CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 8

MSS. OF JOHN RANDOLPH LETTER I LETTER II LETTER III

TO A LOCK OF HAIR: by J. Doggett, Jr.

EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT: by J. K. Paulding

MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS: by Marlow

FIRST LOVE: by J. C. McCabe

EROSTRATUS

BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835. No. I. The House of Commons.

THIRD LECTURE on the Faults of Teachers

NATIONAL INGRATITUDE: by Mathew Carey

DIARY OF AN INVALID. No. II: by V.

STANZAS: by James F. Otis

LOVE AND CONSTANCY: by E. Burke Fisher

TO J—— S——: by E. A. S.

PARADISE LOST

LETTER TO B——

THE SCIENCE OF LIFE: by M. Carey

ANTHOLOGIA: by M. Carey

EDITORIAL CRITICAL NOTICES RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS, from the year 1830 to 1836 LETTERS TO YOUNG LADIES: by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney THE DOCTOR &c. ENGLAND in 1835: by Frederick Von Raumer MEMOIRS OF AN AMERICAN LADY CAMPERDOWN ERATO: by William D. Gallagher LIFE ON THE LAKES RUSSIA AND THE RUSSIANS: by Leigh Ritchie, Esq.

SUPPLEMENT

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II. RICHMOND, JULY, 1836. NO. VIII.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

MSS. OF JOHN RANDOLPH.

[We have obtained, after much difficulty, from a personal friend of the late JOHN RANDOLPH of Roanoke, the MSS. of the annexed Letters, and are permitted to publish them in the Messenger. We know our readers will receive them with interest. They throw much novel light on the character of a man whose genius, however great, has been mostly an enigma, and show his views on the most interesting of subjects in the maturity of his life and in the zenith of his reputation.]

LETTER I.

As well as very bad implements and worse eyes will permit me to do it by candlelight, I will endeavor to make some return to your kind letter, which I received, not by Quashee, but the mail. I also got a short note by him, for which I thank you.

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And now, my dear friend, one word in your ear—in the porches of thine ear. With Archimedes I may cry Ἑυρηκα. Why, what have you found—the philosopher's stone? No—something better than that. Gyges' ring? No. A substitute for bank paper? No. The elixir vitæ then? It is; but it is the elixir of eternal life. It is that peace of God which passeth all understanding, and which is no more to be conceived of by the natural heart, than poor St. George¹ can be made to feel and taste the difference between the Italian and German music. It is a miracle, of which the person upon whom it is wrought alone is conscious—as he is conscious of any other feeling—e.g. whether the friendship he professes for A or B be a real sentiment of his heart, or simulated to serve a turn.

¹ His nephew, who is deaf and dumb.

God, my dear friend, hath visited me in my desolation; in the hours of darkness, of sickness, and of sorrow: of that worst of all sickness, sickness of the heart, for which neither wealth nor power can find or afford a cure. May you, my dear friend, find it, where alone it is to be found! in the sacred volume—in the word of God, whose power surpasseth all that human imagination (unassisted by his grace) can conceive. I am now, for the first time in my life, supplied with a motive of action that never can mislead me—the love of God and my neighbor—because I love God. All other motives I feel, by my own sad experience, in my own person, as well as in that of numerous “friends,” (so called) to be utterly worthless. God hath at last given me courage to confess him before men. Once I hated mankind—bitterly hated them—but loved (like that wretched man Swift) “John or Thomas.” Now, my regard for individuals is not lessened, but my love for the race exalted almost to a level with that of my friends—I am obliged to use the word. I pretend to no sudden conversion, or new or great lights. I have stubbornly held out, for more than a Trojan siege, against the goodness and mercy of my Creator. Yes—Troy town did not so long and so obstinately resist the confederated Greeks. But what is the wrath of the swift-footed Achilles to the wrath of God? and what his speed to the vengeance of Heaven? and what are these even, to the love of Jesus Christ, thou son of David? I had often asked, but it was not with sufficient humility; or, perhaps, like the Canaanitish woman, God saw fit to try me. I sought, but not with sufficient diligence—at last, deserted in my utmost need, (not indeed like Darius, great and good—for I could command service, such as we too often pay to God—lip service and eye service,) desolate and abandoned by all that had given me reason to think they had any respect and affection for me, I knocked with all my might. I asked for the crumbs that otherwise might be swept out to the dogs, and it was opened to me, the full and abundant treasury of his grace. When this happened I cannot tell. It has broken upon me like the dawn I see every morning, insensibly changing darkness into light. My slavish fears of punishment, which I always knew to be sinful, but would not put off, are converted into an humble hope of a seat, even if it be the lowest, in the courts of God. Yes, at last I am happy—as happy as man can be. Should it please God to continue his favor to me, you will see it—not only on my lips, but in my life. Should he withdraw it, as assuredly he will, unless with his assistance I humbly endeavor by prayer and self-denial, and doing of his word as well as hearing it, to obtain its continuance, mine will only be the deeper damnation. Of this danger I am sensible, but not afraid. I mean slavishly afraid. He that hath not quenched the smoking flax, who has snatched me as a brand from the burning, will not, I humbly yet firmly trust, cast me back into the furnace. I now know the meaning of words that before I repeated, but did not comprehend. I am no Burley of Balfour, but I have been, as I thought, on the very verge and brink of his disease; but I prayed to God to save me, and not to suffer me to fall a prey to the arts and wiles of Satan, at the very moment I was seeking his reconcilement.

I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and soberness. I have thrown myself, reeking with sin, on the mercy of God, through Jesus Christ his blessed Son and our (yes, my friend, our) precious Redeemer; and I have assurance as strong as that I now owe nothing to your Bank, that the debt is paid—and now I love God, and with reason. I once hated him, and with reason too, for I knew not Christ. The only cause why I should love God is his goodness and mercy to me through Christ. But for this, the lion and the sea-serpent would not be more appalling to my imagination, than a being of tremendous and indefinite power, who made me what I am—who wanted either the will or the ability to prevent the existence of evil, and punishes what is inevitable. This is not a God, but a Devil, and all unbelievers in God tremble and believe in this Devil that they worship—such worship as it is, in his place. I have been looking over some of my marginal pencilled notes on Gibbon, and rubbing them out. I had thought to burn the book, but the Quarterly Review and Professor Porson have furnished the antidote to his poison, whether in the shape of infidelity or obscenity. See Review of Gibbon's posthumous works.

God hath called me to come out from among them—worshippers of Mammon or of “Moloch-homicide,” or “Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's son,” “Peor his other name:”

and I will come, so help me God!

Is it madness to prefer your new house in fee simple, to a clay cottage, of which I am tenant at will, and may be turned out at a moment's warning, and even without it, and out of which I know I must be turned in a few years certainly?

It is now midnight. May God watch over our sleep—over our helpless, naked condition, and protect us as well from the insect that carries death in his sting, as from the more feared but not so obvious dangers with which life is beset; and if he should come this night (as come he will) like a thief, may we be ready to stand in his presence and plead not our merits, but his stripes, by whom we are made whole.

J. R. of R.

P. S. I was not aware of the length to which my sermon would extend. Let me entreat you again to read Milton and Cowper. They prepared me for the “Sampson” (as Rush would say) among the medicines for the soul.

Roanoke, August 25, 1818.

LETTER II.

MY GOOD FRIEND—I am sorry that Quashee should intrude upon you unreasonably. The old man, I suppose, knows the pleasure I take in your letters, and therefore feels anxious to procure his master the gratification. I cannot, however, express sorrow, for I do not feel it, at the impression which you tell me my last letter made upon you. May it lead to the same happy consequences that I have experienced, which I now feel in that sunshine of the heart, which the peace of God, that passeth all understanding, alone can bestow.

