CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 9 (continued 2)

ISRAFEL.¹

BY E. A. POE.

¹ And the angel Israfel who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.—Koran.

JUDGMENT OF RHADAMANTHUS.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING.

One day, Rhadamanthus, the stern and wise judge of the dead, sat in the shades, passing sentence on the crimes, follies, and virtues of the human race, that flocked in myriads to his awful tribunal. On his right hand extended a delicious region, fragrant with flowers of unnumbered tints and odors, musical with the song of myriads of happy birds, and glowing in glories brighter than sunbeams, for they were reflected from the smiling face of an approving deity. On his left lay the kingdom of darkness and despair, where though nothing could be seen, the wretchedness of its tenants was sadly indicated by groans and howlings of suffering and despair, which might aptly represent the universal chorus of human misery. To the former, Rhadamanthus beckoned the good with a benignant and approving smile—to the latter, he condemned the wicked with a withering frown.

Few—alas! few and far between, were they who were beckoned to the land of delight, while crowds of wicked beings expiated in the region of howling darkness, the crimes of a guilty life. At length there approached a proud stately woman, clad carelessly in attire not the most cleanly, her cap on one side, her hands begrimed with ink, and a hole in either stocking. Pride and conceit sat on her brow, and she was passing to the right of the judge, towards the region of the blest, before receiving judgment, when Rhadamanthus stopped her, and demanded an account of her doings in the other world.

She seemed mightily indignant at this, and after muttering something about “an old ignoramus,” proceeded as follows:

“Your worship surely cannot be ignorant of the services I have rendered the present age, as well as posterity, in writing six folio volumes on political economy, the duties of kings, princes and governors, the character of different nations, and the true principles of government. That I might the more exclusively devote myself to these great objects, I resolved never to marry, lest the care of my household and children might interfere with the desire I had to be useful.”

“Humph,” quoth Rhadamanthus—and the woman of six folios mistaking this for an approving fiat, was about to pass into the happy region, when he sternly bade her remain where she was. Whereupon she tossed her head, cocked her chin, and took a pinch of snuff, half of which she flourished in the face of the judge.

At this moment there approached a respectable matronly female, of an open, contented, and happy countenance, which seemed the index of a virtuous mind. She was dressed in plain attire of exquisite neatness, and as she came before the judgment seat, made a low obeisance, reverent, yet devoid of fear. The judge returned the salutation with a bow, and asked in a voice of kind encouragement what she had been doing in her past life.

With timid modesty, she told her tale of usefulness. She had married a worthy man, whose house she tried to make a happy home, and whose moderate means she exerted all the becoming arts of domestic economy to render sufficient for the supply of all the rational wants of life. She had borne him six children, four sons and two daughters; of the former of whom, one was now fighting in defence of his country at the head of its armies; another was a judge administering the laws to the people with justice and mingled mercy; a third was cultivating his father's land, and watching over his declining age; and a fourth imitating the faith of his forefathers both by precept and example. The daughters were all happily married, and living a life of virtue, in the midst of their children.

The lady of the six folios listened to this detail of modest usefulness with unutterable scorn, but far different were the feelings of Rhadamanthus, who nodded and smiled approbation at every sentence.

“Approach,” cried he to the mother of six children, and the writer of six folios. “Thou,” addressing himself to the former—“Thou that hast made thy husband happy by thy cares and thy economy, and thy children useful to their country by thy precepts and example, pass into the region of the blest, and enjoy thy reward in an eternity of happiness. But thou”—and he frowned majestically—“thou that has preferred the quill to the spindle; to instruct mankind rather than teach thy children the ways of virtue; and to be the mother of six musty books, rather than of as many sons and daughters, to honor their parents, serve their country, and worship their God, thou shalt return again to the earth, where thy punishment shall be to give advice which none will follow, and write books that nobody will read.”

The happy mother passed into the region of bliss, and the instructer of nations returned to the earth, with a resolution to write another folio, contesting the decision of Rhadamanthus, and pointing out the abuses of his system of jurisprudence.

SCENES IN CAMPILLO.¹

BY LIEUT. A. SLIDELL.

¹ These hitherto unpublished Scenes in Campillo are from a new edition (now in press) of the “Year in Spain.” We are indebted for them to the kindness of the author and of the Messrs. Harpers.

The Andalusian village of Campillo is built on a plain, with regular and well-paved streets, houses in good repair and neatly whitewashed, each with its stone seat at the door, and grated cage projecting from the window and garnished with shrubs and flowers, the scene of many a tender parley and midnight interview. Everything in Campillo, to the village church and village posada, bespeaks a pervading spirit of order and cleanliness, and the little room into which I was installed, partook largely of these qualities. It looked upon the principal square of the village, having in front the church, with its Gothic tower surmounted by the simple emblem of our faith, and embellished with the unwonted decoration of a clock, under whose promptings a hoarse old bell muttered forth the passing hours. On another side of the square was the hotel of the Ayuntamiénto, which contained the offices of the municipal authorities and police; while opposite was a guard-room, in which were a few ill-fed soldiers, shabbily accoutred in dirty belts and rusty muskets. In the middle of the square was a plain granite fountain, surrounded by a kerb, which formed a reservoir for watering cattle.

For want of better occupation, I passed a great part of the day in gazing from my window upon the moving scene below. Sometimes a stable boy would bring a train of jaded mules to the fountain, give them water, and wash their backs where they had been galled by the pack-saddles. Next would come a party of mules, heavily laden; each muleteer having his carbine slung securely beside him. These would pause a moment, refresh their cattle at the fountain, and then pass on and leave the arena again solitary, until some modern Sancho came ambling across the square, sitting upon the end of a mouse-colored ass, which he would guide at pleasure by means of a staff, touching the animal first on one side of the neck, then on the other. He too would pause at the fountain, renew his journey, and then have a contest with the animal about stopping at the open door of the posada, disappearing at length in a rage, and at a full gallop.

While the middle of the square seemed given up to passing travellers, the sides were more exclusively occupied by the native worthies of Campillo. In the guard-house, the soldiers were all sleeping away the heat of the day upon wooden benches in the interior; while the one on post sat under the shade of the portico, with his musket leaning against the wall beside him, occupied in cutting up tobacco on a board to make paper cigars. Immediately under my window was a group of the village notables, seated upon the stone bench that ran along the whole front of the building, or gathered round the more important personages of the assemblage. I amused myself in assigning to each a character, and in guessing at the import of his discourse.

That well-fed royalist, with silver shoe and knee buckles, and the red cockade in his hat, is doubtless the Alcalde of Campillo. He is declaiming upon the late successes of the insurgent royalists in Portugal; and of those two who listen to him, and seem to catch the words that fall from his lips, the one is our own innkeeper paying his court to the powers that be, and the other, with the thin legs and long nose, who is followed by a half-starved dog, equally miserable with his master, is certainly the village doctor, the Sangrado of Campillo. He is evidently looked on contemptuously by the rest of the assembly, who are aware of his ignorance, and know that he owes his situation, and the right to kill or cure the good people of Campillo, rather to two ounces of gold opportunely bestowed on the Alcalde, than to any acquaintance with the healing art. The thick-set man in the oil-cloth cocked hat, with scowling look and bushy whiskers, who is fingering the hilt of his sabre, is the commandant of the royalist volunteers. He has become terrible to the “negros,” who will tell you that he is no better than he should be, that he began the world after the manner of Robin Hood, and passed in due season to the command of a royalist guerrilla. But who is that tall sharp featured individual, walking across the Plaza, with the village curate on one side and a capuchin on the other? That is doubtless the intendant of police, who has just received intelligence of some pretended revolutionary plot, and who will soon go with a force in search of persons and papers.

THE PINE WOOD.

A SONG—WRITTEN IN GEORGIA.

BY DR. ROBERT M. BIRD.

¹ The greater wood-pecker.

THE BATTLE OF LODI.

