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STUDIES, 
 
 STORIES, AND MEMOIRS. 
 
 15 v IV 
 
 By MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 AUTHOR OF " CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEX. ETC. ETC. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICK NOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 M DCCC LTX. 
 

 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
 IZ-W&/Z 
 
 ^ 
 
CONTEXTS. 
 
 STUDIES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 •The Tragedy of Correggio 9 
 
 German Actresses 15 
 
 Goethe's Tasso, Iphigenia, and Clavigo 26 
 
 Music and Musicians • 31 
 
 On the Female Character 36 
 
 Goethe and Ekermann 40 
 
 Goethe's last Love 48 
 
 Goethe's T able-Talk 52 
 
 Goethe's Ideas on the Position of Women 60 
 
 Lord Byron 66 
 
 Schiller 67 
 
 Historical Skepticism 68 
 
 The Supernatural 70 
 
 Ghost Stories 74 
 
 Detached Thoughts 97 
 
 Hoffmann 103 
 
 Euckert 105 
 
 Grillparzer's Sappho and Medea 107 
 
 Sternberg's Novels Ill 
 
 Don Carlos 126 
 
 TALES. 
 
 The False One 135 
 
 Halloran the Peddler 1S7 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Indian Mother 219 
 
 Much Coin, much Care . 238 
 
 MEMOIRS ILLUSTRATIVE OF ART. 
 
 The House of Titian 277 
 
 Washington Allston 329 
 
 Adelaide Kemble 366 
 
STUDIES. 
 
STUDIES; 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF CORREGGIO. 
 
 January 21-22. 
 
 While ranging my German books this morning, 
 I fell upon the " Correggio " of Oehlenschl'ager, 
 and " Die Schiild " of Milliner ; and I read both 
 through carefully. The former pleased me more, 
 the latter struck me less, than when I read them 
 both for the first time a year ago. 
 
 One despairs of nothing since the success of 
 " Ion ; " but would it be possible, think you, that 
 the tragedy of '■ Correggio " could be exhibited in 
 England with any thing like the success it met 
 with in Germany ? Here — in England I mean — 
 it might indeed u fit audience find, though few" 
 but would it meet with the same sympathy ? — 
 would it even be endured with common patience 
 by a mixed audience — such as hailed its appear- 
 ance in Germany ? 
 
 Here is a tragedy, of which the pervading inter- 
 est is not low ambition and the pride of kings ; nor 
 
 * Fragments of a Journal addressed to a Friend written dur- 
 ing the author's residence in Canada, and first published in 1838. 
 
10 STUDIES. 
 
 love, nor terror, nor murder, nor the rivalship of 
 princes, nor the fall of dynasties, nor any of the 
 usual forms of tragic incident, — but art, high art, 
 — its power as developed within the individual 
 soul, — its influence on the minds of others. This 
 idea is embodied in the character of Correggio; 
 yet he is no abstraction, but perfectly individual- 
 ized. All those traits of his life and peculiar hab- 
 its and disposition, handed down by tradition, are 
 most carefully preserved, and the result is a most 
 admirable portrait of the artist and the man. His 
 gentleness, his tenderness, his sensitive modesty, 
 his sweet, loving, retiring disposition, are all 
 touched with exquisite delicacy. The outbreak 
 of noble self-confidence, when he exclaimed, after 
 gazing on Raffaelle's St. Cecilia, "Anch' io sono 
 Pittore ! " is beautifully introduced. The sight of 
 the same picture sent La Francia home to his bed 
 to die, so at least it is said ; but Correggio was not 
 a man to die of another's excellence, though too 
 often doubting his own. The anecdote of the man 
 who was saved from the rapacity and vengeance 
 of a robber, by an appeal to one of his pictures, 
 and the story of his paying his apothecary with 
 one of his finest works,* are also real incidents of 
 the painter's life, introduced with the most pictu- 
 resque effect. 
 
 Those who have travelled through the forests of 
 Catholic Germany and Italy, must often have seen 
 
 * The Christ on the Mount of Olives, now, if I remember 
 rightly, in possession of the Duke of Wellington. 
 
THE TItAGEDY OF CORREGGIO. 11 
 
 a Madonna, or a Magdalen, in a rude frame, 
 shrined against the knotted trunk of an old oak 
 overshadowing the path ; the green grass waving 
 round, a votive wreath of wild flowers hung upon 
 the rude shrine, and in front a little space worn 
 bare by the knees of travellers who have turned 
 aside from their journey to rest in the cool shade, 
 and put up an Ave Maria, or an Ova pro nobis. I 
 well remember once coming on such a Madonna 
 in a wild woodland path near Yollbriicken, in Up- 
 per Austria. Two little, half-naked children, and 
 a gaunt, black-bearded wood-cutter, were kneeling 
 before it, and from afar the songs of some peasants 
 gathering in the harvest were borne on the air. 
 The Magdalen of Correggio, the same which is 
 now in the Dresden gallery, and multiplied in 
 prints and copies through the known world, is 
 represented without any violent stretch of proba- 
 bility as occupying such a situation : nor are Ave 
 left in doubt as to the identity of the picture : it is 
 described in three or four exquisite lines. It is 
 beautiful, — is it not ? — where Correggio comments 
 on his work, as he is presenting it to the old her- 
 mit : — 
 
 tk Kin siindhaft Madchen, das mit Ueu* unci Angst 
 
 Wie ein geschenchtes Ren zum Dickicht floh, 
 
 Um der nachstellung ferner zu entgehen. 
 
 Doch ist es schon von einem Weibe, meyn ieh, 
 
 Einmal gefallen wieder sich zu heben; 
 
 Es gibt sehr wen'ge Manner, die das kianien." * 
 
 * An erring maiden, that in fear and penitence 
 Flies, like timid hind, to the deep woods. 
 
12 STUDIES. 
 
 And the reply of Silvestro places the lovely 
 form before us, painted in words. 
 
 Welch schon Gemahlde ! 
 Dei* dunkle Schattenwald, die blonden Haare, 
 Die weisse Haut, das himmel blau Gewand 
 Die Jugendfulle und der Todtenkopf, 
 Das Weiberhafte und das grosse Buch, 
 Ihr habt mit vieler Kunst die Gegensatze 
 In schoner Harmonie hier auf-gelost." * 
 
 The manner in which Correggio betrays his re- 
 gret on parting with his picture, is also natural and 
 most exquisite. 
 
 " Die Dichter haben's gut; sie konnen immer 
 Die Kinder alle in der Xahe haben. 
 Der Mahler ist ein armer Vater, der 
 Sie in die weite Welt aussenden muss; 
 Da miissen sie nachher sich selbst versorgen." f 
 
 Seeking t' escape the snares around her laid, — 
 v\nd it is good to see a hapless woman 
 
 That has once fallen redeem herself; in truth, 
 
 There be few men methinks could do as much. 
 * . . . What a fair picture ! 
 
 This dark o'erhanging shade, the long fair hair, 
 The delicate white skin, The dark blue robe, 
 The full luxuriant life, the grim death's head, 
 The tender womanhood, and the great book — 
 These various contrasts have you cunningly 
 Brought into sweetest harmony. 
 
 t Well for the poet ! he can ever have 
 The children of his soul beside him here; 
 The painter is a needy father: he 
 Sends his poor children out in the wide world 
 To seek their fortune 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF CORREGGIO. 13 
 
 Grouped around Correggio in every possible 
 degree of harmony and contrast, we have a vari- 
 ety of figures all sufficiently marked, each in itself 
 complete, aud all aiding in carrying out the main 
 effect, the apotheosis of the artist hero. 
 
 Nor has Oehlenschl'ager made his tragedy the 
 vehicle for mere declamation, nor for inculcating 
 any particular system of art or set of principles. 
 In Michael Angelo and in Giulio Romano we have 
 exhibited two artist-minds as different from each 
 other and from Antonio Correggio as can be imag- 
 ined. The haughty, stern, arrogant, but magnani- 
 mous and magnificent Michael Angelo, can with 
 difficulty be brought to appreciate, or even look 
 upon, a style so different from his own, and thun- 
 ders out his rules of art like Olympian Jove. The 
 gay, confident, generous, courteous Giulio Romano 
 is less exclusive, if less severely grand, in his taste. 
 The luxuriant grace of Correggio, the blending of 
 the purely natural with the purely ideal, in his 
 conceptions of beauty, are again distinct from both 
 these great masters. Again the influence of art 
 over minds variously constituted is exhibited in the 
 tender wife of Correggio, the favorite model for his 
 Madonnas ; the old hermit Silvestro ; the high-born, 
 beautiful enthusiast, Celestina, who places the lau- 
 rel wreath on the brow of the sleeping painter ; 
 and the peasant girl, Lauretta, who gives him drink 
 when fainting with thirst ; and the penitent robber ; 
 and the careless young noble, with whom art is 
 subservient to his vanity and his passions ; and the 
 
14 STUDIES. 
 
 vulgar villain of the piece, Battista, who alone is 
 absolutely insensible to its influence ; — all these 
 form as beautiful a group, and as perfect in keep- 
 ing, as we can meet in dramatic literature. Then 
 there are such charming touches of feeling, such 
 splendid passages of description and aphorisms on 
 art. which seize on the fancy and cling to the mem- 
 ory ! while the allusions to certain well-known pic- 
 tures, bringing them before the mind's eye in a few 
 expressive and characteristic words, are delicious 
 to the amateur. 
 
 The received account of the cause of Correggio's 
 death rests on a tradition,* which later researches 
 render very problematical ; but it remains uncon- 
 tradicted that he lived and died poor — that his 
 health was feeble and delicate — his life retired and 
 blameless ; — and the catastrophe has been so long 
 current and credited, that the poet has done well 
 to adhere to the common tradition. In the very 
 moment that Correggio sinks into death, a messen- 
 ger arrives from the Duke of Mantua, with splendid 
 offers of patronage. He comes too late. Art and 
 the world are the heirs of the great man's genius ; 
 
 * That of Vasari, who states that he died in extreme poverty; 
 that, having received at Parma a payment of sixty crowns, 
 which was churlishly made to him in copper, he walked to the city 
 of Correggio with this load on his hack from anxiety to relieve his 
 family, and died in consequence of the effort. Lanzi and other 
 of his biographers distrust this story, and have pointed out its 
 improbability. Whatever the cause of his death, the expressions 
 of Aunibal Carracci are conclusive as to the neglect and poverty 
 in which he lived. 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 15 
 
 his poor family follow him heart-broken to the 
 grave. 
 
 The " Sehuld" of Adolf Milliner does not produce 
 such an overpowering effect on the imagination the 
 second time of reading, because we are not hurried 
 forward by the interest of the story ; but in one 
 respect it has affected me more deeply than at first. 
 
 Hugo says. 
 
 u Mich dunket. me 
 Sollten Nord und Slid sick kiissen! " * 
 
 And all through this fine play the spirit of the 
 North and the spirit of the South are brought into 
 beautiful yet fearful contrast. The passions which 
 form the groundwork of the piece are prepared 
 amid the palaces and orange-groves of the glowing 
 South ; the catastrophe evolved amid the deserts 
 and pine-forests of the North : and in the fair, still- 
 souled, but heroic Scandinavian maid. Jerta. and 
 the dark, impassioned Elvira, we have the person- 
 ified sentiment of the North and the South. 
 
 GERMAN ACTRESSES. 
 
 Has it ever occurred to you that Coleridge must 
 have had this tragedy in his mind when he wrote 
 his " Remorse ? " 
 
 What a slight touch upon an extreme link will 
 
 * Me thinks. 
 That North and South should never kiss each other, 
 
16 STUDIES. 
 
 send us back sometimes through a long, long chain 
 of memories and associations ! A word, a name, 
 has sent me from Toronto to Vienna ; what a flight ! 
 what a contrast ! — ft makes even Fancy herself 
 breathless ! Did I ever mention to you Madame 
 Arneth ? When the " Schuld " was produced at 
 Vienna, she played the Scandinavian Jerta, and I 
 have heard the effect of her representation com- 
 pared, in its characteristic purity and calmness, and 
 mild intellectual beauty, to the " moonlight on a 
 snow-wreath," — a comparison which gave me a 
 vivid impression of its truth. Madame Arneth was 
 herself not unlike the fair and serious Jerta. 
 
 The question has been often agitated, often con- 
 troverted, but I am inclined to maintain the opin- 
 ion elsewhere expressed, that there is nothing in 
 the profession of an actress which is incompatible 
 with the respect clue to us as women — the cultiva- 
 tion of every feminine virtue — the practice of every 
 private duty. I have conversed with those who 
 think otherwise, and yet continue to frequent the 
 theatre as an amusement, and even as a source of 
 mental delight and improvement; and this I con- 
 ceive to be a dereliction of principle — wrong in 
 itself, and the cause of wrong. A love for dramatic 
 representation, for imitative action, is in the ele- 
 ments of our human nature ; we see it in children, 
 in savages, in all ages, in all nations ; — we cannot 
 help it — it is even so. That the position of an ac- 
 tress should sometimes be a false one,— a danger- 
 ous one even for a female, is not the fault of the 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 17 
 
 profession, but the effect of the public opinion of 
 the profession. When fashion, or conventional 
 law. or public opinion, denounce as inexpedient 
 what they cannot prove to be wrong — stigmatize 
 what they allow — encourage and take delight in 
 what they affect to contemn — what wonder that 
 from such barbarous, such senseless inconsistency, 
 should spring a whole heap of abuses and mistakes ? 
 As to the idea that acting, as a profession, is incom- 
 patible with female virtue and modesty, it is not 
 merely an insult to the estimable women who have 
 adorned and still adorn the stage, but to all woman- 
 kind: it makes me blush with indignation. Unre- 
 flecting people — the world is full of such — point to 
 the numerous instances which might be cited to the 
 contrary. I have been perplexed by them some- 
 times in argument, but never on consideration and 
 examination ; and with regard to some other evils, 
 not less, as it appears to me, in a moral point of 
 view, I do not see their necessary connection with 
 the stage as a profession. Vanity, jealousy, selfish- 
 ness, the spirit of intrigue, the morbid effects of 
 over-excitement, are not confined to actresses ; if 
 women placed in this position do require caution 
 and dignity to ward off temptation, and self-control 
 to resist it. and some knowledge of their own struc- 
 ture and the liabilities incurred by their profession, 
 in order to manage better their own- health, moral 
 and physical, then they only require what all women 
 should possess — what every woman needs, no matter 
 what her position. 
 2 
 
18* STUDIES. 
 
 But to return to Madame Arneth. 
 
 At Vienna, some years ago, there lived three cel- 
 ebrated actresses, all beautiful, and young, and gift- 
 ed. Sophie Muller was first mentioned to me by 
 Schlegel ; he spoke of her with rapturous admira- 
 tion as the most successful representative of some 
 of Shakspeare's characters that had yet been seen 
 in Germany, and she seems to have left an inefface- 
 able impression on those who saw her play Chrim- 
 hilde in the " Niebelung." She was surrounded by 
 admirers, adorers, yet I never heard that one among 
 them could boast of being distinguished even by a 
 preference ; austere to herself, devoted to her art, 
 which she studied assiduously, her ambition centred 
 in it ; in the mean time she was performing all the 
 duties of a daughter to an aged father, and of a 
 mother to a family of younger brothers and sisters ; 
 and her house was a model of good order and pro- 
 priety. She died in 1830. 
 
 Not long before died Anna Kriiger, equally blame- 
 less in her conduct and reputation as a woman, but 
 in all other respects negligent of herself and of her 
 own interests. She was remarkably free from all 
 selfishness or jealousy, charitable and good, and 
 universally beloved. Her representation of spirited 
 or heroic characters, in comedy and in tragedy, has 
 been described to me as wonderfully fine. Schil- 
 ler's Joan of Arc was her chef cFoeuvre. 
 
 The third was Antoinette Adamberger, now 
 Madame Arneth, whom I am happy and proud to 
 number among my friends. Her former name 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 19 
 
 cannot be unknown to you. for it has a dear yet 
 melancholy celebrity throughout all Germany, and 
 is inseparably associated with the literature of her 
 country, as the betrothed bride of Theodore Kor- 
 ner, the poet-hero of the war of deliverance. It 
 was not till we had been for some time intimate 
 that I ever heard her allude to Korner. One 
 evening as we were sitting alone, she gave me, 
 with much feeling and graphic power, and even 
 more simplicity, some particulars of her first inter- 
 view with him, and the circumstances which led to 
 their engagement. I should tell you that she was 
 at the time a favorite actress of the Court Theatre, 
 and excelled particularly in all characters that re- 
 quired more of delicacy, and grace, and dignity, 
 than of power and passion ; those of Thekla in the 
 u Wallenstein," and Jerta in the " Schuld," being 
 considered as her masterpieces. Of her judgment 
 as an artiste I could form some idea, from the anal- 
 ysis into which I once tempted her of the Beatrice 
 in Schiller's " Braut von Messina,'' a character in 
 which she is said to have excelled, and which, in 
 its tender delicacy and almost evanescent grace, 
 might be compared to Perdita. To analyze all the 
 passive beauty and power of Schiller's conception, 
 must have required a just and exquisite taste, and 
 to render them with such felicity and effect, a per- 
 son corresponding in girlish delicacy. Yet, per- 
 haps, in her youthful years, when she played 
 Beatrice divinely, Madame Arneth could not have 
 analyzed the character as ingeniously as she did 
 
20 STUDIES. 
 
 when a ripened judgment and more cultivated 
 taste enabled her to. reflect on her own conception. 
 This, however, is digressing ; for the moral quali- 
 ties, not the intellectual powers, of the actress, are 
 what I am contending for. Theodore Korner came 
 to Vienna in 1813, bringing with him his u Grime 
 Domino/' a piece composed expressly for Anna 
 Kriiger and Antoinette Adamberger. These two 
 young women, differing altogether in character, 
 were united by the most tender friendship, and a 
 sincere admiration for each other's particular tal- 
 ent, I have been told that it was delightful to see 
 them play together in the same piece, the perfect 
 understanding which existed between them pro- 
 ducing an effect of harmony and reality which was 
 felt, rather than perceived, by the audience. At 
 the period of Korner's arrival, Antoinette was ill 
 in consequence of the extreme severity of the 
 winter of that year, and the rehearsal of the 
 " Grime Domino " was put off from day to day, 
 from week to week, till Korner became absolutely 
 impatient. At this time he had not been intro- 
 duced to Antoinette, and it was suspected that the 
 beauty of Anna Kriiger had captivated him. At 
 length, the convalescence of the principal actress 
 was announced, the day for the long-deferred re- 
 hearsal arrived, and the performers had assembled 
 in the green-room. Now, it happened that in the 
 time of the late empress,* the representation of 
 Schiller's " Marie Stuart " had been forbidden, be- 
 * Maria-Theresa -Caroline of Naples, who died in 1807. 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 21 
 
 cause her imperial majesty had been greatly scan- 
 dalized by the indecorous quarrel scene between 
 Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary, and particu- 
 larly by the catastrophe of the latter, regarding the 
 •whole play as extremely dangerous and derogatory 
 to all crowned heads, more especially female ones. 
 On her death it was hoped that this prohibition 
 would be repealed, and the performers presented a 
 petition to that effect. The emperor, however, 
 steadily refused, on the plea that he had promised 
 the empress never to permit the representation of 
 the tragedy.* The refusal had just been received, 
 and the whole corps dramatique were in a state of 
 commotion, and divided on the merits of the case. 
 Kbrner, in particular, w r as in a perfect fever of in- 
 dignation, and exclaimed, in no measured terms, 
 against the edict which deprived the public of one 
 of Schiller's masterpieces, in tenderness to the 
 caprices of an old woman now in her grave, et 
 cetera. The greater number of those present sym- 
 pathized with him. The dispute was at its height 
 when Antoinette entered the room, still weak from 
 recent illness, and wrapped up in cloaks and furs. 
 Her comrades crowded around her with congratu- 
 lations and expressions of affection, and insisted 
 that the matter in dispute should be referred to 
 " Toni ; " Kbrner, meanwhile, standing by in proud 
 
 * I do not know whether the emperor was ever induced to 
 break this promise. It was after his death that I saw the C; Marie 
 Stuart ; ' performed at Vienna, where Madame Schroeder and 
 Madlle. Fournier appeared as Queen Elizabeth and Marj T Stuart. 
 
22 STUDIES. 
 
 silence; he had not yet been introduced. When 
 the affair was stated, and the opinions of the ma- 
 jority vehemently pressed on her, she replied in 
 her gentle manner, " I do not pretend to judge 
 about the injury done to the public, or the expedi- 
 ency or inexpediency of the matter ; it is a simple 
 question between right and wrong — between truth 
 and falsehood. For myself, I can only say, that if 
 I had made a promise to a person I loved, or to 
 any one, I would keep it as long as I had life my- 
 self, and the death of that person would render 
 such a promise not less, but more binding, more 
 sacred, if possible." 
 
 This simple appeal to principle and truth silenced 
 all. Korner said no more, but his attention was 
 fixed, and from that moment, as he told her after- 
 wards, he loved her; his feelings were interested 
 before he had even looked into her eyes ; and it is 
 no wonder that those eyes, when revealed, com- 
 pleted her conquest. 
 
 Within a few weeks they were betrothed lovers, 
 and within a few months afterwards the patriotic 
 war (die Freiheits-Kriege) broke out, and Korner 
 joined Lutzow's volunteers. His fate is well 
 known. Young and handsome, a poet and a hero, 
 loving, and in the full assurance of being loved, 
 with all life's fairest visions and purest affections 
 fresh about his head and heart, he perished — the 
 miniature of " Toni " being found within his bosom 
 next to the little pocketbook in which he had writ- 
 ten the Song of the Sword — the first shattered by 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 23 
 
 the ballet which had found his heart, the latter 
 stained with his blood ; I have seen it. — held it in 
 inv hand ! Now, will you believe, that within 
 three or four months afterwards, when Antoinette 
 was under the obligation to resume her professional 
 duties, the first character she was ordered to play 
 was that of Thekla ? In vain she entreated to be 
 spared this outrage to every feeling of a heart yet 
 bleeding from her loss ; the greater her reluctance, 
 the greater the effect which would be produced on 
 the curiosity and sympathy of the public : — this, I 
 suppose, was the cold calculation of the directory ! 
 She was not excused ; and after going through the 
 scene in which the Swedish captain relates to 
 Thekla the death of her lover,* the poor Antoi- 
 nette was carried from the stage by her aunt 
 almost lifeless, and revived only to give way to 
 such agonies of grief and indignation as threat- 
 ened her reason. 
 
 Madame Arneth is remarkably calm and simple 
 in her manner, and more than twenty years had 
 elapsed since she had been thus insulted and tor- 
 tured ; but when she alluded to this part of her 
 history, she became gradually convulsed with emo- 
 tion, trembled in every limb, and pressed her 
 hands upon her eyes, from which the tears would 
 gush in spite of an effort to restrain them. And 
 to this, you will say. an actress could be exposed ? 
 Yes ; and I remember another instance, when 
 
 * Tt will be remembered that the death of Theodore Korner 
 was similar to that of Max Piceodomini. 
 
24 STUDIES. 
 
 under circumstances as cruel and as revolting, a 
 young and admired actress was hurried before the 
 public in an agony of reluctance ; but still I do 
 say, that such exhibitions are not necessarily or 
 solely confined to the profession of the stage ; wo- 
 man, as a legal property, is subjected to them in 
 her conventional position ; a woman may be 
 brought into a church against her will, libelled 
 and pilloried in an audacious newspaper ; an Eng- 
 lish matron may be dragged from private life into 
 a court of justice, exposed, guiltless, and helpless, 
 to the public obloquy or the public sympathy, in 
 shame and in despair. If such a scene can by pos- 
 sibility take place, one stage is not worse than 
 another. 
 
 Antoinette had suffered what a woman of a quiet 
 but proud temper never forgets or forgives. She 
 had made up her mind to quit the stage, and there 
 was only one way of doing so with honor. Four 
 years after the death of Korner she married Mr. 
 Arneth, one of the directors of the Imperial Mu- 
 seum, a learned and amiable man, considerably 
 older than herself.* and with whom she has lived 
 
 * Madame Arneth is now Vorleserin (Reader) to the Empress 
 Dowager, and intrusted with the direction of a school, founded 
 by the Empress for the children of soldiers. In Austria only- 
 two soldiers in each company are allowed to marry, and the 
 female children of such marriages are, in a manner, predestined 
 to want and infamy. In the school under Madame Arneth's 
 direction, I found (in 1835) forty -five children, well managed and 
 healthy. The benevolence which suggested such an institution 
 is, without doubt, praiseworthy; hut what shall we say of the 
 system which makes such an institution necessary ? 
 
GERMAN ACTRESSES. 25 
 
 happily. Before I left Vienna she presented me 
 with a book which Korner had given her, contain- 
 ing his autograph and the dramas he had written 
 for her — " Die Toni," ;i der Grime Domino," and 
 others. I exclaimed thoughtlessly, " O how can 
 you part with it ? " and she replied, with a sweet 
 seriousness, " When I married a worthy man who 
 loved me and trusted me, I thought there should 
 be no wavering of the heart between past recollec- 
 tions and present duties ; I put this and all other 
 objects connected with that first period of my life 
 entirely away, and I have never looked at it since. 
 Take it ! and believe me, even now, it is better in 
 your hands than in mine." And mine it shall never 
 leave. 
 
 Madame Arneth once described to me the admi- 
 rable acting of Schroeder in Medea, when playing 
 with her own children ; she treated them, however, 
 with savage roughness, and when remonstrated 
 with, she replied, '-the children were her own, 
 and she had a right to do what she liked with 
 them." " That was certainly her affair," added 
 Madame Arneth, " but I would not for the whole 
 world have exhibited myself before my own chil- 
 dren in such a character." 
 
 Is not this a woman worthy of all love, all re- 
 spect, all reverence ? and is not this the sentiment 
 of duty which is, or should be, " the star to every 
 wandering bark ? " 
 
'20 STUDIES. 
 
 GOETHE'S TASSO. IPHIGENIA, AND 
 CLAYIGO. 
 
 February 24. 
 
 " Ce qui est moins que moi, m'eteint et m'as- 
 somme : ce qui est a cote de inoi m'ennuie et me 
 fatigue : il n'y a que ee qui est au-dessus de moi 
 qui me soutienne et m'arrache a moimeme." * This 
 is true — how true, I feel, and far more prettily said 
 than I could say it; and thus it is that during these 
 last few days of illness and solitary confinement, I 
 took refuge in another and a higher world, and 
 bring you my ideas thereupon. 
 
 I have been reading over again the " Iphigenia," 
 the " Tasso," and the " Egmont " of Goethe. 
 
 " Iphigenia " is all repose ; " Tasso " all emotion ; 
 " Egmont" all action and passion. " Iphigenia" rests 
 upon the grace and grandeur of form— it is stat- 
 uesque throughout. " Tasso " is the strife between 
 the poetic and prosaic nature. "Egmont" is the 
 working of the real ; all here is palpable, practical 
 — even love itself. 
 
 I laid down the "Tasso" with a depth of emotion 
 which I have never felt but after reading " Ham- 
 let," to which alone I could compare it ; but this 
 is a tragedy profound and complete in effect, with- 
 out the intervention of any evil principle, without 
 a dagger, without a death, without a tyrant, without 
 a traitor ! The truth ^ Leonora d'Este's character 
 * Mademoiselle de l'Espinasse. 
 
goethe's tasso, iphigenia, etc. 27 
 
 struck me forcibly ; it is true to itself, as a charac- 
 ter, — true to all we know of her history. The 
 shadow which a hidden love has thrown over the 
 otherwise transparent and crystalline simplicity of 
 her mind is very charming — more charming from 
 the contrast with her friend Leonora Sanvitale, 
 who reconciles herself to the project of removing 
 Tasso with exquisite feminine subtlety and sen- 
 timental cunning. 
 
