their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould."--_Conversations with an Ambitious Student in Ill Health_.

Bear them not from grassy dells, Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the green wood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm's emerald star, And the bird, whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree; Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to Earth again!

Spread them not before the eyes, Closing fast on summer skies! Woo then not the spirit back, From its lone and viewless track, With the bright things which have birth Wide o'er all the coloured Earth!

With the violet's breath would rise Thoughts too sad for her who dies; From the lily's pearl-cup shed, Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Dreams of youth--of spring-time eves-- Music--beauty--all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis _thou_ that dreaming art, Calmer is _her_ gentle heart. Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love; But that passion, deep and true, Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these, In her fragile mould she sees; Shadows of yet richer things, Borne beside immortal springs, Into fuller glory wrought, Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily's leaf, She can read no word of grief; O'er the woodbine she can dwell, Murmuring not--Farewell! farewell! And her dim, yet speaking eye, Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore, once, and yet again, Strew them o'er her bed of pain; From her chamber take the gloom, With a light and flush of bloom: So should one depart, who goes Where no Death can touch the Rose!

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

STANZAS.

Oh! ask me not to sing to-night,

Oh! ask me not to sing to-night Dejection chills my feeble powers, I own thy halls of glittering light Are festive as in former hours. But when I last amid them moved, I sung for friends beloved and dear, Their smiles inspired, their lips approved, Now all is changed--they are not here.

I gaze around--I view a throng, The radiant slaves of pride and art. Oh! can _they_ prize my simple song, The soft low breathings of the, heart? Take back the lute, its tuneful string Is moisten'd by a sorrowing tear, To-night, I may not, cannot sing The friends that love me are not here!

_Ibid_.

* * * * *

THE LATE MADAME DE GENLIS.

The following smart account of the late Madame de Genlis, is translated from that very piquant French paper the Figaro of the 4th January:--

She nearly died the day she came into the world; a mere chance saved her; and the noble lady lived eighty-five years. What a misfortune, not only for the Ducrest and the Genlis, if the clumsy Bailiff who sat down in the arm-chair where the infant prodigy had been left by the careless nurse, had crushed under the ample and heavy developement of his various femoral muscles, the hope of French literature! The concussion would have despoiled us of a hundred volumes, and Heaven can witness what volumes! History in romances; morality in proverbs; and religion in comedies. This is what the world of letters would have lost,--society would have lost a very different thing.

Such a nose as never was possessed before; a nose modelled by Love himself, and celebrated by ten court poets, and which the censer of praise was as unable to improve as a certain tumble which its owner had in infancy. Hands the most beautiful that could be, and which Madame de Genlis put up for exhibition during twenty years, upon the strings of a harp, now passed into a proverb. A form without fault, and which made the delight of the Palais Royal parties in the open air. A foot, alike triumphant at the Court and at the _Porcherons_. Eyes capable of making an impression upon the running footman of M. de Brancas, and of an innumerable crowd of dukes, lawyers, officers, and men of letters. A genius!--oh! for her genius, if she had not been encumbered with so much modesty, Madame de Genlis would have shone by it alone in the _first_ rank; through feminine modesty she remained in the second.

Philosophy may breathe again. The author of "The Evenings at the Castle" was the Attila of philosophers;--she crushed Voltaire, considering him as a _mauvais sujet_; pursued Diderot and d'Alembert; breasted Rousseau; refuted the Encyclopaedia; and was always of the party in favour of the Altar and the Throne, excepting only the clay when the revolution of 1789 commenced.

Foul-mouthed people allege Madame de Genlis to have been a great coquette, which, is a calumny. She was virtue itself. No doubt she was the object of rude assaults; public declarations, scenes of despair, disguises, eulogies in verse, madrigals in prose--all were employed to seduce her affections; but she resisted always. To revenge her cruelty, they attacked her morals, and epigrams rained on her. She replied by her Memoirs--rather diffuse confessions, which Lavocat (the publisher) contrived to dilute further--but edifying, and which have demonstrated that if Mad. de Genlis was not canonized in her life-time, it was because there is no longer any religion to speak of, or that she neglected to cultivate interest with the Pope.

