there was no more need of his coming to Lucy, than of his coming to me. Every day of his life, he used to come; his very horse knew the place, and used to stop at the gate as natural as our old mare." "And when she got well did he leave off coming?" "No, no! he came still, but not so often. He seemed not to know his own mind and kept on dilly dally, shilly shally, and the poor thing pined and fretted, as I could see that was watching her, though she never said a word to me of the matter, nor I to her; and then this offer to go to Russia came, and she accepted it, I do verily believe, partly to get as far from him as she could. Ah! well-a-day, it's a sad thing when young gentlemen don't know their own minds!" sighed the tender-hearted Mrs. Pither; "they don't know the grief they're causing!" "What did he say when he heard she was going abroad?" asked I. "That intelligence might have made him acquainted with the state of his own affections." Lackaday, ma'am !" exclaimed Martha, on whom a sudden ray of light seemed to have broken, "so it might! and I verily believe that to this hour he knows nothing of the matter! What a pity there's not a little more time! The ship sails on Saturday, and this is Thursday night! Let's look at the letter," pursued Martha, diving into her huge pockets. "I'm sure it said the ship, Roebuck, sailed on Saturday morning. Where can the letter be!" exclaimed Martha,after an unsuccessful hunt amidst the pincushions, needle-books, thread-cases, scissars, handkerchiefs, gloves, mittens, purses, thimbles, primers, tops, apples, buns, and pieces of gingerbread, with which her pockets were loaded, and making an especial search amongst divers odd-looking notes and memorandams, which the said receptacles contained. "Where can the letter be? Fetch your father, Dolly! Saddle the gray mare, Jem! Tell Lucy I want to speak to her, Tom!" and with these several directions to some of the elder children, who were by this time crowding about her, Martha bustled off, in total forgetfulness of myself and of the loaf which I had paid for, but not received; and after vainly waiting for a few minutes, during which I got a nearer view of the elegant Lucy, and thought within myself, how handsome a couple she and Mr. Foster would have made, I mounted my pony phaeton and took my departure. The next morning Martha in her shay-cart (as she called her equipage), appeared at our door like an honest woman, with my loaf and a thousand apologies. Her face was tied up, as is usual in cases of tooth-ach, and though she did not on narrow observation look as if much ailed her, for her whole comely face was radiant with happiness, I thought it only courteous to ask what was the matter. "Lord love you, ma'am, nothing!" quoth Martha; "only after you went away I rummaged out the letter, and found that the Roebuck did sail the Saturday as I thought, and that if I meant to take your kind hint, no time was to be lost. So I had the tooth-ach immediately, and sent my master to fetch the doctor. It was lucky his being a doctor, because one always can send for them at a minute's warning, as one may say. So I sent for Mr. Edward to cure my tooth-ach, and told him the news." "And did he draw your tooth, Martha?" "Heaven help him! not he! he never said a word about me or my aches, but was off like a shot to find Lucy, who was rambling about somewhere in the moonlight to take a last look of the old grounds; and it's quite remarkable how little time these matters take, for when I went out for a bit of a stroll half an hour afterwards, to see how the land lay, I came bolt upon them by accident, and found that he had popped the question, that she had accepted him, and that the whole affair was as completely settled as if it had been six months about. So Lucy stays to be married, and I am going in my shaycart to fetch her trunks and boxes from Portsmouth. No need to fling them away, though we must lose the passagemoney, I suppose; for all her silks and muslins, and trinkum-trankums, which I found so much fault with, will be just the thing for the wedding! To think how things come round!" added Martha. "And what a handy thing the toothach is sometimes! I don't think there's a happier person any where than I am at this minute, except, perhaps, Lucy and Mr. Edward, and they are walking about making love under the fir-trees in the park." And off she drove a complete illustra tion of Prospero's feeling, though ex- So glad of this, as they, I cannot be, At nothing can be more. THE CITIZEN'S MR. CHUм's grounds were delightfully situate; but from the time the owner had left the city, that is, fourteen years, he had been exerting every effort of bad taste to mar their natural advantages. There were at least eight summer-houses, videlicet, a grotto, a bust-room, a bellevue, a folly, an armory, a reading-room, a sentry-box, and a boat-house: these were all emanations of Mr. Chum's genius for designing, the executive part being principally performed by the most eminent artists a small country village could afford. We were first introduced to the grotto, which did its part, and made our teeth chatter with its chilling aspect. It was composed of whitewashed stones, intersected with bits of looking-glass, and some of the wine-bottles broken in the course of our genial bachelor's housekeeping, all placed in a sort of patchwork patterns; this he viewed with great complacency, telling us it was chiefly the work of his own hands. The bust-room was octagonal, and furnished with deplorable casts of remarkable men of past and present times. Tom Paine was in friendly junction with Archbishop Tillotson. Guy Fawkes, a most sinister-looking personage, placed between George IV. and Calvin, seemed meditating how he might best blow them both up. Johnson's surly aspect might proceed from the archheresiarch Voltaire being put above him. Cowper was evidently nervous at being in so much company; and poor Thomson, in a scroll from his mouth, was obliged to bear testimony to the pleasure of contemplating such a scene. Pitt and Fox were both on the same bench; Brougham's mouth, wide open, appeared to be bawling for reform; and William IV., exactly opposite, seemed about to launch into the aperture. The only lady admitted was Catherine of Russia, who evinced no displeasure at being sur COUNTRY HOUSE. rounded by such body-guards. The reading-room contained an easy chair, a telescope, some caricatures, and nine volumes of different periodicals. Mr. Chum observed that this was a pleasant place to study in after dinner, especially as his glass enabled him to see all that was passing on the high road. We were very properly alarmed as passing the sentry-box, which was guarded by a fierce stuffed dragoon, who presented his gun, and required the watchword of us by the assistance of the footboy, who had been previously wedged in behind him. The hermitage, too, had its appropriate tenant—a wooden monk with a glass eye, one having been knocked out unfortunately the day before by a mischievous pickle of a nephew, who had thrown a stone at the saint. His rosary was composed of beads as large as pigeons' eggs; and, that nothing might be wanting to the costume of the holy man, an old missal was tied to his hand, and subjected to his contemplation; within it was placed the following admonitory lines, composed, as Mr. Chum told us with a satisfied appealing chuckle, by himself: All you who pensive pass this way, Read this good book, and do not flee, something very like a laugh in our party, The last word of the verse occasioning Mr. Chum informed us it was pure Landonian style that being distressed for giving on the propriety of vanitee, he a rhyme to flee, and having some mishad consulted a friend, a great scholar, who told him that nothing could be more happy than the repetition; it was impressive, and borne out in Scripture, and, with regard to the spelling, he could bring authorities from old books to prove it right. He would have gone on to inform us from what sources all the ideas in his lines were taken, but we assured him of our perfect satisfaction with all and every part of them. A folio of blank paper was placed in the Folly, in which all visiters were requested to write something. On looking over the effusions of our predecessors, we were convinced that nothing could be more appropriate than the name of the apart ment we were in; aided, too, by all sorts of oddities and monstrosities Chinese idols, horned owls, a mammoth's tooth, and seats that invited you to sit down, and then startled you up by a noise like a cat-concert. Then there were pictures of famous fools-others of the world turned upside down, horses driving men in tandems, eels frying cooks, husbands obeying wives, children correcting papas and mammas, lawyers giving advice gratis, physicians refusing fees, actresses at quakers' meetings, and other subjects of the same ludicrous description, the ideas of which Mr. Chum assured us were original, and his own. The Belle-Vue was built on the sum mit of a newly-formed mount, an imitation Tower of Babel, about thirty feet in altitude; this arduous ascent was gained by a narrow winding path, which to prevent accidents was edged by a castiron grating. Our attention was next directed to the new pond and fountain, which last was a heap three yards in height, made of round stones, coarse shells, and more broken bottles: its summit was adorned with a most recondite green beast between a bat and a dragon, which spouted from the corners of its ugly mouth two thin streams of water, which was more plentifully supplied from a hole in its back. From the Tower Mr. Chum conducted us to the Armory through a sort of labyrinth, in which we were warned not to lose ourselves; it was fitted up with painted glass windows, between which hung several mismatched suits of armour, which he told us were mostly great bargains picked up at different sales. He inquired what I thought of the painting at the upper end, representing a man in a bran-new coat, with a corslet round his neck instead of a cravat, holding on one arm a bossed shield, the other hand resting on a gun; a brass helmet and horsehair plume waved over a red full-blown visage, which, upon closer inspection, I thought must be intended for Mr. Chum. He rubbed his hands with great glee at my discovery, but admitted with an air of humility, that the armour over his own clothes was not entirely his own thought, but was the suggestion of the painter, who did them all at so much a-head, one with another (for a bad debt); and who told him it would give tints and breadth, and be in harmony and keeping with the rest. "And what," said the original, "do you think of the eyes?