Part 14

From the Luxembourg we proceeded through a long sunny avenue, to the observatory. On the left of the road, Arnaud our valet de place, pointed out the spot upon which Marshal Ney was shot. "Regardez, Mesdames! ce fut la (pointing with his finger) l'endroit ou le brave Maréchal Ney fut massacré--Jétais présent et il me semble que je le vois tout sanglant dans le moment," said he, shuddering. We paused to look at the once bloody spot, now verdant with grass and so sadly interesting. The observatory may be considered a wonderful building, for neither iron nor wood have been used in its construction; it is entirely of stone, each piece being ingeniously fitted to another. Four astronomers pursue their avocations here, and have the advantage of a good library and apparatus; there are, likewise, an anemometer for indicating the course of the wind, and a pluviometer for measuring the quantity of rain that falls at Paris. A geometrical staircase leads to the entrance of some spacious caverns where experiments in congelation are made, and these caverns communicate with subterranean galleries that were originally quarries, and extend a considerable distance under the city, containing beautiful stalactites, formed by water oozing through the rocks. We did not see them, for they cannot be entered without a special guide, and a written permission from certain persons appointed by government to superintend and inspect them. But my stars! I have exhausted nearly all my paper, and have yet a dozen places to describe! Well, well, you must be contented with an account of two of the most important; and by the time I have finished with them, I shall have to _squeeze_ in my name, no doubt. And now let me decide which of the various objects we have examined, I ought to regard as chief. Why, the mother church of France "Notre Dame," and the Pantheon, to be sure! The first is the most ancient religious structure in the city, and is pronounced to be one of the handsomest in the kingdom. Being built in the Gothic ages, its architecture is according to the fashion of those times, very singular and bold.--The interior of the building corresponds with the outside in curious carving and designs; the choir and the stalls surrounding it are covered with grotesque sculpture. There are no less than thirty chapels, and all of them contain pictures, but they are generally very indifferent. There are several fine ones around the choir--among them the "Visitation," by Jean Jouvenet; this painting was executed entirely with his left hand, after he lost the use of his right by a paralytic stroke. Behind the altar, is a good piece of sculpture by Coustou; the subject is the "descent from the cross." In the vestry room, we were shewn some extraordinary relics,--such as part of the crown of thorns that was worn by our Saviour, and a bit of his cross!! We also saw the regalia of Charlemagne, and the splendid robes given to the priests of this cathedral by Buonaparte at the period of his coronation, upon which occasion they were used; they are embroidered in the richest manner with gold and silver, and amazingly heavy. Numerous sacred festivals are celebrated at Notre Dame in the course of the year; and in August there is to be a procession in fulfilment of a vow made by Louis XIII. This is done on the 15th of that month annually, and the royal family always join in it. We shall go to see it of course; and how I wish you, aunt Margaret and Albert were to be of our party!

The Pantheon, or Church of Saint Geneviève, is a magnificent structure, and its dome is the most striking object that presents itself as you approach Paris. The interior of it is beautifully painted, the artist having chosen for his subject the apotheosis of Louis XVI and his family. When the work was finished, the king went to see it, and after looking at it attentively for a quarter of an hour, he turned to the painter Gros who was anxiously awaiting his opinion, and said to him, "Eh bien Monsieur le _Baron_ votre ouvrage est trés bien fait!" thus recompensing his talents, by bestowing on him a title of nobility. Saint Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris, is buried in the Pantheon, and her tomb is always surrounded by lighted tapers, the votive offerings of those who come to demand her intercession for pardon or blessing. In the vaults beneath the church, many distinguished men are interred. Indeed, it was to receive the ashes of such that the Pantheon was designed; and Louis XV, who was the liberal encourager of science and art, was the founder of it.

Contrary to my expectations, I find I've yet space enough to inform you that we have been twice to the Italian Opera, to hear Madame Malibran and Mademoiselle Sontag. The former seems really adored here. At her benefit, many gentlemen voluntarily paid one hundred francs for a ticket, instead of twenty, the actual price. She sings enchantingly and acts with great spirit; so does her rival Mademoiselle Sontag. In fact, I know not to which of these nightingales I prefer listening. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

"My life's employment and my leisure's charm, My soul's first choice, my fancy's early flame; My chance of fortune and my hopes of fame."

_Shee_.