One poet had the audacity to put up Madame de Genlis' honour at the Exchange for a dollar; the ladies of the Directory exclaimed against this; the Countess herself said nothing: she despised the exaggeration which nobody could credit. In truth, Madame de Genlis was quite as good as the particular Queen, whose modesty was only to fall before the millions of a Cardinal-Duke.

Mirabeau boasted, in one of his letters, that he had communicated his own tenderness to the charming tigress; but Mirubeau was a vain, good-for-nothing coxcomb, and the boudoir on four wheels which he presented as the theatre of his triumph, was a horrible invention. The proof is, that Madame de Genlis says nothing whatever about it in her Memoirs. Posterity should be just towards the illustrious Countess, and accept, as sincere, her revelations. Let us, then, consider her as the most virtuous of women; as the least arrogant; the most sensible; the most learned; for all, in fine, that she desired to appear; for Madame de Genlis never said what was untrue; she solemnly declares so.

Madame de Genlis had a talent that was very dear to her, but the title of a good housewife was that she coveted above all the rest. I can never forget the following circumstance, exemplifying the _naîf_ vanity of the pretension to be without pretension, which the noble lady sometimes assumed. I was anxious to see this celebrated person, and wrote to ask the favour of a brief interview. She appointed the following day. At twelve o'clock I presented myself;--Madame de Genlis was writing; she laid down her pen, and obligingly offered me a seat, then said--"Allow me, sir, to finish my _pot an feu_; above being a woman of letters, I value myself as a good housewife." And the Countess scraped the carrots and the leeks, tied them up, put them into the soup-kettle, skimmed the meat, and neither forgot cloves nor fried onions. Then taking off her kitchen apron, came with very good grace to offer herself to my curiosity We talked upon art and literature; and I must say that she did not speak of her harp more than twice, of her talent for acting more than once, or of her facility of writing--very much more than six times.

Madame de Genlis died almost suddenly, and was employing herself as usual, when death struck her. She leaves two works, which will, no doubt, be published as soon as a bookseller is found to put them together, and idlers seem disposed to read them. The King offered her rooms in the Tuileries, and she had replied to his gracious proposal the evening before she died.

Louis Philip never forgot his preceptor--Madame de Genlis is said to have had some desire to be forgotten by her pupil.--_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

FINE ARTS.

* * * * *

EXHIBITION OF THE WORKS OF LIVING ARTISTS AT THE BRITISH INSTITUTION, PALL-MALL.

(_From a Correspondent._)

This attractive Exhibition opened for the season on Monday, the 31st ult., and contains five hundred and fifty-two works of art. The display of pictures is certainly very splendid; and, as no portraits are admitted, the respective artists have employed their talents in representing pleasing and interesting subjects, some of which contain high poetical feeling--while others possess the power of raising our risibility by their novelty and genuine humour--a valuable quality in painting, to attain which, the artist treads an extremely difficult path. We must now select a few of the most sparkling gems of the collection.

No. 1. Lavinia, from Thomson's Seasons, painted by Sir Martin Archer Shee, is a chaste production. Lavinia is portrayed as a perfect rustic beauty.

3. A subject from. "The Lost Pleiad" of Miss L.E.L. is beautifully embodied by Henry Howard, R.A.

12. Part of the Corn-market at Caen, formerly the Church of St. Sauveur; painted by Roberts, in his peculiar and fascinating style.

36. The Auld Friends--

"Then here's a fig for snarling time, Wi' features long and grim, Come prime the cup, my gude auld friend, And pledge me brim to brim."

Painted carefully by J.P. Knight, son of the late comedian.

59. Titania, Puck, and Bottom; by Mr. Partridge. This is a commanding work, and extremely rich in the colouring. The Queen of the Fairies is represented reposing on a grassy bed, and near her is seated the formidable Bottom, in his ludicrous metamorphosis: he is placed in such a situation, that her majesty must see him before any other object when she _awakes_. At a little distance Puck is displayed laughing at the trick he has played on the queen, and seems to anticipate with delight the amusement that is to ensue.

95. Falstaff's Assignation with Mrs. Ford--from the Merry Wives of Windsor--is remarkably delicate in the execution, possesses good colouring, and is altogether creditable to the painter, Mr. Clint.