BY MAJOR HENRY LEE.¹

¹ We are pleased at an opportunity afforded us of presenting our readers in anticipation with an extract of great beauty from the second volume of Major Lee's Life of Napoleon. This volume will not be published for some time—many laborious investigations operating to delay the work much longer than was anticipated by its author. We are indebted to Major Lee himself for the MS,—who sends it to us from Paris.

Bonaparte, having despatched the affairs which on the evening of the action of Fombio called him back to Placentia; having adjusted the amount of contribution imposed on that town, provided for the immediate passage of his rear division across the Po, and signed an armistice with the commissioners of the Duke of Parma, hastened to rejoin his advance, and to resume the personal direction of its movements. He arrived at Casal Pusterlengo at 3 o'clock on the morning of the 10th, and marched without delay in pursuit of Beaulieu. Early in the forenoon, and at some distance in front of Lodi, with the grenadiers under Lannes, he reached the Austrian rear guard, composed of the grenadiers of Nadasti, and two squadrons of hussars, with two field pieces; which detachment, Beaulieu, that he might gain time to withdraw his main body, encumbered with a heavy train of artillery, across the Adda, had directed to defend to the last the approach to Lodi. The ground they occupied was found to be so strong that it was necessary to execute several manœuvres before they could be advantageously attacked. The onset of the French was made with that ardor which the presence of their general, and the confidence of victory inspired. The defence, which was as obstinate as the post was important, was persisted in until the French battalions pouring along in succession, the Austrians were nearly surrounded. They at last gave way, leaving their killed and wounded, with one field piece, on the field; and were pursued so closely into Lodi, that they could neither shut the gates nor cross the river before the French van-guard was in possession of the town.

Beaulieu's main body, upon which the fugitives retreated, consisting of 12,000 infantry, 4,000 horse, and 30 pieces of artillery, was drawn up behind field-works on the left bank of the Adda, and immediately opposite to Lodi; the artillery, in front, looking on the bridge, and the cavalry, a little withdrawn, on the flanks. From this position, in which he felt at last safe and unassailable, the Austrian general directed a violent cannonade on the town of Lodi, as soon as he perceived it was occupied by the French; and expecting rather to dislodge his adversary than to be himself disturbed, he declined destroying the bridge over the Adda, and thus interrupting his direct communication with Milan. To avoid and to mitigate the effect of this cannonade, Bonaparte sheltered his infantry and horse, as fast as they came up, behind the rampart of the town, which ran along the bank of the river; and planting advantageously his own artillery, opened a fire, which though supported by fewer guns, was more effectual than the enemy's, inasmuch as the Austrians were uncovered. Notwithstanding the strength of Beaulieu's ground, Bonaparte perceived, that with men like his, it was not impregnable; and persevering in his design of intercepting Wukassowich and Colli in their retreat to Mantua, he resolved, even under the Austrian guns, to force the passage of the Adda. The attempt was hazardous; but the soul of the enterprise consisted in its danger, and the main chance of success, in its apparent impossibility, which, so long as the bridge remained entire, was only apparent. To prevent its destruction, he proceeded in person, in full exposure to the Austrian artillery, to place two guns in such positions that their cross fires, which assisted by Berthier he himself tried, covered the farther end of the bridge, and rendered all approach to it impracticable. The freedom with which he exposed himself while making his skill as an artillery officer, instrumental to his success as their general, delighted the troops extremely, and was the occasion of their conferring on him that rank, which rendered him famous in the annals of the bivouac, as “the Little Corporal.” Then, comparatively at leisure, he made his preparations for forcing the passage, ordering the artillery officers to maintain their fire with unabated spirit, and directing Massena to give the rest of the troops, who were drawn up behind the rampart, and had been in constant exertion from 3 o'clock in the morning, a hasty breakfast and a short repose.

The force which he had in hand at Lodi was more formidable in character than numbers, consisting of three brigades of Massena's division, the grenadier corps lately commanded by Laharpe, and a reserve of light cavalry under general Beaumont, in all about 13,000 men; Gen. Kilmaine with the principal part of the horse, and Gen. Mesnard with a brigade of infantry, had been detached in the morning from Casal; the first to the left for the double purpose of keeping free that wing of the army, and of hanging upon the flank of the Austrian divisions in their retreat from Milan to Cassano; the second to the right, for security on that side, and with instructions to observe and act against the garrison of Pizzighitone. Serrurier's division being the last in crossing the Po, and having been directed to occupy Pavia, was at some distance in the rear; while Augereau's, which had encamped the previous night at Borghetto, was following by the way of Casal the progress of the advance. To this General, therefore, as additional force might be required at Lodi, orders were sent to expedite his march, and close up with the front as soon as possible.

Although the chief reliance for success in this undertaking, was to be on the courage and alacrity of the troops engaged in it, two circumstances enabled Bonaparte to bring its issue, in some degree, within the range of calculation. One of these was the information of the inhabitants, that at the present stage of the water, the Adda was fordable for cavalry, at a point half a league above the town; and the other, his own observation, that the Austrian commander, in order to shelter his troops from the French artillery as the French were sheltered from his own, had withdrawn his mass of infantry and his corps of horse behind a swell in the surface of the ground, to a position so much in the rear, that it placed them farther from the Austrian guns, than the French grenadiers would be when prepared to rush across the bridge. In the first he perceived an opportunity of annoying the right flank of the enemy, and distracting his attention at a critical moment; in the second, and more important one, the practicability, by a sudden and impetuous charge, of reaching his guns before his infantry could interpose; and in both the probability that his own column of attack, would be exposed but for an instant, to the enemy's artillery. Upon the edge of this sharp inference, which few minds would have had the acuteness to shape or the firmness to act upon, the fate of the day was to turn.

At 5 o'clock in the afternoon, when the men were refreshed, and when Augereau's immediate junction might be counted on, he directed Gen. Beaumont with the cavalry and four pieces of light artillery, to pass the Adda at the ford above, and having gained a footing on the opposite bank, to cannonade the right flank of the Austrians, and if practicable, to charge them. A column of attack 4,000 strong, composed of grenadiers, and having the second battalion of carabiniers or light infantry grenadiers, in front,² was formed under the orders of Massena behind the rampart of the town, with the leading sections so close to the gate, that by merely facing to the left, they would be ready to spring upon the bridge. The rest of Massena's troops had orders to follow in the charge instantly. The time required for the detour of the cavalry, Bonaparte employed in passing through the ranks of the grenadiers, by a few energetic expressions encouraging their zeal and rousing their intrepidity. Shouts of “long live the republic!” repeated by a thousand voices, welcomed his appearance, and proclaimed, that troops who had turned the Alps and traversed the Po, were not to be stopped by the Adda.³ The cannonade was continued with fury on both sides; when the guns of Beaumont being heard on the left, and the Austrian fire seeming to slacken at the sound, Bonaparte himself gave the word to advance. The drums beat the charge; and the assailants issuing from behind the wall, like a band of giants sprung from the earth, suddenly changed the face of the conflict and quickly brought it to a closer decision. Wheeling to the left, the leading sections rushed upon the bridge against a storm of fire, which at the first onset, was so fatal, that the head of the column reeled under its destruction. Bonaparte, aware that his attempt must prove instantly successful or dreadfully abortive, perceived the disorder in a moment, and in a moment repaired it. He hastened to the front, and seconded by Berthier, Massena, Cervoni, d'Allemagne, Lannes, Dupat, and the Commissary Salicetti, gave a fresh impulse to the charge; and the column closing its ranks and quickly redressing its disordered front, sprang forward with more determined valor and more ardent steps. The bridge, two hundred yards long, was instantly cleared. Dupat was the first officer across; Bonaparte himself was next after Lannes. The soldiers, impatient to get across, and crowding on their leaders, were seen as they approached the shore, some sliding down the timbers of the bridge, others leaping off into the water, and then speeding up the bank to close with the enemy. Displaying as rapidly as they passed, they threw in a close and a deadly fire, and falling upon the Austrian artillery before it could be supported, dispersed the men or killed them at their pieces. Then with fury they rushed upon the infantry, which, neither in time for rescue, nor in spirit for revenge, was advancing. A struggle too fierce to be lasting, ensued. The Austrians, discouraged by frequent defeats and constant misfortunes, were unnerved by this unexpected attack, which like a blast of death had swept across the river; and their line was already pierced and mangled, when Augereau coming up with his light brigade under Gen. Rusca, led it keenly into action and completed this double victory, which at one blow, severed a strong line of defence, and routed a formidable army. Part of Beaulieu's force fled, with their general, into the Venetian territory to Crema, part to Pizzighitone, some even to Cremona. His hussars endeavoring to cover the retreat, made several charges, which, owing to the firmness of the French infantry, were not successful.