There is no subject on which mankind more unhesitatingly decide, than upon the productions of the pencil, and none perhaps upon which the people of our own country especially, are so little qualified to form a correct judgment. Few works of any excellence ever reach us, and these are for the most part confined to the large cities, where those who visit them are more attracted by the _subject_ than the _execution_ of the painting. A striking illustration of this, may be found in the crowds which rushed a short time since, to see the immodest and demoralizing exhibition of our _first parents in a state of nudity_--an offence for which Ham was accursed to be a servant of servants to his brethren; and yet our modest maidens, attended by their equally modest beaux, hastened in company to view this production of Parisian profligacy. At the same time, the splendid painting of "Christ rejected" by the eminent West, scarcely attracted notice; and the beautiful "Star of Bethlehem" by Cole, twinkled in an empty hall. Still no one doubts his own intuitive knowledge of the arts!--He does not, indeed, profess to understand the _modus operandi_, by which they are perfected,--but yet he knows exactly what _delights_ him, and with equally becoming modesty, knows how to _censure_ what he does not like,--although to the real _connoisseur_, the work condemned may perchance be one of superlative beauty and value. There are some who fall into raptures at Cimmerian darkness and obscurity in a picture; they have heard that the works of the old masters are very dark,--_ergo_, all black pictures must be very good. Some have heard that Reubens and Rembrandt, painted with a bold free pencil,--and every daub is therefore free and bold; and there are others the very antipodes of these, who would have the canvass ivory smooth, and always test the excellence of a picture with their finger's ends. Such are the arbiters of taste, to whom the artist must look for patronage and favor; to whose critical acumen he must sacrifice the highest professional attainments, and all the poetry of imagery, for the prosing portraiture of vulgar nature as the uninstructed eye perceives it. Against such critics, Sir Joshua Reynolds warned his young academecians. "Study not," said he, "to please the many, but the few of cultivated taste." Alas! how few in any age, have given that attention to the subject which is essential to the formation of a correct judgment. They say,--do we not see and understand what nature is, and can we not tell when the artist has truly represented her?--We answer no. The eye unaccustomed to _contemplate_ nature, cannot perceive the ever changing beauty of her scenery,--her lights and shades more various than the Dolphins hues; nor can it discern that play of the thoughts and passions in the "human face divine," which eludes common observation, and is beheld only by him who has studied profoundly, that wonderful title page to the volume of mind. Nature, it is true, like a lovely and virtuous maiden, is seen and admired by all; but the blush which reveals her sweetest charm, is only perceived and felt by the devoted lover. That Lover is the artist. To him the revolving year, brings but a change of _beauty_. It is the element in which he breathes,--the aliment on which he lives; his eye detects each flitting shadow--and the whole world of real or imaginary things, is to his mind full of moving pictures, which he can, in a moment, transfix and perpetuate on his canvass. On him the graces attend, and wreathe the flowers of every season into garlands of beauty; the jocund spring strews buds and blossoms in his way, which he transplants to other climes, to live in unfading bloom, and flourish on the same wall with the fruits of summer, or mingle with the sober and varied hues of autumn. Even winter, with frosty locks and snowy visage, is compelled to linger in social companionship with the burning heats of tropical regions. Old Time, in his onward march, strews cities and temples in the path of the artist, but his pencil like the wand of the enchanter, bids their sculptured fragments remain forever, and they obey him. When Aurora comes forth in the chariot of day, and Cynthia lights her pale lamp at Diana's altar,--he snatches promethean fire from heaven, and like Joshua, commands the unwearied sun to stand still, and the glowing canvass receives it. He not only transfers

"Italian skies to English walls,"

but by the magic of his pencil, the very faces and persons of the fair and the brave of ages gone by, come down to our day in the bloom of youth, and with the daring eye, as they lived and moved when Shakspeare wrote, or lovely Juliet died.

Where do not the trophies of this incomparable art arrest our attention?--from the ruins of Pompeii to imperial Rome, or from the Vatican, where Raphael's immortal pencil traced the transfiguration, to Hampton Court, the gallery of the cartoons, and of that fair but frail society, of which England's voluptuous monarch was the sun and centre.[1] But these are neither black, nor daubed, nor smooth!--and yet they are excellent in art, and have been so esteemed for three hundred years. To these the painter may appeal as imbodying all that is noble in his profession, or like Sir Joshua, who felt and understood, what others only imagined, he may patiently submit to the ignorance of vanity--and the vanity of ignorance.

When they talk of their Raphael, Corregio and Stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

G. C.

[Footnote 1: The cartoons of Raphael and the court of Charles II by Sir Peter Lely, form a part of the collection at Hampton court.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

The following tale was translated from the French of M. Florian, by the present hand, about 7 or 8 years ago, for a Richmond newspaper. That translation its author has not seen since 1827; and lately meeting with the original again, it seemed new enough, as well as sufficiently pretty and interesting, to be worth presenting afresh to the public through the Southern Literary Messenger. It is seldom that so much varied incident has been compressed into so short a compass: yet the rapidity of the narrative has not hindered the writer from indulging a humor both playful and caustic, upon the foibles which he banters, and the vices and crimes which he holds up to detestation. And the moral, disclosed in unravelling the mystery of the allegorical personage from whom the story takes its name, is full at once of beauty and truth.