Your imputing such sentiments to a heated imagination, does not surprise me, who have been bred in the school of Hobbes, and Bayle, and Shaftesbury, and Bolingbroke, and Hume, and Voltaire, and Gibbon; who have cultivated the sceptical philosophy from my vain-glorious boyhood—I might almost say childhood; and who have felt all that unutterable disgust which hypocrisy, and cant, and fanaticism, never fail to excite in men of education and refinement, superadded to our natural repugnance to Christianity. I am not, even now, insensible to this impression; but as the excesses of her friends (real or pretended) can never alienate the votary of liberty from a free form of government, and enlist him under the banners of despotism, so neither can the cant of fanaticism, or hypocrisy, or of both—for so far from being incompatible, they are generally found united in the same character, (may God in his mercy preserve and defend us from both!) disgust the pious with true religion.

Mine has been no sudden change of opinion. I can refer to a record showing, on my part, a desire of more than nine years standing to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper; although, for two and twenty years preceding, my feet had never crossed the threshold of the house of prayer. This desire I was restrained from indulging, by the fear of eating and drinking unrighteously; and although that fear hath been cast out by perfect love, I have never yet gone to the altar—neither have I been present at the performance of divine service, unless indeed I may so call my reading the Liturgy of our Church and some chapters of the Bible to my poor negroes on Sundays. Such passages as I think require it, and which I feel competent to explain, I comment upon, enforcing as far as possible, and dwelling upon those texts especially that enjoin the indispensable accompaniment of a good life as the touchstone of the true faith. The sermon from the mount, and the Evangelists generally—the Epistle of Paul to the Ephesians, chap. vi,—the general Epistle of James, and the first Epistle of John—these are my chief texts.

The consummation of my conversion—I use the word in its strictest sense—is owing to a variety of causes, but chiefly to the conviction, unwillingly forced upon me, that the very few friends which an unprosperous life (the fruit of an ungovernable temper) had left me, were daily losing their hold upon me in a firmer grasp of ambition, avarice, or sensuality. I am not sure that to complete the anti-climax, avarice should not have been last; for although, in some of its effects, debauchery be more disgusting than avarice, yet as it regards the unhappy victim, this last is more to be dreaded. Dissipation, as well as power or prosperity, hardens the heart, but avarice deadens it to every feeling but the thirst for riches. Avarice alone could have produced the slave trade. Avarice alone can drive, as it does drive, this infernal traffic, and the wretched victims of it, like so many post-horses whipped to death in a mail-coach. Ambition has its cover-sluts, in the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war; but where are the trophies of avarice? The handcuff, the manacle, and the blood-stained cowhide! What man is worse received in society for being a hard master? Who denies the hand of a sister or daughter to such monsters?—nay, they have even appeared in “the abused shape of the vilest of women.” I say nothing of India, or Amboyna—of Cortes, or Pizarro.

When I was last in your town I was inexpressibly shocked, (and perhaps I am partly indebted to the circumstance for accelerating my emancipation,) to hear, on the threshold of the temple of the least erect of all the spirits that fell from heaven, these words spoken:

“I don't want the Holy Ghost (I shudder while I write,) or any other spirit in me. If these doctrines are true, [St. Paul's] there was no need for Wesley and Whitfield to have separated from the church. The Methodists are right, and the Church wrong. I want to see the old church,” &c. &c.—that is, such as this diocese was under Bishop Terrick, when wine-bibbing and buck-parsons were sent out to preach “a dry clatter of morality,” and not the word of God, for sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco. When I speak of morality, it is not as condemning it. Religion includes it, but much more. Day is now breaking, and I shall extinguish my candles, which are better than no light—or if I do not, in the presence of the powerful king of day they will be noticed only by the dirt and ill-savor that betray all human contrivances—the taint of humanity. Morality is to the Gospel not even as a farthing rush-light to the blessed sun.

By the way, this term Methodist in religion is of vast compass and effect—like Tory in politics—or Aristocrate in Paris, “with the lamp-post for its second,” some five or six and twenty years ago. Dr. Hoge?—“a Methodist parson.” Frank Key?—“a fanatic,” (I heard him called so not ten days ago,) “a Methodistical whining,” &c. &c. Wilberforce?—“a Methodist.” Mrs. Hannah More?—“ditto.” It ought never to be forgotten, that real converts to Christianity on opposite sides of the globe, agree at the same moment to the same facts. Thus Dr. Hoge and Mr. Key, although strangers, understand perfectly what each other feels and believes.

If I were to show a MS. in some unknown tongue to half a dozen persons, strangers to each other, and natives of different countries, and they should all give me the same translation, could I doubt their acquaintance with the strange language? On the contrary, can I, who am but a smatterer in Greek, believe an impostor, who pretends to a knowledge of that tongue, and who yet cannot tell the meaning of τυπτο?

I now read with relish and understand St. Paul's Epistles, which not long since I could not comprehend, even with the help of Mr. Locke's Paraphrase. Taking up, a few days ago, at an “Ordinary,” the Life of John Bunyan, which I had never before read, I find an exact coincidence in our feelings on this head, as well as others.

Very early in life I imbibed an absurd prejudice in favor of Mahomedanism and its votaries. The Crescent had a talismanic effect on my imagination, and I rejoiced in all its triumphs over the Cross, (which I despised,) as I mourned over its defeats; and Mahomet the 2d himself did not more exult than I did when the Crescent was planted on the dome of St. Sophia, and the Cathedral of the Constantines was converted into a Turkish Mosque. To this very day I feel the effects of Peter Randolph's Zanga on a temper naturally impatient of injury, but insatiably vindictive under insult.

On the night that I wrote last to you, I scribbled a pack of nonsense to Rootes, which serves only to show the lightness of my heart. About the same time, in reply to a question from a friend, I made the following remarks, which, as I was weak from long vigilance, I requested him to write down, that I might, when at leisure, copy it into my diary. From it you will gather pretty accurately the state of my mind.

“It is my business to avoid giving offence to the world, especially in all matters merely indifferent. I shall therefore stick to my old uniform, blue and buff, unless God see fit to change it for black. I must be as attentive to my dress and to household affairs, as far as cleanliness and comfort are concerned, as ever—and indeed more so. Let us take care to drive none away from God, by dressing Religion in the garb of Fanaticism. Let us exhibit her as she is, equally removed from superstition and lukewarmness. But we must take care, that while we avoid one extreme, we fall not into the other—no matter which. I was born and baptized in the Church of England. If I attend the Convention at Charlottesville, which I rather doubt, I shall oppose myself then, and always, to every attempt at encroachment on the part of the Church—the Clergy especially—on the rights of conscience. I attribute, in a very great degree, my long estrangement from God, to my abhorrence of Prelatical pride and Puritanical preciseness; to Ecclesiastical tyranny, whether Roman Catholic or Protestant—whether of Harry V, or Harry VIII—of Mary or Elizabeth—of John Knox, or Archbishop Laud—of the Cameronians of Scotland, the Jacobins of France, or the Protestants of Ireland. Should I fail to attend, it will arise from a repugnance to submit the religion, (or church) any more than the liberty of my country, to foreign influence. When I speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia. I was born in allegiance to George III—the Bishop of London (Terrick!) was my diocesan. My ancestors threw off the oppressive yoke of the mother country, but they never made me subject to New England in matters spiritual or temporal—neither do I mean to become so, voluntarily.”

I have been up long before day, and write with pain from a sense of duty to you and Mrs. B., in whose welfare I take the most earnest concern. You have my prayers. Give me yours, I pray you. Adieu!

J. R. of R.

P. S. You make no mention of Leigh. I was on the top of the pinnacle of Otter this day fortnight—a little above the Earth, but how far beneath Heaven!

Roanoke, Sept. 25, 1818.

LETTER III.

Your obliging promptitude deserved my speedier thanks, but you will excuse me I am sure, my dear sir, when you learn that I have been for several days confined to my chamber by something very like angina pectoris. It is the most distressing sensation I ever felt, although not the most painful. It is during a remission of its attack that I take up my pen to put some of my nothings upon paper.

Yesterday was a sore day (as I hear) for the War Department. The official statements from that bureau were exposed in a most mortifying manner, and on the question in committee of the whole to strike out the first section of the obnoxious bill [i.e. to reject it] the court mustered but five or seven affirmatives—and this after the combined exertions of several of the leading members, as they are called, in favor of the motion.