153. Interior of the Painted Hall. Greenwich Hospital; by John S. Davis. This is an admirable specimen of rising genius, as it contains much knowledge of perspective, and great correctness in the distribution of light and shade.--Some portraits, and a statue of Nelson, are judiciously introduced.

229. Teniers Painting the Temptation of St. Anthony; executed by Mr. Fraser, in a masterly manner.

447. Mount St. Michael; a magnificent production by Stanfield. The water is inimitable, possessing that beautiful greenish transparency so peculiar to the sea.

462. The Interior of Mr. Pinney's Gallery, Pall Mall; by Mr. Novice.--This is doubtless an arduous undertaking; the artist has evinced much skill in the arrangement of the various objects of the piece, and the effect is forcible and good. There is another representation of a picture-gallery in the exhibition No. 345, but we think it wants effect.

We are sorry that we can _only allude_ to the names of several other excellent artists. They must not infer, however, that we fail to appreciate their merits; on the contrary, we would most gladly appropriate our time to the extension of this notice, were we permitted sufficient space, for to do ample justice would occupy several pages. Madame Comolera, Miss E. Drummond, and Miss Hague, deserve attention; as do Messrs. Clater, Fradelle, Hart, Edmondstone, Chisholme, Deane, Wilson, Brough, Stanley, Reinagle, and Webster.

_Feb._ 1, 1831.

G.W.N.

* * * * *

NOTES OF A READER.

* * * * *

ROYAL EQUIVOQUE.

(_From the Life and Reign of George IV._)

A well-known individual, some time deceased, who was admitted to the prince's familiarity upon his first entrance into life, and for several years after, described or rather dramatized with much humour a scene which he professed to have had from the prince himself. So much depends upon tone and manner, that the spirit of these pleasantries evaporates on paper. The story was in substance as follows:--A new suit, destined for a ball that night at Cumberland-house, was brought home to the prince, but ordered back by him for the purpose of undergoing immediate alterations. He gave directions that the tailor's return with it should be instantly made known to him. The prince happened to pass the early part of the evening with the king and queen at Buckingham-house. Whilst he was seated in the royal group, a German page entered, and pronounced in a tone meant for his particular ear, but loud enough to be heard by every one present, "Please your royal highness, _she_ is come." There was a moment's awful pause. "Who is come?" said his royal highness, in a tone between surprise, embarrassment, and anger. "Sir, _she_ is come," repeated the page, with his bad English and German phlegm. "Eh! what, what! who is come?" exclaimed the king. "_She_, your majesty," reiterated the unmoved German. "She is come!" cried the queen, bursting with wrath, and supposing that the visiter was one of the house of Luttrell, who already sought an undue influence over the prince. All was for a moment inexplicable confusion. The queen summoned another page, and asked him with fury in her looks, "_Who_ is _she_ that dares inquire for the Prince of Wales?" "Please your majesty," said the second oracle, "it is _Shea_, his royal highness's tailor."--_Dr. Lardner's Cabinet Library_, vol. ii.

* * * * *

THE PRINCE OF WALES AND MRS. FITZHERBERT.

He had now formed an attachment of no common kind to a lady, whose name at this period came frequently before the public associated with his. A veil of ambiguity or mystery covered, and still covers, the relations of the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Fitzherbert. She received all the respect and exercised all the influence which could belong to rank, character, accomplishments, and manners, in the highest class of society in this country daring her intimacy with the prince, and after their separation; and she is still living, surrounded, in her advanced years, with all the consideration which could do honour to the decline of a life the most estimable. Mrs. Fitzherbert was first married at sixteen, and had still all the graces of beauty and youth on the death of Colonel Fitzherbert. She was brought up abroad, with every advantage of a costly and consummate education. Her beauty had that soft and touching character, the result of fair complexion and blue eyes which distinguishes Englishwomen abroad, and obtained her the appellation of the angelic English _blonde_. The cousin of Lord Sefton, and related to other distinguished families, she lived in a sphere of society in London which necessarily made her acquainted with the Prince of Wales. He became enamoured, declared his passion, and was the cause of her retiring to the continent to avoid his importunities. Having remained abroad about three years, she returned to England in 1784. The prince on her return declared the continuance and repeated the sincerity of his attachment, with, it would appear, more success. Their intimacy for some time was known only to the initiated in high life; they moved and met in the same society, apparently on terms rather of formal than familiar acquaintance. The secret was divulged shortly before the prince's quarrel with the king, and base advantage was taken of it to wound the private feelings of the prince where manly feelings are the most vulnerable. She was of a Catholic family, herself a Catholic; and this was easily turned against the Prince of Wales, at a period of religious bigotry, and political alarm, especially in the mind of George III.--_Ibid._