 Why do you not finish your translation of the 
 " Egmont ? " who will ever do it as you can f 
 What deep wisdom, what knowledge of human 
 nature in every scene ! And what can be finer 
 than the two female portraits — the imperial, impe- 
 rious Margaret of Austria, and the plebeian girl, 
 Cliirchen ? The character of Clarchen grows upon 
 me as I study it. Is she not really a Flemish Ju- 
 liet, in her fond impatience, her wilfulness, and the 
 energy of resolve arising out of the strength of 
 passion ? And her tenderness for her poor dis- 
 carded lover, Brackenberg, whom she cannot love 
 and cannot hate, is all so womanly natural ! 
 
 " Iphigenia " is an heroic tragedy — " Tasso," a 
 poetical tragedy — " Egmont," an historical tragedy. 
 " Clavigo " is what the Germans call a biirgerliche, 
 or domestic tragedy (tragedie bourgeoise). I did 
 not read this play as I read the " Tasso," borne 
 aloft into the ideal, floating on the wings of enthu- 
 siasm between the earth and stars ; but I laid it 
 down with a terrible and profound pain — yes, pain ! 
 
28 STUDIES. 
 
 for it was worse and deeper than mere emotion. 
 Yet it is difficult to speak of u Clavigo " as a work 
 of art. The matter-of-fact simplicity of the plot, 
 the eveiy-day nature of the characters, the prosaic 
 sentiments, the deep homely pathos of the situa- 
 tions, are almost too real, — they are brought home 
 to our own bosoms, our own experience, — they are 
 just what, in feeling most, we can least dare to ex- 
 press. The scene between Carlos and Clavigo, in 
 which Carlos dissuades his friend from marrying 
 the woman to whom he was engaged, is absolutely 
 wonderful. If Clavigo yielded to any mere persua- 
 sion or commonplace arguments, he would be a des- 
 picable wretch, — we should feel no interest about 
 him, and it would also belie the intellect with which 
 he is endowed. It is to that intellect Carlos addresses 
 himself. His arguments, under one point of view 
 — that of common sense — are unanswerable. His 
 reasoning, springing from conviction, is reason itself. 
 What can be more practically wise than his calcu- 
 lations — more undeniably true than his assertions ? 
 His rhetoric, dictated as it is by real friendship, and 
 full of fire and animation, is even more overwhelm- 
 ing from its sincerity than its eloquence ; and his 
 sarcastic observations on poor Marie Beaumarchais, 
 on her want of personal attractions, her ill health, 
 her foreign manners ; on the effect she will produce 
 on society as his wife, and the clog she must prove 
 to his freedom and ambitious career, are all so well 
 aimed, so well meant, so well founded, that far from 
 hating Carlos and despising Clavigo, we are im- 
 
goethe's tasso, iphigenia, etc. 29 
 
 pressed with a terror, a sympathy, a sort of fearful 
 fascination. Every one who reads this play must 
 acknowledge, and with an inward shuddering, that 
 it is possible he might have yielded to this conven- 
 tional common sense, this worldly logic, even for 
 want of arguments to disprove it. The only things 
 left out in the admirable reasonings and calcula- 
 tions of Carlos are nature and conscience, to which, 
 in their combination, the world have agreed to give 
 the name of Romance. But never yet were the 
 feelings and instincts of our nature violated with 
 impunity ; never yet was the voice of conscience 
 silenced without retribution. In the tragedy, the 
 catastrophe is immediate and terrible ; in real life 
 it might come in some other shape, or it might come 
 later, but it would come — of that there is no doubt. 
 
 February 25. 
 The accusation which has been frequently made 
 against Goethe, that notwithstanding his passionate 
 admiration for women, he has throughout his works 
 wilfully and systematically depreciated womanhood, 
 is not just, in my opinion. Xo doubt he is not so 
 universal as Shakspeare, nor so ideal as Schiller ; 
 but though he might have taken a more elevated 
 and a more enlarged view of the sex, his portraits 
 of individual women are true as truth itself. His 
 idea of women generally was like that entertained 
 by Lord Byron, rather oriental and sultanish ; he 
 is a little of the bashaw persuasion. t; Goethe.*' 
 
30 STUDIES. 
 
 said a friend ot mine who knew him intimately, 
 " had no notion of heroic women," (Heldenfrauen ;) 
 " in poetry, he thought them unnatural, in history, 
 false. For such delineations as Schiller's " Joan 
 of Arc," and Stauffacher's wife (in Wilhelm Tell) 
 he had neither faith nor sympathy." 
 
 His only heroic and ideal creation is the " Iphige- 
 nia," and she is as perfect and as pure as a piece of 
 Greek sculpture. I think it a proof that if he did 
 not understand or like the active heroism of Ama- 
 zonian ladies, he had a very sublime idea of the 
 passive heroism of female nature. The basis of 
 the character is trutJi. The drama is the very tri- 
 umph of unsullied, unflinching truth. It has been 
 said, that Goethe intended this character as a por- 
 trait of the Grand Duchess Louise, of Weimar. 
 The intention of the poet remains doubtful ; but it 
 should seem that from the first moment the resem- 
 blance was generally admitted ; and what a glori- 
 ous compliment to the Duchess was this acknowl- 
 edgment ! It was through this true-heartedness, 
 this immutable integrity in word and deed, and 
 through no shining qualities of mind or blandish- 
 ments of manner, that she prevailed over the angry 
 passions, and commanded the respect of Napoleon, 
 a man who openly contemned women, but whose 
 instructions to his ambassadors and ministers al- 
 ways ended with " Soignez les femmes," a comment 
 of deep import on our false position and fearful 
 power. 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 31 
 
 MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 
 
 March 1. 
 
 In the different branches of art, each artist 
 thinks his own the highest, and is filled with the 
 idea of all its value and all its capabilities which he 
 understands best, and has most largely studied and 
 developed. " But," says Dr. Chalmers, kt we must 
 take the testimony of each man to the worth of 
 that which he does know, and reject the testimony 
 of each to the comparative worthlessness of that 
 which he does not know." 
 
 For it is not, generally speaking, that he over- 
 rates his own particular walk of art from over en- 
 thusiasm, (no art, when considered separately, as a 
 means of human delight and improvement, can be 
 overrated,) but such a one-sided artist underrates 
 from ignorance the walks of others which diverge 
 from his own. 
 
 Of all artists, musicians are most exclusive in 
 devotion to their own art, and in the want of sym- 
 pathy, if not absolute contempt, for other arts. A 
 painter has more sympathies with a musician, than 
 a musician with a painter. Vernet used to bring 
 his easel into Pergolesi's room to paint beside his 
 harpsichord, and used to say that he owed some of 
 his finest skies to the inspired harmonies of his 
 friend. Pergolesi never felt, perhaps, any harmo- 
 nies but those of his own delicious art. 
 
32 STUDIES. 
 
 " Aspasia, he who loves not music is a beast of 
 one species, and he who overloves it is a beast 
 of another, whose brain is smaller than a nightin- 
 gale's, and his heart than that of a lizard ! " I 
 refer you for the rest to a striking passage in Lan- 
 dor's " Pericles and Aspasia," containing a most 
 severe philippic, not only against the professors, 
 but the profession, of music, and which concludes 
 very aptly, " Panenus said this : let us never be- 
 lieve a word of it ! " It is too true that some ex- 
 cellent musicians have been ignorant, and sensual, 
 and dissipated, but there are sufficient exceptions 
 to the sweeping censure of Panenus to show that 
 " imprudence, intemperance, and gluttony," do not 
 always, or necessarily, " open their channels into 
 the sacred stream of music." Musicians are not 
 selfish, careless, sensual, ignorant, because they are 
 musicians, but because, from a defective education, 
 they are nothing else. The German musicians are 
 generally more moral and more intellectual men 
 than English or Italian musicians, and hence their 
 music has taken a higher flight, is more intellectual 
 than the music of other countries. Music as an art 
 has not degraded them, but they have elevated 
 music. 
 
 It is impeaching the goodness of the beneficent 
 Creator to deem that moral evil can be inseparably 
 connected with any of the fine arts — least of all 
 with music — the soul of the physical, as love is of 
 the moral, universe. 
 
 The most accomplished and intellectual musician 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 33 
 
 I ever met with is Felix Mendelssohn. I do not 
 recollect if it were himself or some one else who 
 told me of a letter which Carl von Weber had ad- 
 dressed to him, warning him that he never could 
 attain the highest honors in his profession without 
 cultivating the virtues and the decencies of life. 
 " A great artist," said Weber, " ought to be a good 
 man." 
 
 While I am " i' the vein," I must give you a few 
 more musical reminiscences before my fingers are 
 quite frozen. 
 
 I had once some conversation with Thalberg and 
 Felix Mendelssohn, on the unmeaning names which 
 musicians often give to their works, as Concerto in 
 F, Concerto in B b, First Symphony, Second Sym- 
 phony, &c. Mendelssohn said, that though in al- 
 most every case the composer might have a leading 
 idea, it would be often difficult, or even impossible, 
 to give any title sufficiently comprehensive to con- 
 vey the same idea or feeling to the mind of the 
 hearer. 
 
 But music, except to musicians, can only give 
 ideas, or rather raise images, by association : it can 
 give the pleasure which the just accordance of mu- 
 sical sounds must give to sensitive ears, but the 
 associated ideas or images, if any, must be quite 
 accidental. Haydn, we are told, when he sat down 
 to compose, used first to invent a story in his own 
 fancy — a regular succession of imaginary incidents 
 and feelings — to which he framed or suited the 
 successive movements (motivi) of his concerto. 
 3 
 
34 STUDIES. 
 
 Would it not have been an advantage if Haydn 
 could have given to his composition slich a title as 
 would have pitched the imagination of the listener 
 at once upon the same key ? Mendelssohn himself 
 has done this in the pieces which he has entitled 
 " Overture to Melusina," " Overture to the He- 
 brides," " Meeres Stille und Gliickliche Fahrt," 
 " The Brook," and others, — which is better surely 
 than Sonata No. 1, Sonata No. 2. Take the Me- 
 lusina, for example ; is there not in the sentiment 
 of the music, all the sentiment of the beautiful old 
 fairy tale ? — first, in the flowing, intermingling 
 harmony, we have the soft elemental delicacy of 
 the water nymph ; then, the gushing of fountains, 
 the undulating waves ; then the martial prowess of 
 the knightly lover, and the splendor of chivalry 
 prevailing over the softer and more ethereal na- 
 ture ; and then, at last, the dissolution of the 
 charm ; the ebbing, fainting, and failing away into 
 silence of the beautiful water spirit. You will say 
 it might answer just as well for Ondine; but this 
 signifies little, provided we have our fancy pitched 
 to certain poetical associations preexisting in the 
 composer's mind. Thus, not only poems, but pic- 
 tures and statues, might be set to music. I sug- 
 gested to Thalberg as a subject the Aurora of 
 Guido. It should begin with a slow, subdued, and 
 solemn movement, to express the slumbrous soft- 
 ness of that dewy hour which precedes the coming 
 of the day, and which in the picture broods over 
 the distant landscape, still wrapt in darkness and 
 
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. 35 
 
 sleep; then the stealing upwards of the gradual 
 dawn ; the brightening, the quickening of all life ; 
 the awakening of the birds, the burst of the sun- 
 light, the rushing of the steeds of Hyperion through 
 the sky, the aerial dance of the Hours, and the 
 whole concluding with a magnificent choral song 
 of triumph and rejoicing sent up from universal 
 nature. 
 
 And then in the same spirit — no, in his own 
 grander spirit — I would have Mendelssohn im- 
 provise the Laocoon. There would be the pomp 
 and procession of the sacrifice on the sea-shore ; 
 the flowing in of the waves ; the two serpents 
 which come gliding on their foamy crests, wreath- 
 ing, and rearing, and undulating ; the horror, the 
 lamentation, the clash of confusion, the death strug- 
 gle, and, after a deep pause, the wail of lamenta- 
 tion, the funereal march; — the whole closing with 
 a hymn to Apollo. Can you not just imagine such 
 a piece of music, and composed by Mendelsohn ? 
 and can you not fancy the possibility of setting to 
 music, in the same manner, Raffaelle's Cupid and 
 Psyche, or his Galatea, or the group of the Xiobe ? 
 Niobe would be a magnificent subject either for a 
 concerto, or for a kind of rnvtholoaical oratorio. 
 
36 STUDIES. 
 
 ON THE FEMALE CHARACTER. 
 
 March 2. 
 
 Turning over Boswell to-day, I came upon this 
 passage : Johnson says, " I do not commend a soci- 
 ety where there is an agreement that what would 
 not otherwise be fair shall be fair; but I maintain 
 that an individual of any society who practises 
 what is allowed, is not dishonest." 
 
 What say you to this reasoning of our great 
 moralist ? does it not reduce the whole moral law 
 to something merely conventional ? 
 
 In another place, Dr. Johnson asks, " What 
 proportion does climate bear to the complex sys- 
 tem of human life ? " I shiver while I answer, " A 
 good deal, my dear Doctor, to some individuals, 
 and yet more to whole races of men." 
 
 He says afterwards, " I deal more in notions 
 than in facts." And so do I, it seems. 
 
 He talks of " men being held down in conversa- 
 tion by the presence of women " — held up rather, 
 where moral feeling is concerned; and if held 
 down where intellect and social interests are con- 
 cerned, then so much the worse for such a state of 
 society. 
 
 Johnson knew absolutely nothing about women ; 
 witness that one assertion, among others more in- 
 sulting, that it is matter of indifference to a woman 
 whether her husband be faithful or not. He says. 
 
OS THE FEMALE CHARACTER. 3 7 
 
 in another place. ••If we men require more perfec- 
 tion from women than from ourselves, if is doing 
 them honor." 
 
 Indeed ! If. in exacting from us more perfec- 
 tion, you do not allow us the higher and nobler 
 nature, you do us not honor, but gross injustice : 
 and if you do allow us the higher nature, and yet 
 regard us as subject and inferior, then the injustice 
 is the greater. There, Doctor, is a dilemma for 
 you. 
 
 Of all our modern authors. Coleridge best under- 
 stood the essential nature of women, and has said 
 the truest and most beautiful things of our sex 
 generally: and of all our modern authors. Hazlitt 
 was most remarkable for his utter ignorance of 
 women, generally and individually. 
 
 Charles Lamb, of all the men I ever talked to. 
 had the most kind!}-, the most compassionate, the 
 most reverential feelings towards woman : but he 
 did not. like Coleridge, set forth these feelings 
 with elaborate eloquence — they came gushing out 
 of his heart and stammering from Ins tongue — 
 clothed sometimes in the quaintest disguise of iron- 
 ical abuse, and sometimes in words which made the 
 tears spring to one's e}"es. He seemed to under- 
 stand us not as a poet, nor yet as a man of the 
 I : but by the unerring instinct of the most 
 loving and benevolent of he; 
 
 When Coleridge said antithetically, " that it was 
 the beauty of a woman's character to be character- 
 less," I suppose it is as if he had said. " It is the 
 
38 STUDIES. 
 
 beauty of the diamond to be colorless ; " for he in- 
 stances Ophelia and Desdemona ; and though they 
 are colorless in their pure, transparent simplicity, 
 they are as far as possible from characterless, for in 
 the very quality of being colorless consists the 
 character. 
 
 Speaking of Coleridge reminds me that it was 
 from Ludwig Tieck I first learned the death of this 
 wonderful man ; and as I, too, had " sat at the feet 
 of Gamaliel and heard his words," the news struck 
 me w r ith a solemn sorrow. I remember that Tieck, 
 in announcing the death of Coleridge, said, in his 
 impressive manner, " A great spirit has passed 
 from the world, and the world knew him not." 
 
 March 6. 
 As light was the eldest-born principle of the 
 universe, so love was the eldest-born passion of 
 humanity, though people quote Milton to prove 
 that vanity was so — in our own sex at least ; and 
 many are the witty sayings on this favorite text ; 
 but they are wrong, and their text misinterpreted. 
 Eve, when she looked in passionate delight on her 
 own* lovely face reflected in the stream, knew not 
 it was her own, and had nothing else to love ; the 
 moment she found an Adam on whom to lavish the 
 awakened sympathies, she turned from the shadow 
 to the reality, even though " less winning soft, less 
 amiably fair ; " she did not sit upon the bank, and 
 pine to death for her own fair face, 
 
ON THE FEMALE CHARACTER. 39 
 
 " Like that too beauteous boy 
 That Tost himself by loving of himself; " 
 
 — while the voice of love wooed her in vain. Van- 
 ity in this instance was but the shadow of love. 
 
 But, O me ! how many women since the days of 
 Echo and Narcissus, have pined themselves into 
 air for the love of men who were in love only with 
 themselves ! 
 
 Where the vivacity of the intellect and the 
 strength of the passions, exceed the development 
 of the moral faculties, the character is likely to be 
 imbittered or corrupted by extremes, either of 
 adversity or prosperity. This is especially the case 
 with women ; but as far as my own observation and 
 experience go, I should say that many more women 
 have their heads turned by prosperity than their 
 hearts spoiled by adversity ; and, in general, the 
 female character rises with the pressure of ill for- 
 tune. Sir James Mackintosh says somewhere, 
 " That almost every woman is either formed in the 
 school, or tried by the test of adversity ; it may be 
 more necessary to the greatness of the female char- 
 acter than that of men." 
 
 And why so ? — I understand the first part of this 
 sentence, but not the last. Why should the test of 
 adversity be more necessary to the greatness of the 
 female character than that of men '? The perpet- 
 ual, and painful, and struggling collision of man 
 with man forms and tries him ; woman has little 
 
40 STUDIES. 
 
 compulsory collision with woman ; our equals are 
 our most severe schoolmasters, and the tyranny of 
 circumstances supplies this want to women. 
 
 GOETHE AND EKERMANN. 
 
 March 10. 
 
 I brought from Weimar Dr. Ekermann's book,* 
 which, as yet, I have only glanced over in parts ; 
 by this time it must be well known all over the 
 world of literature. When I left Weimar, it was 
 not yet published. There my attention was strongly 
 directed to this book, not so much by the interest 
 as by the kind of interest it had excited around me. 
 I remember one of Goethe's grandsons turning 
 over the leaves as it lay on my table, and ex- 
 claiming with animation — •" Es ist der Grosspapa 
 selbst ! da lebt er ! — da spricht er ! " (It is grand- 
 papa himself! — here he lives — he speaks ! ") 
 
 Another, habitually intimate with the domestic 
 life of Goethe, said, with emotion — " Es ist das 
 buch von liebe und wahrheit." (It is the book of 
 love and truth.) 
 
 u Whatever may be in that book," said a dear 
 friend of mine, when she placed it in my hands, 
 
 * Gespraehe mit Goethe. 'Conversations vrith Goethe.) 
 
GOETHE AND EKERMANN. 41 
 
 M I would pledge myself beforehand for its truth. 
 The mind of Ekermann, at once unsullied and 
 unruffled by all contact with the world, is so con- 
 stituted, that he could not perceive or speak other 
 than the truth, any more than a perfectly clear and 
 smooth mirror could reflect a false or a distorted 
 image." 
 
 Now all this was delightful ! The sort of praise 
 one does not often hear either of a book or a writer 
 s — and so, to read I do most seriously incline. 
 
 I read the preface to-day, and part of the intro- 
 duction. 
 
 In the preface, Ekermann says, very beautifully, 
 " When I think of the fulness, the richness of those 
 communications which for nine years formed my 
 chief happiness, and now perceive how little of all 
 I have been able to preserve in writing ; I feel like 
 a child, who seeks to catch in his open hands the 
 plenteous showers of spring, and finds that the 
 greatest part has escaped through his fingers." 
 
 A little farther on he says — " I am far from be- 
 lieving that I have here unveiled the whole inward 
 being of Goethe, (der ganze innere Goethe.) One 
 may liken this most wonderful spirit to a many-sided 
 diamond, which in every direction reflected a differ- 
 ent hue ; and as, in his intercourse with different 
 persons in different positions, he would himself 
 appear different — I can only say modestly — " This 
 is my Goethe ! " 
 
 This may be said with truth of every character, 
 viewed through the mind of another; of every 
 
42 STUDIES. 
 
 portrait of the same individual painted by a differ- 
 ent artist. 
 
 And not only where we have to deal with marked 
 and distinguished characters, but in the common in- 
 tercourse of life, we should do well to take this dis- 
 tinction into account ; and, on this principle, I 
 would never judge a character by hearsay, nor 
 venture further, even in my own judgment, than to 
 admit that such a person I like, and such another I 
 do not like. In the last case the fault, the deficien- 
 cy, the cause, whatever it may be, is as probably on 
 my side as on theirs ; and though this may sound 
 offensive and arbitrary, it is more just than saying 
 such a one is worthless or disagreeable ; for the 
 first I can never know, and as for the latter, the 
 most disagreeable people I ever met with had those 
 who loved them, and thought them, no doubt with 
 reason, very agreeable. 
 
 Of a very great, and at the same time complex 
 mind, we should be careful not to trust entirely to 
 any one portrait, even though from the life, and of 
 undoubted truth. Johnson, as he appears in "Bos- 
 well," is, I think, the "only perfectly individualized 
 portrait I remember ; and hence the various and 
 often inconsistent effect it produces. One moment 
 he is an object of awe, the next of ridicule ; we 
 love, we venerate him on this page — on the next we 
 despise, we abhor him. Here he gives out oracles 
 and lessons of wisdom surpassing those of the sages 
 of old ; and there we see him grunting over his 
 favorite dish, and " trundling " the meat down his 
 
GOETHE AND EKERMANN. 43 
 
 throat, like a Hottentot. But, in the end, such is 
 the influence of truth, when we can have the whole 
 of it, that we dismiss Johnson like a friend to whose 
 disagreeable habits and peculiarities we had become 
 accustomed, while his sterling virtues had won our 
 respect and confidence. If I had seen Johnson 
 once, I should probably have no impression but that 
 made on my imagination by his fame and his aus- 
 tere wisdom, and should remain awe-struck ; £t the 
 second interview I might have disliked him. But 
 Boswell has given me a friend, and I love the old 
 fellow, though I cannot love his bull-dog manners, 
 and worse than bull-dog prejudices. 
 
 Were it possible to have of Goethe as universal, 
 many-sided, and faithful a picture, it would be 
 something transcendent in interest ; but I do not 
 think he had a Boswell near him, nor any one, I 
 imagine, who would be inclined to buy immortality 
 at the same price with that worthy ; — at least Eker- 
 mann does not seem such a man.* 
 
 * A lady, a near and dear relation, of Goethe, who had lived 
 for very many years in the closest communion with him, was 
 pressed hy arguments and splendid offers of emolument to give 
 to the world the domestic life of the poet, or at least contribute 
 some notes with regard to his private conversations and opinions. 
 She refused at once and decidedly. •• I had,*' said she. J" several 
 reasons for this. In the first place, I have not a good memory, 
 and I have a very lively imagination; I could not always trust 
 myself. What I should say would be something very near the 
 truth, and very like the truth, but would it be the truth ? How 
 could I send into the world a book, of the exact truth of which I 
 could not in my own conscience, and to my own conviction, be 
 assured? A second reason was, that Goethe did not die young; 
 I could not do him any justice he was unable to do himself, by 
 
44 STUDIES. 
 
 The account of himself in the introduction is the 
 most charming little bit of autobiography I have 
 ever met with ; it is written to account for his first 
 introduction to, and subsequent intercourse with, 
 Goethe, and is only too short. The perfect sim- 
 plicity and modesty, yet good taste and even ele- 
 gance of this little history, are quite captivating. 
 The struggles of a poor German scholar, the secret 
 aspirations, the feelings, the sorrows, the toils, the 
 hardships, of a refined and gentle spirit, striving 
 with obscurity and vulgar cares and poverty, are . 
 all briefly but graphically touched, — a sketch only, 
 yet full of life and truth. Ekermann, it seems, 
 was the son of a poor cottager and peddler, residing, 
 when not engaged in his ambulatory traffic, in a 
 little village near Hamburg. Though steeped in 
 poverty, they seem to have been above actual want, 
 and not unhappy. For the first fourteen years of 
 his life Ekermann was employed in taking care of 
 their only cow, the chief support of the family ; 
 gathering w T ood for firing in the winter ; and in 
 summer occasionally assisting his father in carrying 
 the package of small wares with which he travelled 
 through the neighboring villages. u All this time," 
 says Ekermann, " I was so far from being tor- 
 telling the world what he would have done, what he could have 
 done, or what he had intended to do, if time had been given. 
 He Lived long enough to accomplish his own fame. Pie told the 
 world all he chose the world to know; and if not, is it for me — 
 for me ! — to fill up the vacancy, by telliug what, perhaps, he 
 never meant to be told? — what I owed to his boundless love and 
 confidence? — that were too horrible ! *' 
 
GOETHE AXD EKERMAXX. 45 
 
 mented by any secret ambition for higher things, 
 or any intuitive longing after science or literature, 
 that I did not even know that they existed." In 
 this case, as in many others, accident, as we call it, 
 developed the latent faculties of a mind of no com- 
 mon order. A woodcut of a galloping horse — the 
 excise stamp, on a paper of tobacco which his 
 father brought from Hamburg — first excited his 
 admiration, and then the wish to imitate what he 
 admired. He attempted to copy the horse with a 
 pen and ink ; succeeded, much to his own delight 
 and the wonder of his simple parents ; and then, 
 by dint of copying some poor engravings, (lent to 
 him by a potter in the neighborhood, wha used 
 them to ornament his ware,) he became a tolerable 
 draughtsman ; he was then noticed and encouraged 
 by a gentleman, who asked him if he should like 
 to become a painter. Now the only idea of a 
 painter which had ever occurred to his father and 
 mother was that of a house-painter ; and as they 
 had seen house-painters at Hamburg suspended on 
 danoerous scaffolds, when decorating the exterior 
 of the buildings there, his tender mother begged 
 him not to think of a trade in which he ran the 
 risk of breaking his neck ; and the offer was re- 
 spectfully declined. 
 
 In the family of the gentleman who noticed him, 
 Ekermann picked up a little French, Latin, and 
 music ; and now the thirst for information was awak- 
 ened in his mind ; he studied with diligence, and, 
 as a clerk in different offices, maintained himself 
 
4f> STUDIES. 
 
 till the breaking out of the war of deliverance in 
 1813. He then, like every man who could carry a 
 firelock, enrolled himself in the army, and made 
 the campaigns of 1813 and 1814. The corps in 
 which he served was marched into Flanders, and 
 there for the first time he had the perception of ' 
 what pictures are, of all that he had lost in refus- 
 ing to become a painter, and could have wept, as 
 he says, for very grief and self-reproach. He 
 passed all his leisure in wandering through the 
 churches, gazing on the works of the great Flem- 
 ish masters. At once the resolution to become an 
 artist took possession of his mind. When his regi- 
 ment was disbanded, he set to work and placed 
 himself under the tuition of Ramberg, in Hanover. 
 There is something very touching in this part of 
 his history ; he had himself nothing in the world — 
 no means of subsistence ; but he had a friend in 
 tolerable circumstances at Hanover ; he made his 
 solitary way through the snow on foot to that city, 
 and took up his residence with this friend of his 
 youth, who shared with him his home and slender 
 income. Anxious, however, not to be a burden 
 longer than was absolutely necessary, he sought 
 employment, worked so hard as to injure his 
 health, and brought himself to the verge of the 
 grave, — in short, he was obliged to give up all 
 hope of studying art as a profession, and he took 
 to literature ; here he showed the same indefatig- 
 able temper, and, conscious of his imperfect educa- 
 tion, he put himself to school; and, that he might 
 
GOETHE AND EEIKMANN. 47 
 
 be enabled to pay for instruction, procured the sit- 
 uation of a clerk in a public office. At the age of 
 twenty-six he became a scholar in the second class 
 of the Gymnasium, among boys of fourteen and 
 fifteen, Here, he says, the most advanced pupils 
 in the school, far from turning him into ridicule, 
 treated him with every mark of respect, and even 
 assisted him in his studies ; but between his clerk's 
 office and his schooling there remained to him 
 scarce one moment either for food or exercise ; he 
 who was eager to perfect himself in the classics, 
 remained ignorant of the great laws by which he 
 held his existence ; and we are not surprised to 
 find that the result of these excessive efforts was 
 broken health, a constitution almost destroyed, and, 
 in fact, permanently injured. In the midst of all 
 this, Ekermann found time to fall deeply in love ; 
 and the wish to obtain distinction and some settled 
 means of subsistence assumed another, a more 
 pleasing, and a more anxious form. But ill health 
 and a desultory education were against him. He 
 wrote a book of poems, which was published and 
 met with some success ; the profits enabled him to 
 go to a university, where for some time he seems 
 to have entertained the hope of procuring an 
 office, or a professorship, which should enable him 
 to marry. Thus year after year passed. In the 
 year 1822, he wrote his " Beitr'age zur Poesie," 
 (poetical essays.) and sent the MSS., with a modest 
 letter, to Goethe ; the result was, an invitation to 
 Weimar, where he finally took up his residence. 
 