My question to Mrs. B. related to a book that I had lately read with some amusement—Melincourt. It is not new, but I had not happened to meet with it before. I have been trying to read Southey's Life of Wesley for some days. Upon the whole, I find it a heavy work, although there are some very striking passages, and it abounds in curious information. From 279 to 285, inclusive, of the second volume is very fine. Yesterday I was to have dined with Frank Key, but was not well enough to go. He called here the day before, and we had much talk together. He perseveres in pressing on towards the goal, and his whole life is spent in endeavors to do good for his unhappy fellow men. The result is, that he enjoys a tranquillity of mind, a sunshine of the soul, that all the Alexanders of the earth can neither confer nor take away. This is a state to which I can never attain. I have made up my mind to suffer like a man condemned to the wheel or the stake—and, strange as you may think it, I could submit without a murmur to pass the rest of my life “in some high, lonely tower, where I might outwatch the Bear with thrice great Hermes;” and exchange the enjoyments of society for an exemption from the plagues of life. These press me down to the very earth, and to rid myself of them I would gladly purchase an annuity and crawl into some hole, where I might commune with myself and be still.

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I am glad that the pretty Mrs. F——h is so comfortably established at Mrs. Kemp's. Do I understand you correctly that the C——'s, Rootes, Gilmer, and Mr. Burwell are of the same party? I should like very much to join it, for (to say nothing of the ladies) R. and G. are two of my favorites. I could be somewhat less miserable there, I am sure, than I find myself here.

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If I possessed a talent that I once thought I had, I would try and give you a picture of Washington. The state of things is the strangest imaginable, but I am like a speechless person who has the clearest conception of what he would say, but whose organs refuse to perform their office. There is one striking fact that one can't help seeing at the first glance—that there is no faith among men: the state of political confidence may be compared to that of the commercial world within the last two or three years.

I read Mr. Roane's letter with the attention that it deserves. Every thing from his pen on the subject of our laws and institutions excites a profound interest. I was highly gratified at the manner in which it was spoken of in my hearing by one of the best and ablest men in our house. It is indeed high time that the hucksters and money-changers should be cast out of the Temple of Justice. The tone of this communication belongs to another age; but for the date, who could suppose it to have been written in this our day of almost universal political corruption? I did not read the report on the lottery case. The print of the Enquirer is too much for my eyes: and besides I want no argument to satisfy me that the powers which Congress may exercise where they possess exclusive jurisdiction, may not be extended to places where they possess only a limited and concurrent jurisdiction. The very statement of the question settles it, and every additional word is but an incumbrance of help.

And now, my dear sir, you may be glad to come to an end of this almost interminable epistle. Shut up in my little “chair-lumbered closet” this cold day, without a soul to speak to or a book to read, you have become the victim of my desolate condition. Indeed, if I had a book I could not read it, having exercised my eyes so unmercifully on John Wesley, that I do not see what I am writing—at least not distinctly. My best regards to Mrs. B. I wish I could provoke her to talk. When you see Dudley, tell him I have been trying to write to him for several days; and when you see Mr. Cunningham, present me most kindly to him and his house.

Sincerely yours, J. R. of R.

Washington, January, 1821.

TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

BY J. DOGGETT, Jr.

Philadelphia, June, 1836.

EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

A fine fashionable mother, one beautiful spring morning, walked forth into the city, leading by the hand a little child of five or six years old. The former was dressed in all the fantastic finery of the times; she had a pink bonnet, ornamented with a bird of paradise, shaded with huge bows of wide ribbon; sleeves which caused her taper waist to appear like lean famine supported on either side by overgrown plenty; her gown was of such redundancy of plaits and folds, that a whole family might have been clothed from its superfluities; and while with one hand she led the little girl along, in the other she held a cambric handkerchief worked with various devices, and bordered with rich lace, reported to have cost fifty dollars. The little child was dressed as fine as its mother, for she unfortunately had light curly hair, and was reckoned a beauty.

They passed a toy-shop, and the child insisted on going in, where she laid out all the money she had in various purchases that were of no use whatever, in spite of the advice of her mother, who alternately scolded and laughed at her for thus wasting her allowance on things so useless. The child seemed to reflect for a few moments, and thus addressed her mother:

“Mother, what is the use of those great sleeves you wear?”

The mother was silent, for the question puzzled her.

“Mother, what is the use of that fine bird on your hat?”

The mother was still more at a loss for a reply.

“Mother, what is the use of having a worked handkerchief, bordered with lace, to wipe your nose?”

“Come along,” cried the mother somewhat roughly, as she dragged the little girl out of the toy-shop, “come along, and don't ask so many foolish questions.”

MISERIES OF BASHFULNESS.

A modest woman dressed out in all her finery is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.—She Stoops to Conquer.

Of all the evils which harass the human family, none is perhaps more tormenting or more difficult to be removed, than bashfulness—a feeling sufficient in itself to blast the most promising hopes, and render comparatively useless the most brilliant abilities. To this evil, from earliest recollection, I have been painfully subject, and to its influence upon my character and habits, may be traced the many difficulties I have met with in my passage through life. Gifted by nature with a mind of no ordinary caste, which my modest and retiring disposition, while it precluded me from the enjoyment of society, induced me to cultivate, at an early age I had acquired a large fund of useful and polite information. This circumstance induced my parents to send me to the University of ——, then the most flourishing institution in the country. The first term after my arrival passed off drearily enough, but after becoming familiarized to the habits of my fellow students, and to the customs of the institution, I became better satisfied with my situation. Nothing of importance occurred until the time appointed for the examinations came on. I had applied myself with assiduity and vigilance, and flattered myself that I had completely mastered the exercises appointed for the occasion. Among the candidates for graduation there was an individual whom I shall designate by the name of C——, and whose connection with my narration compels me to mention him. He was the son of a southern planter, of immense fortune, and to a person of almost faultless beauty united great liberality, which his princely fortune enabled him to stretch to its farthest limits. As may be imagined he was quite a lion among the students and ladies.

Towards this individual I conceived a certain feeling of dislike from my first introduction, which a more intimate acquaintance with his character ripened into hatred. He was proud and overbearing in his deportment towards his inferiors, and even amidst his immediate friends and acquaintance he possessed a certain haughty and imperious bearing, indicative of the exalted opinion he entertained respecting his own merits. His mind was not remarkable for strength, nevertheless he had some shrewdness or cunning, which the vulgar are apt to mistake for talents. As I have before observed, the time for the annual examination had arrived, and no culprit in the gloomy walls of Newgate dreaded the fatal toll of St. Sepulchre's bell—the gloomy herald of many a sinner's entrance into eternity—more than I did the arrival of the hour when our exercises were to commence. A large number of ladies and gentlemen had been invited, and among the number was my father.