M.

* * * * *

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.

The THOUSAND-AND-ONE NIGHTS have always appeared to me charming tales; but I should like them better, if they had oftener a moral scope. Scheherezade, I am aware, is too handsome to be at the trouble of being rational: I know, that with so pretty a face, she has no need of common sense; and that the sultan would have been less enamored, if she had been less silly. These great truths I devoutly believe: and I merely repeat, that for my own part, I would rather read stories which _make me reflect_, while they amuse me. Extravagance is a fine thing, no doubt; but a picture must have shade: and I would fain have reason appear now and then, to make folly go off the better. So an uncle of mine once thought. He had often sailed in the Levant; and had amused himself while there, by composing PERSIAN TALES. They are far below the _Thousand-and-one Nights_ in imagination, but exceed them infinitely in number; for my uncle in his life-time made four thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight--all of which are now lost except the following one, preserved by me.

* * * * *

Under the reign of a Persian king, whose name my uncle does not tell, a merchant of Balsora was ruined by commercial disasters; and, collecting the shattered remains of his fortune, retired to the province of Kusistan. He there bought a dwelling, and a farm which he cultivated badly, because he was perpetually regretting his days of opulence and ease. Chagrin shortened his life; he perceived his end to be near; and, calling his four sons around him, he said--"My children, I have nothing to bequeath you but this house, and a secret which I was bound to conceal till now. In the time of my wealth, I had for my friend the genius Alzim; who promised to befriend you when I should be no more, and to divide a treasure amongst you. He dwells some miles hence, in the great forest of Kom. Go--find him: claim the treasure: but take heed not to believe." ... Death here suppressed the merchant's voice.

His four sons, after interring and mourning him, repaired to the forest of Kom. They inquired for the mansion of the genius Alzim: it was readily shewn them. He was known to the whole country: he received kindly all who visited him; he heard their complaints, consoled them, and lent them money if they needed it. But these benefits were upon the sole condition of _implicitly obeying his directions_. This was his whim. No one could enter his palace without an oath to comply with this condition.

The oath did not deter the merchant's three eldest sons: the fourth, whose name was Tai, thought it a very ridiculous ceremony. Yet, being obliged to enter in order to receive the treasure, he swore, like his brothers: but reflecting on the dangerous consequences of so rash a vow, and remembering that his father, who frequently came to this palace, had passed his life in follies, he resolved, without committing perjury, to place himself out of danger; and, whilst they were leading him to the genius, stopped his ears with perfumed wax. Thus fortified, he prostrated himself before Alzim's throne. The genius made the sons of his ancient friend arise; embraced them, shed tears to his memory, and had a large chest brought, full of dariques. "Here," said he, "is the treasure I design for you. I am going to divide it among you; and I will then tell each the way he must take to be perfectly happy."

Tai heard not what the genius said; but watching him attentively, he saw in his eyes and visage traits of cunning and malignity which gave him much food for thought. Still, he received his portion of the treasure gratefully. Alzim, having thus enriched them, assumed an affectionate tone, and said; "My dear children, your good or bad fortune depends upon your meeting sooner or later a certain being named BATHMENDI, of whom all the world speaks, but whom few, very few, know. Wretched mortals grope after him in vain: But I, for the love I bear you, will whisper to each of you where he may be found." At these words, Alzim takes Bekir, the eldest brother, aside, and says--"My son, you were born with courage, and great military talents. The king of Persia has just sent an army against the Turks. Join that army: in the Persian camp you will find Bathmendi." Bekir thanks the genius, and already burns to march.

Alzim beckoned Mesrou, the second son, to approach. "You," said he, "have shrewdness, address, and a great propensity to falsehood. Take the road to Ispahan; 'tis at court that you must seek Bathmendi."

To the third brother, whose name was Sadder, he said, "You are gifted with a lively and fruitful imagination: You see objects not as they are, but as you would have them be; you often possess genius, and not always common sense: be a poet. Take the route to Agra: among the wits and fair ladies of that city, you may find Bathmendi."

Tai, in his turn, advanced; and, thanks to the pallets of wax, heard not one word that Alzim said. It has since been ascertained, that he counselled Tai to become a Dervise.

After thanking the beneficent genius, the four brothers returned home. The three eldest dreamed of nothing but Bathmendi. Tai unstopped his ears, and heard them arrange their departure, and determine to sell their little dwelling to the first bidder, in order to divide the price. Tai offered to become the purchaser: he caused the house and farm to be valued, paid his brothers their respective portions, and embracing them tenderly, with a thousand good wishes, remained alone in the paternal mansion.