48 STUD IKS. 
 
 Some time afterwards he procured a permanent 
 situation, and was enabled to marry the woman he 
 loved. Shy by nature, and averse to society, am- 
 bitious only of literary distinction, having laid up 
 his whole heart, and hopes, and life, in the quiet 
 pleasures of his modest home, and in the society of 
 the wife whom he had obtained after a protracted 
 engagement of ten years, Ekermann during the 
 next three years might, perhaps, be pronounced a 
 happy man. In the third year of his marriage he 
 lost his amiable wife, who died in giving birth to a 
 son, and since that time he has become more shy 
 and inaccessible than ever — shrinking nervously 
 from the presence of strangers, and devoted to the 
 poor little infant which has cost him so dear. The 
 daughter-in-law and the grandsons of Goethe, who 
 look up to him with a tender reverence, he seems 
 to idolize, and has become in some sort the literary 
 Mentor and aid of the young men, as Goethe had 
 been Ms, long years ago. It is a family tie, every 
 way sanctified, and not, I trust, to be severed in 
 this world by aught that the world can give or take 
 awav. 
 
 GOETHE'S LAST LOVE. 
 
 The period at which these conversations com- 
 mence was an interesting epoch in the personal 
 existence of Goethe ; it was about the time of his 
 
goethe's last love. 49 
 
 visit to Marienbad, in 1823, and was marked by 
 the composition of one of his finest lyrical poems, 
 the elegy in three parts, which he has entitled 
 " Trilogie der Leidenschaft." He was then sev- 
 enty-fonr, but in appearance sixty ; his eye still 
 beaming with a softened fire, a cheek yet fresh 
 with health, a well-knit figure, an upright, graceful 
 carriage, a manner which took all hearts captive. 
 The grand, the beautiful old man ! — old. yet, alas ! 
 still young enough, it seems, in heart and frame, to 
 feel once more, and for the last time, the touch of 
 passion ; not a mere old man's love, such as we 
 usually see it — half disease, or half infatuation — at 
 best a weakness — the sickly flare of a dying lamp ; 
 but genuine passion in all its effects, and under its 
 most profound and most painful, as well as its most 
 poetical aspect. 
 
 Ekermann merely touches on this subject with 
 all possible, all becoming delicacy ; but there seems 
 no occasion for me to suppress here the mention 
 of some circumstances not generally known, but 
 which can bring nor shame, nor pain, nor regret to 
 any human being. 
 
 The object of this love was a young person he 
 had met at Marienbad — one of the daughters of 
 
 Madame de L w. She has been described to 
 
 me as fair and rather full-formed, intelligent, ac- 
 complished, and altogether most attractive. He 
 began by admiring and petting her as a child — 
 then loved her — loved her against his will, his bet- 
 ter sense, one might almost say, against his nature. 
 4 
 
&0 ST U DUES. 
 
 There was a report in Germany that he had offered 
 her marriage ; this is not true ; but it was feared 
 he might do so. He returned from Marienbad 
 changed in manner; he had lost that majestic 
 calm, that cheerfulness, which inspired such respect 
 as well as affection in those around him ; and for 
 some weeks all were in anxiety for the event. 
 But Goethe was a man of the world, and a man of 
 strong sense ; he resolved to free himself from a 
 thraldom of which he felt all the misery, and per- 
 ceived all the ridicule. He struggled manfully, 
 and conquered ; but after weeks of terrible suffer- 
 ing and a fit of illness, during which he was seizec 
 with a kind of lethargy, a suspension of all men 
 ory, perception, feeling, from which he was wit 
 difficulty roused ; but he conquered ; and on h 
 recovery betook himself to his usual remedy fi 
 pain and grief — hard work. He found " a file fi 
 the serpent," and was soon deep in his new theor 
 of colors and his botanical researches. If there be 
 any one in the world so vulgar-minded and so 
 heartless, as to find in this story of a great poet's 
 last love, a subject for cruel and coarse pleasantry, 
 I must say that I pity such a being. In the elegy 
 alluded to, we find no trace of the turbulence of 
 youthful passion — no hopes, no wishes, no fears, no 
 desires, no reproaches, such as lovers are wont to 
 sing or say. It is no flowery, perfumed wreath of 
 flattery thrown at the feet of a mistress, but rather 
 the funereal incense of a solemn and fated sacri- 
 fice. It breathes the profoundest, the saddest ten- 
 
goethe's last love. 51 
 
 derness — as if in loving he took leave of love. 
 There is nothing in these lines unbecoming to his 
 age, nor discreditable to her ; but all is grand, and 
 beautiful, and decorous, and grave, in the feeling 
 and expression. Sometimes, when I read it and 
 think upon its truth, tears fill my eyes even to 
 overflowing, and my very heart bows down in com- 
 passionate reverence, as if I should behold a ma- 
 jestic temple struck by the lightning of heaven, 
 and trembling through its whole massy structure. 
 In other moments of calmer reflection, I have con- 
 sidered the result with another kind of interest, 
 as one of the most extraordinary poetical and 
 pyschological phenomena in the history of human 
 genius. 
 
 The first part of this poem is addressed to the 
 shade of Werther, and contains some of the most 
 powerful and harmonious lines he ever wrote ; to 
 the second part he has prefixed, as a motto, those 
 beautiful lines in his own " Tasso " — 
 
 Unci wenn der Mensch in seiner Qua! verstummt 
 
 Gab mir em Gott zu sagen was ich leide ! 
 
 Ekermann says, that when Goethe laid before 
 him this singular poem, he found it distinguished 
 above all the rest of his manuscripts, written with 
 peculiar care in his own neatest handwriting, on 
 the best paper, and fastened with a silken knot into 
 a red morocco cover. This little piece of fanciful, 
 sentimental dandyism will bring to your recollec- 
 tion the anecdote of Rousseau binding his favorite 
 
52 STL' DIES 
 
 letters in the " Heloise " with ribbon couleur <le 
 rose, and using lapis-lazuli powder to dry the writ- 
 ing. 
 
 GOETHE'S TABLE-TALK. 
 
 March 11. 
 
 Went on with Ekermann's book, and found 
 some interesting things. 
 
 Ekerrnann, after he bad spent some weeks at 
 Weimar, tells his friend that he was beginning to 
 feel the favorable influence of a more social life, 
 and in some sort to emerge from the merely ideal 
 and theoretical existence he had hitherto led, &c. 
 Goethe encourages him, and says strikingly, " Hold 
 fast to the present. Every position, (zustand,) 
 every moment of life, is of unspeakable value as 
 the representative of a whole eternity." 
 
 The following passage is at once very touching 
 and very characteristic. He seems to be a little 
 melancholy, which was not often the case. " When 
 I look back," said Goethe, " on my early and mid- 
 dle life, and now in my old age reflect how few of 
 those remain who were young with me, life seems 
 to me like a summer residence in a watering-place. 
 When we first arrive, we form friendships with 
 
goethe's table-talk. 53 
 
 those who have already spent some time there, and 
 must be gone the next week. The loss is painful. 
 but we connect ourselves with the second genera- 
 tion of visitors, with whom we spend some time and 
 become dearly intimate ; but these also depart, and 
 we are left alone with a third set. who arrive just 
 as we are preparing for our departure, in whom we 
 feel little or no interest. 
 
 " The world has always regarded me as a pecu- 
 liar favorite of fortune, nor will I complain of my 
 exisamce taken as a whole : yet. in truth, it has 
 been little else than weariness and labor : and I 
 may say that in my five-and-seventy years I have 
 not enjoyed four weeks of peace and comfort — it 
 was the eternal roiling of the stone. The claims 
 upon my time and capabilities, from within and 
 from without, were too many. My only happiness 
 lay in my poetic talents ; yet even in this how have 
 I been, through outward things, disturbed, limited, 
 and hindered ! Had I kept myself more apart 
 from public business, and could I have lived more 
 in solitude, I had been happier as a man, and as a 
 poet I had effected much more. Thus, after the 
 publication of my ' Gotz ' and my b Werther,' a 
 certain sensible friend said to me in warning, 
 ' When a man has once done something to delight 
 the world, the world will thenceforward take care 
 that he shall not do it a second time.' A wide- 
 spread name, a high position in society, are doubt- 
 less good things, but, with all my reputation and 
 my rank, I could not often do more nor better than 
 
54 STUDIES. 
 
 give way to the opinions of others ; and this were 
 in truth but a sorry jest, if I had not therewith so 
 far the advantage, that I learned (erfahre) how 
 others thought: aber sie nicht wie ieh." 
 
 How solemn sounds all this from the lips of a 
 man, who in years, in fame, in wisdom, in prosper- 
 ity, exceeded so far his fellow-men ! 
 
 Pointing out to Ekermann some beautiful antique 
 gems, and comparing them with the manner in which 
 the same subjects and ideas had been treated by 
 modern artists, he makes the oft-repeated observa- 
 tion, how far in these later times we fall short of the 
 classical models ; even with the highest feeling for 
 the pure inimitable grace, the unaffected nature of 
 these relics, even with a conception of how it was 
 all produced, we cannot repeat the results we ad- 
 mire. " Meyer," he added, " used often to say, 
 ' If only it were not so difficult to think ; ' but the 
 worst is, that all the thinking in the world will not 
 help us to think — we must go direct to nature, so 
 that beautiful ideas shall present themselves before 
 us like God-sends, (freye kinder Gottes,) and call 
 out to us, "Here we are ! " * 
 
 Tiedge, in 1800, wrote a poem on the immortality 
 of the soul, entitled " Urania," and Goethe alludes 
 amusingly to the sensation it produced for a time. 
 The "Urania" lay on every table — "Urania" 
 and immortality were the subject of every conver- 
 
 * He says the same thing otherwise, and better, in another 
 place — * ; Alles Gescheite 1st schon einmal gedacht worden; man 
 muss nur versuchen, es noch eiumal zu denken. ? ' 
 
goethe's table-talk. 55 
 
 sation, and stupid, conceited women discussed 
 round their tea-tables the sublirnest speculations 
 on a future life ; all which seems to have excited 
 his impatience and his derision. How truly he 
 says somewhere, that the same things are constant- 
 ly repeated in the world ; that there never was 
 any tiring, any fact, that had only once existed ! 
 How well I recollect when the publication of 
 M Satan." and the " Omnipresence of the Deity." 
 and some other poems of the same stamp, were all 
 the rage in England, and sent our evangelical 
 ladies, some up into tire clouds, within precincts 
 where seraphs fear to tread, and some down — 
 never mind where, — it was Tiedge's " Urania" 
 over again. Of course, I speak here only of the 
 presumption and frivolity, amounting to profane- 
 ness and audacity, or worse, which I have witnessed 
 in some women whose heated imaginations outran 
 their reason, as different from the staid, the sober 
 humility of real piety, as the raving Pythoness of t 
 old was unlike the meek Mary, " who sat at Jesus's 
 feet and heard his words." 
 
 Goethe says, in the same passage " that he would 
 not himself give up for aught in the world the be- 
 lief in futurity ; and he thinks with Lorenzo de' 
 Medici, that he who lives not in the hope of a fu- 
 ture life may be counted as already dead : but he 
 exclaims against treating with vulgar and audacious 
 familiarity the divine, the incomprehensible truths, 
 which prophets and apostles touched upon with 
 awe ; and I think with him. 
 
ob STUDIES. 
 
 Goethe lias (has ? — I think of him as being now .') 
 I should say, that out of a collection of more than 
 seventy portfolios of engravings and original draw- 
 ings, it was his general custom to have one or two 
 laid on the table after dinner, and to turn them 
 over in presence of his guests and the ladies of his 
 family, discoursing most eloquently on the different 
 subjects, or pleased to appeal to the natural sense 
 and taste of those around him. It was a divine 
 lecture on art. 
 
 There are in one of these portfolios some most 
 exquisite etchings and drawings by Roos, the fa- 
 mous animal painter, all representing sheep or 
 goats in every possible attitude, wonderful for their 
 truth. " When I look at them," says Goethe, speak- 
 ing in the fulness of his admiration, " I feel a cer- 
 tain strange uneasiness. The narrow, stupid, silly, 
 dreamy, yawny nature of these creatures attracts 
 me into a kind of beastly sympathy with them; 
 I look at them till I am half afraid of becoming a 
 sheep myself, and could almost fancy that the artist 
 had been one ; he had no vocation to paint the 
 fiercer quadrupeds, he confined himself to the 
 ruminating animals, and in that he did well ; his 
 sympathy with the nature of these creatures was 
 born with him — it was innate." 
 
 What would Goethe have thought of some of 
 Edwin Landseer's pictures — his wild deer — his 
 dogs ! — the " Highland Nurse," for instance, where 
 the colley is watching by the sleeping infant? Did 
 lioos, or Snyders, or Rubens himself, ever give us 
 
GOETHE'S TABLE-TALK. 57 
 
 the morale of animal life in the fine spirit of Edwin 
 Landseer ? 
 
 After some other things. Goethe goes on to say, 
 that he thinks a knowledge of the universe must be 
 innate with some poets. (It seems to have been so 
 with Shakspeare.) He says he wrote " Gotz von 
 Berlichingen " when he was a young inexperienced 
 man of two-and-twenty. u Ten years later." he 
 adds, " I stood astonished at the truth of my own 
 delineation ; I had never beheld or experienced 
 the like, therefore the knowledge of these multifa- 
 rious aspects of human nature I must have pos- 
 sessed through a kind of anticipation." 
 
 Yes : the " kind of anticipation." through which 
 Joanna Baillie conceived and wrote her noble 
 tragedies. Where did she, whose life has been 
 pure and -'- retired as noontide dew." find the dark, 
 stern, terrible elements, out of which she framed 
 the delineations of character and passion in De 
 Montfort, Ethwald. Basil. Constantine ? — where, but 
 in her own prophetic heart and genius ? — in that 
 intuitive, almost unconscious revelation of the uni- 
 versal nature, which makes the poet, and not expe- 
 rience or knowledge. Joanna Baillie. whose most 
 tender and refined, and womanly and christian 
 spirit never, I believe, admitted an ungentle 
 thought of any living being, created De Montfort, 
 and gave us the physiology of Hatred ; and might 
 well, like Goethe, stand astonished at the truth of 
 her own delineation. 
 
58 8TUDIES. 
 
 Farther on, Goethe speaks of the perfection 
 with which some of the German women write their 
 own language, so as to excel in this particular 
 some of their best authors. The same holds good 
 in France and England; so that to understand the 
 full force of Goethe's compliment to his country- 
 women, one must recollect that it is no such easy 
 matter to write a fine and clear German style, 
 .where there are twenty dialects and a hundred 
 different styles. Prince Metternich once observed 
 to me, " What I admire in your language is, that 
 you have one good style in speaking and writing ; 
 and all w r ell-bred and well-educated persons in 
 England speak and write nearly alike. Here, in 
 Germany, we have as many different styles as in- 
 dividual writers, and the difference is greater than 
 a foreigner could easily imagine." 
 
 Yet even this kind of individuality, in point of 
 style, may possibly have a value and a charm, and 
 this will be felt if ever the rules of a good style be 
 so fixed by criticism or fashion, that all Germany 
 will write uniformly. 
 
 What he says of himself and Tieck is very in- 
 teresting ; he speaks of him with admiration and 
 kind feeling, but adds, " that when the Schlegels 
 set up Tieck as a sort of literary rival to himself, 
 they placed him in a false position. I may say 
 this openly," adds this great man, with a dignified 
 and frank simplicity. "I did not make myself; 
 and it were much the same thing as though I 
 should even myself with Shakspeare, who also did 
 
goethe's table-talk. 59 
 
 not make himself — a being far. far above me. to 
 whom I look up with reverence and wonder." 
 
 Driving home one day from Tiefurt. as the car- 
 riage turned, they faced the sun just as he was 
 sinking in the west. Goethe ceased speaking, and 
 remained for a few moments as if lost in thought : 
 then rousing himself, he repeated from some old 
 poet — 
 
 " Untergehend sogar ist's immer dfeselbige Sonne." 
 
 He then continued, with a most cheerful and ani- 
 mated expression — " When a man has lived seven- 
 ty-five years, he must needs think sometimes upon 
 death. This thought brings me perfect peace, for 
 I have the fixed conviction that the spirit is im- 
 mortal, and has a never-ceasing progression from 
 eternity to eternity : it is like the sun, which only 
 seems to set to our earthly eyes, but which in reality 
 never does set. and never ceases to shine." 
 
 Farther on, Ekermann expresses his regret that 
 Goethe should have sacrificed so much time as di- 
 rector of the theatre at Weimar, and considers that 
 many works were thus lost to the world. To which 
 Goethe replies — " Truly, it is possible I might have 
 written many good things during that time : yet. 
 when I reflect. I feel no regret. All my produc- 
 tions, as well as endeavors, 1 have been accustomed 
 to regard as merely symbolical, (that is. as I under- 
 stand it. leading to something beyond, and signifi- 
 cant of something better, than themselves.) and in 
 point of fact, it was with me as with a potter, to 
 
60 STUDIES. 
 
 whom it is quite indifferent whether he makes 
 pitchers or whether he makes platters of his clay." 
 
 GOETHE'S IDEAS ON THE POSITION 
 OF WOMEN. 
 
 March 13. 
 
 Idle to-day, and although I read a good deal, I 
 translated very little, and noted less. 
 
 Yet the following passage struck me. The con- 
 versation turned on the German poetesses, and 
 Rehbein, Goethe's physician, insisted that the poet- 
 ical talent in women was " ein Art von geistigem 
 Geschlechtstrieb." 
 
 " Hear him ! " exclaimed Goethe ; " hear the 
 physician, with his ' intellectual impulse of sex ! ' " 
 
 Rehbein explained himself, by observing " that 
 the women who had distinguished themselves in 
 literature, poetry especially, were almost univer- 
 sally women who had been disappointed in their 
 best affections, and sought in this direction of the 
 intellect a sort of compensation. When Avomen 
 are married, and have children to take care of, 
 they do not often think of writing poetry." * 
 
 This is not very politely or delicately expressed ; 
 
 * This applies more to Germany than with us, and even up to 
 the present time it has required a very powerful reaction of some 
 kind to drive a German woman into the public path of literature. 
 
POSITION OF WOMEN. 61 
 
 but we must not therefore shrink from it, for it in- 
 volves some important considerations. It is most 
 certain that among the women who have been dis- 
 tinguished in literature, three fourths have been 
 either by nature, or fate, or the law of society, 
 placed in a painful or a false position : it is also 
 most certain that in these days when society is be- 
 coming every day more artificial and more com- 
 plex, and marriage, as the gentlemen assure us. 
 more and more expensive, hazardous, and inexpe- 
 dient, women must find means to fill up the void 
 of existence. Men. our natural protectors, our 
 lawgivers, our masters, throw us upon our own re- 
 sources ; the qualities which they pretend to admire 
 in us. — the overflowing, the clinging affections of a 
 warm heart. — the household devotion, — the submis- 
 sive wish to please, that feels ;; every vanity in 
 fondness lost." — the tender shrinking sensitiveness 
 which Adam thought so charming in his Eve, — to 
 cultivate these, to make them, by artificial means, 
 the staple of the womanly character, is it not to 
 cultivate a taste for sunshine and roses, in those we 
 send to pass their lives in the arctic zone ? We 
 have gone away from nature, and we must. — if we 
 can, substitute another nature. Art, literature, 
 and science, remain to us. Religion, which for- 
 merly opened the doors of nunneries and convents 
 to forlorn women, now mingling her beautiful and 
 soothing influence with resources which the preju- 
 dices of the world have yet left open to us. teaches 
 us another lesson, that onlv in utility, such as is 
 
62 STUDIES. 
 
 left to us, only in the assiduous employment of such 
 faculties as we are permitted to exercise, can we 
 find health and peace, and compensation for the 
 wasted or repressed impulses and energies more 
 proper to our sex — more natural — perhaps more 
 pleasing to God ; but trusting in his mercy, and 
 using the means he has given, we must do the best 
 we can for ourselves and for our sisterhood. The 
 cruel prejudices which would have shut us out 
 from nobler consolation and occupations have 
 ceased in great part, and will soon be remembered 
 only as the rude, coarse barbarism of a bygone 
 age. Let us then have no more caricatures of 
 methodistical, card-playing, and acrimonious old 
 maids. Let us hear no more of scandal, parrots, 
 cats, and lapdogs — or worse ! — these never-failing 
 subjects of derision with the vulgar and the frivo- 
 lous, but the source of a thousand compassionate 
 and melancholy feelings in those who can reflect ! 
 In the name of humanity and womanhood, let us 
 have no more of them ! Coleridge, who has said 
 and written the most beautiful, the most tender, 
 the most reverential things of women — who under- 
 stands better than any man, any poet, what I will 
 call the metaphysics of love — Coleridge, as you 
 will remember, has asserted that the perfection of a 
 woman's character is to be characterless. " Every 
 man/' said he, " would like to have an Ophelia or 
 a Desdemona for his wife." No doubt ; the senti- 
 ment is truly a masculine one ; and what was their 
 fate ? What would now be the fate of such unre- 
 
POSITION OF WOMEN. 63 
 
 listing and confiding angels ? Is this the age of 
 Arcadia ? Do we live among Paladins and Sir 
 Charles Grandisons, and are our weakness, and 
 our innocence, and our ignorance, safeguards — or 
 snares ? Do we indeed find our account in being 
 
 " Fine by defect, and beautifully weak? ,1 
 
 No, no ; women need in these times character be- 
 yond every thing else ; the qualities which will 
 enable them to endure and to resist evil ; the self- 
 governed, the cultivated, active mind, to protect 
 and to maintain ourselves. How many wretched 
 women marry for a maintenance ! How many 
 wretched women sell themselves to dishonor for 
 bread ! — and there is small difference, if any, in 
 the infamy and the misery ! How many unmarried 
 women live in heart-wearing dependence ; — if poor, 
 in solitary penury, loveless, joyless, unendeared ; 
 — if rich, in aimless, pitiful trifling ! How many, 
 strange to say, marry for the independence they 
 dare not otherwise claim ! But the more paths 
 opened to us, the less fear that we should go astray. 
 Surely it is dangerous, it is wicked, in these days, 
 to follow the old saw, to bring up women to be 
 " happy wives and mothers ; " that is to say, to let 
 all her accomplishments, her sentiments, her views 
 of life, take one direction, as if for women there 
 existed only one destiny — one hope, one blessing, 
 one object, one passion in existence; some people 
 say it ought to be so, but we know that it is not so ; 
 we know that hundreds, that thousands of women 
 
64 STUDIES. 
 
 are not happy wives and mothers — are never 
 either wives or mothers at all. The cultivation of 
 the moral strength and the active energies of a 
 woman's mind, together with the intellectual facul- 
 ties and tastes, will not make a woman a less good, 
 less happy wife and mother, and will enable her 
 to find content and independence when denied 
 love and happiness. 
 
 March 12. 
 
 Goethe speaks with great admiration of the 
 poems, original and translated, of Talvi, (Madem- 
 oiselle Jacob, now Mrs. Robinson, and settled, I 
 believe, in America.) 
 
 There is a great deal about Lord Byron in scat- 
 tered passages. Goethe seems to have understood 
 him astonishingly well — I mean the man as well 
 as the poet.* At this time Lord Byron was turning 
 all heads in Germany, and Goethe, who was flat- 
 tered by the veneration and admiration of Byron, 
 felt and acknowledged his genius. " He was," says 
 Ekermann, " quite inexhaustible when once he 
 began to speak of Byron," and, as a poet himself, 
 sympathized in the transcendent poetical powers 
 he displayed ; but as a philosopher and sage, Goethe 
 lamented the abuse, the misdirection of the talents 
 he appreciated. He reproaches him with the neg- 
 ative, the gloomy tendency of his mind ; he con- 
 
 * Lord Byron ist nur gross werm er dichtet, sobald er reflectirt, 
 ist er ein kind. 
 
LORD BYRON. 65 
 
 trasts it with the healthful cheerfulness of such a 
 spirit as Shakspeare's. Speaking of his strange 
 attempt to defend and revive the strict law of the 
 drama with regard to the three unities, he says 
 pointedly, " Had he but known as well how to 
 restrain himself within the fixed moral limits ! " 
 
 In another place he speaks with contempt of the 
 poets, imitators of Lord Byron, " who write as if 
 they were all sick, and the whole bright world a 
 lazar-house." He says, " It is a real misuse and 
 abuse of poetry, which was given to us to console 
 us in the struggle of life, and make man more con- 
 tent with the world he lives in, not less." 
 
 How entirely I sympathize with Goethe, when 
 he breaks out in indignation against the negative 
 and the satirical in poetry and art ! He says, 
 " When I have called the bad — bad, how much is 
 gained by that ? The man who would work aright 
 must not deal in censure, must not trouble himself 
 about what is bad, but show and do what is good ; " 
 and this is surely true. He says elsewhere, that 
 when there was doubt and contradiction in his mind, 
 he kept it within himself; he gave to the public 
 only the assured result, (or what he considered 
 such,) when he had arrived at it. This firmness of 
 tone, this lofty and cheerful view of the universe 
 and humanity, strike us particularly in many of 
 Goethe's works. He says himself, that the origin 
 of most of his lyrics was truth ; some real incident, 
 some real sentiment ; and some of his fine moral 
 poems — for instance, those which he has entitled 
 5 
 
QQ STUDIES. 
 
 " Granzen der Menschheit " and " Das Gottliche,'* 
 remind me of Wordsworth, in the pure healthful 
 feeling, as well as the felicity and beauty of the 
 expression through which it has found a channel to 
 our hearts. 
 
 He says of Winckelmann, with untranslatable 
 felicity, " Man lernt nichts wenn man ihn lieset, 
 aber man wird etwas." 
 
 This next is amusing, and how frankly magnan- 
 imous ! He says, " People talk of originality — ■ 
 what do they mean ? As soon as we are born, the 
 surrounding world begins to operate upon us, and 
 so on to the end. And, after all, what can we 
 truly call our own, but energy, power, will ? Could 
 I point out all that I myself owe to my great fore- 
 runners and contemporaries, truly there would 
 remain but little over ! " 
 
 Goethe could afford to say this ! 
 
 He speaks of Schiller so affectionately, and with 
 such a fine, just discrimination of his powers ! 
 " All in Schiller was high and great — his deport- 
 ment, his gait, the mould of his limbs, his least mo- 
 tion, was dignified and grand — only his eyes were 
 soft." And, adds Goethe, " like his form was his 
 talent. We lived together," he says, " in such 
 close, such daily intimacy, so in one another, that 
 of many thoughts which occur in the works of both, 
 it would be a question whether they originated 
 with the one or the other." 
 
 The two great men, thus bound together during 
 their lives, were, after Schiller's death, placed in a 
 
SCHILLER, 6 7 
 
 kind of rivalship : and still the partisans of the dif- 
 ferent literary factions dispute where no dispute 
 ought to exist. Coleridge says that " Schiller is a 
 thousand times more hearty than Goethe, and that 
 Goethe does not, nor ever will, command the com- 
 mon mind of the people as Schiller does." I be- 
 lieve it to be true. The reason is. that Schiller has 
 with him generally the women and the young men, 
 i. e. those whose opinions and feelings are most 
 loudly, most enthusiastically expressed. Goethe, 
 in allusion to this, says playfully, " Xow have the 
 public been disputing for these twenty years which 
 of the two is greatest. Schiller or myself! Let 
 them go and be thankful that have two such fellows 
 to dispute about I " 
 
 He speaks of the new school of critical histori- 
 ans, who have endeavored to prove that all ancient 
 history is fable. 
 