At length the University bell tolled the appointed hour, and we were drawn up on a stage in front of the assembly, from which we were concealed by a curtain, as yet down. At a given signal the curtain rose and presented to our view a numerous concourse of both sexes, among whom I distinguished my father seated on the front row of seats, prepared no doubt to witness his son's triumph. A sight of his countenance served to increase the confidence I had in my powers, and to dispel the embarrassment I felt on the occasion. The student at the head of the class answered the question put to him with perfect ease and composure—so did the second. I stood third; as soon as my name was called by the examining professor, I felt the blood rush with such velocity to my face as nearly to cause blindness—my brain reeled—my eyes swam—and although I perfectly understood the question, my confusion was so great as to hinder utterance. The question was passed to the next, who was C——; he answered it. The mingled shame, mortification, and rage I suffered, are indescribable. I retired from the contest, and the prize which I could have gained was awarded to my abominated enemy. I returned home with my mortified father, who persuaded me to endeavor to overcome the painful and unfortunate failing, which he perceived would blight my future prospects, by mixing largely in society. In pursuance of this advice, soon after my arrival in my native town, I determined to attend a large party, at the residence of one of my mother's fashionable friends. I suffered acutely from the time I received the invitation till the appointed night. At length it arrived, and I, attired in my best suit, with no aristocratic touch, rung the door bell. The servant ushered me into a large and splendidly furnished room but partially filled. The courage I had summoned for the occasion, like Bob Acre's, “oozed as it were from the palms of my hands,” and I remained standing in the door-way as immovable as if (instead of the gay and fashionable assembly who were gazing at my strange appearance with so much astonishment,) the Gorgon Medusa had turned upon me her petrifying look. The harmonious note which at that moment stole from Bennett's eloquent cremona, diverted their attention from my person and restored me to something like consciousness. I advanced into the room, and was cordially greeted by mine host and his lady, who were old friends of my family. The dancing now commenced, and the rooms gradually filling placed me in a rather more comfortable situation. I was, however, far from being easy. In order, as I thought, to calm my perturbed spirits, I seated myself on a sofa, situated in a corner of one of the rooms. I had remained there but a short time, when the voice of some one engaged in earnest conversation striking upon my ear, I turned my attention in that direction and perceived my late triumphant enemy C——, conversing in an animated strain with Miss ——, the only daughter of the wealthy and hospitable owner of the mansion in which we were passing the afternoon. Miss —— was evidently much pleased with the subject as well as the manner of the speaker, and he seemed inclined to make the best possible use of the advantage he had gained. They were however joined by a large number of ladies, who in their anxiety to reach Miss —— completely surrounded me. Yes—I who would sooner march to the cannon's mouth, or attempt to scale the fortress of Gibraltar, than face a female, was literally blockaded—totally surrounded by decidedly “the most awful things in nature,” a company of full dressed women. C—— was perfectly at ease, and enjoyed heartily the dismay and confusion under which I labored. Perceiving that the only possible chance of escaping, would be speedy action, I endeavored instinctively to effect a retreat, but in vain. As I arose, I encountered the huge sleeve of a female attired “in all the glaring impotence of dress,” which impeded my egress. On attempting to return, I ran foul of a talkative little creature, and left her minus of about half of her head dress. The little lady was in a rage; however, there was no time for delay—so I gave her no apology. At length I reached my seat on the sofa, on which several ladies had seated themselves. After some time, I endeavored to enter into conversation with the damsel who sat next me, hoping that it would afford me some alleviation; but the attempt was abortive. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and refused to utter whatever ideas I might have had in my brain—through which passed in rapid succession, the last opera—the fancy ball—Shakspeare—Moliere, &c. &c., without affording its wretched owner a theme on which to commence a conversation. In vain I made strenuous exertions to collect my scattered thoughts—the attempt increased my confusion. At last the approach of a servant with a waiter of refreshments opened a passage through which I dashed. The exulting laugh of C—— reached my ear, as I cleared the little crowd collected around him. In my passage through the room I met a servant bearing a freshly opened bottle of Champaigne. Seizing a glass brimfull with the sparkling liquor I tossed it off—another, and another—and then “a change came o'er the spirit of my dream.” I was immediately changed from the bashful and timid character in which I had hitherto appeared, to the bold, impudent, easy man of the world. An almost irresistible desire to make female acquaintances seized me, and I was determined to indulge it. Meeting a friend at the moment, I requested him to give me an introduction to every lady in the house. At this sweeping request my friend was surprised beyond measure, knowing well my former disposition. However, not being able to refuse, he led me up to a fresh, rosy-looking Miss, and gave the necessary introduction. I bowed, and in doing so nearly lost my equilibrium. I, however, succeeded in gaining my footing, and commenced conversing. By this time, I had given such unequivocal indications of the effect my Champaigne potation had produced, as to induce my friend to withdraw me from my fair acquaintance and insist upon my taking leave of the “festive scene.” But what man has been known to take good advice when he is at all inebriated. I refused to retire, and to disprove the suspicions of my friend, I determined to dance the next cotillion. In accordance with this resolve I wended my way through the crowd till I discovered the lady to whom I had been introduced, and solicited the pleasure of her hand. We stood up to a double cotillion, and at that moment the music struck up. The animating and delightful sensations produced by the wine began to subside, and my mind commenced gradually to comprehend the almost insurmountable difficulties of the situation in which my rashness had placed me. I had no more idea of dancing than a bear just caught from the woods, and as for the figure of the dance, I would sooner have attempted to solve the hieroglyphics inscribed upon an Egyptian obelisk. Every moment developed new difficulties, and fresh obstacles were cast in my way by every second's reflection. Oh! how bitterly did I repent the many opportunities I had omitted of learning the trifling (in the abstract, yet important in reality,) accomplishment which I so much needed then. However, it was now too late to retreat, and I was about to dash forth and perform some random capers, when my companion checked me with the information that my time to dance had not yet come on. To increase the awkwardness of my situation, I discovered myself to be corporeally tipsy, though mentally sober. I was therefore afraid to move, lest I should evince my unlucky and disagreeable situation. As a dernier resort, I resolved to watch the graceful and easy movements of my companions in the dance, and, if possible, to gain some slight information concerning my unenviable employment. At last my turn came round, and with bent knees and clenched hands I advanced. In attempting to make a flourish which was to have been followed by a bow, I lost my balance, and tumbled at full length upon the floor. The roar of laughter which this feat called forth still rings in my ears, and a recollection of the scene always covers my cheeks with blushes. I arose from my incumbent posture and hastily excusing myself to my partner, rushed from the house, heartily wishing for “a lodge in some vast wilderness.”

MARLOW.

FIRST LOVE.

BY J. C. McCABE.

EROSTRATUS.

I.

Early in the afternoon of an autumn day, in the first year of the hundred and fifth Olympiad, the keeper of the light-house which then marked the entrance of the harbor of Ephesus, announced the approach of a vessel, which, from its size and proportions, he decided to be from Corinth or Athens. Crowded, as the port of Diana's favorite city at that time was, with sails from every maritime town in the Mediterranean, where commerce was cultivated, the arrival of a vessel was an event of hourly occurrence, yet the news of the approach of this spread rapidly through the city. The magistrate left the bench, the merchant forsook his warehouse, and the mechanic dropped his tools. All hastened to the quay. It was expected that this vessel brought the news of the results of the Olympic games. With such rapidity the lusty rowers plyed their oars, that the most experienced eye could scarcely decide whether the approaching bark carried three or four banks. The helms-man was singing the prize verses of the games, in which all the oars-men joined at intervals as a chorus. Soon she neared sufficiently for the pilots, who stood upon an eminence, to decide that she was the Sphynx of Corinth. She presently came within speaking distance, and the name of the victor in the poetic contest was demanded. “Leonidas of Mægara,” was the reply. Other questions succeeded until the Sphynx was moored in the harbor, and then followed, amidst the embraces of friends and relatives, more minute inquiries and particular replies touching the events of the games, which then excited an interest in every land where the Greek tongue was spoken, of which the moderns can form but little conception. Preparations for the customary sacrifices to Diana of the Ephesians, Neptune, and the Winds, in grateful return for the prosperous voyage, were quickly made.

II.

The crowds which shortly before covered the spacious quays had nearly all dispersed, when a young man for whom no one appeared to wait, and who had sought no one in the joyful multitude, stepped on shore, bearing all his baggage in a small scrip. His countenance wore an expression of the deepest melancholy, which could not have escaped notice, had not the sighs which broke from his breast, and the half dried tears which stained his cheeks, sufficiently testified that his bosom shared none of the general joy. Instead of seeking his home, he bent his steps along the quays, and shortly gained the suburbs, passing rapidly through which, he sought the open country. Here throwing himself upon the ground, he gave way to the most passionate expressions of sorrow. “Cursed folly” he exclaimed “that induced me to believe that glory was to be obtained by merit, and that the applauses of the crowd could be won by him who has no gold in his purse to purchase their praises. Cursed be the books of the Philosophers which teach”—“Erostratus,” exclaimed a young man who, unobserved, had approached and gazed on him with astonishment, “what mischance has so disordered you, that instead of seeking your friend's house, I find you embracing our mother earth, and outshining our first tragedians? Is this a specimen of some successful drama which you have been composing, or”—“Metazulis,” said Erostratus, “cease these ill-timed pleasantries. I have just returned from the Olympic games”—“I know it,” interrupted Metazulis. “I was from home when the Sphynx arrived, and had I not learned from our neighbor Polisphercon that you and he had been fellow passengers, I should have assured myself that the charms of Corinth had proved stronger than your patriotism. Excuse my interruption, and pardon a friend's inquiring why these tears? why this anguish? Have you returned without that heart, which you once vowed to Diana should never leave your keeping, and without the blue-eyed maiden who has robbed you of it?” “No Metazulis,” replied his friend, forcing a melancholy smile, “my heart is safe as though blue-eyed maidens had never been—but I went to Olympia, puffed up with the senseless expectation of gracing my brow with the wreath of poetry, which now encircles the head of a wealthy churl who feasted the judges. His name is celebrated through the cities of Greece; mine is unmentioned, save as that of the deluded Ephesian who dared to put his doggrel in competition with the rich strains of the rich Leonidas. But I forever forswear”—“Forswear nothing” cried Metazulis. “Be not discouraged by a single failure. The next judges may be honester, and in four years the strengthened wings of your muse will achieve higher flights.” “And Leonidas may become richer,” said Erostratus. “How often, how often,” said Metazulis, “have I had to censure my friend's faint heart, discouraged at the slightest disappointment! Who ever swam a river at a single stroke? Make my house your home. Let poetry continue your study. My sister's lyre shall accompany your odes. We will strive to put off the partiality of friends, and play the critics upon your works. I warrant not a spot shall meet the eye in the next production you lay before the Olympic Judges.” Putting his arm into that of Erostratus, who offered no resistance, he led him to the city.