He then employed himself in executing a scheme, which he had long meditated. He was enamored of young Amine, the daughter of a neighboring farmer. She was handsome and discreet: she managed her father's household, comforted his declining years, and prayed Heaven for two things--that her father might long live, and that she might be the wife of Tai. Her prayers were heard. Tai asked, and obtained her. Her father went to live with his son-in-law, and taught him the art of enriching the ground, so as to be enriched by it in return. Tai had some gold still remaining of Alzim's gift: he employed it in extending his farm, and in buying a flock. The farm doubled its value; the fleeces of the sheep were sold; plenty reigned in Tai's house; and, as he was industrious and his wife frugal, each year augmented their income. Children, that ruin wealthy idlers, in the cities, enrich laborers. At the end of seven years, Tai, the father of six lovely children, the husband of a sweet and virtuous wife, son-in-law to an aged, yet a hale and amiable man, master of several slaves, and of two flocks,--was the happiest and the most independent farmer of Kusistan.

Meantime his three brothers were in chase of Bathmendi. Bekir arrived at the Persian camp; presented himself to the grand vizier, and begged to be employed in the most hazardous services. His mien, and his gallant bearing, pleased the vizier, who admitted him into a squadron of cavalry. In a few days, a bloody battle took place. Bekir achieved prodigies; saved his general's life, and captured the general of the enemy. The camp rung with the praises of Bekir: all the soldiers called him the champion of Persia; and the grateful vizier promoted his deliverer to the rank of general. "Alzim was right," said Bekir to himself; "'tis here that fortune awaits me; I am evidently about to find Bathmendi."

Bekir's glory, and especially his promotion, aroused the envy and the murmurs of all the satraps. Some of them came to ask him about his father; complaining that they had suffered by his bankruptcy: others pretended to have held _madam his mother_ as a slave: all refused to serve under him, because they were his seniors in office. Bekir, made miserable by his very successes, lived alone, ever on the watch, ever in danger of some outrage, which he might amply revenge but could not prevent. He regretted the time when he was a mere private soldier, and awaited impatiently the close of the war; when the Turks, reinforced by fresh troops, and led by a new general, made an attack upon his division. It was the juncture, for which the satraps of the army had long wished. They exerted a hundred times more ability in procuring the defeat of their leader, than they had ever shewn to avoid defeat themselves. Bekir defended himself like a lion: but he was neither obeyed nor seconded. In vain did the Persian soldiers wish to fight: their officers restrained them, and led them only to flight. The valiant Bekir, abandoned, covered with wounds, and overwhelmed by numbers, was taken by the Janissaries. The Turkish commander unworthily loaded him with irons, and sent him to Constantinople, where he was thrown into a frightful dungeon. "Alas!" cried Bekir, "I begin to think that Alzim has deceived me: for I cannot hope to meet Bathmendi here."

The war lasted fifteen years, and the satraps always obstructed the exchange of Bekir. His dungeon was not opened until peace came: he hurried to Ispahan, to seek his patron the vizier, whose life he had saved. It was three weeks before he could obtain an audience. Fifteen years, in prison, make some change in the appearance of a handsome young man. Bekir was not easily to be recognized: and the vizier did not know him again. However, on calling to mind the various events of his own illustrious life, he did remember that Bekir had done him some trifling service. "Aye--yes, friend," said he; "I will requite you. A brave man--but the empire is deeply in debt: a long war, and grand feastings have exhausted our finances. However--come and see me again--I will try--I will see"--"Alas, my lord!" said Bekir, "I have not a morsel of bread; and in the fifteen days that I have been waiting for a moment's interview with your highness, I should have died of hunger, but for a soldier of the guard, my old comrade, who shared his pay with me." "That was very good of the soldier," said the vizier; "really, it is quite touching. I will report it to the king. Come and see me again; you know I love you." And with these words, he turned his back upon him. Bekir returned the next day, and found the gate closed. In despair, he left the palace and the city, resolving never to enter them again.

Throwing himself at the foot of a tree, on the bank of the river Zenderou, he reflected upon the ingratitude of viziers, his own past misfortunes, and those which menaced him; and, unable to endure thoughts so dismal, he arose, to plunge into the stream--when he felt himself clasped by a beggar, who bathed his face with tears, and sobbed out, "it is my brother; it is my dear Bekir!" Looking up, Bekir recognised Mesrou. No one can find a long-lost brother without pleasure; but an unfortunate, needy, friendless, and hopeless, who is about to end his life in despair, thinks, that in a brother whom he loves, he sees an angel from Heaven. Mesrou and Bekir at once felt this sentiment: they press each other to their bosoms--they mingle their tears--and, after the first moments of tenderness, they gaze at each other with affliction and surprise. "You too, then, are unhappy!" cried Bekir. "This is the first moment of happiness," said Mesrou, "that I have enjoyed since our separation." At these words, embracing again, they leaned upon each other; and Mesrou, seated beside Bekir, began his narrative as follows: