NOTES OF A READER.
Reading edition
CORRUPT STATE OF THE WESTERN CHURCH IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.
ODD DISPUTE.
During the coronation of Conrad II., Emperor of Germany, in 1204, a dispute arose between a Roman and a German for a vile ox's hide. It began with blows, proceeded with stones, and ended by an appeal to arms; and, after a stout resistance on the part of the Roman people against the German army, the former were obliged to fly, and were almost totally massacred. The remainder, although humbled, and in a wretched condition, were constrained the next day to pass barefooted before the emperor,—the freemen with their swords unsheathed, the slaves with a knot round their necks,—declaring themselves ready to obey him, and asking pardon. What a beautiful contrast between the guardians and defenders of the Roman people in their frocks and mitres, with these brave men in their helmets and togas! Such was the triumph over a nation overcome more by its prejudices than by force, and under such solemn circumstances.
Ibid.
AN INDIAN TALE, AND OTHER POEMS.
This is a pleasant little volume by our indefatigable correspondent, Benjamin Gough. The tale is founded on an Indian story, by the author of the Kuzzilbash, which appeared in the fifth number of the Metropolitan Magazine; and to it are appended several minor pieces. The main poem will be read with interest. There are in it touches of fine feeling, which would not discredit hands of much higher pretensions. Take this specimen:
There is a time when naught on earth Can re-awake the chords of mirth, When joy with all its cherub wiles Is powerless in creating smiles; The sun of happiness is set, And naught remains but deep regret, And inward pangs and throbs severe, And disappointment's bitter tear! The magic charm that swayed the sense With strong resistless influence Is broken, and its votary left, Of the soul's talisman bereft! In vain the tones of music steal Upon the ear in soft appeal, Or friendship with its soothing voice Bids the hushed tongue again rejoice, So overwhelming is the grief— Death only brings a late relief!
And one of the minor pieces:
A RHAPSODY ON NATURE.
Where's the mastery of mind, Trammelless and unconfined, Probing Nature's boundless scheme, Gauging the stupendous theme? She, that paints horizons bright, Belting heaven and earth with light! Beams upon cherubic gaze— Kindles the volcanic blaze! Makes Euroclydon her zone— Sits upon her thunder throne! Who her eulogy shall dare, Whose brow is wreathed with lightning glare? She, who treads the surgy sea In her stayless majesty, Curbs each wild (erratic) wave. When Atlantic tempests rave! Speaks—the maddened storms increase— Speaks again—and all is peace. 'Tis her breath's propitious gale Swells the weather-beaten sail, Wafts the crew from Britain o'er, Unto India's spicy shore. 'Tis her bounty fills the earth With the joys of wine and mirth, Scatters through her broad domain All the blessings of her reign; Seasons roll at her command, Plenty droppeth from her hand; Earth and sea and spangled sky Own her glorious sovereignty, Walking with a stride immense, In her tall magnificence, Mountain heights, where wonders crowd, Pinnacled in solemn cloud. Andes, or the snowy scalps Of the giant towering Alps! Hills prolific, valley deeps, Where the muse of silence sleeps; Frowning cliff, and beetling rock, Shivered by the deluge shock, When the world was drowned—and now Tottering before Ruin's plough. Forests green, and rivers wide— Every flow and ebb of tide. Rivulets, whose crystal veins Ripple along flowery plains, Leaping torrents rushing hoarse, Mimicking the ocean's force, Leafage in its summer pride— Flowers to Paradise allied. Fruit inviting, luscious, such As seems to paralyze the touch, As ambrosial nectar sweet, Ripe and fit for Gods to eat. Nature's power is seen in all— Winter's Crown, or Spring-birds' call— Summer's eloquent perfume, Autumn's yellow-tinted bloom— Every chiselled sand grain tells Nature's might; the petal cells, Whence the bee her honey draws, Glorify Creation's laws; Things minute, or vast expanse That tires the astronomic glance. Ocean swathed with azure blue, Or the gems of morning dew. Past—with all its mighty deeds, Nature claims its choicest meeds; Present—with portentous calm, Nature claims its chiefest palm; Future—ah! she trembles there, Nature quivers in despair. When the master of the scene, From the cloud-work of serene Asks her long deputed power— Takes her sceptre—bids her cower— Strips her of her ancient robe, She, who once bestrode the globe— Flings around his flaming path Crescents of destructive wrath; Tramples earth, and rolls in fire Forth the thunders of his ire. Nature sinks, no more to rise While JEHOVAH fills the skies With his glory high, sublime— Death is dead, and perished time! What a scene! when naught shall be But Chaos and Eternity!
We are happy to find in Mr. Gough's List of Subscribers to his work, a host of royal and noble patrons, the ministers of the country, the Earl of Eldon, the Lord and Lady Mayoress, and a few of the Court of Aldermen—patronage, court and city—combining to encourage Mr. Gough's praiseworthy efforts.
CAPTAIN MUNDY'S VISIT TO THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON, AT ST. HELENA.
Having passed two hours on the spot where Napoleon lived and died, we rode onwards to the vale which contains his bones: it is about half a mile from Longwood, and within a few hundred yards of the cottage of Madame Bertrand, to whom he indicated the spot in which he desired to rest, should the English not allow his remains to lie on the banks of the Seine. Soon after leaving Bertrand's house, we caught sight of the tomb, at the bottom of the ravine called Slane's valley, and, descending a zig-zag path, we quickly reached the spot. About half an acre round the grave is railed in. At the gate we were received by an old corporal of the St. Helena corps, who has the care of the place. The tomb itself consists of a square stone, about ten feet by seven, surrounded with a plain iron-railing. Four or five weeping-willows, their stems leaning towards the grave, hang their pensile branches over it.
Who could contemplate without interest the little spot of earth which covers all that remains of mortal of the man who made Europe tremble! who carried his victorious arms from the Nile to the Elbe, from Moscow to the Pillars of Hercules; who bore his eagles triumphantly through Vienna, Rome, Berlin, Madrid! Beneath our feet lay he, who "du monde entre ses mains a vu les destinées"—
"The desolator desolate, the victor overthrown!"
The willows are decaying fast, and one of them rests upon the sharp spears of the railing, which are buried in its trunk—as though it were comitting suicide for very grief! The foliage of the rest is thinned and disfigured by the frequent and almost excusable depredations of visiters. Fresh cuttings have however, been planted by the Governor, who intends, moreover, to set cypresses round the outer fence. Madame Bertrand's immortelles have proved, alas! mortal.
The fine, tall, old corporal, who came out from England with the ex-emperor, was full of his praises: "I saw the General often," said the old fellow; "he had an eye in his head like an eagle!" He described the visit of the French pilgrims to this spot—their Kibla—as most affecting. Some are extravagant beyond measure in their grief, falling on their faces round the railing (which they never enter, as foreigners do), praying, weeping, and even tearing their hair. Whilst we were there, my friend of yesterday came towards the spot; but when he saw our large, and, I fear me, rather unimpressed party, he turned upwards, and disappeared. After inscribing our names in a book—into which also appropriate poetry, as well as ribald nonsense finds its way—we drank to Napoleon's immortal memory in his own favourite spring, and mounting our steeds spurred towards Plantation House.
On the road, we passed within view of "the Briars," where the chief resided during the building of Longwood; and where he,
"Whose game was kingdoms, and whose stakes were thrones! His table earth, his dice were human bones!"
played at whist with the owner, Mr. Balcombe, for sugar-plums!