* * * * *

A GREAT SLEEPER.

The Stadtholder, who had recently fled from Holland, was also the prince's guest, and afforded amusement by the whimsical incongruity with which he chose his occasions for going to sleep. The princess commanded a play for his entertainment: in spite of her vivacity and utmost efforts, he slept and snored in the box beside her, and was roused with some difficulty when the curtain fell. A ball having been given in compliment to him at the Castle-tavern, he fell asleep whilst eating his supper, and snored so loud as to disturb the harmony of the orchestra and the decorum of the assembly. His Dutch highness was also entertained, if the term in this instance be admissible, with a grand masquerade, and was perplexed by the difficulty of resolving in what dress or character he should attend it. The Prince of Wales said he might go as _an old woman_.--_Ibid_.

* * * * *

PRIVATE MEMOIRS OF GEORGE III.

It was well known to be the habit of Geo. III. to write in various folios, for an hour after he rose in the morning. This practice was not obviously consistent with his want of facility and taste in any sort of composition; but his manuscripts were only registers of names, with notes annexed of the services, the offences, and the characters, as he judged them, of the respective persons. "In addition," says a publication of 1779 "_to the numerous private registers always kept by the king_, and written with his own hand, he has lately kept another, of all those Americans who have either left the country voluntarily rather than submit to the rebels, and also of such as have been driven out by force; with an account of their losses and services." It is somewhat cruel to lay bare "the bosomed secrets" of any man, even after the grave has closed upon his passions and weaknesses; but if these registers of George III. still exist, and should ever come to light, they will be as curious private memoirs as have ever appeared: they doubtless promoted the remembrance and compensation of losses and services; but they also produced his petty long-cherished resentments, less hurtful to their objects than injurious to his own character and torturing to his breast.--_Ibid_.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

SUPPOSED POSTHUMOUS WORK OF DR. JOHNSON'S.

_An Ode written April 15, 1786._

St. Paul's deep bell, from stately tower, Had sounded once and twice the hour-- Blue burnt the midnight taper; Hags their dark spells o'er cauldrons hewed, While Sons of Ink their work pursued, Printing "the Morning Paper."

Say, Herald, Chronicle, or Post, Which then beheld great Johnson's ghost, Grim, horrible, and squalid? Compositors their letters dropt, Pressmen their printing engines stopt, And devils all grew pallid.

Enough! the spectre cried, Enough! No more of your fugacious stuff, Trite anecdotes and stories! Rude martyrs of Sam. Johnson's name, You rob him of his honest fame, And tarnish all his glories.

First in the fertile tribe is seen _Tom Tyres_, in the Magazine, That teazer of Apollo! With goose-quill he, like desperate knife, Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life, And calls the town to swallow.

The cry once up, the dogs of news, Who hunt for paragraphs the stews, Yelp out "_Johnsoniana!_" Their nauseous praise but moves my bile, Like tartar, carduus, camomile, Or ipecacuanha.

Next Boswell comes, for 'twas my lot To find at last _one_ honest _Scot_ With constitutional veracity; Yet garrulous he tells too much, On fancied failings prone to touch With sedulous loquacity.

At length, Job's patience it would try, _Brewed_ on my lees comes "_Thrale's Entrie,"_ Straining to draw my picture; For _she_ a common-place book kept, "_Johnson at Streatluim dined and slept,_" And who shall contradict her?

Thrale lost midst fiddles and sopranos, With them plays fortes and pianos, Adagio and allegro. I loved Thrale's widow and Thrale's wife But now, believe--to write my life! I'd rather trust my negro.