² When Alexander's officers dissuaded him against attempting the passage of the Granicus, and particularly at a late hour in the day, he said—“The Hellespont would blush, if after having crossed it, I should be afraid of the Granicus.”—Plutarch's Life of Alexander.

³ Napoleon in his despatch reporting to the government the battle of Lodi (Moniteur, 20th May, 1796) says, his column of attack was formed of grenadiers, with the “second battalion of carabiniers in front.” In the French army there are both foot and horse carabiniers, the former of which were employed at Lodi, and are the grenadiers of the light infantry.

But the marches and fighting of the day had so much exhausted the victorious troops, that though still eager for glory they were panting for breath, and the pursuit was not carried far beyond the field of battle. The Austrians left on the ground 1,200 men killed and wounded, and in possession of the French 1,000 prisoners, 600 horses, 20 guns, and several stand of colors. Bonaparte's loss scarcely exceeded 200 in killed and wounded; such was the rapidity and effect of a movement which, with the nicest calculations of judgment, seemed to combine the wild boldness of inspiration.⁴

⁴ Formally announcing to his readers a minute description of the battle of Lodi, (vol. iii. p. 128) the author of Waverley prefaces it by assuring them that the Adda falls into the Po at Pizzighitone, a town at least twenty-five miles above its mouth; which is like saying that the Tiber falls into the sea at Rome. Another error into which he falls, requires more serious notice, because he founds on it a general prospective imputation of untruth against Napoleon, in reference to his military despatches, and his posthumous works. At page 134, this free and fanciful historian says—“Bonaparte states that they only lost 200 men during the storm of the passage. We cannot but suppose that this is a very mitigated account of the actual loss of the French army. So slight a loss is not to be reconciled with the horrors of the battle, as he himself detailed them in his despatches; nor with the conclusion, in which he mentions, that of the sharp contests which the army of Italy had to sustain during the campaign, none was to be compared with that ‘terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi.’”

Now the truth is, Napoleon never “details” nor even mentions, “the horrors of the battle” of Lodi, in any of his despatches. In that of the 22d Floreal, 11th of May, he says—“Although since the commencement of the campaign we have had some severe affairs, and it has frequently been necessary to expose the troops to fire in the freest manner, none of our struggles has come up to the terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi.” Here is certainly no “detail of the horrors of a battle,” implying a conflict and slaughter of some duration. On the contrary, in the body of the same despatch, he had previously described the severity of the affair, as existing only for a moment. “The grenadiers presented themselves on the bridge, which is 200 yards in length; the fire of the enemy was terrible; the head of the column seemed even to hesitate; a moment's hesitation and all would have been lost. The generals sensible of this, threw themselves in front, and decided the struggle while it was yet balanced. This formidable column overthrew every thing opposed to it; the enemy's artillery was instantly taken. In the twinkling of an eye his army was completely dispersed.” Salicetti's despatch is conceived in similar terms. The charge was made “with the rapidity of lightning”—the column hesitated “for an instant”—and renewing the charge, carried the Austrian artillery “in a moment.” In his account dictated to Montholon, (vol. iii. p. 214) Napoleon, who could hardly have anticipated a calumny of this kind, says—“the column traversed the bridge at a running pace, in a few seconds,” and “was not exposed to the fire of the enemy, except at the very moment when it wheeled to the left upon the bridge.” All this shows that the “storm of the passage” instead of consisting of a “detail of horrors,” was a momentary hurricane of shot, which swept off in an instant from the head of the column 200 men. Now the head of the column, could only have been a certain portion of the whole column. As the second battalion of carabiniers was in front, let us suppose this battalion constituted the head, and had got upon the bridge. We learn from a previous statement of Napoleon's, which is not disputed, (Montholon, t. 3, p. 205) that the ten battalions of grenadiers collected at Tortona, composed a force of 3,500 men. They had been marching and fighting ever since; but let us estimate the second carabiniers at 300; supposing them all on the bridge when the Austrians fired, and we have two thirds of them killed and wounded in a single instant! If this was not a sharp affair, a hot fire, a terrible passage, it is doubtful whether the annals of war furnish any thing that is. Cæsar lost but 200 men at the battle of Pharsalia, although the struggle had been at one moment so warm, that the brave Crastinus and thirty centurions fell.—Bello civili. L. 3, C. 99.

The head of the column being thus shattered, had the Austrian artillery quickly repeated and vigorously sustained their fire, the attempt of Napoleon must have failed. But it is evident that they were daunted and confused by the sudden rush of the French upon the bridge, by the opening of Beaumont's guns upon their flank, and by the want of support from their own infantry; and after delivering one fire, served their guns unsteadily and made little effectual resistance; for of all the distinguished persons who sprang to the front of the column, eight in number, not one was even wounded. This agrees perfectly with another passage of Napoleon's report, which is of itself a refutation of Sir Walter's calumny. “If we have lost but few men, it is owing to the promptitude with which the charge was executed, and to the sudden effect produced on the enemy, by the imposing mass and dreadful fire, of our intrepid column.”

But the author of Waverley, finding that no authentic narrative of this action furnished the desired “horrors of the battle,” resolved, it seems, in order to color his charge of wilful and habitual misstatement against Napoleon, to prepare a set of horrors of his own, expressly for the occasion. At page 133, therefore, he asserts, in opposition to the report of Napoleon, that of Salicetti, the memoires of Napoleon, the histories of Jomini and Desjardins, all of which were in existence when he wrote, that “from the windows of the houses on the left side of the river, the soldiers who occupied them, poured volley upon volley of musketry on the thick column as it endeavored to force its way over the long bridge.” This detail seems with little variation to be transposed from his own spirited account of the battle of Bothwell bridge. “But the bridge was long and narrow, which rendered the manœuvres slow as well as dangerous, and those who first passed had still to force the houses, from which the covenanters continued to fire.”—Old Mortality, chapter xxxii. After this it would be needless to remark upon the next passage in Sir Walter's commentary, which runs thus: “In fact, as we may take occasion to prove hereafter, the memoranda of the great general, dictated to his officers at St. Helena, have a little too much the character of his original bulletins; and while they show a considerable disposition to exaggerate the difficulties to be overcome, the fury of the conflict, and the exertions of courage by which the victory was attained, show a natural inconsistency, from the obvious wish to diminish the loss which was its unavoidable price.”