-don't they seem to follow wherever you go? and as to the mouth, by George, it does all but speak." I inquired why a blank window had been left; he looked very knowingly, and replied that it was impossible to say but some fine morning he might find a Mrs. Chum to fill it up; at the worst, his nephew might, when he was dead and gone, have his own put there. “This notion was put into my head,” said Mr. Chum, "by the banqueting-room at Arundel Castle, where I saw the Duke of Norfolk and his nephew here, there, and every where, as fat as bacon." The other windows were full-lengths of John the Baptist and Julius Cæsar, a Madonna and the late Queen Caroline. I think, after all, the boat-house was the favourite: here all was made-the very island on which it stood, constructed on the river at the bottom of his grounds, was done all by himself, with the assistance only of labourers. The roof of the boat-house was like an inverted ship, over which the British colours floated, denoting, as Mr. Chum observed, the presence of the commander. We at length reached the house in which Mr. Chum pointed out fifteen or twenty rooms, with fashionable names, all of them having been christened after the apartments of the great. The breakfast-parlour, dining-parlour, waitingparlour, and anteroom, had been all partitioned out of one of good size. The housekeeper's room, butler's room, and servants' hall, were made out of a second. The entrance-hall, originally not large, had been robbed of a portion for a porter's room; and what had been a good drawing-room was deprived of enough for a music-room and a readingroom for bad weather. Of course threefourths of the apartments had no fireplaces, and none would hold a third person without extreme inconvenience. In short, what had been a comfortable fishing-box, with six rooms and an acre of ground, was then a bunch of cupboards without a room large enough to swing a cat, and a mass of outworks that crowded even the poor cabbages into a decline. Mr. Chum now lives in ON THE POWER OF LANGUAGE It would be a curious object of philosophical inquiry to discover, if possible, the cause why one mode of expressing a sentiment produces a lively, impressive, and exhilarating emotion, while the same sentiment, conveyed with equal, perhaps greater clearness, in a different form, shall produce no impression. Every speech remarkable for its eloquence, whether delivered in parliament or at the bar, will, when analyzed, be found to owe its celebrity, not so much to the closeness of its reasoning or the novelty of its illustration, as to the apt selection of harmonious words, of striking epithets, and the beauties of figurative diction. It will be found, too, that the sentences have a musical cadence; that no period is suffered to fall harshly on the ear, but that the close of every important sentence is rounded till the slightest roughness is polished off. In every perfect oration the sentences-like the tones of the voice which utters them-should be sweet, rich, and beautifully varied. Eloquence is consistent with the most perfect simplicity of diction, but is utterly incompatible with guttural sounds or with rugged and shaggy periods. The restless anxiety with which many great writers have been known to touch and retouch their compositions, before giving them finally to the public, has arisen from the difficulty of satisfying the perfection of their own musical ear. Rousseau has acknowledged that between his first committing a sentence to paper and his final adoption of it, his obliterations and alterations were countless. Robertson, Gibbon, Burke, Canning, and other distinguished men, have been remarkable for the same fastidious care. In poetry it is somewhat different. It is not pointed and brilliant sentences that are sought after; every line must be dulcet and sweet to the ear; the IN POETRY AND ELOQUENCE. slightest violation of the measure destroys the musical proportion of the period, and the reader of taste is offended. The effect on him is the same as a false note to an accomplished musician; it is revolting, and, in some instances, even painful. All this depends upon certain laws of our nature, which, however mysterious, depend much upon the original frame and make of the minds upon which they operate. A person having a fine musical ear, and highly susceptible of the effects produced by the melody of sounds, feels a strong sensation of uneasiness when listening to a performer that plays either out of time or out of tune. It is the same with a fine poet who hears his productions recited by does not duly regulate the measure by one who lays a false emphasis, or who the stops, but goes on confounding commas with colons, to the utter destruction of all euphony. It is perhaps impossible to define what it is that constitutes the sublime; but one point is certain, that it depends in most instances more upon the words in which the thought is conveyed, than in the thought itself. Change the words, or give the sentence but a syllable more or less, and its sublimity is gone. LONGINUS, for instance, quotes the following line in Genesis as a sample of the truly sublime : "And God said, let there be light, and there was light." Suppose the same fact to be thus expressed: And God said, let there be light, and the instant the command was given, there was light. Now the words here introduced do not alter the thought, but they change the position of the accent; the sentence cannot be read as before; the majesty' of the conception is frittered away-it does not flash upon the mind as previously it did—the effect is intercepted, and the sublime disappears. In any instance in which we are desirous of ascertaining whether the beauty of any particular passage arises from the thought itself, or from the form of expression, the best test is to translate it into another language. No translation from the Spanish can embalm the style of Cervantes. The beauties of Don Quixote are wedded to the original, and cannot be divorced from it. The poetical visions of Shakspeare, or of Milton, cannot be transferred into the French language; nor can the felicitous expressions of Voltaire or Le Sage be given in an English dress. In fact, it is rare indeed that the productions of any writer of original genius can be translated without losing much of their effect. Burke considers obscurity as one of the sources of the sublime. "There is a passage," says he, "in the Book of Job amazingly sublime, and this sublimity is principally due to the terrible uncertainty of the thing described.-In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face. The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes; there was silence, and I heard a voice, Shall mortal man be more just than God. We are first prepared," says Mr. Burke, "with the utmost solemnity for the vision; we are terrified, before we are let even into the obscure cause of our emotion; but when this grand cause of our terror makes its appearance, what is it? Is it not wrapt up in the shades of its own incomprehensible darkness, more awful, more striking, more terrible, than the liveliest description, than the clearest painting could possibly represent it ?”* We cannot help thinking, however, that Mr. Burke's theory of the sublime in the above instance is fanciful, and has no foundation in the feelings of our common nature, by which alone the truth of his theory can be tried. We doubt much if any reader of the above passage, when he comes to the words "but I could not discern the form thereof," feels at all terrified, or has any thing like an emotion of dread come over his mind. Every striking and vivid description of a supernatural appearance is matter of interest. The imagination of most persons is strongly affected by the marvellous; but in the above passage from the Book of Job, when the writer abstains from giving a distinct personification of the Spirit which passed before him in his vision of the night, it is not with a view to sublimity, but because any attempt to invest it with distinct and tangible shape would have broken the charm. As it stands, the passage is highly poetical; any effort beyond it in the way of portraiture, would have infallibly approached the ludicrous. Every one must be left to sketch the spectre to his own fancy, and the stronger his power of imagining, the more appalling will be the figure he calls up before him. The sublime on such an occasion depends, therefore, not on the obscurity in which the description is left, but on the fervour of conception with which it is pictured by the reader. This is an important distinction, which those writers who have treated on the sublime in poetry have not attended to. We have had painters who have ventured on the delineation of Milton's Death, which he describes as having no shape Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb. Every such attempt has been a miserable failure; how could it be otherwise? It is, surely, quite enough that we overlook the solecism of drawing Death with his scythe. To mow down the human race requires Herculean strength. It is a lash which demands unceasing activity, and to paint Death with the attributes of Life, is to give us a representation of it which only the goodnature of criticism can pardon. As well might Silence be painted, in the act of delivering an oration. I remember a picture of Creation, by Martin, which had for its subject the passage in Genesis, "And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters." Floating along the waves was an arm, with a leg swimming in the distance; * Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful. |