 4 * Till now." he says. " the world has believed in 
 the heroism of a Lucretia, a Mutius Scaevola. and 
 has been warmed and inspired by the idea. Xow 
 comes some historical critic, and assures us that 
 these personages never had a real existence : that 
 it is all fiction and fable, invented by the grand 
 imagination of the old Romans. What have we to 
 do with such pitiful truth ! If the Romans were 
 great enough to invent such things, let us at least 
 be great enough to believe in them ! " 
 
 Here I should think he was speaking more play- 
 fully and feelingly than seriously and critically ; 
 and is it not charming ? 
 
68 STUDIES. 
 
 He goes on — " I used to be delighted with a cer- 
 tain fact in the history of the thirteenth century, 
 where the Emperor Frederic II. being engaged 
 against the Pope, all the north of Germany lay 
 open to invaders. The Asiatic hordes advanced 
 even into Silesia, where the Duke of Leignitz de- 
 feated them ; they turned back to Moravia, where 
 the Count Sternberg beat them. These gallant 
 warriors have hitherto lived in my imagination as 
 the saviours of the German nation. Now comes 
 your historical critic, and he tells me that these 
 heroes sacrificed themselves very unnecessarily, for 
 that the Turkish army would doubtless have retired 
 of itself — so is a grand patriotic deed lessened and 
 maligned, and one is put horribly out of humor." 
 It is plain that Goethe, like Johnson, did not like 
 to have his fagot disturbed. 
 
 He adds, farther on, that in poetry this kind of 
 skeptical criticism is not so mischievous. " Profes- 
 sor Wolf has destroyed Homer, but he could do 
 nothing to the poem itself, for the Iliad is endued 
 with the miraculous property of the heroes in the 
 Valhalla, who, though hewed to pieces in the morn- 
 ing fight, always sit down to dinner with whole 
 limbs." 
 
 But there is no end to this — I must stop ; yet 
 this about Shakspeare is so beautiful I must have it 
 down. 
 
 " How inconceivably rich and great is Shak- 
 speare ! There is no motive * in human existence 
 
 * The meaning of the "word motive, in German criticism, 
 
HISTORICAL SKEPTICISM. 69 
 
 which he has not represented and expressed, and 
 with what ease and freedom ! One cannot speak 
 of Shakspeare, it is all insufficient. I have in the 
 Wilhelm Meister groped about him, but it is mere 
 trifling ; he is no play- writer, he never thought of 
 a stage, it was too narrow, too paltry a space for 
 his mighty spirit ; yes, even the great visible uni- 
 verse itself was for him in space too narrow ! 
 
 " Nay, he is too rich, too mighty. A productive 
 poet should read but one piece of his in the year, 
 or he will wreck himself in the vain attempt to 
 reach the unreachable. I did well," he adds, " that 
 in writing my ' Gotz ' and my ' Egmont,' I shook 
 him off my shoulders. How many excellent Ger- 
 man poets have been destroyed through him and 
 Calderon ? for Shakspeare," he adds fancifully, 
 " presents to us golden apples in cups of silver ; 
 through the study of his works we get hold of the 
 cups of silver, but alas, we put potatoes into them." 
 
 I close my book, and so good-night ! 
 
 Where is he now, he who disappeared and could 
 not be lost ? — sitting with his Shakspeare and his 
 Schiller up there among the stars in colloquy sub- 
 lime ? and Walter Scott standing by with love and 
 thought upon his spacious brow — What a partie 
 carree ! 
 
 should perhaps be explained. It is used to signify any cause out 
 of which the action or consequence springs. They have the 
 verb motiviren, and they say of a drama, or any fiction, that it 
 is well or ill motivirt. 
 
70 STUDIES. 
 
 March 15. 
 
 This last paragraph, which I wrote last evening, 
 sent me to bed with my head full of all manner of 
 thoughts and memories and fancies ; and not being 
 in a studious mood this miserably cold night, I 
 draw my writing-table close to the fire, and bestow 
 all my tediousness on you, and if it were twice as 
 much, and you were twice as far off, I would be- 
 stow it on you with all my heart — would you not 
 accept the bargain ? 
 
 I have been much busied to-day with domestic 
 matters, for we are preparing to change our resi- 
 dence for a new house never yet inhabited, and 
 now I am alone in my room. I feel tired, and 
 have fallen into a very dismal and fantastic mood. 
 
 Whence and what are we, "that things whose 
 sense we see not, fray us with things that be not ? " 
 If I had the heart of that wondrous bird in the 
 Persian tales, which being pressed upon a human 
 
 heart, obliged that heart to utter truth through the 
 
 > © © 
 
 lips, sleeping or waking, then I think I would in- 
 quire how far in each bosom exists the belief in the 
 supernatural ? In many minds which I know, and 
 otherwise strong minds, it certainly exists a hidden 
 source of torment ; in others, not stronger, it exists 
 a source of absolute pleasure and excitement. I 
 have known people most wittily ridicule, or gravely 
 discountenance, a belief in spectral appearances, 
 and all the time I could see in their faces that once 
 in their lives at least they had been frightened at 
 their own shadow. The conventional cowardice, 
 
THE SUPERNATURAL. 71 
 
 the fear of ridicule, even the self-respect which 
 prevents intelligent persons from revealing the ex- 
 act truth of what passes through their own minds 
 on this point, deprives us of a means to trace to its 
 sources and develop an interesting branch of Psy- 
 chology. Between vulgar credulity and exaggera- 
 tion on the one hand, and the absolute skepticism 
 and materialism of some would-be philosophers on 
 the other, lies a vast space of debatable ground, a 
 sort of twilight region or limbo, through which I do 
 not see my way distinctly. One of the most gifted 
 and accomplished, as well as most rational and 
 most practical characters I ever met with, once 
 said to me seriously, " I thank God I do not believe 
 in the impossibility of any thing." • 
 
 How far are our perceptions confined to our 
 outward senses ? Gan any one tell ? — for that our 
 perceptions are not wholly confined to impressions 
 taken in by the outward senses seems, the only one 
 thing proved ; and are such sensible impressions 
 the only real ones ? When any one asks me gayly 
 the so common and commonplace question — com- 
 mon even in these our rational times — " Do you 
 now really believe in ghosts ? " I generally answer 
 as gayly — " I really don't know ! " In the common, 
 vulgar meaning of the words, I certainly do not ; 
 but in the reality of many things termed imaginary 
 I certainly do. 
 
 While I was staying at Weimar, in Goethe's 
 house, a very pretty little soiree was arranged for 
 me at Madame d'Alefeldt's ; there were no cards 
 
72 STUDIES. 
 
 that evening ; and seated round a table we became 
 extremely talkative and confidential, and at last 
 we took to relating ghost stories. It should seem 
 that Germany is still like Ireland, the land of the 
 supernatural, as well as the land of romance. 
 There was something quite delightful in the good 
 faith and the perfect serieux of some of the narra- 
 tors, as well as some of the listeners — myself in- 
 cluded. 
 
 Baron Sternberg gave us a story of an appari- 
 tion at his sister's castle in Livonia ; it was admi- 
 rable, and most admirably told, though, truly, it 
 seemed the last of all apparitions that one would 
 have expected to haunt a castle in Livonia, for it 
 was that of Voltaire. 
 
 Then the grand duke gave us the history of a 
 certain Princess of Kudolstadt, whose picture is at 
 Kochberg, and who, in the estimation of her fam- 
 ily, had the gift of prophecy, of seeing visions, and 
 dreaming dreams ; but such visions and such dreams 
 — so wild, so poetical, and even so grotesque — ■ 
 shadowing forth the former and future destinies of 
 her family ! and, in truth, the whole story, and the 
 description of the old castle of Rudolstadt, and the 
 old court, and the three old superannuated prin- 
 cesses, like gothic figures woven into tapestry — so 
 stately, and so stiff, and so ugly, and withal so 
 tinged with the ideal and romantic, were given 
 with so much liveliness of detail, and so much 
 graphic spirit, that I was beyond measure amused 
 and interested. I thought I saw them before me, 
 and methinks I see them now. 
 
GHOST STORIES. 73 
 
 In return for this tale, I gave from the best au- 
 thority, that of Crofton Croker, the history of the 
 Irish banshee, and particularly of that identical 
 banshee, whose visitations as the hereditary attend- 
 ant on my own family I had painful reason to re- 
 member. My banshee pleased universally ; to 
 most of the company the idea was something new, 
 and I have even hopes that it may have inspired 
 Sternberg with a pendant to his poem on King 
 O'Donohue. 
 
 The conversation turned naturally upon hered- 
 itary apparitions and spectral penances, the fruit 
 of ancestral crimes, on which superstition Grill- 
 parzer has founded his fine lyric drama of " The 
 
 Ahnfrau.*' The castle of the W family, in 
 
 the neighborhood of Weimar, was mentioned as 
 subject to this species of ghostly visitation. Two 
 individuals present, who had been on a visit at this 
 castle, spoke of the phantom avec connaissance de 
 
 fait. The present Baroness W , who had 
 
 been brought up among enlightened and intelli- 
 gent people, declared herself perfectly incredulous, 
 and after her marriage went to inhabit the castle 
 of her husband, in all the assurance that common 
 sense and philosophy could give ; but — so went the 
 tale — it happened that, soon after the birth of her 
 eldest child, she awoke at midnight, and beheld an 
 unearthly being bending over the cradle of her 
 infant — more, as it seemed, in love and benediction 
 than with any unholy purpose ; however, from this 
 time they said that she had not willingly inhabited 
 the castle of her husband's ancestors. 
 
74 STUDIES. 
 
 In the family of the Baron , whose castle is 
 
 also in the neighborhood of Weimar, there is a gold 
 ring of marvellous power, given by some supernat- 
 ural being to a former Baron, with the assurance 
 that as long as it remained in the castle, good for- 
 tune would attend the family. Every experiment 
 made of late by unbelieving barons to put this tra- 
 dition to the test has been followed by some signal 
 disaster, the last time by a destructive fire, which 
 consumed nearly the whole castle. This story also 
 was very well told. 
 
 It should seem that in these little German states 
 there was always some ancestor, some prince with 
 a kind of Blue-Beard renown, to serve as the hero 
 for all tales of horror — the bug-a-boo to frighten the 
 children. Duke Ernest August plays the role du 
 tyran in the history of Saxe Weimar. He was not 
 only a tyrant, but atheist, alchemist, magician, and 
 heaven knows what besides. Now, there was a prof- 
 ligate adventurer, named Caumartin, who had insin- 
 uated himself into the favor of the Duke, became 
 his chamberlain, and assisted him in his magical and 
 chemical researches. It is a tradition, that one of 
 the ancestors of this princely family had discovered 
 the philosopher's stone, and had caused the receipt 
 to be buried with him, denouncing a terrible male- 
 diction on whoever should violate, from avaricious 
 motives, his last repose. Duke Ernest persuaded 
 Caumartin to descend into the family vault, and 
 pluck the mighty secret from the coffin of his an- 
 cestor. Caumartin undertook the task with gay 
 
GHOST STORIES. 75 
 
 audacity, and remained two hours in the vault. On 
 reascending, he looked pale and much changed, 
 and took solemn leave of his friends, as a man con- 
 demned to death. They mocked at him of course ; 
 but on the third day afterwards he was found dead 
 on the floor of his room, his rapier in his hand, his 
 clothes torn, and his features distorted, as if by a 
 fearful struggle. 
 
 This story, so oft repeated in different ages and 
 countries, and in every variety and form, appeared 
 to me curious in a philosophical and historical point 
 of view. Duke Ernest August lived at the time 
 when a wildly superstitious credulity, a belief in 
 magic and alchemy, rose up simultaneously with 
 the most daring skepticism in religious matters, both 
 becoming fashionable in Germany, France, and 
 England, at the same time. It was the reign of 
 Cagliastro and his imitators and disciples. Do you 
 not recollect, in the Baron de Grimm's memoirs, the 
 story of a French adventurer, who was received 
 into the first circles of Paris as a supernatural be- 
 ing ? He was said to possess the elixir of life, and 
 the wandering Jew was apparently a youth to him 
 in point of longevity. In the house of the Mare- 
 chal de Mirepoix he once sat down to the harpsi- 
 chord, and played a piece of music of sublime and 
 surpassing beauty. All inquired whether it was Iris 
 own composition, or where it was to be found ? To 
 which he replied, with a pensive air — " The last 
 time I heard it was when Alexander the Great 
 entered Babvlon ! " 
 
76 STUDIES. 
 
 Many more stories were told that night of vari- 
 ous interest, but all tinged with something poetical 
 and characteristic. At last the party separated. I 
 returned home, and, while still a little excited, we 
 continued to converse for some time on the influ- 
 ence of fancy and its various illusions, and the 
 superstitions of various times and countries. The 
 thing was always there, forming, as it seemed, a 
 part of our human nature, only modified and 
 changed in its manifestations, sometimes by out- 
 ward influences, sometimes by individual tempera- 
 ment; fashion, or in other words sympathy and 
 imitation, having produced many ghosts, as w r ell as 
 many maniacs, and not a few suicides. 
 
 At last we bade good-night. I lighted my taper, 
 fixed in a candlestick of rather antique form, the 
 same which had been used when Goethe was chris- 
 tened, and which I always took in my hand Avith 
 due reverence. In coming up .to my bedroom, I 
 had to pass by the door of the apartment in which 
 Goethe had breathed his last. It has been from 
 that moment considered as a sanctuary ; the things 
 remain untouched and undisturbed, and the key is 
 deposited with the librarian. In the first or ante- 
 room there stands — at least when I was at Weimar 
 there stood — a large house-clock, which had been 
 presented to Goethe on the celebration of his jubi- 
 lee ; it is the same which stood in the room of his 
 mother, and struck the hour he was born : after 
 passing through various hands, it was purchased by 
 the Grand Duke of Baden, and sent as a gift to the 
 
GHOST STORIES. 77 
 
 poet on that memorable occasion. This clock, like 
 the rest of the furniture of that sacred apartment, 
 remains untouched, but on this very night, by some 
 inexplicable accident, just as I arrived at the door, 
 the clock within began to strike — one, two, three, 
 four, and so on to twelve. At the first stroke I 
 stopped, even my breath almost stopped, as I lis- 
 tened. I looked not to the left, where the door 
 opened into that hallowed chamber of death and 
 immortality ; — I looked not to the right, where the 
 dark hollow of the staircase seemed to yawn — nor 
 yet before me ; but, with my eyes fixed on the sil- 
 ver relic I held in my hand, I stood quite still. The 
 emotion which bound up my powers in that moment 
 was assuredly the farthest possibly from fear, or 
 aught resembling it — it was only a sound, hut it 
 was the same sound and hour which had ushered 
 into the world one of the greatest and most gifted 
 spirits whom God, in his supreme goodness, had 
 ever sent to enlighten the world, and to enlarge 
 the bounds of human delight and improvement; 
 it was the same sound and hour which sent it to 
 mingle with the great soul of nature, to be 
 
 A voice in all her music, from the moan 
 Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird; 
 To be a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light. 
 
 And so in the silence and the loneliness of the 
 night, as those sounds fell deliberately one by one, 
 they seemed to fill the whole air around me, to 
 enter in at my ears and thrill down to my finger 
 
78 STUDIES. 
 
 ends, and I saw the light tremble which I held 
 before me. But sense and the power of motion 
 returned. In the next moment I was in my room 
 and seated in his chair, with a steady pulse and a 
 calm spirit, glad to breathe again " queen o'er 
 myself," — my reasonable self; yet would I not have 
 missed the strange, the overpowering, deliciously 
 awful feelings of those well-remembered moments 
 — no — not for the universe ! Short and transient 
 as they have been, they henceforth belong to the 
 tissue of my life ; were I to live a century, I cannot 
 forget them, nor would I dare to give them expres- 
 sion, — if indeed there are words which could 
 express them. 
 
 March 16. 
 
 I was idle to-day, and, instead of going on regu- 
 larly with my book, I turned over the leaves, and 
 dwelt upon passages here and there, as people, 
 when they are nice and are not hungry, capricious- 
 ly pick out tit-bits. 
 
 The attempt to note down all that I would wish 
 to retain in my memory of this delightful book, I 
 find hopeless, quite. At first I fancied it something 
 like " Bos well ; " nothing can be more unlike. The 
 difference between Dr. Johnson and Goethe is not 
 greater than the difference between Ekermann and 
 Boswell. BoswelPs book is delicious, but the man's 
 personal character is always in the way ; we profit 
 often by his indiscretion, but his indiscriminate tri- 
 
GOETHE AND EKESMANK. 79 
 
 fling as often disgusts. Johnson, in his book, is the 
 "great Colossus" bestriding this narrow world, 
 with a Pharos in one hand, and a bundle of darts 
 in the other; but in Ekermann's book Goethe is 
 nothing less than the " Olympian Jupiter," seated 
 at his table and dispensing nectar and ambrosia, 
 while he plays childlike with his own lightnings.* 
 Boswell's meddling coxcombry and servility some- 
 times place his great patron in no very dignified 
 position ; and the well-known similes of the mon- 
 key on the bear's back, and the puppy in the lion's 
 den, seem hardly too severe. Were I to find a 
 simile for Ekermann, I should say he is like a 
 thrush singing under the wing of a great eagle, 
 sometimes overshadowed by his mighty master, but 
 not overdazzled, not overawed by the i; terrors of 
 his beak and lightning of his eyes," always himself 
 — and. as himself, always amiable, always respecta- 
 ble. His simplicity, his uprightness, and his gentle- 
 ness, his poetical and artist-like feeling, are always 
 delightful ; one must love him for his own sake as 
 well as Goethe's. 
 
 Yet a translation of this book would hardly 
 please in England ; it deals in •' notions more than 
 in facts," and in speculations and ideas, more than 
 in anecdotes and personalities. It is necessary to 
 take a strong interest in German literature and 
 
 * There is now a melancholy propriety in the basso rilievo over 
 the entrance to Goethe's apartment, in his house at Weimar; it 
 represents the empty throne of Jupiter, with the eagle cowering 
 at its foot, and the thunderbolts lying extinguished and idle. 
 
80 STUDIES. 
 
 society, and in the fine arts generally, to care about 
 a great deal of it ; it is something like Coleridge's 
 " Table-Talk," which certainly few Germans would 
 like or understand, though the criticisms and opin- 
 ions are full of interest for the English reader ; but 
 it is yet more dramatic and lively in manner. 
 
 When I was first in possession of this book, and 
 referring with delight to some few sentences which 
 caught my attention, a friend of mine, who had 
 known Goethe well and long, w r rote me, in her 
 own peculiar style, some very charming things of 
 its character and intention ; the meaning, and as 
 nearly as I can, the words, I must try to render 
 into English. 
 
 " Ekermann's book," said she, " is the purest 
 altar that has yet been erected to the fame of 
 Goethe. In times like these, when the feeling of 
 reverence (Pietat) seems to be fast departing, 
 w r hen a young author of talent takes up the pen, 
 as a sort of critical dissecting-knife, mangling and 
 prying where once he trembled and adored ; when 
 his first endeavor is to fling down that heaviest 
 burden upon the soul of an egotist, — the burden 
 of admiration for the merits of another, is it not 
 pleasant to meet with such a book as this ? And 
 when every thing one reads is so artificial, so ge- 
 macht, so impertinent, is it not delightful to open 
 a book w r here in every page we feel the pulse-throb 
 of a warm, true heart ? I do not know if I am 
 right, but it seems to me that those w 7 ho cannot 
 admire, can have nothing in themselves to be 
 
GOETHE AND EKERMANN. 81 
 
 admired ; then how worthy of admiration must 
 that man be, who thus throws down his whole 
 heart and soul in admiration before the feet of 
 another ! the simplicity of this entire abnegation 
 of self lends to it a certain dignity. There is 
 nothing here but truth and love — for Goethe loved 
 Ekermann, and O ! how Ekermann loved Goethe ! 
 " I can have no critical judgment here, and 
 ought not to have ; I can only bear witness to the 
 general truth of the whole, — nothing can be truer. 
 I cannot be, like you, struck and charmed by par- 
 ticular passages. I was too long a sort of Lady 
 High Treasurer to be dazzled or astonished now 
 that the caskets are opened. I greet the gems as 
 old acquaintance ! " 
 
 After this encguraging testimony, I go on with 
 my notes and my translating. 
 
 It appears that Schiller had the notion of a the-^ 
 atre where pieces should be given occasionally for 
 men only, and Goethe seems to approve of this : I 
 do not. The two sexes are more than sufficiently 
 separated by different duties and pursuits ; what 
 tends to separate them farther in their amusements 
 cannot be good for either. A theatre for men only 
 would soon become a bear-garden. _ 
 
 At an evening party, some of his own songs, to 
 which Ekermann had composed beautiful music, 
 were sung for him — he was much pleased. When 
 all was over, he observed to Ekermann, that the 
 
82 STUDIES. 
 
 songs out of the " Divan," * seemed to have no 
 longer any connection with himself: "both what is 
 Oriental and what is impassioned in those songs," 
 said he, " have passed away from me ; it is like the 
 cast skin of a snake, which he leaves lying on his 
 path; but the nrtle song 'urn Mitternacht'f re- 
 mains with me, a living part of my own life." 
 
 After several pages on all manner of things, I 
 find this remark on Schiller : " Through all his 
 works," said Goethe, "we have the- idea of freedom. 
 And this idea changed its form as the genius and 
 character of Schiller were progressively developed. 
 In his early age it was physical freedom, in his lat- 
 ter life the ideal ; " and afterwards he says finely, 
 " that is not freedom where we acknowledge noth- 
 ing above ourselves, but that is freedom, when we 
 can reverence something greater than ourselves." 
 
 He says of La Grange, he was a good man, and 
 even through that, he was truly great ; for when a 
 gkpod human being is gifted with talents, he will 
 work for the moral benefit of the world, whether 
 Ire be artist, natural, philosopher, poet, or whatever 
 he may be." This is like what Weber wrote to 
 Mendelssohn. 
 
 Farther on he says, " All that is great and dis- 
 tinguished must be in the minority. There have 
 been ministers who had both people and sovereign 
 against them, and yet have accomplished their own 
 great plans ; it is not to be hoped that reason will 
 
 * Written when he was more than seventy. 
 t Written in his early youth. 
 
goethe's table-talk. 83 
 
 ever be popular. Passion, feeling, may be popu- 
 lar ; but reason will be the possession of the few." 
 
 March- 6. 
 I have often thought and felt, that while in Eng- 
 land we have political liberty, we have nothing 
 like the personal and individual freedom, the social 
 liberty of the Germans, even under their worst 
 governments. Tb$^ passage which follows has, 
 therefore, struck me particularly. Goethe, in 
 speaking with approbation of Guizot, quotes his 
 remark, that " from the old Germans we derive 
 the idea of personal freedom, which was especially 
 characteristic of that people, and quite unknown 
 in the ancient republics." " Is not this true ? " 
 said Goethe. '-Is he not perfectly right? and is 
 not the same idea prevalent among the Germans 
 of our own time ? From this source sprung the 
 Reformation, and not less the various complexion 
 of our literature. The continual striving' after 
 originality in our poets, so that each thinks it ne- 
 cessary to make or find a new path for himself, the 
 isolation * and eccentric habits of our learned men, 
 where each will stand on his ground, and work his 
 aim out of his individual mind, all come from the 
 same cause. The French and the English, on 
 the contrary, hold more together, and the people 
 
 * Verisolirung. Isolirung is solitude and separation— what 
 the French call isolement. Verisolirung expresses isolation 
 •with its injurious tendency. 
 
84 STUDIES. 
 
 all imitate one another. There is something uni- 
 form in their dress and behavior ; they are afraid 
 to swerve from a given fashion, to make themselves 
 peculiar or ridiculous. But in Germany every 
 man follows his humor, without troubling himself 
 about others ; each man endeavors to suffice to 
 himself; for in each man, as Guizot has well ob- 
 served, lives the idea of personal and individual 
 freedom, from which proceeds much that is excel- 
 lent, and also much that is absurd." 
 
 This appears to me very true, and must, I think, 
 strike every one who has been in Germany, and 
 felt the interest which this kind of individuality 
 imparts to society ; though certainly I have met 
 with travellers who were not a little put out by it. 
 Life, with them, having hitherto flowed on " comme 
 ' une goutte d'huile snr une table de marbre," they 
 know not how to understand the little projections 
 and angles they have to encounter. The women 
 appear affected, and the men quizzical, precisely; 
 because the former are natural and the latter orig- 
 inal, and all very unlike the ladies and gentlemen 
 they have left behind, whose minds, like their 
 bodies, are dressed in the same fashion. 
 
 When in Germany,-.! was accustomed to hear 
 Madame de StaeTs " ]j(§ TAlleniagne " mentioned, 
 if mentioned at all, with something worse than 
 contempt, either as forgotten or out of date. Her 
 trite information, her superficial criticisms, her 
 French prejudices, her feminine rashness, met with 
 
GOETHE'S TABLE-TALK. 85 
 
 no quarter : but think only, what changes of opin- 
 ion, what revolutions in criticism, have taken place 
 within thirty years ! Sir James Mackintosh — rich 
 in all the lore of his age. beyond his age in most 
 respects — writes, in ISO 7. (only two or three years 
 before Madame de Stael produced her book.) of 
 German literature and criticism, as a sort of terra 
 incognita, as the navigators of the fifteenth century 
 talked of a western continent, venturing, but with 
 hesitation, to commend Goethe, and seeming to 
 think his ideas on art not quite despicable — " rather- 
 plausible and ingenious." He mentions the antip- 
 athy in France and England against German liter- 
 ature, and speaking of distinguished modern writ- 
 ers, who might be considered as likely to survive 
 their own age. he says. Ct I comprehend even Goethe 
 and Schiller within the pale : and though I know 
 that few, either in France or England, agree with 
 me. I have recourse to the usual consolation of 
 singularity, that my opinion will be more prevalent 
 when I am myself forgotten." 
 
 Madame de Stael first made a breach through 
 what Goethe himself called a " Chinese wall of 
 prejudices ; " and we may pass through it surely 
 without trampling upon her who had courage to 
 open the way for us. 
 
 The Germans understand us better than we 
 understand them. To have a far stronger stamp 
 of national character than most other people, yet 
 better to comprehend and appreciate what lies in 
 the national nature of other people, is one of the 
 
86 STUDIES. 
 
 most interesting characteristics of the Germans. 
 • Their language lends itself with wondrous richness 
 and flexibility to translation from every tongue, 
 and their catholic taste embraces all literature, 
 without insisting on any adaptation to their own 
 canons of criticism or bienseance. 
 
 All that Goethe says of art and artists is admira- 
 ble — worthy of him who was the greatest critic 
 and connoisseur of his country and age ; for in- 
 stance, what he says of Claude Lorraine : " His 
 pictures have the highest possible truth, and not a 
 trace of reality ; he knew the real world in its 
 minutest details, and used these details as a means 
 to express the fairer world within his own soul ; 
 and that is the true ideal, where real means are so 
 used that the apparent truth shall produce an illu- 
 sion, as if it were reality." 
 
 He calls architecture " eine erstarrte musik" an 
 expression as untranslatable as it is exquisitely 
 felicitous. And many other passages I leave un- 
 noted with regret. 
 
 Yet one thing I must not omit, for it has made 
 me think much. 
 
 Goethe appears to consider our Saviour, with the 
 twelve apostles, as presenting too much uniformity 
 to be a good subject for sculpture. The remark 
 may possibly refer to the famous bronzes of Peter 
 Vischer on the tomb of St. Sibald at Nuremburg. 
 I was struck by the variety and discrimination ex- 
 hibited in these figures ; yet, on recollection, the 
 variety was in the drapery and attitude — in the 
 
goethe's table-talk. 87 
 
 external, not internal character. It were easy to 
 distinguish in sculpture two such opposite charac- 
 ters as St. John and St. Paul ; but how are we to 
 distinguish St. Andrew and St. Simon, except by 
 an external attribute, as that of giving St. Peter 
 the keys, and St. Bartholomew his own skin over 
 his arm, as at Milan ? How make St. Thomas look 
 incredulous ? So that, on the whole, there must be 
 something characterless in such a group. 
 