The French cavalry, with the exception of a small party headed by Marmont, and composed mostly of Bonaparte's escort, took no part in the action, and received none of the General's praise. It was alleged that the ford was found less practicable and the circuit more extensive, than had been counted upon. But the conduct, or rather the nullity of this corps, at Lodi could hardly have lessened the dissatisfaction which Bonaparte expressed the day before in a letter to Carnot. “I will confess to you, that since the death of Stengel, I have not a single fighting man among the superior officers of cavalry. I wish you would send me two or three Adjutants General, who have risen in the dragoons, possess a spark of military fire, and are firmly resolved never to make skilful retreats.” It was not until the French had reached the borders of the Mincio, and by capture or contribution had furnished their troopers with heavy horses; and when Murat, being returned with promotion from Paris, had an opportunity of displaying that unbounded courage which gave a romantic splendor to the technical force of his charges, that the cavalry of the army of Italy began to prove worthy of their General's skill in war, and to rival the infantry in prowess.⁵ The conduct of the grenadiers, and particularly of the battalion of carabiniers, was above praise or description. When Bonaparte asked for the names of the men who formed the leading section of the column, for the purpose of mentioning them honorably in his report, the names of the whole battalion were handed him. Léon, a sergeant of the thirty-second, whose courage had been noticed at Monteligino and Montinotte, and Laforge, a grenadier of the twenty-first, remarkable for activity and strength, appear however to have been most conspicuous. The sergeant, after passing the bridge in the front section, led the assault upon the Austrian batteries. The grenadier, throwing himself into the enemy's intrenchments, slew five men with his own hand. Among the generals in like manner, the gallantry of Berthier was judged pre-eminent. To these circumstances Bonaparte made allusion in his report. “Were I to mention all who distinguished themselves, I should be obliged to name all the carabiniers and grenadiers of the light division, and almost all the officers of the staff. But I must not forget the intrepid Berthier, who himself acted as gunner, horseman, and grenadier, on this memorable day.”⁶ Yet however excellent the spirit of the troops and the conduct of the officers, few victories were ever, in so great a degree, the result of the General's sagacity and courage, as that of Lodi.⁷ His modesty in making no reference to himself in his report, was as heroic as his conduct in the battle.

⁵ This account of the French cavalry at Lodi is confirmed by the words of Napoleon's report—“the ford being found very bad, the cavalry was greatly retarded, and could not charge.” It corresponds with the observation respecting them in his memoires (Montholon, t. 1, p. 4.) Yet Lockhart insists, that at the battle of Lodi and during the charge of the French grenadiers, “Beaumont pressed gallantly with his horse upon the Austrian flank.” The same critical historian, who appears to have written for the sole purpose of repeating or inventing misrepresentations, copies devoutly Sir Walter's errors; one importing that the vanguard of grenadiers who first passed the Po, was commanded by Andreossi, and the other that the Adda falls into the Po at Pizzighitone.

⁶ In the report, neither of Napoleon nor of Salicetti, is it stated that they were personally engaged in this charge. But at St. Helena, “some one having read an account of the battle of Lodi, in which it was said that Bonaparte displayed great courage in crossing the bridge; and that Lannes passed it after him—‘Before me,’ said Bonaparte, with much warmth; ‘Lannes passed first and I only followed him. It is necessary to correct that on the spot’—and the correction was accordingly made in the margin of the book.” (Haylitt, vol. i. p. 449. See also Lockhart, t. 1, p. 47.) Here first must mean before me; for in his despatch to the Directory of the 22d July, (Moniteur of the 1st of August,) in reporting a successful assault on the outworks of Mantua, and extolling the conduct of the officers engaged in it, Napoleon says—“The chief of battalion Dupat, who commands the brave fifth battalion of grenadiers, is the same officer who passed the first the bridge of Lodi.” In his despatch, Bonaparte tells the Directors that Salicetti was constantly at his side, a fact which shows the latter was in the charge, and which otherwise would probably not have been mentioned. He also says—“the army is under real obligations to him,” referring no doubt by the word real, to the false pretensions set up, by Salicetti and his colleagues, or for them, in regard to the storming of Little Gibraltar at Toulon, which are noticed in the first volume (p. 365) of this work.

⁷ After this anecdote, the author of Waverley lugs into his narrative, the following compliment to the national vanity of his countrymen. (Vol. iii, p. 137.) “This somewhat resembles the charge which foreign tacticians have brought against the English, that they gained victories by continuing, with their insular ignorance and obstinacy, to fight on, long after the period when if they had known the rules of war, they ought to have considered themselves as completely defeated.” Such impertinence and bad taste deter imitation, or it might be said, this charge against Sir Walter's compatriots has never been urged by officers of the army or navy of the United States—neither on the lakes nor on the ocean; at Saratoga, nor at New Orleans, where the “flower of the peninsular veterans,” as Sir Walter himself admits, (vol. viii. p. 474,) led by the disciple and brother-in-law of Wellington—sought a combat with an inferior force of western militia, and were perfectly sensible of a total defeat.

Although the possession of Milan and the submission of Lombardy were consequences of the battle of Lodi, Bonaparte was disappointed in one of the principal objects which he hoped to gain by it. Wukassowich and Colli, feebly annoyed by Kilmaine, had crossed the Adda at Cassano, in the forenoon of the day; he forced a passage at Lodi, and taking the upper route, by the way of Brescia, to Mantua, were beyond the reach of interception. Relinquishing, therefore, further efforts against these Generals, he determined to attack Pizzighitone before it could be put in a state of defence, and marched for that purpose on the morning of the 11th, down the left bank of the Adda. The flight of a few shells seconded by the cannonade of Mesnard from the right bank of the river, compelled the garrison of three hundred men, which Liptay had left behind him, to surrender. Cremona, a more important fortress, opened its gates the same day to General Beaumont, who after charging a body of the fugitives from Lodi, appeared before it with an advance guard of cavalry.

From this point, which was the present limit of his career, Bonaparte determined to lead back his forces in order to secure the country they had overrun; and turning his views toward Milan, resolved to impress on that capital and other cities of Lombardy, the stamp of French authority, in the room of that which his victories had expelled. This operation, which first called into exercise his abilities for government, appears to have awakened the germs of that high ambition, which, nurtured by the possession of great civil qualities, placed him so far above all the other Generals of his age, and conducted him to a sphere of elevated greatness which a mind supported by military talents alone, and ambitious only of success in war, can never reach. In recurring to the events of his early life, he afterwards said—“Neither my success on the thirteenth of Vendemiaire, nor in the campaign of Montenotte, made me believe myself a superior man. It was not until after the battle of Lodi, that I began to think I might become a decisive actor on our political theatre. Then it was, that the first spark of high ambition was kindled in my soul.”

Suspending for the moment his further advance towards the Adige, he thus disposed of his troops: The light division lately commanded by Laharpe, was distributed along the Adda from Como to Cassano; and that of Serrurier, which had been under orders to occupy Pavia, was recalled and posted at Lodi, Pizzighitone and Cremona, so as to complete the possession of the line of the Adda. From this last place, he was to observe the discomfited forces of Beaulieu, who were reassembling behind the Oglio and the Mincio. Augereau was directed to take possession of Pavia, and to exhibit in that celebrated city, which was next to Milan itself in importance, one of the finest divisions of the invading army; while to Masséna was assigned the still more honorable duty, of receiving the keys of the noble capital of Lombardy. At the head of his division, this distinguished General marched from Lodi, on the 13th of May.

The hostile forces being now separated, the imperialists collecting their shattered battalions within the Venetian frontier, and the republicans spreading their victorious divisions over the plains of Lombardy, the reader's attention will be inclined to turn from the constant success of the one, and the uniform defeat of the other party, to the conduct of their respective commanders. He will observe that while a lamp of foresight guided the French General, the Austrian was bewildered in a cloud of uncertainty. Though active, courageous, and experienced, Beaulieu was throughout the struggle, as distracted in his efforts as a sightless pugilist, who knows neither where to aim nor to expect a blow; and although operating in the open field and in a populous quarter of his own country, was invariably subjected to the effect of surprise. The passage of the Po, the combat of Fombio, the victory of Lodi, operations which constituted the leading acts of this brilliant section of the campaign, were, each of them, the result of an attempt, which had it been foreseen, might have been frustrated. But while Beaulieu was guarding the Po at Valenza, Bonaparte had passed it at Placentia; while he was preparing to support Liptay at Fombio, that General was already defeated; and while he felt unassailable and meditated offensive operations at Lodi, he was himself overthrown by a blow of such quick and incalculable energy, that it was impossible to fear, withstand, or recover from it.