III.

Henceforth the streets of Ephesus rarely echoed to the footsteps of Erostratus. Immured in the house of the friendly Metazulis, his whole soul was occupied with the ardent hope of gaining the prize for poetry at the next Olympic games. The encouragement of Metazulis and Lesbia, had fanned into a flame the spark of ambition not to be extinguished in his breast. Every day did his impatience increase, and nightly, upon retiring to his couch, would he reckon that a day less was between him and immortal glory. The poems and odes which fell from his pen, fell not faster than they were wedded to music by the enthusiastic Lesbia. Unhappy Lesbia! it was not in thy nature to behold such kindred genius and remain unmoved! A fire was in thy breast, bright and unquenchable, save by death! Poor Lesbia! Her admiration of the poet blinded her to the most glaring defects of the poetry, and the living Erostratus, whom she daily saw, seemed to her superior to all the poets who had sung since the days of Deucalion.

Four years rolled by in poetry, music, and, though neither seemed conscious of it, in—love. The hymn to Ceres, upon which Erostratus now builds his hopes, is completed, and pronounced perfect by Metazulis, and Lesbia. Lesbia gives her brother and his friend the parting embrace, and with her scarf, waves them again and again farewell from the terraced roof. She is not to see Erostratus again until his brows are shaded with the crown of victory. Prosperous winds wafted on their course Erostratus and his friend, who had left his home and his sister, to share with his adopted brother the first triumphs of success. A few days were spent in luxurious Corinth by the travellers, and postponing a more ample view until their return, they departed for Olympia, where they arrived after a journey, which to Erostratus seemed to occupy an age.

IV.

With the usual ceremonies the games were opened, and the first, second, and third days devoted to chariot races and the athletic exercises. The fourth day was assigned to the claimants of the palm for poesy. Erostratus was the first competitor who rose. His feelings at first overpowered him, but a look from Metazulis, a burst of applause from the countless multitude, and more than all, a thought of the moment when he should lay the meed of victory at the feet of Lesbia, encouraged him. His voice was at first low and indistinct, but as the plaudits increased, he became more animated, and towards the close, the delivery was worthy of the poem. The hymn being ended, the lengthened shouts dispelled all fear of failure from his mind, and he fancied he already felt the olive wreath upon his temples. A single competitor appeared to contest with him the prize, many having withdrawn upon the conclusion of his ode. Cratinus of Platæa arose, as soon as the applause began to subside. Four times had the crown been decreed to Cratinus, and he now aspired the fifth time to that honor. The hitherto unconquered Cratinus began, and scarcely had he recited twenty lines, when even Metazulis admitted in his heart the superiority of this poem to that of his friend. Cratinus was loudly cheered, and in justice would have been more so, had not a large proportion of the audience been prepossessed in favor of Erostratus. Applause well merited followed the conclusion of the Judgment of Paris, (such was the theme of Cratinus) and then a breathless silence succeeded, whilst the judges compared their opinions. We cannot describe the anxiety of Erostratus in this interval. He trembled, a cold sweat bedewed his body, and leaning upon the breast of his friend, his life seemed to hang upon the decision. The presiding judge at length arose and delivered the award. The crown was decreed to Cratinus; and Erostratus fell senseless in Metazulis' arms. For a long time he remained insensible, and his friend was beginning to fear that his hopes and his life had terminated together, when he began to revive; but having murmured “the crown, the crown,” he fell into a second swoon. So great an effect had the destruction of his long cherished hopes produced upon him, that for some days there appeared scarcely a possibility of his recovery. During this time Metazulis wrote to his sister the following letter.

“Weep with me Lesbia. Our friend has failed, Cratinus, of Platæa has obtained the prize, Erostratus is dangerously ill. The physicians bid me hope—I have none. Should he recover from the fever which now threatens to terminate his life, what a life will be his! If, contrary to my expectations, he should survive this shock, may our love to him be redoubled! Let it be our care to smooth his path to the grave, which, broken hearted as he is, can be but short. Farewell.”

V.

The medical attendants were not disappointed. A month having elapsed, Erostratus left the couch of sickness; but another passed by before Metazulis thought his strength sufficient to warrant his proposing their return. Erostratus made no opposition. The love he felt for Lesbia, (with which the ravings of his delirium had acquainted Metazulis,) urged his return, although he felt that he scarcely dared appear before her. The task of diverting his mind from the sad recollections which occupied it, was painful and difficult. Metazulis proposed visiting the curiosities of nature, and the celebrated works of art, which lay contiguous to their route. To this Erostratus made no objection, but his eye, ones so delighted with all that was beautiful and sublime, now gazed upon them without pleasure. Metazulis left Corinth in the first vessel which departed, anxious to see his sister, and to bear his friend from Greece, where every thing conspired to bring to his mind his failures. Far different were the feelings with which Erostratus had entered Corinth, and now bade it a final farewell. They reached Ephesus. Metazulis found none of his domestics awaiting his return; but what was their anxiety, their horror, upon finding the house closed, and the door-posts marked with the insignia of death! They hastily opened the door. All is silence and desolation. Erostratus rushes to the sitting room, where he had parted from Lesbia. Mctazulis following, arrives to see him fall senseless upon the couch, whereon reposed the dead body of his sister, at whose head sat the motionless domestics, murmuring the prayers for the departed.

VI.

In a month after the ashes of Lesbia had been consigned to the tomb, those of Metazulis were laid beside them. The wealth of Metazulis was now the property of Erostratus, but could gold purchase peace for his anguished soul? Never was he seen to smile, and his solitary hours (and how few of his hours were not solitary?) were passed in grief and lamentation. The love of immortality remained inextinguishable in his breast, and he resolved upon an achievement which should give his name a place in the page of history; and in the moments of his phrenzy, he imagined that the name of Lesbia would appear in the record with his, and that this would be accepted by her shade as an atonement on his part, for the fate in which her love for him had involved her. In the middle of a dark and tempestuous night, he applied a torch to that temple, the boast of Ephesus, the wonder of the world! The Greek historians of after days asserted that the goddess was in Macedon attending to the birth of Alexander. Her fane was destroyed and reduced to a mass of blackened ruin. Erostratus unhesitatingly avowed himself the incendiary, and the rack could force no reply from him but the cry “I did it for immortality.” He was condemned to be burnt to death, and expired in the most dreadful torture, with a smile upon his countenance and the name of Lesbia upon his lips. The magistrates, lest his desire of an immortal memory should be gratified, denounced death upon all who should pronounce his name, that it might be blotted out forever.