 Goethe says, that he had selected from the scrip- 
 tures a cyclus of twelve figures as suited to sculp- 
 ture, and presenting altogether the history of our 
 religion. 
 
 1. Adam, as the first man and father of mankind 
 — a type of human grandeur and perfection. He 
 should have a spade, as the first cultivator of the 
 earth ; and to express his character of progenitor 
 and parent, he should be accompanied by a child, 
 looking up to him with a bold confiding glance — a 
 kind of boyish Hercules, crushing a snake in his 
 hand ; (perhaps with reference to the promise.) 
 
 2. Noah, the beginner of a new creation, as a 
 vine-dresser, who, by the introduction of the grape, 
 relieved the cares and made glad the heart of man. 
 
 3. Moses, as the first lawgiver. 
 
 4. After him, Isaiah, as prince and prophet. 
 
 5. Daniel, as the harbinger of the Messiah. 
 
 6. Christ, as Saviour and Redeemer. 
 
 7. John. 
 
 8. The Centurion of Capernaum, as repre- 
 senting the believer, the Christian. 
 
88 ■ STUDIES. 
 
 9. Next, the Mary Magdalene, as the symbol 
 of humanity, reconciled to God through repent- 
 ance. These two figures, Faith and Repentance, 
 representing the spirit of Christianity. 
 
 10. Next, St. Paul, as promulgator of its doc- 
 trine. 
 
 11. Then St. James, as the first missionary, 
 representing the diffusion of Christianity among 
 strange lands. 
 
 12. Lastly, St. Peter, as keeper of the gate of 
 salvation. He should have an inquiring, penetrat- 
 ing expression, as if demanding of those who pre- 
 sented themselves, whether they were worthy to 
 enter the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 " What do you think of this my cyclus ? " added 
 Goethe ; " I think it would be richer in expression 
 and contrast than the twelve apostles. The Moses 
 and the Magdalene should be seated." 
 
 He says that he composed the witch scene in the 
 " Faust," in the Borghese Gardens at Borne. If 
 ever I visit those gardens again, what a strange 
 association will now mingle itself with those an- 
 tique statues, and fountains, and classical temples ! 
 
 There is a great deal about his new theory of 
 colors, which I read with interest, but dare not 
 meddle with, because I do not quite understand all. 
 This theory, it seems, is intended to supersede New- 
 ton's theory of light and colors ; whether it will or 
 not is another thing ; but as the savans in France 
 have taken it up, I suppose it will be looked into 
 by our own philosophers ; and, meantime,whichever 
 
goethe's table-talk. 89 
 
 way the question may be decided hereafter, Goethe's 
 own feeling on the subject will be referred to with 
 interest, either as a curious instance of self-delusion, 
 or a sublime anticipation of future glory. 
 
 " On what I have done as a poet," said he, " I 
 would not presume much — I do not pique myself 
 on it " — (hear this !) — " excellent poets have lived 
 as my contemporaries — more excellent before me — • 
 and others will live after me ; but that, in my own 
 age, I am the only one who, in the profound science 
 of colors, has obtained a knowledge of the truth — 
 in that I do give myself some credit — in that only 
 I have a consciousness of superiority over many." ! 
 
 This is something like the grand, calm, self ex- 
 ultation of Milton. Is it as well founded ? — Me- 
 thinks I should like to know. 
 
 He speaks in various places of the unseen, im- 
 perceptible influences of all outward things in 
 forming the genius and character. " Surely," he 
 says, " the man who has passed all his life long be- 
 neath«the lofty serious oak, will be a very different 
 man from him who has lived beneath the shade of 
 the myrtle and the willow." 
 
 He says, feelingly, "It is not good for man to be 
 alone t and, above all, it is not good for man to work 
 alone ; he requires sympathy, encouragement, ex- 
 citement, to succeed in any thing good ; in this way 
 I may thank Schiller for some of my best ballads ; 
 and you may take the credit to yourself," he adds 
 kindly to Ekermann, " if ever I finish the second 
 part of ' Faust,' " 
 
90 STUDIES. 
 
 There is a great deal all through the seeond vol- 
 ume relating to the second part of the " Faust," 
 which occupied Goethe during the last years of his 
 life, and which he finished at the age of eighty-two. 
 On completing it he says, " Now I may consider 
 the remainder of my existence as a free gift, and it 
 is indifferent whether I do any thing more or not; " 
 as if he had considered his whole former life as 
 held conditionally, binding him to execute certain 
 objects to which he believed himself called. He 
 survived the completion of the "Faust" only one 
 year. 
 
 The purport of the second part of " Faust " has 
 puzzled many German and English scholars, and 
 in Germany there are already treatises and com- 
 mentaries on it, as on the " Divina Commedia." I 
 never read it, and, if I had, would not certainly 
 venture an opinion " where doctors disagree ; " 
 but I recollect that Yon Hammer once gave me, "in 
 his clear animated manner, a comprehensive anal- 
 ysis of this wonderful production — that is, accord- 
 ing to his own interpretation of it. " I regard it," 
 said he, " as being from beginning to end a grand 
 poetical piece of irony on the whole universe, which 
 is turned, as it were, wrong side out. In this point 
 of view I understand it ; in any other point of view 
 it appears to me incomprehensible. It contains 
 some of the most splendid passages he has writ- 
 ten." 
 
 Everywhere Goethe speaks of Sir Walter Scott 
 with the utmost enthusiasm of admiration, as the 
 
Goethe's table-talk. 91 
 
 greatest writer of his time : lie speaks of him as 
 being without his like, as without his equal. 
 
 I remember Goethe's daughter-in-law saying to 
 me playfully, " When my father got hold of one of 
 Scott's romances, there was no speaking to him till 
 he had finished the third volume : he was worse 
 than any girl at a boarding-school with her first 
 novel ! " 
 
 I have particular pleasure in noting this, because 
 I have seen in several English papers and reviews 
 a passage from some book of travels in which 
 Goethe, on what authority I know not. is repre- 
 sented as holding Sir Walter Scott in the utmost 
 contempt. This is altogether false ; yet the same 
 passage I have lately seen translated into American 
 papers, and thence into the papers of Upper and 
 Lower Canada. Thus over the whole reading 
 world is the belief diffused, that one great genius 
 could either be wretchedly mistaken or enviously 
 unjust in estimating another great genius — a belief 
 as dishonorable to genius and human nature, as it 
 is consolatory to the common cry of curs, to igno- 
 rant mediocrity, " for folly loves the martyrdom of 
 fame." I held in my own hands — read with mine 
 own eyes — a long letter addressed by Sir Walter 
 to Goethe, giving an account of his own family, his 
 pursuits, &c. as friend to friend, and expressive 
 of the utmost reverence, as well as gratitude for 
 marks of kindness and approbation received from 
 Goethe. 
 
 " A lie," says the Chinese proverb, " has no feet, 
 
92 STUDIES. 
 
 it cannot stand ; " but it has wings, and can fly fast 
 and far enough. I only wish that truth may be 
 able to follow it, and undo the mischief thus done 
 — through some unintentional mistake perhaps, — 
 but not the less mischief and injustice. 
 
 The following beautiful and original interpre- 
 tation of Goethe's ballad of the " Erl-King " is 
 not in Ekermann's book ; but never mind, I give 
 it to you in the words in which it was given to me. 
 
 " Goethe's ' Erl-Konig ' is a moral allegory of 
 deep meaning, though I am not sure he meant it as 
 such, or intended all that it signifies. 
 
 " There are beings in the world who see, who 
 feel, with a finer sense than that granted to other 
 mortals. They see the spiritual, the imaginative 
 sorrow, or danger, or terror which threatens them; 
 and those who see not with the same eyes, talk rea- 
 son and philosophy to them. The poor frightened 
 child cries out for aid, for mercy ; and Papa Wis- 
 dom — worldly wisdom— answers, 
 
 " ' Mem Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstrief ! ' 
 "Or, 
 
 1,1 ' Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau ! ' 
 
 " It is only the vapor- wreath, or the gray willows 
 waving, and tells him to be quiet ! At last the poor 
 child of feeling is found dead in the arms of Wis- 
 dom, from causes which no one else perceived — or 
 believed ! Is it not often so ? " 
 
goethe's table-talk. 93 
 
 What Goethe says of false and true tendencies 
 of mind, and the mistaking a tendency for a talent, 
 deserves attention ; it is a mistake we often fall into, 
 both with regard to ourselves and others. 
 
 He says, smihng, " People think that a man must 
 needs grow old, in order to be wise ; the truth is, 
 that as years increase upon us, we have enough to 
 do to be as good and as wise, as we have been. . . 
 In certain things a man is as likely to be in the 
 right at twenty as at sixty." 
 
 On this point there is much more, to which I 
 subscribe heartily. 
 
 On the subject of religion f. find this beautiful 
 comparison, but am not sure whether it be Eker- 
 mann's or Goethe's. " A connoisseur standing 
 before the picture of a great master will regard it 
 as a whole. He knows how to combine instantly 
 the scattered parts into the general effect ; the uni- 
 versal, as well as the individual, is to him animated. 
 He has no preference for certain portions ; he does 
 not ask why this or that face is beautiful or other- 
 wise ; why this part is light, that dark ; only he 
 requires that all shall be in the right place, and 
 according to the just rules of art ; but place an 
 ignorant person before such a picture, and you will 
 see that the great design of the whole will either 
 be overlooked by him, or confuse him utterly. 
 Some small portion will attract him, another will 
 offend him, and in the end he will dwell upon some 
 trifling object which is familiar to him, and praise 
 this helmet, or that feather, as being well exe- 
 cuted." 
 
94 STUDIES. 
 
 " We men, before the great picture of the desti- 
 nies of the universe, play the part of such dunces, 
 such novices in art. Here we are attracted by a 
 bright spot, a graceful configuration ; there we are 
 repelled by a deep shadow, a painful object ; the 
 immense whole bewilders and perplexes us ; we 
 seek in vain to penetrate the leading idea of that 
 great Being, who designed the whole upon a plan 
 which our limited human intellect cannot compre- 
 hend." 
 
 When Goethe wa^ more than eighty, he pur- 
 chased, for the first time, an easy chair. His indif- 
 ference, and even contempt for the most ordinary 
 comforts and luxuries of this kind, were amusing. 
 The furniture of his study and bedroom (still pre- 
 served as he left them) is of the most homely ^de- 
 scription. A common deal table, a wooden desk, 
 and a high stool, the very sight of which gave me 
 a pain in my back, were the only conveniences. 
 He used to say, that never being accustomed from 
 his youth to luxuries and fine furniture, they took 
 his attention from his work. But his drawing-room 
 was elegant — I remember two very large frames, in 
 which he was accustomed to dispose a variety of 
 original drawings by the old masters, perhaps eight 
 or ten in each. When they had hung some time, 
 he changed them for another set. These were his 
 luxuries ; the set of drawings which he last selected, 
 remain hanging in the room. 
 
goethe's table-talk. 95 
 
 The anecdote related by Ekermann of the Ro- 
 man cobbler, who used an antique head of one of 
 the Caesars as a block to hammer his leather on, 
 reminds me that the head of the Ilioneus was put 
 to a similar use by a cobbler at Prague. 
 
 The most extraordinary thing in this book is 
 what Goethe calls " Das Damonische." I have 
 (I believe) a kind of glimmering of what he means ; 
 whatever exercises a power, a fascination over the 
 mind, whatever in intellect or nature is inexplica- 
 ble, whatever seems to have a spiritual existence 
 apart from all understood or received laws, acknowl- 
 edged as irresistible, yet mocking all reason to ex- 
 plain it — a kind of intellectual electricity or mag- 
 netism — in short, whatever is unaccountable — he 
 classes under the general head of " Das Damo- 
 nische ; " a very convenient way, and truly a very 
 poetical way, of getting rid of what one does not 
 comprehend. It is, he says, as if " the curtain was 
 drawn away from the background of existence." 
 In tilings, he instances as examples of this Damo- 
 nische, music in itself and in its effect on the mind ; 
 poetry of the highest order ; and in characters he 
 instances Shakspeare, Napoleon, Byron, the late 
 Grand Duke, (his friend, Karl August,) and others. 
 But it is dangerous almost to go on playing thus 
 with his and one's own deepest, wildest thoughts — 
 and I cannot follow them. 
 
 There are passages scattered up and down the 
 book, which clearly prove that Goethe never con- 
 sidered himself as one called upon to take a part 
 
96 STUDIES. 
 
 in the revolutions and political struggles of his 
 time ; but because he stood calmly on the " shore 
 of peace with unwet eye," and let the giddy torrent 
 whirl past him, shall we infer that he took no heed 
 of its course ? Can we think that this great and 
 gifted being, whose ample ken embraced a universe, 
 had neither sympathies in the grandest interests, nor 
 hopes in the brightest destinies, of humanity ? It 
 were a profanation to think thus : — 
 
 " Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly berth 
 Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon imbecility: 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore done." * 
 
 (Even while these lines were printing, Thomas 
 Carlyle has observed, with equal truth and elo- 
 quence, " That to ask of such a mind as Goethe's, 
 that he should mix himself up with the political 
 turmoils of the day, was as if we should call down 
 the moon from the firmament of heaven, and con- 
 vert her into a street torch.") 
 
 Great and worthy of all gratitude and fame were 
 those men who have devoted their best faculties, 
 poured out their best blood, for the cause of free- 
 dom, for the land they called their own, the princi- 
 ples they espoused ; but greater far, and more 
 worthy of gratitude, and of purer and more endur- 
 * Daniel. 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 97 
 
 ing fame, the very few, who lived not for an age, 
 a country, but for all ages — for all mankind ; who 
 did not live to preach up this or that theory, to 
 sustain this or that sect or party, to insist on this 
 or that truth, but who lived to work out the intel- 
 lectual and spiritual good, and promote the pro- 
 gress of the whole human race — to kindle within 
 the individual mind the light which is true freedom, 
 or leads to it. Such was the example left by Jesus 
 Christ — such a man was Shakspeare — such a man 
 was Goethe. 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 March 29. 
 To those who see only with their eyes, the dis- 
 tant is always indistinct and little, becoming less 
 and less as it recedes, till utterly lost; but to the 
 imagination, which thus reverses the perspective 
 of the senses, the far off is great and imposing, the 
 magnitude increasing with the distance. 
 
 I amused myself this morning with that most 
 charming book " The Doctor ; " — it is not the sec- 
 ond nor the third time of reading. How delicious 
 it is wherever it opens ! — how brimful of erudition 
 and wit, and how rich in thought, and sentiment, 
 and humor ! but containing assumptions, and opin- 
 7 
 
98 STUDIES. 
 
 ions, and prognostications, in which I would not 
 believe ; — no, not for the world ! 
 
 Southey's is a mind at which I must needs ad- 
 mire ; he stands upon a vast height, as upon a pin- 
 nacle of learning ; he commands all around an 
 immense, a boundless prospect over whatever hu- 
 man intellect and capacity has achieved or may 
 achieve ; but, from the peculiar construction of his 
 mind, he obstinately looks but one way — back to 
 the past, to what has been done ; if ever he looks 
 to the future, he merely glances at it sideways. 
 
 If I might, like Solomon, ask a gift of God, I 
 would profit by his mistake. I would not ask a 
 tuise and an understanding heart ; for what did his 
 wisdom and his understanding do for him ? They 
 brought him to the conclusion, that all under the 
 sun was vanity and vexation of spirit, and that the 
 increase of knowledge was the increase of sorrow, 
 and so the end was epicurism, despair, and idola- 
 try. " O most lame and impotent conclusion ! " 
 No !— I would ask, were it permitted, for a simple 
 heart, that should not deceive itself or others, but 
 seek truth for its own sake, and, having found 
 truth, find also goodness and happiness, which must 
 follow to complete the moral harmonic chord. 
 
 We are so accustomed to the artificial atmosphere 
 round us, that we lose sometimes the power of dis- 
 tinguishing the false from the true, till we call in 
 our natural instincts to do for us what our per- 
 verted reason cannot. They say that the Queen 
 of Sheba once presented before Solomon two gar- 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 99 
 
 lands of flowers, and desired him to pronounce 
 which was the natural, which the artificial wreath. 
 The wisdom of this wisest of men did not enable 
 him to do this by the appearance only, so exquis- 
 itely had art imitated nature, till on seeing a bee 
 fluttering near, he called it to his aid. The little 
 creature at once settled the question by alighting 
 on the real flowers, and avoiding the false ones. 
 
 We have instincts as true as those of the bee to 
 refuse the evil and to choose the good, if we did 
 not smother them up with nonsense and meta- 
 physics. 
 
 How true what Southey says ! (the Doctor I 
 mean — I beg his pardon,) — " We make the greater 
 part of the evil circumstances in which we are 
 placed, and then we fit ourselves for those circum- 
 stances by a process of degradation, the effect of 
 which most people see in the classes below them, 
 though they may not be conscious that it is operat- 
 ing in a different manner, but with equal force, 
 upon themselves." 
 
 The effect of those preordained evils — if they 
 are such — which we inherit with our mortal state ; 
 inevitable death — the separation from those we 
 love — old age with its wants, its feebleness, its 
 helplessness — those sufferings which are in the 
 course of nature, are quite sufficient in the inflic- 
 tion, or in the fear of them, to keep the spirit 
 chastened, and the reflecting mind humble before 
 God. But what I do deprecate, is to hear people 
 
100 STUDIES. 
 
 preaching resignation to social, self-created evils ; 
 fitting, or trying to fit, their own natures by " a 
 process of degradation " to circumstances which 
 they ought to resist, and which they do inwardly 
 resist, keeping up a constant, wearing, impotent 
 strife between the life that is within and the life 
 that is without. How constantly do I read this in 
 the countenances of those I meet in the world ! — 
 They do not know themselves why there should be 
 this perpetual uneasiness, this jarring and discord 
 within ; but it is the vain struggle of the soul, 
 which God created in his own image, to fit its 
 strong, immortal nature for the society which men 
 have framed after their own devices. A vain 
 struggle it is ! succeeding only in appearance, 
 never in reality, — so we walk about the world the 
 masks of ourselves, pitying each other. When we 
 meet truth we are as much astonished as I used to 
 be at the carnival, when, in the midst of a crowd 
 of fantastic, lifeless, painted faces, I met with some 
 one who had plucked away his mask and stuck it 
 in his hat, and looked out upon me with the real 
 human smile. 
 
 Custom is a mere face, or rather a mere mask ; 
 as opinion is a mere voice — or less^the echo of a 
 voice. 
 
 The Aurora Borealis is of almost nightly occur- 
 rence, but this evening it has been more than 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 101 
 
 usually resplendent ; radiating up from the north, 
 and spreading to the east and west in form like a 
 fan, the lower point of a pale white, then yellow, 
 amber, orange, successively, and the extremities of 
 a glowing crimson, intense, yet most delicate, like 
 the heart of an unblown rose. It shifted its form 
 and hue at every moment, flashing and waving like 
 a banner in the breeze ; and through this porten- 
 tous veil, transparent as light itself, the stars shone 
 out with a calm and steady brightness ; and I 
 thought, as I looked upon them, of a character we 
 both know, where, like those fair stars, the intel- 
 lectual powers shine serenely bright through a veil 
 of passions, fancies, and caprices. It is most aw- 
 fully beautiful ! I have been standing at my win- 
 dow watching its evolutions, till it is no longer 
 night, but morning. 
 
 In former times, when people travelled into 
 strange countries, they travelled de tonne foi, 
 really to see and learn what was new to them. 
 Now, when a traveller goes to a foreign country, 
 it is always with a set of preconceived notions con- 
 cerning it, to which he fits all he sees, and refers 
 all he hears ; and this, I suppose, is the reason that 
 the old travellers are still safe guides ; while mod- 
 ern travellers may be pleasant reading, but are 
 withal the most unsafe guides anv one can have. 
 
102 STUDIES. 
 
 I am inclined to distrust the judgment of those 
 persons whom I see occupied by one subject, one 
 idea, one object, and referring all things to that, 
 till it assumes by degrees an undue magnitude and 
 importance, and prevents them from feeling the 
 true relative proportion and value of other objects : 
 yet thus it is, perhaps, that single truths are worked 
 out and perfected. Yet, again, I doubt whether 
 there he separate and single truths — whether it be 
 possible for one to arrive at the truth by any nar- 
 row path ; — or is truth, like heaven, " a palace 
 with many doors," to w T hich we arrive by many 
 paths, each thinking his own the right one ; and it 
 is not till we have arrived within the sanctuary 
 that we perceive we are in a central point to which 
 converge a thousand various paths from every 
 point of the compass — every region of thought ? 
 
 In the Pitti Palace at Florence there is a statue, 
 standing alone in its naked beauty, in the centre 
 of a many-sided saloon, panelled with mirrors, in 
 which it is reflected at once in every different as- 
 pect, and in each, though differently, yet truly-, as 
 long as the mirror be clear and unwarped — and 
 such is truth. We all look towards it, but each 
 mind beholds it under a different angle of inci- 
 dence ; and unless we were so freed from all 
 earthly bonds as to behold in one and the same 
 moment the statue itself, in its pure unvarying one- 
 ness, and all its multiplied and ever-varying reflec- 
 tions imaged around, how shall we presume to settle 
 which of these is the false, and which the true ? 
 
HOFFMANN. 103 
 
 To reason from analogy is often dangerous, but 
 to illustrate by a fanciful analogy is sometimes a 
 means by which we light an idea, as it were, into 
 the understanding of another. 
 
 April 24. 
 
 The King of Prussia, after seeing Othello, for- 
 bade Desdemona to be murdered for the future, 
 and the catastrophe was altered accordingly — " by 
 his majesty's command." This good-natured mon- 
 arch, whose ideas of art are quite singular, also 
 insisted that in the opera of " Undine," Huldibrand 
 should not die as in the tale, but become a water- 
 spirit, and " all end happily ; " but I would not ad- 
 vise you to laugh at this, as long as we endure the 
 new catastrophes tacked to Shakspeare. 
 
 It was Hoffmann, so celebrated for his tales of 
 diablerie, and in Germany not less celebrated as a 
 musician, who composed the opera of " Undine." 
 The music, as I have been assured, was delicious, 
 and received at Berlin with rapturous approval. 
 After the first few representations, the opera-house 
 was burnt down, and with it the score of the " Un- 
 dine " perished. Hoffmann had accidentally one 
 partie in his desk, but in the excess of his rage and 
 despair he threw that also into the fire, and thus 
 not a note of this charming opera survives. 
 
 Only the other day I was reading Hoffmann's 
 analysis and exposition of the " Don Juan." It is 
 certainly one of the wildest, and yet one of the 
 
104 STUDIES. 
 
 most beautiful, pieces of criticism I ever met with 
 — the criticism of an inspired poet and musician. 
 Methinks that in this opera the words and the 
 music are as body and soul ; and certainly we must 
 judge the character and signification of the whole 
 by the music, not by the words. Hoffmann regards 
 Don Juan as a kind of Faust, and insists that 
 Donna Anna was in love with him ; and the music 
 given to her expresses certainly a depth of pas- 
 sion and despair beyond the words, and something 
 different from them. The text speaks the con- 
 ventional woman, and the music breathes the voice 
 of nature revealing the struggle, the tempest 
 within. 
 
 When at New York this winter, I was intro- 
 duced to a fine old Italian, with long and flowing 
 white hair, and a most venerable and marked phy- 
 siognomy ; it was Lorenzo da Porta, the man who 
 had first introduced Mozart to the Emperor Jo- 
 seph, and who wrote for him the text of the " Don 
 Juan," the "Figaro," and the " Cosi fan Tutti;" 
 we have no such libretti now ! 
 
 The German text of the " Zauberflote " w r as by 
 Schichenada, a buffoon comedian and singer in the 
 service of Joseph II. ; he was himself the original 
 Papageno. Some people think that he meant to 
 dramatize in this opera the mysteries of Free- 
 masonry, and others are anxious to find in it some 
 profound allegorical meaning ; whereas I doubt 
 whether the text has any meaning at all, while to 
 the delicious music we may ally a thousand mean- 
 
RUCKERT. 105 
 
 ings, a thousand fairy-dreams of poetry. Schi- 
 chenada was patronized by Joseph, and much 
 attached to him; after the emperor's death, he 
 went mad, and spent the rest of his life sitting in 
 an arm-chair, with a large sheet thrown all over 
 him, refusing to speak to his family. When any 
 one visited him. he would lift the sheet from his 
 head, and ask, with a fixed look, '• Did you know 
 Joseph?" If the answer were " Yes? he would, 
 perhaps, condescend to exchange a few words with 
 his visitor — always on the same subject, his empe- 
 ror and patron : but if the answer were " No" he 
 immediately drew his sheet about him like a shroud, 
 hid his face, and sank again into his arm-chair and 
 obstinate silence ; and thus he died. 
 
 May 1. 
 Exceedingly cold, — a severe frost — a keen, bois- 
 terous wind, and a most turbulent lake. Too ill to 
 do any thing but read. I -Rinsed myself with 
 Friedrich Riiekert's poems.* which left on my im- 
 agination an impression like that which the per- 
 fume of a bouquet of hot-house flowers, or the 
 sparkling of a casket of jewels, would leave on my 
 senses. As an amatory lyric poet, he may be com- 
 
 * Friedrich Riickert is professor of the Oriental languages at 
 Erlangen. He has published three volumes of poems, partly 
 original, and partly translated or imitated from eastern poets, 
 and enjoys a very high reputation both as a scholar and a poet. 
 
106 STIDIKS. 
 
 pared to Moore ; — there is the same sort of efflo- 
 rescence of wit and fancy, the same felicity of ex- 
 pression, the same gem-like polish, and brilliance, 
 and epigrammatic turn in his exquisite little lyrics. 
 I suppose there could not be a greater contrast 
 than between his songs and those of Heine. It is 
 greater than the difference between Moore and 
 Burns, and the same kind of difference. 
 
 Lenau,* again, is altogether distinct; and how 
 charming he is ! Yet great as is his fame in Ger- 
 many, I believe it has not reached England. He 
 is the great pastoral poet of modern Germany — 
 not pastoral in the old-fashioned style, for he trails 
 no shepherd's crook, and pipes no song " to Ama- 
 ryllis in the shade," nor does he deal in Fauns or 
 Dryads, and such " cattle." He is the priest of 
 Nature, her Druid, and the expounder of her di- 
 vinest oracles. It is not the poet who describes or 
 comments on nature ; — it is Nature, with her deep 
 mysterious voice, commenting on the passions and 
 sorrows of humanity. His style is very difficult, 
 but very expressive and felicitous ; in one of those 
 compound words to which the German language 
 lends itself — like the Greek, Lenau will place a 
 picture suddenly before the imagination, like a 
 whole landscape revealed to sight by a single flash 
 of lightning. Some of his poems, in which he uses 
 the commonest stuff of our daily existence as a 
 
 * Nicholaus Lenau is a noble Hungarian, a Magyar by birth; 
 the name under which his poetry is published is not, I believe, 
 his real name. 
 
GRILLPARZER'S SAPPHO AND MEDEA. 107 
 
 material vehicle for the loftiest and deepest thought 
 and sentiments, are much in the manner of Words- 
 worth. One of the most beautiful of these is " Der 
 Postilion." 
 
 Lenau has lately written a dramatic poem on the 
 subject of " Faust," the scope and intention of 
 which I find it difficult to understand — more diffi- 
 cult than that of Goethe. For the present I have 
 thrown it aside in despair. 
 
 GRILLPAKZEK'S SAPPHO AND MEDEA. 
 
 The genius of Franz Grillparzer has always 
 seemed to me essentially lyric, rather than dra- 
 matic ; in his admirable tragedies the character, the 
 sentiment, are always more artistically evolved 
 than the situation or action. 
 
 The characters of Sappho and Medea, in his 
 two finest dramas,* are splendid creations. We 
 have not, I think, in the drama of the present day, 
 any thing conceived with equal power, and at the 
 
 * The ik Sappho " appeared after the " Ahnfrau." to which it 
 presents a remarkable contrast in style and construction. The 
 " Golden Fleece.*' in three parts, appeared in 1822. Both these 
 tragedies hare been represented on all the theatres in Germany; 
 and Madame Wolff at Berlin. Madame Heygendorf at Weimar, 
 Madame Schroeder at Munich and Vienna, have all excelled as 
 Sappho and Medea. 
 