The confusion and dismay which these circumstances spread through the ranks of the imperial army, are aptly exemplified by the anecdote which Bonaparte records of an old Hungarian captain, with whom among other captives he fell in, while making the rounds of his camp, the night after the surrender of Pizzighitone. The prisoner, who did not know to whom he spoke, being asked by the General what he thought of the state of the war, replied—“nothing could be worse, and that it was altogether incomprehensible.” “We have to do,” he added, “with a young General who is at one moment in our front, at another in our rear, and the next on our flanks. One knows not how to take him. This manner of making war, against all rules, is insupportable.”

Bonaparte on the other hand, seizing the initiative by his boldness and maintaining it by his activity, divined the intentions of his adversary on all occasions, and confounded them, as with the overruling force of destiny. Accordingly, though operating with little more than his vanguard, he predominated irresistibly in the campaign, defeating the corps which came in his way, terrifying those which kept out of it, and in defiance of obstructions that seemed to others insurmountable, by an electric shock of genius and audacity, hurling to the ground the military strength and political power of his once gigantic antagonist.

MARCUS CURTIUS.

BY OMEGA.

Richmond, July 25.

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. II.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

The chamber of the House of Lords is close to that of the Commons. The constant communication between these two bodies, renders it necessary that they should sit within the same palace. The recent destruction of the old Parliament House, by fire, has not separated them. Their temporary chambers are connected by temporary passages, leading from one to the other. Along them Members of the House of Commons, personally, carry their bills to the bar of the Peers; while the Peers despatch their messengers to lay their own before the representatives of the people.

The Ministers do not fail to avail themselves of this proximity. Being entitled to a seat only in that chamber to which they belong as Members of Parliament, when any struggle between themselves and the opposition is going on at the same time in both houses, they are at least enabled to exchange messages, from minute to minute, and to regulate their movements accordingly.

Thanks to this proximity, the noise and uproar of the popular branch, has alone, more than once, made the members of the more aristocratic body tremble on their seats. While the fanatical coalition of the Lords, temporal and spiritual, assailed the intrepidly defended, but badly fortified ministry of Lord Melbourne, more than once, the thundering voice of the Commons has relaxed the fury of the assailants, and encouraged the resistance of the besieged. The victorious cry of the reformers, led by Lord John Russell, often threw into confusion the conquered conservatres of Sir Robert Peel.

But it is necessary to describe this second arena of political warfare.

The chamber of the Lords is of the same form as that of the Commons—a lengthened square. The benches are generally placed in the same way; but the decorations are of a more striking appearance. Looking from the only gallery, common to the public and the reporters, you behold the throne immediately in front. This throne is not, as in France, a piece of furniture placed in the chamber every year, on the first day of the session. Here it is immovable.

Below is the celebrated woolsack, the seat of the real President of the assembly. Custom has determined that this must be a sort of sack—a bench without a back.

The apartment for the clerks is separated from the woolsack by two benches, on which two places are reserved for the Masters in Chancery, the official messengers of the chamber.

The covering and drapery of the throne, the hangings of the walls, the carpet, the screens, the benches, cushions and backs, every thing is red in this hall. Red is the aristocratic color. When the Peers, on the occasion of a visit from the King, are seated in state, with their red mantles, the whole appearance of the chamber is more dazzling than imposing. The appearance of the Commons at the bar, in their simple every day dress, presents a striking contrast. One smiles in spite of himself on reflecting that those are not the masters, who are thus sumptuously dressed in garments of purple.

This hall, in which the Lords are temporarily convened, was formerly the bed-chamber of Edward the Confessor. One can well imagine that if the four hundred and thirty nobles should take it into their heads to meet at the same time, that this room would with great difficulty contain them; but this fancy rarely ever seizes them. It is a great occasion which draws together even two hundred. The Peers enjoy a singular privilege which renders personal attendance almost unnecessary. They can vote by proxy. So that, when any one of them desires to travel on the continent, he leaves, if he choose, a power with some Peer of his own party, who exercises this delegated right of voting as often as he pleases, when he pleases, and how he pleases, except in divisions of a committee. Formerly the royal authority alone could render these powers available. Now even this is not required. At the present time, the Duke of Wellington, for instance, has his pocket full of tory votes.

The Peers who are in the habit of attending Parliament, find the present hall very small and uncomfortable. The government, which is building a new Parliament House, has consulted them on its dimensions; and it has been decided that it shall be neither very large nor very small. No one ever thought of building it on the supposition that the whole of the Peers would assemble at one time within its walls. This hypothesis has never even been suggested. The number of Peers present at the same time, has never been greater than on the question of the passage of the principal amendment attempted against parliamentary reform, the 7th of May, 1832. On that occasion there were two hundred and sixty-seven members in the house. That number was taken as the maximum: each member will be allowed three feet square. It is evident that the noble Lords are divided between the desire to be seated comfortably, and the fear of having too large an apartment, in which on some day or other a crowd of intruders may lodge themselves.

One word on the constitution of this chamber. Nothing can be more various than the elements of which it is composed. It has, first, its Peerages hereditary under the law of primogeniture—these are the English Peerages, and are beyond all comparison the most numerous; next, the Scotch and Irish Peerages, which are elective, but on different principles. The Scotch Peers are nominated only for a single Parliament; the Irish are for life. There are besides Ecclesiastical Peers, Archbishops and Bishops, English or Irish, who sit, the former on their own right, and for life, the latter by turns, every year, four by four.

In England the Peerage forms the only nobility possessed of any real title. One who is not a Peer has no legal title. The sons of Peers are not authorized to assume, in their public acts, any title of nobility. Even the eldest sons are only Lords by general consent and courtesy. The official list of the Peerage is the only official list of the nobility. The peerages are of different ranks; and among those of the same class, the most ancient has precedence. Thus there are in the first place, Dukes, then Marquises, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons. The Bishops and Archbishops, known as Lords Spiritual, are ranked according to their respective dignity. The Archbishops of England have the rank of Dukes, and even precede them. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the primate and head of the church, is a sort of English Pope, and follows immediately after the Princes of the blood. He is the first Peer of the House of Lords. The Lord Chancellor (when there is one) is, in virtue of his office, the second; and the Archbishop of York is the third. The Bishops are ranked as Barons, and have precedence of them.

The Barons of Kingsale, like the Grandees of Spain, enjoy the exclusive and hereditary privilege of remaining uncovered in the presence of the King. The Peers have no other privileges, (excepting the peculiar style in which they are addressed, as “his grace,” or the “right honorable,”) which are not common to them all. Their chief privileges are those which prevent the seizure of their goods, their being arrested for debt, or judged by default in any civil action. They cannot be held to answer any criminal process but before their Peers. The reason of the inviolability of their persons in these and many other cases, is to be found in the fiction by which the Peers are all considered as counsellors of the King, and therefore secured in this perfect personal freedom, that they may be always ready to serve the necessities of the crown.

The House of Lords can only exclude a member and deprive him of the privileges of his rank, by convicting him of some capital or infamous crime. However, Blackstone mentions that, during the reign of Edward IV, George Neville, Duke of Bedford, was degraded by act of Parliament, on account of his poverty, which prevented his keeping up a style suited to his rank as a Peer. This fact is the more curious, as it is the only one of the kind, in the whole history of Parliament. Subsequently, a practice the very reverse has prevailed. So that, recently, the Earl of Huntingdon, though reduced to extreme indigence, has succeeded in establishing a contested claim to the Peerage, and the King has endowed him to enable him to sustain his rank as becomes a nobleman.

In England the aristocracy is firmly established. Each Peerage rests, at least fictitiously, on a real title, based on landed property. France and Spain, with a much larger and more ancient and illustrious nobility, have, however, never had a powerful and deeply-rooted aristocracy. If the French noblesse of the States-General had formed a political body strongly seated, properly supported, and distinctively marked, the revolution could not have overthrown them with as much ease as it did. Louis XVIII undertook, in 1814, to construct an upper house; he was too late—the materials were wanting—he built with sand on a foundation of sand.