* * * * *

* * * * *

About twenty years subsequently, a citizen of Ephesus, and his friend from Athens, were walking upon the shore of the sea, a few miles from the former city. There were a number of young Ephesians exercising themselves in athletic sports upon the sands, at whom they looked for a while, and then passed on. After a few steps they stopped to examine something over which the sea was breaking near the shore. A few human bones blackened and mouldering met their gaze. “Near this spot,” said the Ephesian, “we burnt Erostratus.” “Who was he?” replied the Athenian, “I do not remember to have ever heard of him.” The Ephesian made no reply but hurried his friend on board a small fishing boat, and put to sea. It was long before the Athenian could obtain an explanation of this singular conduct from his agitated friend. The Ephesian at length reminded him of the edict, and avowed that the forbidden name had escaped his lip, and been overheard by the youths who were near them. A vessel bound to Greece picked them up. The Ephesian settled in Attica, never daring to return to his native country. The greater portion of the incidents recorded above were communicated by him to his friend, and the tale, corroborated by others, became well known throughout Greece; but at Ephesus, no one for centuries dared to utter the forbidden name of Erostratus.

BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, The Belles of Williamsburg, and the Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg, both written and circulated in that place in 1777. These pieces are believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or to have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however, assign to each his due share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to mention their names—which (although the authors in question are now no more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]

THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. I.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.¹

¹ Translated from a number of the Revue des Deux Mondes.

The chambers in which the British Parliament are accustomed to assemble, have nothing of the theatrical aspect of the halls for political exhibition built in France for the representations of its representative government.

Let us enter the chamber of the Commons. Here you see no amphitheatre for the ladies, no boxes for the Peers, nor for the corps diplomatique. A narrow gallery, only, is reserved for the reporters, and another, more spacious, is open to the public. Here are no costly marbles, no statues, no gilding. It is truly nothing but a chamber—a vast apartment, of greater length than width, without ornaments of any sort—indeed, perfectly naked.

Conceive that we are looking from the public gallery.

Directly before us, at the bottom, is a sort of sentry-box, surmounted by the royal arms. There, in an arm chair covered with green leather, sits the speaker, in his black robe and greyish mittens, solemnly dressed out in an immense wig, the wings of which fall to his waist.

At his feet is a narrow table, at which the principal clerk is seated, supporting on his two hands a large face, smiling impurturbably under a little perruque that hangs over his head in the form of a horse-shoe.

The benches on which the members sit, are ranged rectilinearly in different divisions, to the right and left, and in front of the speaker. Every one places himself in the position that is most agreeable to himself, and sits, or stands, at his pleasure. Every member wears his hat, except when addressing the speaker. Every one speaks from the place in which he finds himself at the moment. It is not to the house, however, but to the speaker that they must address themselves.

The simple and country-like habits of the house are well suited to the character of representatives of the people. It proves that the Commons meet not to take part in a show, but to discharge the business of the country.

At three o'clock the speaker enters the chamber, preceded by the chief of the ushers, the mace on his shoulder, and followed by a sergeant-at-arms, with a sword at his side, and dressed in black after the French fashion. Arrived at his chair, the speaker first counts the members present. If there be forty, the session is opened, and the chaplain repeats his prayers, to which every member listens, standing and uncovered, with his face towards the back of his bench.

Generally the first hours are consumed in matters of minor importance. Local and private bills are discussed. The benches begin to be filled between eight and nine in the evening. The house is rarely full before midnight. From this period till two in the morning, they discuss great questions, such as are likely to bring on an important vote.

Such are the English. They distrust, beyond all reason, the frivolity of their own minds. They consider it always dangerous to embark in grave affairs, if their dinner has not been stored away to serve as ballast. It is indispensable that they should meditate and mature their opinions and their eloquence, while engaged in drinking their wine and grog.

When simple Mr. Brougham (the period of his greatest glory) Lord Brougham never came to the House of Commons until he had emptied three bottles of Port. It was at the bottom of his glass that he found calmness, wisdom, and discretion. But since his elevation to the House of Lords, his lordship is forced to speak fasting. It is in consequence of this change that he is now always intoxicated. The sobriety of his stomach produces the intemperance of his tongue and of his brain.

The invariable prolongation of its sittings late into the night, is the cause that the House of Commons never assembles on Saturday. Encroachment on the Sabbath would otherwise be an inevitable legislative sacrilege; and we must admit, that it would be with but bad grace that the Parliament alone should violate the Puritanical laws which it so rigorously maintains, and which prescribe, during the twenty-four hours of that sacred day, the most absolute and universal idleness.

Two words of personal statistics at present.

The House of Commons contains four hundred and seventy-one members for England, twenty-nine for Wales, fifty-three for Scotland, and a hundred and five for Ireland—in all, six hundred and fifty-eight. On important occasions, very few fail to appear at their posts. Six hundred and twenty-two voted, at the commencement of this session, on the election of the present speaker. Mr. Abercromby, elected by the opposition, obtained a majority of but eight votes over Sir Charles Manners Sutton, the candidate of the then ministry.

You observe that the chamber is divided into two parts, almost equal in size. On one side, the ministry and the reformers; on the other, the conservatives, forming the present opposition.

Each of these grand divisions may perhaps be subdivided. Among the reformers or whigs, radical reformers, pure radicals, and repealers;² among the conservatives, the old tories and the demi-conservatives. Such subdivisions, however, are useless. It is no easy thing to distinguish these different shades of opinion. Besides, they are every day becoming gradually less distinct, and will soon present but two parties.

² The repealers are Irish members advocating the repeal of the union between Ireland and England.

In the first place, are there any whigs? Are the whigs a party? I answer, no. There are some great noblemen, some minister-lords, whose ancestors were whigs, but they themselves are not. To continue the leaders of a true political party, they have been forced to become radicals, and to make themselves interpreters and advocates of the popular wants. What has been the result? The whigs and the radicals are absorbed, the one in the other. Seeing so many liberal concessions obtained by England, the Irish Catholics have followed the example of the liberals; they have put off their extreme demands; they have ceased to contend for the repeal of the union. Under the orders of O'Connell, they march behind the ministerial troops, and sustain them so as to prevent their falling back, come what may.

In the camp of the opposition there is the same fusion. Sir Robert Peel has dressed all the tories in the uniform of conservatives. Even the little irresolute batallion of Lord Stanley, has recently, with its chief, assumed the new livery of the defenders of the church and of the throne. The tiers-parti has not been more successful on the side of the Manche than on the Parisian.

The question, then, is simply and plainly raised. It is the great question that is to be decided between the old society and the new, the same that was raised in France in 1789; only, if the throne is wise, here the whole war may be finished on the floors of Parliament.

The field of battle is now before the reader. You have the army of reformers and that of the conservatives in the presence of each other—each recognizing but one watchword, but one standard; the first, stronger and bolder, but having too many leaders, and a rear guard more impatient to arrive in action than the principal body; the second, more compact, better disciplined, and more obedient to its only chief.

Great as may be the exasperation on each side, you will rarely ever observe the belligerent parties, even in their hostilities, depart from their habits of chivalrous loyalty.

There is a sort of Parliamentary law of nations established in the house.

The opposition never takes advantage of the absence of a minister to interrogate his colleagues on matters foreign to their own departments.

Nor will a minister ever introduce a bill without notice; the courtesy, in this respect, is extremely great between the two parties. Challenges are regularly exchanged; the day and the hour are both fixed. If any member mentions his inability to attend at the appointed time, the motion is hurried or delayed to suit his convenience.

If the question should be one of importance, and the decision doubtful, whatever urgent business may call a member away, he will not desert his post, unless he is enabled to find among his adversaries some one equally desirous to absent himself. They make an arrangement then that both shall stay away, and this double contract is always held sacred.

In their struggles, though often violent, the blows are always generous, and aimed in front. However, the noise of the interruptions by which approbation or discontent is expressed, would astonish and terrify a stranger—above all, one unaccustomed to the discordance of English pronunciation. The sound is unusual, striking, and the more astonishing, as at first you are unable to tell whence it proceeds. There are six hundred men, seated, uttering savage cries of joy or anger, their bodies all the while remaining immovable, their features preserving their usual phlegmatic and calm expression. These tumults produce quite a fantastic effect. Hear! hear! is the cry of satisfaction and encouragement. Listen to the speaker!—his discourse penetrates and touches the soul of the question; let us listen to him—hear him. Spoke!—spoke! indicates impatience, ennui, lassitude. You abuse your privilege—you have said enough—you have spoken! This reproach is imperative—it is rarely resisted. Order! order! is the call to order; it is a summons to the speaker to notice and reprimand the offending member who has passed the boundaries of propriety—for, to the speaker alone belongs the right to pronounce judgment on such occasions.

The speaker centres in himself the omnipotence of the chamber of which he is the representative. His authority is supreme, within as well as without the walls of the Parliament house. His situation renders him a personage of very high importance. He has his official palace, he holds his levees, to which none are admitted unless in court dress. Singular inconsistency! the very same Commoners who enter booted, spurred, with their over-coats and their hats on, into their own hall, would find the doors of their own speaker closed against them, if they should present themselves without ruffles and dressed à la Française. This rigorous particularity is unreasonable. Mr. Hume, however, in a recent attack upon this absurd etiquette, found himself unable to succeed against the powerful prejudice by which it is upheld. The sound sense of his objections only passed for radical folly. Thus it is that with the English the ancient forms of etiquette have deeper root than even their old abuses. You may be certain that they will have reformed the church, the aristocracy, and perhaps the crown itself, before the grotesque wigs of their magistrates. Their entire revolution will have been completed, while their new liberty will be still distinguished by the manners and dress of the ancien regime.

In England, the real and undeniable sovereignty is in the House of Commons. The British peerage is a mere phantom, a little more respectably clothed than that of France, but quite as much of a phantom. Still this very British Peerage, which is condemned to obey the Commons and register their edicts, preserves all the appearances of supremacy! It continues to command the Commons to appear at its bar, who regularly obey this summons, preceded by their speaker! And when the Lords, seated in their own chamber, have signified the royal assent to the wishes of the Commons, the latter withdraw, bowing as they go out! The real upper or superior chamber consents to be called and to appear always as the inferior.

How much do I prefer to these ceremonious levees of the British speaker, the popular balls of the president of the French Chamber of Deputies, where no orders are given to the guards to prevent the entry of persons not in costume! Above all, I like those numbered letters of invitation—the four hundred and fifty-nine first for the representatives of the people, and then the four hundred and sixtieth for the Duke of Orleans, as the first peer of the realm, and so on for the rest. In France the peerage comes after the people!

It is much to be regretted that the French do not remove the abuses themselves, as they do their names and customs. Their system is different from the English, but it is very doubtful if it be the best. The latter are always very respectful subjects; they kneel down at the feet of royalty in supplicating it to take their will for its pleasure. The former hold themselves erect and firm before their monarch, who leads them by the nose, suffering them all the while to proclaim themselves at their ease, the true sovereigns of the kingdom.

Mr. Abercromby, the present speaker, by no means solicited the honor of the chair which, at the opening of the session, was decreed him by the first act of the reformers. Constrained to maintain, in the name of the house, the privileges of that body, he represents that assembly with all the dignity that his grotesque wig will permit. Happily he has thick grey eye-brows, which harmonize extremely well with his light-colored official perruque. In spite of the enormous quantity of hair that overshadows his person, there is nothing savage in his appearance; on the contrary, a mild and affable dignity eminently distinguishes him; his manners are marked by a noble ease; he also speaks well, and his full and sonorous voice is admirably suited to the station which he occupies as president of a large and popular assembly.

The conservatives will never forgive him for having, even involuntarily, dethroned their candidate. They regret the airs of a superannuated dandy, and the old-fashioned elegance of Sir Charles Manners Sutton, who, having grown old in the chair, had been long accustomed to regard toryism with a favorable eye. It is true that Mr. Abercromby, an avowed partizan of the reformers, has not, in consequence of his acceptance of the speakership, become the inexorable censor of his radical friends. So that when O'Connell, provoked by some imprudent noblemen, branded them with epithets never to be effaced, Mr. Abercromby was guilty of the heinous crime of not interposing to check the vengeance of the outraged orator. Impartiality, according to the tories, would consist in permitting their attacks, without allowing the insulted or injured party the rights of defence.

I have now given you a general and hasty sketch of the leading characteristics of the house; it only remains for me to carry you to one of its sittings. We will select the occasion of the presentation of the bill for the reform of the English and Welch Corporations, which was, after a month of argument, finally voted. On the evening of the 5th of June, then, it was known that Lord John Russell was to introduce his bill in the Commons. What was to be the nature of this measure, so long promised and so impatiently expected on one side, and so much feared on the other? Curiosity in London was at its height; it was the third day of the Epsom races! No matter! Every one returned to the city—horses were abandoned for politics. As early as twelve the crowd began to encumber the environs of Westminster, pressing towards the gates of the palace of the Parliament. With great difficulty I succeeded in squeezing myself into the public gallery.

At three, prayers being said, the speaker having counted with the end of his little flat three-cornered hat the members in attendance, and more than forty being present, the session opened.

There was at first a long discussion of a bill regulating the distribution of water in the parish of Mary-le-bone; the debate was of but little interest, though Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Hume, and Sir Francis Burdett look frequent part in it. My attention was fixed on their persons, if not on their discourses.

Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer is a young radical who leads a life altogether aristocratic. He is renowned for the elegance of his grooms and of his vehicles. Nobody wears a black frock so short and so tight. He speaks well and easily, with a voice somewhat unpleasant, his head elevated and thrown back after the fashion of men of small stature. He is the elder brother of the novelist, and is himself the author of a work on France, in which he judges of French manners, society, politics and literature with a degree of insane ignorance hardly less disgusting than the naïve buffoonery of Lady Morgan. It is a distinguishing characteristic of the English, to write without knowledge, observation or study on every country they pass through. It is a pity that a man of common sense and intelligence such as Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, should have made his literary debut by so vulgar a piece of national gaucherie.

There is nothing about the person of Mr. Hume that would strike you; he looks like a good-natured, unaffected, broad-shouldered countryman, independent in his character, and utterly careless of fashion. His mere manner, to say nothing of his words, expresses invincible aversion to all ceremony. His appearance does not belie his character. His enunciation has all the ease, firmness, and roughness of his opinions. One of the chief priests of radicalism—an inexorable and incorruptible reformer, he has sworn never to sit, but on the benches of the opposition; it is from fidelity to his oath, not from sympathy, as you might well conclude, that he now sits in the ranks of the conservatives.

Sir Francis Burdett differs from Mr. Hume both in his air, height, and figure. Picture to yourself a long body, about five feet ten inches, in white velvet breeches, with boots turned down at the top, and a blue frock. A white vest, a white cravat, a little bald, flat head, well powdered, will complete the portrait. The fate of public men who outlive themselves, is often singular. Sir Francis Burdett, ten years since, was as fashionable as his dress. He was the favorite of Westminster—the popular orator of the House of Commons. He caused himself to be imprisoned in the Tower, for having dared to speak too boldly against royalty. Now he is suspected by the people—they suspect him of voting with toryism. They despise him, they accuse him of versatility. “But,” he replies, “it is you, perhaps, who have changed. Reformers formerly, you are now radicals! Tories in my day, you are now reformers! I have preserved my opinions and my dress!” Well! the error is with you, Sir Francis Burdett; you should have changed also, or not have lived to become old. If you had died at the proper time, perhaps you might now have your statue of bronze near that of Canning, in Westminster square. Who knows if to-morrow the same people who formerly carried you in triumph, may not ornament your white breeches with the mud of the streets leading to the Parliament house?

At last the discussion touching the waters of Mary-le-bone draws to a close. The house having to vote on this unlucky bill, the galleries for the reporters and the public were cleared. This is the custom of Parliament; decisions never take place but with closed doors.

When I returned to the gallery, the hall presented quite an altered appearance. The less piece was finished—the great one was about to commence. The ranks on the right and left grew thicker every moment—each member hastened to his post.

Lord John Russell, the official commander in chief of the reformers, had appeared on the ministerial benches, to the right of the speaker. By his side, you observed his principal aides-de-camp, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. Spring Rice, with a large bald forehead, and the countenance of a Satyr, the most ready, if not the ablest speaker in the cabinet; Lord Morpeth, secretary for Ireland, a large young man whose premature grey hairs, appear at a distance to be of a light yellow, looking like a timid and blushing youth; Lord Palmerston, an old bloated dandy, whose fat face seems to swell itself out between his thick whiskers with more satisfaction since he is no longer led by the nose by Talleyrand—Lord Palmerston, who has not wished to be made a peer since his last return to power, pretending that his eloquence has a more open field in the Commons than it could have in the House of Lords.

In front of the ministerial group, and separated from it only by the table of the clerks, sits Sir Robert Peel, surrounded also by his conservative aids, among whom you may distinguish Lord Granville Somerset the quasimodo of Westminster, whose double hump does not prevent him from being one of the most alert to sound the Protestant tocsin against Popery.

Here and there you may have observed other distinguished members of the house; Daniel O'Connell, the great O'Connell, calm and absorbed in the reading of some new book, of which he is cutting open the leaves, in the midst of his sons, his nephews, and his Irish Catholics, who form what is called his tail; a tail, if you please, but one which leads the head of the state. After them, Lord Stanley, the young heir of the house of Derby, that ambitious and disappointed elegant, who has yet only in heart deserted the benches of the reformers.

Next you have remarked two young men standing up, and differing as much in their height and figure as in their opinions; but equally celebrated, each one in his own way, in the world, and who, in consequence, deserve to be described.

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry, a mad conservative like his father, but less simple and possessed of much more discretion. Thin and pitiful in his person, without figure and without talent, it is not in the house that he really exists; in the saloons of the west end is his true atmosphere—it is there alone that his stupidity finds the air that it can respire. Lord Castlereagh is one of the chiefs of the new school which has regenerated English fashion. This school is entirely different from that of Brummell, which founded its distinction upon dress. The new fashionables of the sect of the noble lord, affect, on the contrary, entire negligence in the dress, and the greatest freedom of manners. Nothing is brilliant in their equipages, nor in the style of their servants. Their vehicles are of dark colors and sombre liveries; for themselves extreme simplicity in appearance. No flowered vests; no gold or silver lacing about them; no jewels; at the most the end of a gold chain at the button of a black coat; an engraved ring betraying some mysterious sentiment known to the whole city. Add to this the most refined impertinence of vanity, a sublime contempt for every one not of the exclusive circle into which they alone find admission, and an ambitious senseless jargon. Lord Castlereagh is the perfect type of this first and principal class of London fashionables.

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of Pelham and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He is large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other respects badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and curly. His long inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and fixed eyes, scarcely reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in some measure the incontestible success of his writings that has opened to him the doors of that exclusive society, with which he is very much at home. For the style of his costume he is indebted to old traditionary fashions. You will rarely ever meet him but with his bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout lined with velvet or silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of clear brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane encrusted with a rich head. He would remind you of those parvenus of bad taste who encumber the avant scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not deny the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer, though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems to be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate their real value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity betrayed in every page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published under the title of the Student. I would however sooner pardon him for this last work, than an act of his of which I have been informed. A young American called on him the other day, with letters of introduction. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but I will tell you beforehand that it will be difficult for me often to have that honor; I have already more acquaintances than my leisure will allow me to cultivate, and, in conscience, it is to them that I owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you not discover in this piece of politeness something that even surpasses the characteristic amiability of the English? The English do not ruin themselves by hospitality. If a stranger is introduced to them by letters of introduction, they give him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for dessert; then, having stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port and grog, and having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave of him; and if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors are afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true, however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great fashionable.

There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about, running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the streets of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one of the most powerful means of success. He took the most direct route to attain his end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The French journalists, when one knows how to deal with them, are complacency itself. In a short time no one was talked of but Doctor Bowring. The doctor did not take a single step that was not duly registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and Doctor Bowring there, every where the doctor; and the honest public of the French capital, deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him for some extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel we better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed, I assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France, so splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased from the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort of prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just what he was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by reform, a pale disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a sort of travelling clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently well three or four living languages; a poet, who furnishes some stanzas of ordinary poetry to the magazines; as for the rest, the very best physician in the world.

It was now near six; no one remained to be heard; the moment had arrived for opening the lists. According to the order of the motions for the day, the speaker gave the floor to the minister of the home department. Suddenly the waves of the assembly subsided; a profound silence ensued; Lord John Russell rose to speak.

Lord John Russell, third son of the Duke of Bedford, is extremely small, scarcely five feet high; the smallness of his person almost renews his youth; one would hardly suppose him forty-five years of age, as he really is. A head large about the forehead, and small towards the chin, forming a sort of triangle; chesnut-colored hair, short and thin; large eyes surmounted by well arched brows; a countenance pale, calm, soft and phlegmatic, marked by a sort of half-concealed cunning, are the features that would alone strike you. His manner of speaking is in perfect harmony with his modest and quiet exterior. His voice is weak and monotonous, but distinct. In speaking, his body is scarcely more animated than his discourse. All his action consists in gliding his left hand behind his back, seizing the elbow of his right arm, and balancing himself indefinitely in that position.

Lord John Russell expresses himself plainly and without effort; his language is cold and dry, but clear and concise. An author more concise than elegant, his style of writing exhibits itself in his off-hand speeches. He has nothing of the tiresome volubility of Thiers, who is minister of the home department in France; he says no more than is necessary, while he says every thing that he wishes. His sarcasm though frozen, is not the less sharp. The blade of his poignard does not require to be made red hot to inflict a deep wound. He has none of those sudden flashes which electrify and inflame an assembly; his light is of that peaceable and steady nature that illuminates and guides. His mind is a serious one, full of appropriate, condensed, and well resolved reflections.

In less than an hour he had unrolled the whole plan of his bill, and concisely explained its principles and details, not without letting fly some well sharpened arrows against the corrupting influence of the tories over the municipal constitution, the reform of which he demanded.

As soon as Lord John Russell had resumed his seat, and in the midst of the various murmurs which his speech had excited, Sir Robert Peel rose to address the speaker.

The ex-first lord of the treasury is of moderate height; his figure would be elegant, but for the fatness which has already begun to render it heavy; his dress is neat and studied without being dandyish; his manner would not convict him of the approach of fifty; his regular features have an expression of contemptuous severity; he seems to affect too much the manners of a great man; natural distinction has more ease and carelessness about it.

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of his oratory. Gesture and language both betray his ambitious affectedness. He has more of the actor than becomes a public speaker. It is irksome to see him agitate, struggle, and throw himself incessantly about. I do not like to see a statesman exhibit so much acquaintance with the positions of an elocutionist. It may be well enough by one's own fireside to cross one leg over another and to play with the guineas in the pockets of one's pantaloons. One may play with his collar in a drawing room, or throw back the skirts of his frock, without any great impropriety; but in public, and, above all, in places devoted to the solemn discussion of the laws of a nation, this style of flirting manners is by no means appropriate. Sir Robert abuses the purposes for which his hands and arms were given him. One almost loses his words in the incessant agitation of his person.

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited, easy, and intellectual; he may be listened to with pleasure. I am always well pleased with the manner in which he applies his rhetorical skill to public affairs. He has every thing which the art of speaking can give him; but the warmth which animates him is always artificial. The true fire of conviction which is so naturally communicated from the speaker to his audience, is always wanting. There is no sincerity about him. He is an ambitious tory in disguise, who, in order to seize again the golden reins of government, has hypocritically cloaked himself under the mantle of a reformer, and who would pass over to the radicals with his arms and baggage, if there was any chance of remounting by their aid to the power which he covets, and of securing himself in its enjoyment.

In accepting, with ample reservations, the principle of the bill, Sir Robert Peel, in answer to the sharp insinuations of Lord John Russell, made several witty and amusing observations, which diverted a good deal the house.

The minister replied in a few polite but firm observations. The serenity of the noble lord is perfectly unchangeable. He is as calm when defending himself, as when attacking his adversaries. I consider this political temperament as the most desirable for a statesman actively engaged in public affairs. Such coolness disconcerts the fury of one's assailants. One is never worsted in a combat when he retains such undisturbed self-possession.