108 STUDIES. 
 
 same time carried out in every part, and set forth 
 with such glorious poetical coloring. Lord Byron's 
 " Sardanapalus " would give perhaps a more just 
 idea of the manner in which Grillparzer treats a 
 dramatic subject, than any thing else in our litera- 
 ture to which I could compare him. 
 
 Sappho is the type of the woman of genius. She 
 enters crowned with the Olympic laurel, surrounded 
 by the shouts of gratulating crowds, and shrinks 
 within herself to find that they bring her incense, 
 not happiness — applause, not sympathy — fame, not 
 love. She would fain renew her youth, the golden 
 dreams of her morning of life, before she had sounded 
 the depths of grief and passion, before experience 
 had thrown its shadow over her heart, in the love 
 of the youthful, inexperienced, joyous Phaon ; and 
 it is well imagined too, that while we are filled with 
 deepest admiration and compassion for Sappho, be- 
 trayed and raging like a Pythoness, we yet have 
 sympathy for the boy Phaon, who leaves the love 
 of his magnificent mistress — love rather bestowed 
 than yielded — for that of the fair, gentle slave Me- 
 litta. His first love is the. woman to whom he does 
 homage ; his second, the woman to whom he gives 
 protection. Nothing can be more natural ; it is the 
 common course of things. 
 
 Learned and unlearned agree in admiring Grill- 
 parzer's versification of Sappho's celebrated ode — 
 
 " Golden-Thronende Aphrodite! " 
 — It sounds to my unlearned ears wonderfully 
 
GRILLPARZER'S SAPPHO AND MEDEA. 109 
 
 grand and Greek, and musical and classical ; and 
 when Schroeder recites these lines in the theatre, 
 you might hear your own heart beat in the breath- 
 less silence around.* 
 
 German critics consider the "Medea" less per- 
 fect than the " Sappho " in point of style, and, con- 
 sidered merely as a work of art. inferior. Of this I 
 cannot so well judge, but I shall never forget read- 
 ing it for the first time — I think of it as an era in 
 my poetic reminiscences. It is the only conception 
 of the character in which we understand the neces- 
 sity for Medea's murder of her children. In the 
 other tragedies on the same subject, we must take 
 it for granted ; but Grillparzer conducts us to the 
 appalling catastrophe through such a linked chain 
 of motives and feelings, that when it comes, it 
 comes as something inevitable. 
 
 Medea is the type of the woman of instinct and 
 passion. Contrasted with the elegant, subdued 
 Greek females, she is a half savage, all devotion 
 and obedience one moment, a tameless tigress in 
 the next; first subdued by the masculine valor, 
 then revolted by the moral cowardice of Jason. 
 Grillparzer has wisely kept the virago and the sor- 
 ceress, with whom we hardly sympathize, out of 
 
 * The translation of the same ode by Ambrose Phillips, 
 
 " Venus ! beauty of the skies, 
 To whom a thousand temples rise,'' 
 
 is well known. In spite of the commendation bestowed on it by 
 Addison, it appears very trivial and affected, compared with that 
 of Grillparzer. 
 
110 STUDIES. 
 
 sight as much as possible ; while the human being, 
 humanly acted upon and humanly acting and feel- 
 ing, is forever before us. There is a dreadful truth 
 and nature in the whole portrait, which is perfectly 
 finished throughout. Placed beside the Medea of 
 Euripides, it is the picturesque compared with the 
 statuesque delineation. 
 
 The subject of the "Medea" has a strange fasci- 
 nation around it, like that of the terrible agonized 
 beauty of the " Medusa," on which we must gaze 
 though it turn us to stone. It has been treated in 
 every possible style, in I know not how many trag- 
 edies and operas, ancient and modern. I remem- 
 ber, at Vienna, a representation of a singular kind 
 given by Madame Schroeder; it was a monologue 
 in prose, with musical symphonies, composed by 
 George Benda, about 1755. After every two or 
 three spoken sentences came a strain of music, 
 which the actress accompanied by expressive pan- 
 tomime. The prose text (by Gotter) appeared to 
 me a string of adjurations, exclamations, and im- 
 precations, without any coloring of poetry ; and 
 the music interrupted rather than aided the flow of 
 the passion. Still it was a most striking exhibition 
 of Schroeder's peculiar talent ; her fine classical 
 attitudes were a study for an artist, and there were 
 bursts of pathos, and flashes of inconceivable maj- 
 esty, which thrilled me. The fierceness was better 
 expressed than the tenderness of the woman, and 
 the adjuration to Hecate recalled for a moment 
 Mrs. Siddons's voice and look when she read the 
 
STERNBERG'S NOVELS. Ill 
 
 witch-scene in "Macbeth;" yet, take her alto- 
 gether, she "was not so line as Pasta in the same 
 character. Schroeder's Lady Macbeth I remember 
 thinking insufferable. 
 
 STERNBERG'S NOVELS. 
 
 June 10. 
 
 The number of the " Foreign Review n for Febru- 
 ary contains, among other things, a notice of Baron 
 Sternberg's popular and eloquent novels. It is not 
 very well done. It is true, as far as it goes : but it 
 gives no sufficient idea of the general character of 
 his works, some of which display the wildest and 
 most playful fancy, and others again, pictures, not- 
 very attractive ones, of every day social life. 
 
 Sternberg, whom I knew in Germany, is a young 
 nobleman of Livonia, handsome in person, and of 
 quiet, elegant manners. Yet I remember that in 
 our first interview, even while he interested and 
 fixed my attention, he did not quite please me : 
 there was in his conversation something cold, 
 guarded, not flowing : and in the expression of his 
 dark, handsome features, something too invariable 
 and cynical : but all this thawed or brightened 
 away, and I became much interested in him and 
 his works. 
 
 Sternberg, as an author, may be classed. I think. 
 
112 STUDIES. 
 
 with many other accomplished and popular authors 
 of the day, flourishing herein France, and in Eng- 
 land, simultaneously — signs of the times in which 
 we live, taking the form and pressure of the age, 
 not informing it with their own spirit. They are a 
 set of men who have drunk deep, even to license, 
 of the follies, the pleasures, and the indulgences of 
 society, even while they struggled (some of them 
 at least) with its most bitter, most vulgar cares. 
 From this gulf the intellect rises, perhaps, in all 
 its primeval strength, the imagination in all its 
 brilliance, the product of both as luxuriant as 
 ever ; but we are told, 
 
 " That every gift of noble origin, 
 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath! " 
 
 And a breath of a different kind has gone over the 
 works of these writers — a breath as from a lazar- 
 house. A power is gone from them which nothing 
 can restore, — the healthy, the clear vision, with 
 which a fresh, pure mind looks round upon the 
 social and the natural world, perceiving the due 
 relations of all things one with another, and be- 
 holding the " soul of goodness in things evil ; " 
 these authors, if we are to believe their own ac- 
 count of themselves, given in broad hints, and very 
 intelligible mysterious allusions, have suffered hor- 
 ribly from the dominion of the passions, from the 
 mortifications of wounded self-love, betrayed confi- 
 dence, ruined hopes, ill-directed and ill-requited 
 affection s 7 and a long et cetera of miseries. They 
 
STERNBERG'S NOVELS. 113 
 
 wish us to believe, that in order to produce any- 
 thing true and great in art, it is necessary to have 
 known and gone through all this, to have been 
 dragged through this sink of dissipation, or this 
 fiery furnace of suffering and passion. I don't 
 know. Goethe, at least, did not think so, when he 
 spoke of the " sort of anticipation " through which 
 he produced his " Gotz von Berlichingen" and his 
 "Werther." I hope it is not so. I hope that a 
 knowledge of our human and immortal nature, and 
 the due exercise of our faculties, does not depend 
 on this sort of limited, unhealthy, artificial experi- 
 ence. It is as if a man or woman either, in order 
 to learn the free, natural, graceful use of the limbs, 
 were to take lessons of a rope-dancer ; but waving 
 this, we see in these writers, that what they call 
 truth and experience has at least been bought 
 rather dear ; they can never again, by all the per- 
 fumes of Arabia, sweeten what has been once pol- 
 luted, nor take the blistering scar from their brow. 
 From their works we rise with admiration, with 
 delight, with astonishment at the talent displayed ; 
 with the most excited feelings, but never with that 
 blameless as well as vivid sense of pleasure, that 
 unreproved delight, that grateful sense of a heal- 
 ing, holy influence, with which we lay down Shak- 
 speare, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Goethe. Yet 
 what was hidden from these men ? Did they not 
 know all that the world, and man, and nature could 
 unfold ? They knew it by " anticipation," by soar- 
 ing on the wings of untrammelled thought, far, far 
 
114 STUDIES. 
 
 above the turmoil, and looking superior down, and 
 with the ample ken of genius embraced a universe. 
 These modern novel-writers appear to me in com- 
 parison like children, whose imperfect faculties and 
 experience induce them to touch every thing they 
 see ; so they burn or soil their fingers, and the blis- 
 ter and the stain sticks perpetual to their pages — 
 those pages which yet can melt or dazzle, or charm. 
 Nothing that is, or has been, or may be, can they 
 see but through some personal medium. What they 
 have themselves felt, suffered, seen, is always before 
 them, is mixed up with their fancy, is the material 
 of their existence, and this gives certainly a degree 
 of vigor, a palpable reality, a life, to all they do, 
 which carries us away ; but a man might as well 
 think to view the face of universal nature, to catch 
 the pure, unmixed, all-embracing light of day 
 through one of the gorgeous painted windows of 
 Westminster Abbey, as to perceive abstract moral 
 truth through the minds of these writers ; but they 
 have their use, aye, and their beauty — like all 
 things in the world — only I would not be one of 
 such. I do not think them enviable either in them- 
 selves as individuals, or in the immediate effect they 
 produce, and the sort of applause they excite ; but 
 they have their praise, their merit, their use, — they 
 have their day — hereafter, perhaps, to be remem- 
 bered as we remember the school of writers before 
 the French revolution ; as we think of the wretched 
 slave, or the rash diver, who from the pit or from 
 the whirlpool has snatched some gems worthy to be 
 
Sternberg's xovels. 115 
 
 gathered into Truth's immortal treasury, or wreathed 
 into her diadem of light. 
 
 They have their day — how long it will last, how 
 long they will last, is another thing. 
 
 To this school of fiction-writing belong many 
 authors of great and various merit, and of very 
 different character and tendencies. Some, by true 
 but partial portraitures of social evils, boldly aim- 
 ing at the overthrow of institutions from which 
 they have as individuals suffered ; others, through 
 this medium, publicly professing opinions they 
 would hardly dare to promulgate in a drawing- 
 room, and discussing questions of a doubtful or 
 perilous tendency ; others, only throwing off, in a 
 manner,*the impressions of their own minds, devel- 
 oped in beautiful fictions, without any ultimate 
 object beyond that of being read with sympathy 
 and applause — especially by women. 
 
 I think Sternberg belongs to the latter class. 
 He has written some most charming things. I 
 should not exactly know where to find his proto- 
 type ; he reminds me of Bnlwer sometimes, and 
 one or two of his tales are in Barry St. Leger's 
 best manner, — the eloquence, the depth of tragic 
 and passionate interest, are just his ; then, again, 
 others remind me of Wilson, when he is fanciful 
 and unearthly ; but, on the whole, his genius differs 
 essentially from all these. 
 
 His comic and fantastic tales are exquisite. The 
 fancy and the humor run into pathos and poetry, 
 and never into caricature, like some of Hoffmann's. 
 
116 STUDIES. 
 
 One of the first things I fell upon was his " Herr 
 von Mondshein," (Master Moonshine,) a little jeu 
 d y esprit, on which it seems he sets small value him- 
 self, but which is an exquisite thing for all that — 
 so wildly, yet so playfully, so gracefully grotesque ! 
 The effect of the whole is really like that of moon- 
 light on a rippled stream, now seen, now lost, now 
 here, now there — it is the moon we see — and then 
 it is not ; and yet it is again ! and it smiles, and it 
 shines, and it simpers, and it glitters, and it is at 
 once in heaven and on the earth, near and distant, 
 by our side, or peeped at through an astronomer's 
 telescope ; now helping off a pair of lovers — then 
 yonder among the stars — and in the end we rub 
 our eyes, and find it is just what it oughtf to be — 
 all moonsliine ! 
 
 Superior and altogether different is the tale of 
 " Moliere," — the leading idea of which appears to 
 me beautiful. 
 
 A physician of celebrity at Paris, the inventor 
 of some famous elixir — half quack, half enthusiast, 
 and something too of a philosopher — finds himself, 
 by some chance, in the parterre at the representa- 
 tion of one of Moliere's comedies, in which the 
 whole learned faculty are so exquisitely ridiculed ; 
 the player who represents the principal character, 
 in order to make the satire more poignant, arrays 
 himself in the habitual dress of Tristan Dieudonne ; 
 the unfortunate doctor sees himself reproduced on 
 the stage with every circumstance of ignominious 
 ridicule, hears around him the loud applause, the 
 
STERNBERG'S NOVELS. 117 
 
 laugh of derision — meets in every eye the mocking 
 glance of recognition : his brain turns, and he 
 leaves the theatre a raving maniac. (So far the 
 tale is an " o'er true tale.'') By degrees this 
 frenzy subsides into a calmer but more hopeless, 
 more melancholy madness : he shuts himself up 
 from mankind, at one time sinking into a gloomy 
 despondency, at another revelling in projects of 
 vengeance against Moliere, his enemy and de- 
 stroyer. One only consolation remains to him : in 
 this miserable, abject state, a charitable neighbor 
 comes to visit him daily ; by degrees vans upon the 
 affections, and gains the confidence of the poor 
 madman — soothes him, cheers him. and performs 
 for him all tender offices of filial love : and this 
 good Samaritan is of course the heart-stricken, 
 remorseful poet. Moliere himself. 
 
 There is a love-story interwoven of no great in- 
 terest, and many discussions between the poet and 
 the madman, on morals, medicine, philosophy; that 
 in which the insane doctor endeavors to prove that 
 many of his patients who appear to be living are 
 in reality dead, is very striking and very true to 
 nature : it shows how ingenious metaphysical mad- 
 ness can sometimes be. 
 
 Other known personages, as Boileau. Chapelain, 
 Racine, are introduced in person, and give us their 
 opinions on poetry, acting, the fine aits, with con- 
 siderable discrimination in the characters of the 
 speakers. 
 
 The scenes of Parisian societv in this novel are 
 
118 STUDIES. 
 
 not so good; rather heavy and Germanesque — 
 certainly not French, 
 
 " Lessing " is another tale in which Sternberg 
 has taken a real personage for his hero. He says 
 that he has endeavored, in these two tales, to de- 
 lineate the strife which a man whose genius is in 
 advance of the age in which he lives, must carry 
 on with all around him. They may be called 
 biographical novels. 
 
 " Galathee," Sternberg's last novel, had just 
 made its appearance when I was at Weimar ; all 
 the women were reading it and commenting on it 
 — some in anger, some in sorrow, almost all in ad- 
 miration. It is allowed to be the finest thing he 
 has done in point of style. To me it is a painful 
 book. It is the history of the intrigues of a beau- 
 tiful coquette and a Jesuit priest to gain over a 
 young Protestant nobleman from his faith and his 
 betrothed love. They prove but too successful. 
 In the end he turns Roman Catholic, and forsakes 
 his bride. The heroine, Galathee, dies quietly of 
 a broken heart. " The more fool she ! " I thought, 
 as I closed the book, " to die for the sake of a man 
 who was not worth living for ! " but " 'tis a way 
 we have." 
 
 Sternberg's women — his virtuous women espe- 
 cially, (to be sure he is rather sparing of them,) — 
 have always individual character, and are touched 
 with a firm, a delicate, a graceful pencil ; but his 
 men are almost without exception vile, or insipid, 
 
Sternberg's novels. 119 
 
 or eccentric — and Lis heroes (where could he find 
 them ?) are absolutely characterless — as weak as 
 they are detestable. 
 
 Sternberg possesses, with .many other talents, 
 that of being an accomplished amateur artist. He 
 sketches charmingly, and with enviable facility and 
 truth catches the characteristic forms both of per- 
 sons and things. Then he has all the arcana of a 
 lady's toilette at the end of his pencil, and his 
 glance is as fastidious as it is rapid in detecting 
 any peculiarity of dress or manner. Whenever 
 he came to us he used to ask for some white paper, 
 which, w^hile he talked or listened, he covered with 
 the prettiest sketches and fancies imaginable ; but 
 whether this was to employ his fingers, or to pre- 
 vent me from looking into his eyes wmile he spoke, 
 I was never quite sure. 
 
 This talent for drawing — this lively sense of the 
 picturesque in form and color, we trace through all 
 his works. Some of the most striking passages — 
 those which dw y ell most strongly on the memory — 
 are pictures. Thus, the meeting of Moliere and 
 the Doctor in the churchyard at dusk of evening, 
 the maniac seated on the grave, the other standing 
 by, wrapped in his flowing mantle, with his hat 
 and feather pulled over his brow, and bending 
 over his victim with benevolent expression, is w T hat 
 painters call a fine " bit of effect." The scene in 
 the half-lighted chapel, where the beautiful Count- 
 ess Melicerte is doing penance, and receiving on 
 her naked shoulders the scourge from the hand of 
 
120 STUDIES. 
 
 her confessor, is a very powerful but also a very 
 disagreeable piece of painting. The lady in crim- 
 son velvet seated on the ground en Mudelene, with 
 her silver crucifix on her knees and her long dark 
 jewelled tresses flowing dishevelled, is a fine bit 
 of color, and the court ballet in the gardens of the 
 Favorita Palace a perfect Watteau. Reading very 
 fine, eloquent, and vivid descriptions of nature and 
 natural scenery, by writers wdio give us licentious 
 pictures of social life in a narrow, depraved, and 
 satirical spirit, is very disagreeable — it always 
 leaves on the mind an impression of discord and 
 unfitness. And this discrepancy is of perpetual 
 recurrence in Sternberg, and in other writers of 
 his class. 
 
 But it is in the tale entitled " Die Gebriider 
 Breughel," (the " Two Breughels,") that Sternberg 
 has abandoned himself con amore to all his artist- 
 like feelings and predilections. The younger 
 Breughel (known by the names of Hollen Breu- 
 ghel and the . " Mad Painter," on account of the 
 diabolical subjects in which his pencil revelled) is 
 the hero of this remarkable tale ; forsaking the 
 worship of beauty, he paid a kind of crazed adora- 
 tion to deformity, and painted his fantastic and ex- 
 travagant creations with truly demoniac skill and 
 power. Sternberg makes the cause of this eccen- 
 tric perversion of genius a love-affair, which has 
 turned the poor painter's wits " the seamy side 
 without," and rendered him the apostate to all that 
 is beautiful in nature and art. This love-tale, how- 
 
Sternberg's novels. 121 
 
 ever, occupies little of the interest. The charm of 
 the whole consists in the lively sketches of Flemish 
 art. and the characteristic portraits of different 
 well-known artists ; we have the gay, vivacious 
 Teniers — the elegant and somewhat affected Poel- 
 enberg, the coarse, good-humored Jordaens — Peter 
 Laers, the tavern-keeper, — the grave yet splendid 
 coxcombry of the Velvet Breughel — his eccentric, 
 half-crazed brother, the Hero — old Peter Kock, 
 with his color mania, (the Turner of his day.) and 
 presiding over all. the noble, the magnificent Peter 
 Paul Bubens, and the dignified, benevolent Burgo- 
 master Hubert, the patron of art ; all these are 
 brought together in groups, and admirably discrim- 
 inated. In this tale Sternberg has most ingeni- 
 ously transferred to his pages some celebrated and 
 well-known pictures as actual scenes ; and thus 
 Painting pays back part of her debt to Poetry and 
 Fiction. The Alchymist in his laboratory — the 
 Gambling Soldiers — the Boors and Beggars at 
 cards — the Incantation in the Witch's Tower — the 
 Burning Mill — the Page asleep in the Ante-cham- 
 ber — and the country Merrymaking — are each a 
 Rembrandt, a Jordaens, an Ostade, a Peter Laers, 
 a Breughel, or a Teniers, transferred from the can- 
 vas to the page, and painted in words almost as 
 brilliant and lively as the original colors. 
 
 I doubt whether a translation of this clever tale 
 would please generally in England : it is too dis- 
 cursive and argumentative. It requires a familiar 
 knowledge of art and artists, as well as a feeling 
 
122 STUDIES. 
 
 for art, to enter into it, for it is almost entirely de- 
 void of any interest arising from incident or pas- 
 sion. Yet I sat up till after two o'clock this morn- 
 ing to finish it — wasting my eyes over the small 
 type, like a most foolish improvident woman. 
 
 As the rolling stone gathers no moss, so the rov- 
 ing heart gathers no affections. 
 
 I have met with certain minds which seem never 
 to be themselves penetrated by truth, yet have the 
 power to demonstrate it clearly and beautifully to 
 other minds, as there are certain substances which 
 most brightly reflect, and only partially absorb, the 
 rays of light. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 Reading what Charles Lamb says on the " san- 
 ity of true genius," it appears to me that genius 
 and sanity have nothing (necessarily) to do with 
 each other. Genius may be combined with a 
 healthy or a morbid organization. Shakspeare, 
 Walter Scott, Goethe, are examples of the former ; 
 Byron, Collins, Kirke White, are examples of the 
 latter. 
 
 A man may be as much a fool from the want of 
 sensibility as the want of sense. 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 123 
 
 How admirable what Sir James Mackintosh says 
 of Madame de Maintenon ! — that " she was as vir- 
 tuous as the fear of hell and the fear of shame could 
 make her." The same might be said of the virtue 
 of many women I know, and of these, I believe 
 that more are virtuous from the fear of shame than 
 the fear of hell. — Shame is the woman's hell. 
 
 Rahel* said once of an acquaintance, "Such a 
 one is an ignorant man. He knows nothing but 
 what he has learned, and that is little, for a man 
 can only learn that which man already knows." — 
 Well, and truly, and profoundly said ! 
 
 Every faculty, every impulse of our human na- 
 ture, is useful, available, in proportion as it is dan- 
 gerous. The greatest blessings are those which 
 may be perverted to most pain : as fire and water 
 are the two most murderous agents in nature, and 
 the two things in which we can least endure to be 
 stinted. 
 
 Who that has lived in the world, in society, and 
 looked on both with observing eye, but has often 
 
 * Madame Yarnhagen von Ense, whose remains were published 
 a few years ago. The book of u Rahel " is famous from one end 
 of Germany to the other, but remains, I believe, a sealed foun- 
 tain still for English readers. 
 
124 STUDIES. 
 
 been astonished at the fearlessness of women, and 
 the cowardice of men, with regard to public opin- 
 ion ? The reverse would seem to be the natural, 
 the necessary result of the existing order of things, 
 but it is not always so. Exceptions occur so often, 
 and so immediately within my own province of 
 observation, that they have made me reflect a good 
 deal. Perhaps this seeming discrepancy might be 
 thus explained. 
 
 Women are brought up in the fear of opinion, 
 but, from their ignorance of the world, they are in 
 fact ignorant of that which they fear. They fear 
 opinion as a child fears a spectre, as something 
 shadowy and horrible, not defined or palpable. It 
 is a fear based on habit, on feeling, not on principle 
 or reason. "When their passions are strongly ex- 
 cited, or when reason becomes matured, this exag- 
 gerated fear vanishes, and the probability is, that 
 they are immediately thrown into the opposite ex- 
 treme of incredulity, defiance, and rashness ; but a 
 man, even while courage is preached to him, learns 
 from habitual intercourse with the world the im- 
 mense, the terrible power of opinion. It wraps 
 him round like despotism ; it is a reality to him ; to 
 a woman a shadow, and if she can overcome the 
 fear in her own person, all is overcome. A man 
 fears opinion for himself, Ms wife, his daughter; 
 and if the fear of opinion be brought into conflict 
 with primary sentiments and principles, it is ten 
 to one but the habit of fear prevails, and opinion 
 triumphs over reason and feeling too. 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 125 
 
 The new law passed during the last session of 
 our provincial parliament, u to render the remedy 
 in cases of seduction more effectual," has just come 
 into operation. What were the circumstances which 
 gave rise to this law, and to its peculiar provisions, 
 I cannot learn. Here it is touching on delicate and 
 even forbidden ground to ask any questions. One 
 person said that it was to guard against infanticide ; 
 and I recollect hearing the same sort of argument 
 used in London against one particular clause of the 
 new Poor Law Act, viz : that it would encourage 
 infanticide. This is the most gross and unpardona- 
 ble libel on our sex ever uttered. Women do not 
 murder their children from the fear of want, but 
 from the fear of shame. In this fear, substituted 
 for the light and the strength of virtue and genuine 
 self-respect, are women trained, till it becomes a 
 second nature — not indeed stronger than the nat- 
 ural instincts and the passions which God gave us, 
 but strong enough to drive to madness and delirious 
 outrage, the wretched victim who finds the struggle 
 between these contradictory feelings too great for 
 her conscience, her reason, her strength. Nothing, 
 as it seems to me, but throwing the woman upon 
 her own self-respect and added responsibility, can 
 bring a remedy to this fearful state of things. To 
 say that the punishment of the fault, already too 
 great, is thereby increased, is not true : it admitted 
 of no real increase. In entailing irremediable dis- 
 grace, and death of name and fame, upon the frail 
 woman, the law of society had done its utmost; 
 
1'26 8TUDIE8, 
 
 and to let it be supposed that the man had power 
 to make amends by paying a nominal tax for indul- 
 gence bought at such a tremendous price, what was 
 it but to flatter and delude both the vanity of lordly, 
 sensual man, and the weakness of wretched, igno- 
 rant, trusting, woman ? As long as treachery to 
 woman is honorable in man ; as long as men do 
 not, or will not protect us ; as long as we women 
 cannot protect ourselves, their protecting laws are 
 a farce and a mockery. Opinion has ever been 
 stronger than law. Luckily there is something 
 stronger than either. 
 
 DON CARLOS. 
 
 I have only three books with me here, besides 
 the one book needful, and find them sufficient for 
 all purposes, — Shakspeare, Schiller, Wordsworth. 
 One morning, being utterly disinclined for all effort, 
 either of conversation or movement, I wandered 
 down to a little wild bosquet beyond the Table 
 Rock, not very accessible to dilettante hunters after 
 the picturesque, and just where the waters, rendered 
 smooth by their own infinite velocity, were sweeping 
 by, before they take their leap into the gulf below ; 
 — there I sat all the sultry noontide, — quiet, among 
 the birds and the thick foliage, and read through 
 u Don Carlos," — one of the finest dramas in the 
 world, I should think. 
 
DON CARLOS. 127 
 
 It is a proof of the profound humanity of Schil- 
 ler, that in this play one must needs pity King 
 Philip, though it is in truth the sort of pity which 
 Saint Theresa felt for the devil, — one pities him 
 because he is the devil. The pitiableness and the 
 misery of wickedness were never so truly and so 
 pathetically demonstrated. The unfathomable abyss 
 of egotism in the character turns one giddy to look 
 into. 
 
 With regard to Posa, it has been objected, I 
 believe — for I never read any criticism on this play 
 — that he is a mere abstraction, or rather the em- 
 bodied mouthpiece of certain abstract ideas of 
 policy and religion and morals — those of Schiller 
 himself — and not an individual human being — in 
 short, an impossibility. Yet why so ? Perhaps 
 such a man as Posa never did exist ; — but why im- 
 possible ? Can a man conceive that which a man 
 could not by possibility be ? If Schiller were great 
 enough to invent such a character, is not humanity 
 great enough to realize it ? My belief is, that it is 
 only a glorious anticipation — that poets, in some 
 sort, are the prophets of perfection — that Schiller 
 himself might have been a Posa, and, had he lived 
 a century or two hence, would have been a Posa. 
 Is that a mere abstraction which, while I read, 
 makes me thrill, tremble, exult, and burn, and on 
 the stage filled my eyes with most delicious tears ? 
 Is that a mere abstraction which excites our human 
 sympathies in the strongest, highest degree ? Ev- 
 ery woman, methinks, would like a Posa for a lover 
 
128 STUDIES. 
 
 — at least, if I could love, it would be such a man. 
 The notion that Posa could not by possibility exist 
 in the court of Philip II. appears to me unfounded, 
 for such a court would be just the place where such 
 a character would be needed, and by reaction 
 produced ; extremes meet. Has not the Austrian 
 court, in these days, produced Count Auersperg, 
 the poet of freedom, who has devoted his whole 
 soul, his genius, and his gift of song, to the cause 
 of humanity and liberty ? Francis the First and 
 Metternich, and the dungeons of the Spielberg, 
 have as naturally produced an Auersperg, as Philip 
 and the Autos-da-Fe in Flanders might have pro- 
 duced a Posa. 
 
 It may be said that the moral unity and consis- 
 tency of the character of Posa is violated by that 
 lie which he tells to save the life of Carlos. Posa 
 is living in an atmosphere of falsehood ; the exist- 
 ence and honor of Carlos are about to be sacrificed 
 by a lie, and Posa, by another lie, draws the ven- 
 geance of the king upon himself; 
 
 Magnanima menzogna ! or quando e il vero 
 Si bello, che si possa a te preporre ? 
 
 — But the effect of this u magnanimous " falsehood 
 is like that of all falsehood, evil. This one devia- 
 tion from the clear straight line of truth not only 
 fails of its purpose, but plunges Carlos, the queen, 
 and Posa himself, in the same abyss of destruction. 
 
 It was the opinion of , with whom I 
 
 read this play in Germany, that the queen (Eliza- 
 
DOX CARLOS. 129 
 
 betli of France, Philip's second wife) is a character 
 not defined, not easily understood — that there is a 
 mystery about her intended by the author. I do 
 not see the character in this point of view. It does 
 not seem to me that Schiller meant her to be any 
 thing but what she appears. There is no mask 
 here, conscious or unconscious ; in such a mind her 
 love for Don Carlos is not a feeling combated, 
 struggled with, but put out of her mind altogether, 
 as a thing which ought not to be thought of, ought 
 not to exist, and therefore ceases to exist ; — 
 a tender, perfectly pure interest in the happiness 
 and the fate of Don Carlos remains ; but this is all ; 
 she does not cheat herself nor us with verbal vir- 
 tue. The cloudless, transparent, crystalline purity 
 of the character is its greatest charm, it will be said, 
 perhaps, that if we see the icliole — if there be in- 
 deed nothing veiled, beyond or beneath what is 
 visible and spoken, then it is sJiallow. Not so — 
 but, like perfectly limpid water, it seems shallower 
 than it is. The mind of a woman, which should 
 be wholly pure, simple, and true, would produce 
 this illusion ; we see at once to the bottom, whether 
 it be shining pebble or golden sands, and do not 
 perceive the true depth till we try, and are made 
 to feel and know it by getting beyond our own 
 depth before we are aware. Such a character is 
 that of Elizabeth of France. The manner in 
 which she rebukes the passionate ravings of Carlos, 
 — the self-confiding simplicity, — the dignity without 
 assumption, — the virtue, so clothed in innocence as 
 
130 STUDIES. 
 
 to be almost unconscious, — all is most beautiful, 
 and would certainly lose its charm the moment we 
 doubted its truth — the moment we suspected that 
 the queen was acting a forced or a conscious part, 
 however virtuous. The scene in which Elizabeth 
 repels the temptation of the Duke of Alva and the 
 monk might be well contrasted with the similar 
 scene between Catharine of Arragon and the two 
 cardinals in Shakspeare. Elizabeth has a passive, 
 graceful, uncontending pride of virtue, which does 
 not assert itself, only guards itself. Her genuine ad- 
 miration of Posa, and the manner in which, in the 
 last scene, you see the whole soft, feminine being, 
 made up of affections, tears, and devotion, develop 
 itself to be caught and crushed as in an iron vice, 
 renders this delineation, delicate as it is in the con- 
 ception, and subordinate in interest, one of the finest 
 I have met with out of Shakspeare, and compar- 
 able only to his " Hermione " in the beauty and 
 singleness of the conception. 
 
 When I saw " Don Carlos " performed at Vien- 
 na, with a perfection and ensemble of which our 
 stage affords few examples, it left, as a work of art, 
 an impression of a moral kind, at once delightful 
 and elevating, which I cannot easily forget. I was 
 never more touched, more excited, by any dramatic 
 representation that I can remember. Korn, al- 
 lowed to be one of their finest actors, played Posa 
 magnificently ; and it seemed to be no slight privi- 
 lege to tread the stage but for three hours, clothed 
 in such o'ocllike attributes — to utter in words elo- 
 
DON CAKLOS. 131 
 
 qtient as music, the sentiments of a max — senti- 
 ments and aspirations that, in every thrilling heart, 
 found at least a silent echo — sentiments which, if 
 uttered or written off the stage, would have brought 
 down upon him the surveillance of the secret po- 
 lice, or the ban of the censor. 
 
 Fichtner played Don Carlos with impassioned 
 youthful sensibility: and though I heard it objected 
 
 by the Princess H that he had not sufficiently 
 
 Voir noble, it did not strike me. Karl La Roche, 
 an actor formed under Goethe's tuition, in the gold- 
 en age of the Weimar theatre, played Philip II., 
 and looked, and dressed, and acted the character 
 with terrible and artist-like fidelity. Mademoiselle 
 Fournier, one of the most beautiful women I ever 
 beheld, and a clever actress, was admirable in the 
 Princess Eboli. Mademoiselle Peche, also a good 
 actress, failed in the queen, as at the time I felt 
 rather than thought, for I had not well considered 
 the character, She embodied too formally, perhaj^s 
 intentionally, the idea of something repressed and 
 concealed with effort, which I do not find in Schil- 
 ler's Elizabeth. On this representation occurred an 
 incident worth noting. The old Emperor Francis 
 was present in his box, looking, as usual, very 
 heavy-headed and attentive : it was about a month 
 or six weeks before his death. In the scene where 
 Posa expostulates with King Philip, pleads elo- 
 quently for toleration and liberty, and at length, 
 throwing himself at his feet, exclaims, " Geben Sie 
 uns Gedankenfreiheit ! " the audience, that is, the 
 
132 STUDIES. 
 
 parterre, applauded ; and there were around me 
 cries, not loud but deep, of " Bravo, Schiller ! " 
 After this the performance of " Don Carlos " was 
 forbidden, and it was not given again while I was 
 at Vienna. 
 
TALES. 
 
TALES. 
 
 THE FALSE ONE* 
 
 And give you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
 Some samples of the finest orientalism. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 Akbar, the most enlightened and renowned 
 among the sovereigns of the East, reigned over all 
 those vast territories, which extend from the Indus 
 to the Ganges, and from the snowy mountains of 
 the north to the kingdoms of Guzerat and Can- 
 deish on the south. After having subdued the fac- 
 tious omrahs, and the hereditary enemies of his 
 family, and made tributary to his power most of 
 the neighboring kingdoms, there occurred a short 
 period of profound peace. Assisted by able min- 
 isters, Akbar employed this interval in alleviating 
 the miseries, which half a century of war and rav- 
 age had called down upon this beautiful but ever 
 wretched country. Commerce was relieved from 
 the heavy imposts, which had hitherto clogged its 
 
 * First published in 1827. The anecdote on which this tale is 
 founded, I met with in the first volume of " Ferishta's History 
 of Hindostan." 
 
136 TALKS. 
 
 progress ; the revenues of the empire were im- 
 proved and regulated ; by a particular decree, the 
 cultivators of the earth were exempted from serv- 
 ing in the imperial armies ; and justice was every- 
 where impartially administered ; tempered, how- 
 ever, with that extreme clemenc}', which in the 
 early part of his reign, Akbar carried to an excess 
 almost injurious to his interests. India, so long 
 exposed to the desolating inroads of invaders, and 
 torn by internal factions, began, at length, to " wear 
 her plumed and jewelled turban with a smile of 
 peace ; " and all the various nations united under 
 his sway — the warlike Afghans, the proud Moguls, 
 the gentle-spirited Hindoos, with one voice blessed 
 the wise and humane government of the son of 
 Baber, and unanimously bestowed upon him the 
 titles of Akbar, or the Great, aud Juggut 
 Grow, or Guardian of Mankind. 
 
 Meantime the happiness, which he had diffused 
 among millions, seemed to have fled from the 
 bosom of the sovereign. Cares far different from 
 those of war, deeper than those of love, (for the 
 love of eastern monarchs is seldom shadowed by 
 anxiety,) possessed his thoughtful soul. He had 
 been brought up in the strictest forms of the Mo- 
 hammedan religion, and he meditated upon the 
 text, which enjoins the extermination of all who 
 rejected his prophet, till his conscience became like 
 a troubled lake. He reflected that in his vast do- 
 minions there were at least fifteen different relig- 
 ions, which were subdivided into about three hun- 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 137 
 
 dred and fifty sects ; to extirpate thousands and 
 tens of thousands of his unoffending subjects, and 
 pile up pyramids of human heads in honor of God 
 and his prophet, as his predecessors had done 
 before him, was, to his mild nature, not only abhor- 
 rent, but impossible. Yet as his power had' never 
 met with any obstacle, which force or address had 
 not subdued before him, the idea of bringing this 
 vast multitude to agree in one system of belief and 
 worship appeared to him not utterly hopeless. 
 
 He consulted, after long reflection, his favorite 
 and secretary, Abul Fazil, the celebrated historian, 
 of whom it was proverbially said, that " the mon- 
 archs of the East feared more the pen of Abul 
 Fazil than the sword of Akbar." The acute mind 
 of that great man saw instantly the wild impracti- 
 cability of such a scheme ; but willing to prove it 
 to his master without absolutely contradicting his 
 favorite scheme, he proposed, as a preparatory 
 step, that the names of the various sects of religion 
 known to exist in the sultan's dominions should be 
 registered, and the tenets of their belief contained 
 in their books of law, or promulgated by their 
 priests, should be reviewed and compared ; thence 
 it would appear how far it was possible to reconcile 
 them one with another. 
 
 This suggestion pleased the great king ; and 
 there went forth a decree from the imperial throne, 
 commanding that all the religions and sects of re- 
 ligion to be found within the boundaries of the 
 empire should send deputies, on a certain day, to 
 
138 TALES. 
 
 the sultan, to deliver up their books of law, to de- 
 clare openly the doctrines of their faith, and be 
 registered by name in a volume kept for this pur- 
 pose — whether they were followers of Jesus, of 
 Moses, or of Mohammed ; whether they worshipped 
 God in the sun, in the fire, in the image, or in the 
 stream ; by written law or traditional practice ; true 
 believer or pagan infidel, none were excepted. The 
 imperial mandate was couched in such absolute, as 
 well as alluring terms, that it became as impossible 
 as impolitic to evade it ; it was therefore the inter- 
 est of every particular sect, to represent in the most 
 favorable light the mode of faith professed by each. 
 Some thought to gain favor by the magnificence of 
 their gifts ; others, by the splendor of their proces- 
 sions. Some rested their hopes on the wisdom and 
 venerable appearance of the deputies they selected 
 to represent them ; and others, (they w r ere but few,) 
 strong in their faith and spiritual pride, deemed all 
 such aids unnecessary, and trusted in the truth of 
 the doctrines they professed, which they only waited 
 an opportunity to assert, secure that they needed 
 only to be heard, to convert all who had ears to 
 h>ar. 
 
 On the appointed day, an immense multitude 
 had assembled from all the quarters of the empire, 
 and pressed through the gates and streets of Agra, 
 then the capital and residence of the monarch. 
 The principal durbar, or largest audience-court of 
 the palace, was thrown open on this occasion. At 
 the upper end was placed the throne of Akbar. 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 139 
 
 It was a raised platform, from which sprung twelve 
 twisted pillars of massy gold, all radiant with innu- 
 merable gems, supporting the golden canopy, over 
 which waved the white umbrella, the insignia of 
 power; the cushions upon which the emperor re- 
 clined, were of cloth of gold, incrusted with rubies 
 and emeralds ; six pages, of exquisite beauty, bear- 
 ing fans of peacocks' feathers, were alone permit- 
 ted to approach within the silver balustrade, which 
 surrounded the seat of power. On one side stood 
 the vizir Chan Azim, bold and erect of look, as 
 became a warrior, and Abul Fazil, with his tablets 
 in his hand, and his eyes modestly cast down ; next 
 to him stood Dominico Cuenca, the Portuguese nris- 
 . sionary, and two friars of his order, who had come 
 from Goa by the express command of the sultan : 
 on the other side, the muftis and doctors of the 
 law. Around were the great omrahs, the generals, 
 governors, tributary princes, and ambassadors. 
 The ground was spread with Persian carpets of a 
 thousand tints, sprinkled with rose-water, and 
 softer beneath the feet than the velvety durva 
 grass : and clouds of incense, ambergris, and 
 myrrh, filled the air. The gorgeous trappings of 
 eastern splendor, the waving of standards, the glit- 
 tering of warlike weapons, the sparkling of jew- 
 elled robes, formed a scene, almost sublime in its 
 prodigal and lavish magnificence, such as only an 
 oriental court could show. 
 
 Seven days did the royal Akbar receive and en- 
 tertain the religious deputies ; every day a hundred 
 
140 TALES. 
 
 thousand strangers feasted at his expense; and 
 every night the gifts he had received during the 
 day, or the value of them, were distributed in alms 
 to the vast multitude, without any regard to differ- 
 ence of belief. Seven days did the royal Akbar 
 sit on his musnud, and listen graciously to all who 
 appeared before him. Many were the words 
 spoken, and marvellous was the wisdom uttered ; 
 sublime were the doctrines professed, and pure the 
 morality they enjoined ; but the more the royal 
 Akbar heard, the more was his great mind per- 
 plexed ; the last who spoke seemed ever in the 
 right, till the next who appeared turned all to 
 doubt again. He was amazed, and said within 
 himself, like the judge of old, " What is truth?" 
 
 It was observed, that the many dissenting or het- 
 erodox sects of the Mohammedan religion excited 
 infinitely more indignation among the orthodox 
 muftis, than the worst among the pagan idolaters. 
 Their hearts burned within them through impa- 
 tience and wrath, and they would almost have died 
 on the spot for the privilege of confuting those 
 blasphemers, who rejected Abu Becker ; who 
 maintained, with Abu Zail, that blue was holier 
 than green ; or with Mozar, that a sinner was 
 worse than an infidel ; or believed with the Morgi- 
 ans, that in paradise God is beheld only with the 
 eyes of our understanding ; or with the Kharejites, 
 that a prince who abuses his power may be deposed 
 without sin. But the sultan had forbidden all 
 argument in his presence, and they were con- 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 141 
 
 strained to keep silence, though it was pain and 
 grief to them. 
 
 The Seiks from Lahore, then a new sect, and 
 since a powerful nation, with their light olive com- 
 plexions, their rich robes and turbans all of blue, 
 their noble features and free undaunted deport- 
 ment, struck the whole assembly with respect, and 
 were received with peculiar favor by the sultan. 
 So also were the Ala-ilahiyahs, whose doctrines are 
 a strange compound of the Christian, the Moham- 
 medan, and the Pagan creeds ; but the Sactas. or 
 Epicureans of India, met with a far different re- 
 ception. This sect, which in secret professed the 
 most profane and detestable opinions, endeavored 
 to obtain favor by the splendid offerings they laid 
 at the foot of the throne, and the graceful and 
 seducing eloquence of their principal speaker. It 
 was. however, in vain, that he threw over the ten- 
 ets of his religion, as publicly acknowledged, the 
 flimsy disguise of rhetoric and poetry; that he en- 
 deavored to prove, that all happiness consisted in 
 enjoying the world's goods, and all virtue in mere 
 abstaining from evil ; that death is an eternal 
 sleep ; and therefore to reject the pleasures of this 
 life, in any shape, the extreme of folly : while at 
 every pause of his oration, voices of the sweetest 
 melody chorussed the famous burden : — 
 
 " May the hand never shake which gather'd the grapes! 
 May the foot never slip which press' d them ! ,? 
 
 Akbar commanded the Sactas from his presence, 
 
142 TALES. 
 
 amid the murmurs and execrations of all parties ; 
 and though they were protected for the present by 
 the royal passport, they were subsequently ban- 
 ished beyond the frontiers of Cashmere. 
 
 The fire-worshippers, from Guzerat, presented 
 the books of their famous teacher, Zoroaster ; to 
 them succeeded the Jainas, the Buddhists, and 
 many more, innumerable as the leaves upon the 
 banyan-tree — countless as the stars at midnight. 
 
 Last of all came the deputies of the Brahmans. 
 On their approach there was a hushed silence, and 
 then arose a suppressed murmur of amazement, 
 curiosity, and admiration. It is well known with 
 what impenetrable secrecy the Brahmins guard the 
 peculiar mysteries of their religion. In the reigns 
 of Akbar's predecessors, and during the first inva- 
 sions of the Moguls, many had suffered martyrdom 
 in the most horrid forms, rather than suffer their 
 sanctuaries to be violated, or disclose the contents 
 of their Yedas or sacred books. Loss of caste, ex- 
 communication in this world, and eternal perdition 
 in the next, were the punishments awarded to 
 those, who should break this fundamental law of 
 the Brahminical faith. The mystery was at length 
 to be unveiled ; the doubts and conjectures, to 
 which this pertinacious concealment gave rise, 
 were now to be ended forever. The learned doc- 
 tors and muftis bent forward with an attentive and 
 eager look — Abul Fazil raised his small, bright, 
 piercing eyes, while a smile of dubious import 
 passed over his countenance — the Portuguese 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 143 
 
 monk threw back his cowl, and the calm and 
 scornful expression of his fine features changed to 
 one of awakened curiosity and interest: even 
 Akbar raised himself from his jewelled conch as 
 the deputies of the Brahmans approached. A sin- 
 gle delegate had been chosen from the twelve prin- 
 cipal temples and seats of learning, and they were 
 attended by forty aged men. selected from the 
 three inferior castes, to represent the mass of the 
 Indian population — warriors, merchants, and hus- 
 bandmen. At the head of this majestic procession 
 was the Brahman Sarma. the high priest, and prin- 
 cipal Gooroo or teacher of theology at Benares. 
 This singular and venerable man had passed sev- 
 eral years of his life in the court of the sultan 
 Baber: and the dignity and austerity, that became 
 his age and high functions, were blended with a 
 certain grace and ease in his deportment, which 
 distinguished him above the rest. 
 
 When the sage Sarma had pronounced the usual 
 benediction, "May the king be victorious !" Akbar 
 inclined his head with reverence. " Wise and vir- 
 tuous Brahmans ! " he said, " our court derives 
 honor from your illustrious presence. Xext to the 
 true faith taught by our holy Prophet, the doctrines 
 of Brahma must exceed all others in wisdom and 
 purity, even as the priests of Brahma excel in vir- 
 tue and knowledge the wisest of the earth: disclose, 
 therefore, your sacred Sastras. that we may inhale 
 from them, as from the roses of paradise, the pre- 
 cious fragrance of truth and of knowledge ! " 
 
144 TALES. 
 
 The Brahman replied, in the soft and musical 
 tones of his people, " O king of the world ! we are 
 not come before the throne of power to betray the 
 faith of our fathers, but to die for it, if such be the 
 will of the sultan ! " Saying these words, he and 
 his companions prostrated themselves upon the 
 earth, and, taking off their turbans, flung them 
 down before them; then, while the rest continued 
 with their foreheads bowed to the ground, Sarma 
 arose, and stood upright before the throne. No 
 words can describe the amazement of Akbar. He 
 shrunk back and struck his hands together ; then 
 he frowned, and twisted his small and beautifully 
 curled mustachios : " The sons of Brahma mock 
 us!" said he at length; "is it thus our imperial 
 decrees are obeyed ? " 
 
 " The laws of our faith are immutable," replied 
 the old man, calmly, " and the contents of the 
 Vedas were preordained from the beginning of 
 time to be revealed to the twice-born alone. It 
 is sufficient, that therein are to be found the essence 
 of all wisdom, the principles of all virtue, and the 
 means of acquiring immortality." 
 
 " Doubtless, the sons of Brahma are preemi- 
 nently wise," said Akbar, sarcastically; "but are 
 the followers of the Prophet accounted as fools in 
 their eyes ? The sons of Brahma are excellently 
 virtuous, but are all the rest of mankind vicious ? 
 Has the most high God confined the knowledge of 
 his attributes to the Brahmins alone, and hidden 
 his face from the rest of his creatures ? Where, 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 145 
 
 then, is his justice ? where his all-embraeing 
 mercy ? " 
 
 The Brahman, folding his arms, replied : " It is 
 written, Heaven is a palace with many doors, and 
 every man shall enter by his own way, It is not 
 given to mortals to examine or arraign the decrees 
 of the Deity, but to hear and to obey. Let the 
 will of the sultan be accomplished in all things 
 else. In this let the God of all the earth judge 
 between the king and his servants." 
 
 " Now, by the head of our Prophet ! shall we be 
 braved on our throne by these insolent and contu- 
 macious priests ? Tortures shall force the seal 
 from those lips ! " 
 
 " Not so ! " said the old Brahman, drawing him- 
 self up with a look of inexpressible dignity. " It 
 is in the power of the Great King to deal with his 
 slaves as seemeth good to him ; but fortitude is the 
 courage of the weak ; and the twice-born sons of 
 Brahma can suffer more in the cause of truth, than 
 even the wrath of Akbar can inflict." 
 
 At these words, which expressed at once sub- 
 mission and defiance, a general murmur arose in 
 the assembly. The dense crowd became agitated 
 as the waves of the Ganges just before the rising 
 of the hurricane. Some opened their eyes wide 
 with amazement at such audacity, some frowned 
 with indignation, some looked on with contempt, 
 others with pity. All awaited in fearful expecta- 
 tion, till the fury of the sultan should burst forth 
 and consume these presumptuous offenders. But 
 10 
 
146 TALES. 
 
 Akbar remained silent, and for some time played 
 with the hilt of his poniard, half unsheathing it, 
 and then forcing it back with an angry gesture. 
 At length he motioned to his secretary to ap- 
 proach ; and Abul Fazil, kneeling upon the silver 
 steps of the throne, received the sultan's commands. 
 After a conference of some length, inaudible to the 
 attendants around, Abul Fazil came forward, and 
 announced the will of the sultan, that the durbar 
 should be presently broken up. The deputies 
 were severally dismissed with rich presents ; all, 
 except the Brahmans, who were commanded to 
 remain in the quarter assigned to them during the 
 royal pleasure, and a strong guard was placed over 
 them. 
 
 Meantime Akbar withdrew to the private apart- 
 ments of his palace, where he remained for three 
 days inaccessible to all, except his secretary Abul 
 Fazil, and the Christian monk. On the fourth 
 day he sent for the high priest of Benares, and 
 successively for the rest of the Brahmans, his com- 
 panions ; but it was in vain he tried threats and 
 temptations, and all his arts of argument and per- 
 suasion. They remained calmly and passively im- 
 movable. The sultan at length pardoned and 
 dismissed them with many expressions of courtesy 
 and admiration. The Brahman Sarma was distin- 
 guished among the rest by gifts of peculiar value 
 and magnificence, and to him Akbar made a volun- 
 tary promise, that, during his reign, the cruel tax, 
 called the Kerea, which had hitherto been levied 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 147 
 
 upon the poor Indians whenever they met to cele- 
 brate any of their religious festivals, should be 
 abolished. 
 
 But all these professions were hollow and insid- 
 ious. Akbar was not a character to be thus baf- 
 flecl ; and assisted by the wily wit of Abul Fazil, 
 and the bold intriguing monk, he had devised a 
 secret and subtle expedient, which should at once 
 gratify his curiosity, and avenge his insulted power. 
 
 Abul Fazil had an only brother, many years 
 younger than himself, whom he had adopted as his 
 son, and loved with extreme tenderness. He had 
 intended him to tread, like himself, the intricate 
 path of state policy ; and with this view he had 
 been carefully educated in all the learning of the 
 East, and had made the most astonishing progress 
 in every branch of science. Though scarcely past 
 Ins boyhood, he had already been initiated into the 
 intrigues of the court ; above all, he had been 
 brought up in sentiments of the most profound 
 veneration and submission for the monarch he was 
 destined to serve. In some respects Faizi resem- 
 bled his brother ; he possessed the same versatility 
 of talents, the same acuteness of mind, the same 
 predilection for literary and sedentary pursuits, 
 the same insinuating melody of voice and fluent 
 grace of speech ; but his ambition was of a nobler 
 cast, and though his moral perceptions had been 
 somewhat blunted by a too early acquaintance 
 with court diplomacy, and an effeminate, though 
 learned education, his mind and talents were de- 
 
148 TALES. 
 
 cidedly of a higher order. He also excelled Abul 
 Fazil in the graces of his person, having inherited 
 from his mother (a Hindoo slave of surpassing love- 
 liness) a figure of exquisite grace and symmetry, 
 and features of most faultless and noble beauty. 
 
 Thus fitted by nature and prepared by art for 
 the part he was to perform, this youth was secretly 
 sent to Allahabad, where the deputies of the Brah- 
 mans rested for some days on their return to the 
 Sacred City. Here Abul Fazil, with great appear- 
 ance of mystery and circumspection, introduced 
 himself to the chief priest, Sarma, and presented to 
 him his youthful brother as the orphan son of the 
 Brahman Mitra, a celebrated teacher of astronomy 
 in the court of the late sultan. Abul Fazil had 
 artfully prepared such documents, as left no doubt 
 of the truth of his story. His pupil in treachery 
 played his part to admiration, and the deception 
 was complete and successful. 
 
 " It was the will of the Great King," said the 
 wily Abul Fazil, " that this fair youth should be 
 brought up in his palace, and converted to the 
 Moslem faith ; but, bound by my vows to a dying 
 friend, I have for fourteen years eluded the com- 
 mand of the sultan, and in placing him under thy 
 protection, O most venerable Sarma ! I have at 
 length discharged my conscience, and fulfilled the 
 last wishes of the Brahman Mitra. Peace be with 
 him ! If it seem good in thy sight, let this remain 
 for ever a secret between me and thee. I have 
 successfully thrown dust in the eyes of the sultan, 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 149 
 
 and caused it to be reported, that the youth is dead 
 of a sudden and grievous disease. Should he dis- 
 cover, that he has been deceived by his slave : should 
 the truth reach his mighty ears, the head of Abul 
 Fazil would assuredly pay the forfeit of his dis- 
 obedience." 
 
 The old Brahman replied with many expressions 
 of gratitude and inviolable discretion : and. wholly 
 unsuspicious of the cruel artifice, received the 
 youth with joy. He carried him to Benares, where 
 some months afterwards he publicly adopted him 
 as his son, and gave him the name of Govinda, 
 " the Beloved," one of the titles under which the 
 Indian women adore their beautiful and favorite 
 idol, the god Crishna. 
 
 Govinda, so we must now call him, was set to 
 study the sacred language, and the theology of the 
 Brahmans as it is revealed in their Yedas and 
 Sastras. In both he made quick and extraordi- 
 nary progress; and his singular talents did not 
 more endear him to his preceptor, than his docil- 
 ity, and the pensive, and even melancholy sweet- 
 ness of his temper and manner. His new duties 
 were not unpleasing or unsuited to one of his in- 
 dolent and contemplative temper. He possibly 
 felt, at first, a holy horror at the pagan sacrifices, 
 in which he was obliged to assist, and some reluc- 
 tance to feeding consecrated cows, gathering flowers, 
 cooking rice, and drawing water for offerings and 
 libations ; but by degrees he reconciled his con- 
 science to these occupations, and became attached 
 
150 TALES. 
 
 to his Gooroo, and interested in his philosophical 
 studies. He would have been happy, in short, but 
 for certain uneasy sensations of fear and self- 
 reproach, which he vainly endeavored to forget or 
 to reason down. 
 