It is now two years since M. Martinez de la Rosa also endeavored to form one in Spain. Well! in the country where every body is a hidalgo, he was unable to find grandees and tilulos for his frail edifice. He went to work like the French political masons in 1831; he took political economists, philosophers, judges, lawyers, poets, merchants, and mixed them all up with the little of true nobility that remained. With this mortar he built his proceres, destined to last about as long as the new Peers of France.

It is certain that the British Peerage has no longer the solid strength it once possessed; but, though weakened and shaken, it maintains itself by the vigor of its original organization; it does not absolutely arrest the popular torrent, but it resists, even in letting it pass along. However, this flood will not always dash without injury, around the House which forms an obstacle to its course; it is fast undermining its foundations; and will soon or late overthrow the whole mass. It will have been long submerged while Westminster Abbey still mirrors itself in the Thames. Such is the lot of the works of the middle ages. Its buildings outlive its strongest institutions.

The British Peerage is not only a legislative body; it is at the same time a court of justice—not an extraordinary court for the trial of its own members or persons accused of high treason, but a permanent and regular court—a supreme court of appeals in civil matters. These two attributes are, however, as distinct as the unavoidable consequences of this double capacity will permit; good sense has corrected in practice, the theoretical absurdity of the law. Although every Peer is born a competent judge in every cause, as he is a born legislator, the House of Lords only sits as a common tribunal when it is represented by the lawyers belonging to its own body. For example, Lord Brougham or Lord Lyndhurst, both Ex-Chancellors, usually sit in the morning, and give a final judgment on civil suits brought to that court.

No divorce can be pronounced but by act of Parliament. The Peers decide on all process for separation. As in these cases the only question is about facts which no legal knowledge is required to comprehend, they are decided indifferently by the Law-Peers, or any others present at the commencement of the political session. So the House of Lords is at the same time a court and a legislative chamber; a barbarous amalgam.

If the strict rules of ceremony were preserved, the Peers should sit according to their ranks; that is to say, Dukes on the first benches, Marquisses on the second, and the Barons on the third. This order is, however, not observed. They range themselves like the Commons, according to the political party to which they belong, Barons, Earls, Dukes or Marquisses indiscriminately. During the session just closed, the ministry of the whigs and their friends, occupied the seats to the right of the woolsack; the opposition of the tories, those on the left.

We use the terms “whigs” and “tories,” for these words are most suitable to the House of Lords. The whole aristocracy being centered in that House, the Peers only represent themselves; they do not express the will of such or such a party, but their own will. Lord Durham and Lord Brougham, both radicals, are anomalies and differ entirely from their fellows.

The political classification of the House of Lords, is more simple and easy than that of the Commons. There is at present, as during the last century, in the Upper House, two different shades of aristocracy, which fiercely contend for power and the emoluments of office; the tories, consistent at least with their anti-liberal principles, the triumph of which, if such triumph could be accomplished peacefully and without a revolution, would be the only safety for the Peerage; the whigs, very much embarrassed by their pretended popular opinions, of the sincerity of which proofs by acts and not by words, are begun to be required.

Numerically these two divisions are far from being equal. Counting consciences, you would have ten tories for one whig. However, in 1832 the whig minority forced the tories to capitulate; and, since that time assisted by the pressure from without, it has more than once dictated the law to its adversaries. But the period is rapidly approaching when the true majority will attempt to break the yoke, perceiving that concessions can no longer avail to secure its safety. It would be at least as becoming to seize the sword, and fall in defending its ramparts, as to wait seated on its curule chairs, the political death which threatens it.

The rules and customs of the two chambers in some respects resemble, and in others differ from each other.

In the House of Lords the members remain covered as in the Commons; and in the former chamber more etiquette is preserved. It is more rare to see their Lordships convert their benches into beds, or imitate with their legs the signs of a telegraph. The murmurs of the House are more subdued and civilized, the disapprobations expressed with more courtesy; the arena of discussion generally presents less animating and striking scenes; there is more concession, and more unity. You witness none of that strife of common-places which exasperate to so great a degree the patience and the politeness of the Lower House. There, for one eloquent harangue, you will have to submit to ten stupid ones, which serve no other end than to lengthen and injure the discussion. In the Lords able speakers are not so common, and do not abuse to so great a degree their right of speaking. It is true that the Peerage is but a groupe, but a little intrenched garrison; and you should not expect either reserve, or discretion, or discipline, in such a multitude as the Commons; an impatient army bivouacing whole nights on the benches, and where each soldier wishes to be a conqueror.

TO A TORTOISE-SHELL COMB.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Being an humble imitation of the style of some modern poets, by the prism of whose fancy the most common objects are invested with the hues of poesy, even as the sunbeam turneth to diamonds the dews which heedless night hath flung over the earth.

New York, 1836.

INFLUENCE OF NAMES.

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”—Shakspeare.

Shakspeare was mistaken. There is a great deal—there is almost every thing in names. Their influence is felt at all times, and under all circumstances. In war and peace—in morals, literature and religion—in the world of fashion—and above all, in politics, the despotism of names is all powerful, universal and irresistible. Nay, Shakspeare himself is authority against Shakspeare. Does he not make the gentle Juliet say to her lover, “'Tis but thy name that is my enemy”—that fatal name which separated two devoted hearts—which planted thick sorrows in their path, and finally shrouded them in one common sepulchre! Does he not put into the mouth of one of Antony's captains, “I'll humbly signify what in his name, that magical word of war, we have effected.” And again, speaking of the great Pompey, “his name strikes more than could his war resisted.” Names indeed govern the world; and it is not among the least ingenious of all human contrivances that the world should be so governed. I do not wish to speak of the moral guilt and future accountability of those who combine to delude the ignorant—who chain mens' minds to some false idol, or enlist them in some scheme of abomination, whose iniquities are artfully veiled under the names of virtue, patriotism, and the like. If the denunciations of the eloquent Hebrew prophet against those who call evil good, and good evil—who put darkness for light, and light for darkness—who call bitter sweet, and sweet bitter—are not sufficient to alarm such delinquents, it would avail nothing for uninspired tongues and pens to attempt their conviction and reform.

In literature, how remarkable and how injurious is the influence of names, apart from any actual or intrinsic merit. How common is it to estimate an opinion or sentiment, not by the wisdom of the one or the purity of the other, but by the authority of him who pronounces it. A false, immoral, or stupid passage in a book, which bears on its title-page the name of a popular writer, is often received with favor, when precisely the same offence in an unknown author would be almost certain to bring down upon him the lash of criticism. Take for example one of England's most renowned bards—one, not more known even in his own country than on this side of the Atlantic—whose “Melodies” are lisped by our amorous youths and sentimental maidens, and whose name has become a “household word”—a passport to every festival where music, love and wine are the sources of enjoyment. Among his “National Airs” so called, Mr. Moore has written the following lines, which have no doubt been admired by every pretty miss in the country, as the very perfection of poetry, sentiment, and even good sense.

Now the plain English prose of all this, when divested of the magic of Mr. Moore's numbers, is something like the following. “Take, gentle river, these pretty flowers which I fling upon thy surface, and before thou reachest the great ocean, be pleased to flow into the bower of my fair Ella; and if it be not miracle enough, good river, for thee to rush into a lady's bower, without either drowning her or wetting her garments, be pleased to perform another wonderful feat and speak to her—tell her if she will only marry me, our joys whilst we are floating down life's current, shall resemble these wreaths which are borne upon thy bosom. But mark me, river!—if this insensible girl is resolved that she will not accept a good offer, why then roar like another cataract, toss these worthless wreaths on the shore to wither and rot, and tell this cruel Ella that she will live and die an ugly, neglected old maid.”

Now, whilst it is fully conceded that the figure of personification is perfectly legitimate, especially in poetry; yet there are certain degrees of it which should never be attempted, unless connected with subjects of great dignity, or which inspire powerful emotion—and it must not be forgotten that the excellence of poetry does not consist so much in the form or arrangement of its words as in the value and beauty of the thoughts and sentiments which it expresses. A gentle zephyr stealing into a lady's bower and lulling her into repose, or whispering in her ear the sighs of an absent lover, is natural and agreeable enough; but a river, or even rivulet, turning from its course and performing the same office, is a conception which would be very ridiculous in any other than a popular poet. It would be tedious to point out other examples of similar extravagance in Moore, and one only shall suffice—a song which has occasioned abundant fluttering in female hearts, and which for impious hyperbole was never excelled:

In which said song the poet very calmly shows that all that is bright, and fair, and sweet in creation, was made purposely to resemble some young lady of his acquaintance. And yet all these trifles and absurdities, to say nothing of the frequent obscene allusions of the same author, have acquired an extensive popularity under the influence of a popular name.

It would be no difficult task to extend these remarks so as to embrace a long list of distinguished writers, both in prose and verse, who have perpetrated various offences against sound morals as well as good sense, but with whom the lustre of reputation, like the mantle of charity, has not only shielded them from censure, but imparted a kind of dignity and splendor to their failings. Enough perhaps has been said to illustrate the influence of names in the empire of literature.

How is it in the empire of the church? But here I tread upon sacred ground, and must use both brevity and caution. That truth exists in religious doctrine as well as in other things, will not be denied, except by unthinking scepticism or perverted reason. The difficulty has always been in finding her out—in distinguishing her sacred vestments and celestial carriage from the skilful imitations of imposture. The diamond may be known, by the tests of experiment, from the gems which mimic its lustre; but there is no moral chemistry which can separate truth from error, and resolve each into its proper elements. In fact, it seems to be one of the fallacies which have obtained currency among mankind, that truth and error are natural antagonists. So far from it, they are scarcely ever to be found in a state of disunion or repulsion. Error winds itself around the stately column of truth, as the creeper folds in its poisonous embrace the sturdy oak of the forest. Not that they are not in themselves essentially different—but so are the gasses which are found in combination in the water we drink, or in the atmosphere we breathe. What tremendous influence has been wielded by the simple word church, from the very first ages of christianity down to the present time! That name alone has covered a multitude of sins, and sanctified innumerable crimes. What torrents of blood have been shed under the crimson banner of orthodoxy, and how many meek and conscientious heretics have fled from the tender embraces of that holy and infallible mother, who has assumed the supreme government of the soul in this world, as well as the direction of its immortal destiny hereafter. But I only dwell upon this subject in order to show how much we are deceived by empty, unmeaning names. That there is such a treasure as “pure and undefiled religion,” none but the hardened infidel or remorseless libertine will deny. That it is always necessarily found under the priestly robe, or connected with the “sober brow,” neither candor nor charity itself will contend for—and yet, some how or other, the world has identified the sacred gift with a certain sanctimonious exterior, and with certain peculiar ceremonials, and there are few, perhaps, who reflect that it may be more frequently traced in the abodes of humility and wretchedness, in the sighs of a contrite heart, and in the tears of penitential guilt.

But how is it in the world of fashion? What is fashion? Many attempts have been made to define what in truth is undefinable. It is an empty name—a mere shadow, and yet is of substance sufficient to be felt and seen and understood almost every where. A popular English novelist, writing of his own country, says—“The middle classes interest themselves in grave matters: the aggregate of their sentiments is called OPINION. The great interest themselves in frivolities, and the aggregate of their sentiments is termed FASHION. The first is the moral representative of the popular mind—the last of the aristocratic.” But this definition is unsatisfactory. Fashion executes its decrees with as much energy and effect upon those who are excluded from its mystic circle, as upon them who reside within its pale; upon the popular mind as well as the aristocratic. Its frivolities bewilder and dazzle the multitude who abjure them, as well as the chosen few with whom they originate. Imagine this mysterious agent, or whatever it may be called, personified, and endowed with the majesty and power of a queen,—and what are her attributes? A fickle, inconstant, inscrutable and unscrupulous being—selecting her subjects from every rank and condition, and with every diversity in morals and intellect—yet investing them with an uniform and exclusive badge of distinction; exacting from her followers the most unbounded homage, and repaying them often with the sacrifice of peace, health, fortune, self-respect and virtue; instilling into those who throng around her throne the poison of impure and corrupting pleasures, and in those who are banished to the outer courts, awakening the worst passions of envy, discontent and hatred, added to a debasing sense of inferiority. Fortune is not more capricious in dispensing her favors than this empress of smiles and frowns. By her command, dullness is transformed into wit, and deformity into grace. The withered maiden of forty is arrayed in the matchless charms of blooming seventeen, and the notorious libertine becomes transmuted into the fascinating and agreeable companion. If a despot of bodily shape and form, were to cause his power and caprice to be felt in all the minute concerns and occupations of society; if he were to ordain laws regulating the dress—furniture—social intercourse and amusements of his subjects, and in so doing should levy an oppressive tax upon their fortunes, time and comforts—the spirit of freedom would circulate like the electric fluid from one end of the community to the other; the tyrant would be resisted with fearless and determined perseverance. And yet doth fashion issue her imperial decrees equally as despotic and calamitous in their effects, without other aid than the influence and magic of her name—whilst her subjects, so far from opposing resistance, render an implicit and delighted obedience to her mandates. And what is this inexorable arbitress at last but a name? What is this capricious and mysterious intermeddler in human affairs but a vain shadow? a creature of imagination only, and yet as powerful as Cæsar and Napoleon in all their glory! Shakspeare was wrong; there is much—there is every thing in names.

In that great concern of human society—the structure and action of the political machine, how does the matter stand? Are the governed portion of mankind—I mean a majority of them—influenced by things or names? The recorded experience of past ages, and our own particular observation, will answer the question. The master spirits who have ruled mankind with success, have studied the genius of the people with whom they lived. National glory was at one time, if it be not now, the passion of the French, and Napoleon well knew how to avail himself of a moral lever of such tremendous force. Administering to that all devouring and never satiated appetite, he found it an easy task to wade through tears and blood to the goal of his ambition. Preceding the period of his meteor-like and almost miraculous career, the French nation had been intoxicated by seraphic dreams of liberty and equality. Awakening from a long and gloomy night of slavery, they became suddenly bewitched by the doctrines of a new philosophy, (to them at least new,) which proclaimed the sovereignty of the people—and it was long before the horrors of Revolution could dispel the enchantment. The leaders in that dark and bloody episode of human history, retained their ascendancy so long as the names of liberty and equality could be skilfully employed for their purposes. An appeal to the people, or a compliment to their sovereign power, wisdom and virtue, was the daily prologue to those scenes of human butchery, which posterity will regard as incredible fictions. “Oh liberty!” said the beautiful Madame Roland, as she bowed her neck to the guillotine—“what crimes are committed in thy name!”

Are we free in our day from these disastrous influences? Have names no fatal magic with us—sufficiently fatal to unloose the bands of society—to subvert institutions, long cherished and venerated, and finally to dissolve the fairest fabric which ever realized the visions of hope, or the speculations of philosophy? Alas! have we not studied human nature enough to know, that all men are not honest and patriotic, and that some are sufficiently selfish, cunning, cruel and ambitious to work out their own designs, and accomplish their own evil desires, although calamity should overspread society, and millions go supperless to bed? Are there not hundreds of demagogues who are willing to flatter and wheedle and delude the people into final enslavement, if in the whirlwinds of their own creation they can ride into power and office? With what calm and shameless effrontery do such men constantly exert before our eyes a controlling power over the yet doubtful destinies of this infant republic! To fulfil the purposes of ambition, the vilest appeals are made to the lowest and basest passions of the multitude. The pride of democracy is a never failing chord to be skilfully touched, when some wicked design or atrocious mischief is meditated. The popular good—the welfare of the dear people—is the favorite string played upon by worn out political hacks and corrupt aspirants to office. Does a well tried and virtuous patriot stand in the way, and refuse his sanction to the bold assaults, or disguised and no less dangerous encroachments of power? He is instantly denounced as an odious and insidious aristocrat, and is forthwith delivered over to the tender mercies of the faithful—the great democratic republican family—the self-styled conservators of the only true and genuine principles of liberty—whose peculiar province it is to keep the republic pure, by a patriotic monopoly of all its offices and honors. It would indeed be perfectly amusing, if it were not at the same time a subject of sad contemplation, to hear the terms aristocratic and democratic, in the party contests of the day—familiarly applied to things and persons having no one quality—to justify such idle distinctions. The man for example who is “clothed in purple and fine linen, and fares sumptuously every day”—who drives his splendid equipage with liveried servants, who “lies down in luxury and rises in sloth”—that man is a member, or if you choose, the leader of the plain republican party—whilst the humble homespun pedestrian, who walks by the wheels of the other's chariot—whose bread is earned by the sweat of his brow, but who is sufficiently independent to think for himself—is denounced as an aristocrat, or what is worse, a Federalist of the genuine stamp—and is thought unworthy of all communion with the faithful, or at least of all participation in equal political benefits. Epithets are the powerful weapons with which bad and ambitions men have in all countries finally succeeded in overturning all that was valuable and good—all that was wise and beneficent; and unless the people of these States shall in time become sufficiently enlightened, to distinguish the qualities of things from their names, we shall assuredly ere long add another to that gloomy procession of republics, WHICH HAVE VANISHED FOREVER FROM THE EARTH.

H.

THE CITY OF SIN.

BY E. A. POE.

A HINT,

TOUCHING THE GREEK DRAMA.

While there is an active literary faction in America, who decry the study of the ancient classics, it is still pleasing to observe, upon a comprehensive survey, that these consecrated remains are assuming in public esteem the place which they deserve. I hope therefore to meet with some indulgence when I offer a few desultory remarks, not in behalf of classic lore in general, so much as in commendation of a single branch. The observations which follow are meant to shew some reasons why our scholars should devote special attention to the Greek Tragedies.

It is believed that these relics, unfortunately not more than thirty in number, have been more neglected in our schools and among our private scholars than any portion of ancient letters. That this has not been the case in England will be very apparent to any one who is familiar with the lives and labors of such men as Bentley, Porson, Markham, and Blomfield. Especially in the University of Cambridge the ardor with which these works have been restored to purity of text, and elucidated by indefatigable research, has been almost excessive.

The intrinsic difficulties in the Greek plays are not such as should deter any well grounded scholar. After an ordinary training in the Attic idioms of Zenophon, Plato, and Demosthenes, the labor will be small. From the nature of the versification, there is a limit to the construction, so that the sense cannot be thrown beyond a few lines. And the metres themselves, except in the most difficult choral parts, have been robbed of their intricacies by the labors of the critics.

There is this obvious inducement for the scholar to take up a Greek tragedy, that it is short. Even if he study with minute analysis, a few days will complete his task. But he who begins the Odyssey is loth to lay it aside until he has finished it, which is the work of months. The tragedy is complete in itself, “totus teres atque rotundus.”

It has been maintained by some scholars, that no human productions have the perfection of literary finish, as it is possessed by the dramas of Euripides. And we may include his two great predecessors in the remark, that their works, like the Hellenic sculptures, will remain unrivalled, the models of all who aim to present nature idealized to its utmost point.

The ancient tragedy, from its very nature, contains the concentration of high passion. This was the very notion of it, as tragedy. And this quality renders it an indispensable study to all those whose province it is to scrutinize or to awaken the active powers; in other words, to the metaphysician, the poet, and especially the orator. No doubt it was this view of the subject which led a man no less visionary than Mr. Fox to declare, as he does in his correspondence with Dr. Parr, that if he had a son to educate for the senate, he would cause him to be profoundly versed in the writings of Euripides.¹ And yet so far as mere passion is concerned, we find it more strongly developed in the “desolate simplicity” of Aeschylus, than in either of his followers. This use of dramatic composition is doubtless involved in that celebrated and vexed passage of Aristotle's Poetics, in which tragedy is said to be efficacious to purge the passions. Barker quotes Jamblichus, in illustration of this παθηματων καθαρσις, where he says: “By contemplating the passions of others in tragedy and comedy, we settle our own passions, render them more temperate, and purify them.” Milton also, whose whole soul was steeped in Grecian poesy, alludes in the introduction to his Samson Agonistes, to this same remark of Aristotle, where tragedy is said “to be of power by raising pity and fear or terror, to purge the mind of those and such like passions, that is, to temper and reduce them to just measure.”

¹ See Appendix to Parr's Works, Johnstone's edition. Vol. vii. and viii.

Alike in name, ancient and modern tragedy scarcely belong to the same species. The grand distinction of the former is the chorus, which is altogether inadmissible in the latter. According to the most specious hypothesis this was the nucleus of the Greek drama, around which, by slow degrees, the dialogue was gathered. It was the chorus, as a train of personages unconnected with the plot, that relieved the tedium or directed the excitement of the dialogue. Sometimes, as they appear in significant dance, they advise, exhort, or suggest a moral; sometimes they echo back the feeling of the actors, and always augment the grandeur of the pageant. Thus we find the chorus ever and anon breaking in to temper the unnatural rage of Medea, and in this respect discharging the duty indicated by Horace,

The mere English reader will have a fair conception of this singular ingredient of the ancient drama, by perusing Milton's tragedy above-named, which is cast in the most rigorous Attic mould; and which, we are tempted to imagine would have been received even at Athens, if it could have been brought out in the astonishing Greek version of Glasse. If Gray had not dissipated his matchless powers upon mere fugitive efforts, he might have done more than all other scholars to produce a spirited repristination of the antique chorus. Mason's Elfrida on the same plan has been thought a failure. His estimate of the ancient chorus however merits attention. “Shakspeare” says he, speaking of the poetic element in the drama, “had the power of introducing this naturally, and what is most strange, of joining it with pure passion; but I make no doubt, if we had a tragedy of his formed on the Greek model, we should find in it more frequent, if not nobler, instances of his high poetical capacity. I think you have a proof of this in those parts of his historical plays, which are called choruses, and written in the common dialogue metre. And your imagination will easily conceive, how fine an ode the description of the night preceding the battle of Agincourt would have made in his hands, and what additional grace it would receive from that form of composition.” He also shows that the chorus augmented the pathetic, both in its odes and dialogue; by music, by the dance, by aiding and carrying forward the impression, and by showing to the spectators other spectators strongly affected by the action. These remarks are cited merely to throw light on this cardinal attribute of the ancient drama, not to recommend its revival among the moderns. The German scholar will find the “Iphigenia in Tauris” perhaps the severest and happiest imitation of the antique; yet it does not “come home to our business and bosoms.”

The relative importance of these great productions should cause them to be placed in a commanding position at our great schools. This has already been effected in England. A taste for this branch of study is fostered by the rank which it is made to hold in the university examinations. Porson's noted prize is awarded annually to the best translation into Greek verse of a given passage of Shakspeare. In the Cambridge examinations, the three great objects of competition in classical literature, are the University Scholarships—the Classical Tripos, and the Chancellor's Medal. Among other exercises demanded of candidates, they are expected to translate into English verse any given portions of the three tragedians, as well as of Aristophanes. A passage, usually from Shakspeare or Milton, is assigned, to be translated into Greek verse. The metre is generally Tragic Iambic; sometimes Tragic Trochaic; sometimes Anapæstic; rarely Heroic, and still more seldom Comic Iambic. The obvious tendency of such measures, is to excite the most intense emulation in the whole literary corps, and to keep before the mind of the learned the highest models. Familiarity with these amazing conflicts of passion is not merely a literary luxury; it is a great preparative for those real scenes in which the statesman, the advocate and the orator, are called upon to reach the hidden springs of human action, to sway the motives, and wield “at will the fierce democraty.” The American student therefore who is awake to his own interest, will not deem it beneath his notice to work in this mine, and will say with Milton,

BOREALIS.

N. Jersey.

SACRED SONG.

BY W. MAXWELL. Oh strike the Harp.