 Abul Fazil, who dreaded not his indiscretion or 
 his treachery, but his natural sense of rectitude, 
 which had yielded reluctantly, even to the com- 
 mand of Akbar, maintained a constant intercourse 
 with him by means of an intelligent mute, who, 
 hovering in the vicinity of Benares, sometimes in 
 the disguise of a fisherman, sometimes as a coolie, 
 was a continual spy upon all his movements ; and 
 once in every month, when the moon was in her 
 dark quarter, Govinda met him secretly, and ex- 
 changed communications with his brother. 
 
 The Brahman Sarma was rich ; he was proud 
 of his high caste, his spiritual office, and his learn- 
 ing ; he was of the tribe of Narayna, which for a 
 thousand years had filled the offices of priesthood, 
 without descending to any meaner occupation, or 
 mingling blood with any inferior caste. He main- 
 tained habitually a cold, austere, and dignified 
 calmness of demeanor ; and flattered himself, that 
 he had attained that state of perfect indifference to 
 all worldly things, which, according to the Brah- 
 minical philosophy, is the highest point of human 
 virtue ; but, though simple, grave, and austere in 
 his personal habits, he lived with a splendor be- 
 coming his reputation, his high rank, and vast pos- 
 sessions. He exercised an almost princely hospi- 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 151 
 
 tality ; a hundred mendicants were fed morning 
 and evening at his gates. He founded and sup- 
 ported colleges of learning for the poorer Brah- 
 mans, and had numerous pupils, who had come 
 from all parts of India to study under his direction. 
 These were lodged in separate buildings. Only 
 Govinda, as the adopted son of Sarma, dwelt under 
 the same roof with his Gooroo, a privilege which 
 had unconsciously become most precious to his 
 heart ; it removed him from the constrained com- 
 panionship of those he secretly despised, and it 
 placed him in delicious and familiar intercourse 
 with one, who had become too dearly and fatally 
 beloved. 
 
 The Brahman had an only child, the daughter 
 of his old age. She had been named, at her birth, 
 Priyamvada ; (or softly speaking ;) but her compan- 
 ions called her Amra, the name of a graceful tree 
 bearing blossoms of peculiar beauty and fragrance, 
 with which the Camdeo (Indian Cupid) is said to 
 tip his arrows. Amra was but a child w T hen Go- 
 vinda first entered the dwelling of his preceptor ; 
 but as time passed on, she expanded beneath his 
 eye into beauty and maturity, like the lovely and 
 odoriferous flower, the name of which she bore. 
 
 The Hindoo women of superior rank and un- 
 mixed caste are in general of diminutive size ; and 
 accordingly the lovely and high-born Amra was 
 formed upon the least possible scale of female 
 beauty ; but her figure, though so exquisitely del- 
 icate, had all the flowing outline and rounded pro- 
 
152 TALES. 
 
 portions of complete womanhood. Her features 
 were perfectly regular, and of almost infantine 
 minuteness, except her eyes ; those soft oriental 
 eyes, not sparkling, or often animated, but large, 
 dark, and lustrous ; as if in their calm depth of ex- 
 pression slept unaAvakened passions, like the bright 
 deity Heri reposing upon the coiled serpent. Her 
 eyebrows were finely arched, and most delicately 
 pencilled ; her complexion, of a pale and trans- 
 parent olive, was on the slightest emotion suffused 
 with a tint, which resembled that of the crimson 
 water-lily as seen through the tremulous waye ; her 
 lips were like the buds of the Camalata, and un- 
 closed to display a row of teeth like seed-pearl of 
 Manar. But one of her principal charms, because 
 peculiar and unequalled, was the beauty and re- 
 dundance of her hair, which in color and texture 
 resembled black floss silk, and, when released from 
 confinement, flowed downwards over her whole 
 person like a veil, and swept the ground. 
 
 Such was Amra ; nor let it be supposed, that so 
 perfect a form was allied to a merely passive and 
 childish mind. It is on record, that, until the in- 
 vasion of Hindostan by the barbarous Moguls, the 
 Indian women enjoyed comparative freedom ; it is 
 only since the occupation of the country by the 
 Europeans, that they have been kept in entire 
 seclusion. A plurality of wives was discouraged 
 by their laws ; and, among some of the tribes of 
 Brahmans, it was even forbidden. At the period 
 of our story, that is, in the reign of Akbar, the 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 153 
 
 Indian women, and more particularly the Brali- 
 niinees. enjoyed much liberty. They were well 
 educated, and some of them, extraordinary as it 
 may seem, distinguished themselves in war and 
 government. The Indian queen Durgetti. whose 
 history forms a conspicuous and interesting episode 
 in the life of Akbar. defended her kingdom for ten 
 years against one of his most valiant generals. 
 Mounted upon an elephant of war. she led her 
 armies in person : fought several pitched battles ; 
 and being at length defeated in a decisive engage- 
 ment, she stabbed herself on the held, rather than 
 submit to her barbarous conqueror. Nor was this 
 a solitary instance of female heroism and mental 
 energy : and the effect of this freedom, and the re- 
 spect with which they were treated, appeared in the 
 morals and manners of the women. 
 
 The gentle daughter of Sarma was not indeed 
 fitted by nature either to lead or to govern, and 
 certainly had never dreamed of doing either. Her 
 figure, gestures, and movements, had that softness 
 at once alluring and retiring, that indolent grace, 
 that languid repose, common to the women of 
 tropical regions. 
 
 " All her affections like the dews on roses. 
 Fair as the flowers themselves; as soft, as gentle." 
 
 Her spirit, in its " mildness, sweetness, blessedness,' 1 
 
 seemed as flexible and unresisting as the tender 
 Yasanta creeper. She had indeed been educated 
 in all the exclusive pride of her caste, and taught 
 
154 TALES. 
 
 to regard all who were not of the privileged race 
 of Brahma as frangi (or impure) ; but this princi- 
 ple, though so early instilled into her mind as to 
 have become a part of her nature, was rather pas- 
 sive, than active ; it had never been called forth. 
 She had never been brought into contact with 
 those, whose very look she would have considered 
 as pollution ; for she had no intercourse but with 
 those of her own nation, and watchful and sustain- 
 ing love were all around her. Her learned ac- 
 complishments extended no farther than to read 
 and write the Hindostanee tongue. To tend and 
 water her flowers, to feed her birds, which inhabited 
 a gaily gilded aviary in her garden, to string pearls, 
 to embroider muslin, were her employments ; to 
 pay visits and receive them, to lie upon cushions, 
 and be fanned asleep by her maids, or listen to the 
 endless tales of her old nurse, Gautami, whose 
 memory was a vast treasure of traditional wonders 
 — these were her amusements. That there were 
 graver occupations, and dearer pleasures, proper 
 to her sex, she knew ; but thought liot of them, 
 till the young Govinda came to disturb the peace 
 of her innocent bosom. She had been told to 
 regard him as a brother ; and, as she had never 
 known a brother, she believed, that, in lavishing 
 upon him all the glowing tenderness of her young 
 heart, she was but obeying her father's commands. 
 If her bosom fluttered when she heard his foot- 
 steps ; if she trembled upon the tones of his voice ; 
 if, while he was occupied in the services of the 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 155 
 
 temple, she sat in her veranda awaiting his return, 
 and, the moment he appeared through the em- 
 bowering acacias, a secret and unaccountable 
 feeling made her breathe quick, and rise in haste 
 and retire to her inner apartments, till he ap- 
 proached to pay the salutations due to the daughter 
 of his preceptor; what was it, what could it be, 
 but the tender solicitude of a sister for a new- 
 found brother ? But Govinda himself was not so 
 entirely deceived. His boyhood had been passed 
 in a luxurious court, and among the women and 
 slaves, of his brother's harem ; and though so 
 young, he was not wholly inexperienced in a pas- 
 sion, which is the too early growth of an eastern 
 heart. He knew why he languished in the pres- 
 ence of his beautiful sister ; he could tell why the 
 dark splendor of Amra's eyes pierced his soul like 
 the winged flames shot into a besieged city. He 
 could guess, too, why those eyes kindled with a 
 softer fire beneath his glance ; but the love he felt 
 was so chastened by the awe which her serene 
 purity, and the dignity of her sweet and feminine 
 bearing shed around her ; so hallowed by the 
 nominal relationship in which they stood ; so dif- 
 ferent, in short, from any thing he had ever felt, or 
 seen, or heard of, that, abandoned to all the sweet 
 and dream-like enchantment of a boyish passion, 
 Govinda was scarcely conscious of the wishes of 
 his own heart, until accident in the same moment 
 disclosed his secret aspirations to himself, and bade 
 him for ever despair of their accomplishment. 
 
156 TALKS. 
 
 On the last clay of the dark half of the moon, it 
 was the custom of the wise and venerable Sarma 
 to bathe at sunset in the Ganges, and afterwards 
 retire to private meditation upon the thousand 
 names of God, by the repetition of which, as it is 
 written, a man insures to himself everlasting felic- 
 ity. But while Sarma was thus absorbed in holy 
 abstraction, where were Govinda and Amra ? 
 
 In a spot fairer than the poet's creative pencil 
 ever wrought into a picture for fancy to dwell on — 
 where, at the extremity of the Brahman's garden, 
 the broad and beautiful stream that bounded it ran 
 swiftly to mingle its waves with those of the thrice- 
 holy Ganges; where mangoes raised their huge 
 twisted roots in a thousand fantastic forms, while 
 from their boughs hung suspended the nests of the 
 little Baya birds, which waved to and fro in the 
 evening breeze — there had Amra and Govinda 
 met together, it might be, without design. The 
 sun had set, the Cistus flowers began to fall, and 
 the rich blossoms of the night-loving Nilica diffused 
 their rich odor. The Peyoo awoke to warble 
 forth his song, and the fire-flies were just visible, 
 as they flitted under the shade of the Champac 
 trees. Upon a bank, covered with that soft and 
 beautiful grass, which, whenever it is pressed or 
 trodden on, yields a delicious perfume, were Amra 
 and Govinda seated side by side. Two of her 
 attendants, at some little distance, were occupied 
 in twining wreaths of flowers. Amra had a basket 
 at her feet, in which were two small vessels of 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 157 
 
 porcelain. One contained cakes of rice, honey, 
 and clarified butter, kneaded by her own hand ; 
 in the other were mangoes, rose-apples, and musk- 
 melons ; and garlands of the holy palasa blossoms, 
 sacred to the dead, were flung around the whole. 
 This was the votive offering, which Anira had pre- 
 pared for the tomb of her mother, who was buried 
 in the garden. And now, with her elbow resting 
 on her knee, and her soft cheek leaning on her 
 hand, she sat gazing up at the sky, where the stars 
 came flashing forth one by one ; and she watched 
 the auspicious moment for offering her pious obla- 
 tion. But Govinda looked neither on the earth, 
 nor on the sky. What to him were the stars, or 
 the flowers, or the moon rising in dewy splendor? 
 His eyes were fixed upon one, who was brighter to 
 him than the stars, lovelier than the moon when 
 she drives her antelopes through the heavens, 
 sweeter than the night-flower which opens in her 
 beam. 
 
 " O Amra ! " he said, at length, and while he 
 spoke his voice trembled even at its own tender- 
 ness, "Amra ! beautiful and beloved sister ! thine 
 eyes are filled with the glory of that sparkling 
 firmament ! the breath of the evening, which agi- 
 tates the silky filaments of the Seris, is as pleasant 
 to thee as to me ; but the beauty, which I see, thou 
 canst not see ; the pow T er of deep joy, which thrills 
 over my heart like the breeze over those floating 
 lotuses — oh ! this thou canst not feel ! — Let me take 
 away those pearls and gems scattered among thy 
 
158 TALES 
 
 radiant tresses, and replace them with these fra- 
 grant and golden clusters of Champac flowers ! If 
 ever there were beauty, which could disdain the 
 aid of ornament, is it not that of Amra ? If ever 
 there were purity, truth, and goodness, which could 
 defy the powers of evil, are they not thine ? O, 
 then, let others braid their hair with pearls, and 
 bind round their arms the demon-scaring amulet, 
 my sister needs no spells to guard her innocence, 
 and cannot wear a gem that does not hide a 
 charm ! " 
 
 The blush, which the beginning of this passion- 
 ate speech had called up to her -cheek, was changed 
 to a smile, as she looked down upon the mystic 
 circle of gold, which bound her arm. 
 
 " It is not a talisman," said she, softly ; " it is the 
 Tali, the nuptial bracelet, which was bound upon 
 my arm when I was married." 
 
 " Married ! " the word rent away from the heart 
 of Govinda that veil, with which he had hitherto 
 shrouded his secret hopes, fears, wishes, and affec- 
 tions. His mute agitation sent a trouble into her 
 heart, she knew not why. She blushed quick- 
 kindling blushes, and drooped her head. 
 
 " Married ! " he said, after a breathless pause ; 
 " when ? to whom ? who is the possessor of a gem 
 of such exceeding price, and yet forbears to claim 
 it?" 
 
 She replied, " To Adhar, priest of Indore, and 
 the friend of Sarma. I was married to him while 
 yet an infant, after the manner of our tribe." 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 159 
 
 Then perceiving his increasing disturbance, she 
 continued, hurriedly, and with downcast eyes : •' I 
 have never seen him ; he has long dwelt in the 
 countries of the south, whither he was called on an 
 important mission ; but he will soon return to reside 
 here in the sacred city of his fathers, and will leave 
 it no more. Why then should Govinda be sad ? " 
 She laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and looked 
 up in his face. 
 
 Govinda would fain have taken that beautiful 
 little hand, and covered it with kisses and with 
 tears ; but he was restrained by a feeling of respect, 
 which he could not himself comprehend. He feared 
 to alarm her ; he contented himself with fixing his 
 eyes on the hand which rested on his arm ; and he 
 said in a soft melancholy voice, " When Adhar re- 
 turns, Govinda will be forgotten." 
 
 " O never ! never ! " she exclaimed with sudden 
 emotion, and lifting towards him eyes, that floated 
 in tears. Govinda bent down his head, and pressed 
 his lips upon her hand. She withdrew it hastily, 
 and rose from the ground. 
 
 At that moment her nurse, Gautami, approached 
 them. " My child," said she, in a tone of reproof, 
 " dost thou yet linger here, and the auspicious 
 moment almost past ? If thou delayest longer, evil 
 demons will disturb and consume the pious oblation, 
 and the dead will frown upon the abandoned altar. 
 Hasten, my daughter ; take up the basket of offer- 
 ings, and walk before us." 
 
 Amra, trembling, leaned upon her maids, and 
 
160 TALES. 
 
 prepared to obey ; but when she had made a few 
 steps, she turned back, as if to salute her brother, 
 and repeated in a low emphatic tone the word 
 " Never ; " — then turned away. Govinda stood 
 looking after the group, till the last wave of their 
 white veils disappeared ; and listened till the tink- 
 ling of their silver anklets could no longer be 
 distinguished. Then he started as from a dream ; 
 he tossed his arms above his head ; he flung him- 
 self upon the earth in an agony of jealous fury ; he 
 gave way to all the pent-up passions, which had 
 been for years accumulating in his heart. All at 
 once he rose ; he walked to and fro ; he stopped. 
 A hope had darted into his mind, even through the 
 gloom of despair. " For what," thought he, " have 
 I sold myself? For riches ! for honour ! for power ! 
 Ah ! what are they in such a moment ? Dust of the 
 earth, toys, empty breath ! For what is the word of 
 the Great King pledged to me ? Has he not sworn 
 to refuse me nothing ? All that is most precious 
 between earth and heaven, from the mountain to 
 the sea, lies at my choice ! One word, and she is 
 mine ! and I hesitate ? Fool ! she shall be mine ! " 
 He looked up towards heaven, and marked the 
 places of the stars. " It is the appointed hour," he 
 muttered, and cautiously his eye glanced around, 
 and he listened ; but all was solitary and silent. 
 He then stole along the path, which led through a 
 thick grove of Cadam trees, intermingled with the 
 tall points of the Cusa grass, that shielded him from 
 all observation. He came at last to a little prom- 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 161 
 
 ontory, where the river Ave have mentioned threw 
 itself into the Ganges. He had not been there 
 above a minute, when a low whistle, like the note 
 of the Chacora. was heard. A small boat rowed 
 to the shore, and Sahib stood before him. Quick of 
 eye and apprehension, the mute perceived instantly 
 that something unusual had occurred. He pointed 
 to the skiff: but Grovinda shook his head, and 
 made signs for a light and the writing implements. 
 They were quickly brought ; and while Sahib held 
 the lamp, so that its light was invisible to the oppo- 
 site shore, Govinda wrote, in the peculiar cipher 
 they had framed for that purpose, a few words to 
 his brother, sufficiently intelligible in their import, 
 though dictated by the impassioned and tumultuous 
 feelings of the moment. When he had finished, he 
 gave the letter to Sahib, who concealed it carefully 
 in the folds of his turban, and then, holding up the 
 fingers of both hands thrice over, to intimate, that 
 in thirty days he would bring the answer, he 
 sprung into the boat, and was soon lost under the 
 mighty shadow of the trees, which stretched their 
 huge boughs over the stream. 
 
 Govinda slowly returned ; but he saw Amra no 
 more that night. They met the next day, and the 
 next ; but Amra was no longer the same : she was 
 silent, pensive ; and when pressed or rebuked, she 
 became tearful and even sullen. She was always 
 seen with her faithful Gautami, upon whose arm 
 she leaned droopingly, and hung her head like her 
 own neglected flowers. Govinda was almost dis- 
 11 
 
162 TALES. 
 
 traded ; in vain he watched for a moment to speak 
 to Amrk alone ; the vigilant Gautami seemed re- 
 solved, that they should never meet out of her 
 sight. Sometimes he would raise his eyes to her 
 as she passed, with such a look of tender and sor- 
 rowful reproach, that Amra would turn away her 
 face and weep ; but still she spoke not ; and never 
 returned his respectful salutation farther than by 
 inclining her head. 
 
 The old Brahman perceived this change in his 
 beloved daughter ; but not for some time ; and it 
 is probable, that, being absorbed in his spiritual 
 office and sublime speculations, he would have had 
 neither leisure nor penetration to discover the 
 cause, if the suspicions of the careful Gautami had 
 not awakened his attention. She ventured to sug- 
 gest the propriety of hastening the return of his 
 daughter's betrothed husband ; and the Brahman, 
 having taken her advice in this particular, rested 
 satisfied ; persuading himself, that the arrival of 
 Adhar would be a certain and all-sufficient remedy 
 for the dreaded evil, which in his simplicity he had 
 never contemplated, and could scarcely be made to 
 comprehend. 
 
 A month had thus passed away, and again that 
 appointed day came round, on which Govinda was 
 wont to meet his brother's emissary ; even on ordi- 
 nary occasions he could never anticipate it without 
 a thrill of anxiety, — now every feeling was wrought 
 up to agony ; yet it was necessary to control the 
 slightest sign of impatience, and wear the same 
 
THE FALSE OXE. 163 
 
 external guise of calm, subdued self-possession, 
 though every vein was burning with the fever of 
 suspense. 
 
 It was the hour when Sarnia, having risen from 
 his mid-day sleep, was accustomed to listen to 
 Govinda while he read some appointed text. Ac- 
 cordingly Govinda opened his book, and standing 
 before his preceptor in an attitude of profound hu- 
 mility, he read thus : — 
 
 " Garuna asked of the Crow Bushanda, ' What 
 is the most excellent of natural forms ? the highest 
 good ? the chief pain ? the dearest pleasure ? the 
 greatest wickedness ? the severest punishment ? 
 
 "And the Crow Bushanda answered him : ' In 
 the three worlds, empyreal, terrestrial, and infer- 
 nal, no form excels the human form. 
 
 " ' Supreme felicity, on earth, is found in the con- 
 versation of a virtuous friend. 
 
 " ' The keenest pain is inflicted by extreme 
 poverty. 
 
 " ' The worst of sins is uncharitableness ; and 
 to the uncharitable is awarded the severest punish- 
 ment ; for while the despisers of their spiritual 
 guides shall live for a thousand centuries as frogs, 
 and those who contemn the Brahmans as ravens, 
 and those who scorn other men as blinking bats, 
 the uncharitable alone shall be condemned to the 
 profoundest hell, and their punishment shall last 
 for ever.' " * 
 
 Govinda closed his book ; and the old Brahmin 
 
 - * Vide the Heetopadessa. 
 
164 TALES. 
 
 was proceeding to make an elaborate comment on 
 this venerable text, when, looking up in the face 
 of his pupil, he perceived that he was pale, ab- 
 stracted, and apparently unconscious that he was 
 speaking. He stopped ; he was about to rebuke 
 him, but he restrained himself; and after reflect- 
 ing for a few moments, lie commanded the youth 
 to prepare for the evening sacrifice ; but first he 
 desired him to summon Amra to her father's pres- 
 ence. 
 
 At this unusual command Govinda almost start- 
 ed. He deposited the sacred leaves in his bosom, 
 and, with a beating heart and trembling steps, 
 prepared to obey. When he reached the door of 
 the zenana, he gently lifted the silken curtain 
 which divided the apartments, and stood for a few 
 moments contemplating, with silent and sad delight, 
 the group that met his view. 
 
 Amra was reclining upon cushions, and looking 
 wan as a star that fades away before the dawn. 
 Her head drooped upon her bosom, her hair hung 
 neglected upon her shoulders ; yet was she lovely 
 still ; and Govinda, while he gazed, remembered 
 the words of the poet Calidas : " The water-lily, 
 though dark moss may settle on its head, is never- 
 theless beautiful ; and the moon, with dewy beams, 
 is rendered yet brighter by its dark spots/' She 
 was clasping round her delicate wrist a bracelet of 
 gems; and when she observed, that ever as she 
 placed it on her attenuated arm it fell again upon 
 her hand, she shook her head and smiled mourn- 
 
THE FALSE OXE. 165 
 
 fully. Two of her maids sat at her feet occupied 
 in their embroidery ; and old Gautami, at her side, 
 was relating, in a slow, monotonous recitative, one 
 of her thousand tales of wonder, to divert the 
 melancholy of her young mistress. She told how 
 the de mi-god Rama was forced to flee from the 
 demons who had usurped his throne, and how his 
 beautiful and faithful Seita wandered over the 
 whole earth in search of her consort ; and, being 
 at length overcome with grief and fatigue, she sat 
 down in the pathless wilderness and wept; and 
 how there arose from the spot, where her tears 
 sank warm into the earth, a fountain of boiling 
 water of exquisite clearness and wondrous virtues ; 
 and how maidens, who make a pilgrimage to this 
 sacred well and dip their veils into its wave with 
 pure devotion, insure themselves the utmost felic- 
 ity in marriage ; thus the story ran. Amra, who 
 appeared at first abstracted and inattentive, began 
 to be affected by the misfortunes and the love of 
 the beautiful Seita ; and at the mention of the 
 fountain and its virtues, she lifted her eves with an 
 expression of eager interest, and met those of 
 Govinda fixed upon her. She uttered a faint cry, 
 and threw herself into the arms of Gautami. He 
 hastened to deliver the commands of his precep- 
 tor, and then Amra, recovering her self-possession, 
 threw her veil round her, arose and followed him 
 to her father's presence. 
 
 As they drew near together, the old man looked 
 from one to the other. Perhaps his heart, though 
 
166 TALES. 
 
 dead to all human passions, felt at that moment a 
 touch of pity for the youthful, lovely, and loving 
 pair who stood before him ; but his look was calm, 
 cold and serene, as usual. 
 
 " Draw near, my son," he said ; " and thou, my 
 beloved daughter, approach, and listen to the will 
 of your father. The time is come, when we must 
 make ready all things for the arrival of the wise 
 and honored Adhar. My daughter, let those 
 pious ceremonies, with which virtuous women pre- 
 pare themselves ere they enter the dwelling of 
 their husband, be duly performed ; and do thou, 
 Govinda, son of my choice, set my household in 
 order, that all may be in readiness to receive with 
 honor the bridegroom, who comes to claim his be- 
 trothed. To-morrow we will sacrifice to Ganesa, 
 who is the guardian of travellers ; this night must be 
 given to penance and holy meditation. Antra, re- 
 tire ; and thou, Govinda, take up that fagot of Tulsi- 
 woocl, with the rice and the flowers for the evening 
 oblation, and follow me to the temple." So saying, 
 the old man turned away hastily ; and without look- 
 ing back, pursued his path through the sacred grove. 
 
 Alas for those he had left behind ! Govinda 
 remained silent and motionless. Amra would 
 have obeyed her father, but her limbs refused 
 their office. She trembled — she was sinking ; she 
 timidly looked up to Govinda as if for support ; 
 his arms were extended to receive her ; she fell 
 upon his neck, and wept unrestrained tears. He 
 held her to his bosom as though he would have 
 
THE FALSE OXE. 167 
 
 folded her into his inmost heart, and hidden her 
 there for ever. He murmured passionate words 
 of transport and fondness in her ear. He drew 
 aside her veil from her pale brow, and ventured to 
 print a kiss upon her closed eyelids. " To-night," 
 he whispered, " in the grove of mangoes by the 
 river's bank ! " She answered only by a mute 
 caress ; and then supporting her steps to her own 
 apartments, he resigned her to the arms of her 
 attendants, and hastened after his preceptor. He 
 forgot, however, the materials for the evening sac- 
 rifice, and in consequence not only had to suffer 
 a severe rebuke from the old priest, but the inflic- 
 tion of a penance extraordinary, which detained 
 him in the presence of his preceptor till the night 
 was far advanced. At length, however, Sarma 
 retired to holy meditation and mental abstraction, 
 and Govinda was dismissed. 
 
 He had hitherto maintained, with habitual and 
 determined self-command, that calm, subdued ex- 
 terior, which becomes a pupil in the presence of 
 his religious teacher ; but no sooner had he crossed 
 the threshold, and found himself alone breathing 
 the free night-air of heaven, than the smothered 
 passions burst forth. He paused for one instant, 
 to anathematize in his soul the Sastras and their 
 contents, the gods and their temples, the priests 
 and the sacrifices ; the futile ceremonies and profit- 
 less suffering to which his life was abandoned, and 
 the cruel policy to which he had been made an 
 unwilling victim. Then he thought of Amra. and 
 
168 TALES. 
 
 all things connected with her changed their as- 
 pect. 
 
 In another moment be was beneath the shadow 
 of the mangoes on the river's brink. He looked 
 round, Amra. was not there ; he listened, there 
 was no sound. The grass bore marks of having 
 been recently pressed, and still its perfume floated 
 on the air. A few flowers were scattered round, 
 fresh gathered, and glittering with dew. Govinda 
 wrung his hands in despair, and flung himself 
 upon the bank, where a month before they had 
 sat together. On the very spot where Amra had 
 reclined, he perceived a lotos-leaf and a palasa 
 flower laid together. Upon the lotos-leaf he could 
 perceive written, with a thorn or some sharp point, 
 the word Amra ; and the crimson palasa-buds 
 were sacred to the dead. It was sufficient; he 
 thrust the leaf and the flowers into his bosom ; and 
 " swift as the sparkle of a glancing star," he flew 
 along the path which led to the garden sepulchre. 
 
 The mother of Amra had died in giving birth to 
 her only child. She was young, beautiful, and 
 virtuous ; and had lived happily with her husband 
 notwithstanding the disparity of age. The pride 
 and stoicism of his caste would not allow him to 
 betray any violence of grief, or show his affection 
 for the dead, otherwise than by raising to her mem- 
 ory a beautiful tomb. It consisted of four light 
 pillars, richly and grotesquely carved, supporting 
 a pointed cupola, beneath which was an altar for 
 oblations ; the whole was overlaid with brilliant 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 169 
 
 white stucco, and glittered through the gloom. A 
 flight of steps led up to this edifice ; upon the 
 highest step, and at the foot of the altar, Amra 
 was seated alone and weeping. 
 
 Love — O love ! what have I to do with thee ? 
 How sinks the heart, how trembles the hand as it 
 approaches the forbidden theme ! Of all the gifts 
 the gods have sent upon the earth thou most pre- 
 cious — yet ever most fatal ! As serpents dwell 
 among the odorous boughs of the sandal-tree, and 
 alligators in the thrice sacred waters of the Gan- 
 ges, so all that is sweetest, holiest, dearest upon 
 earth, is mixed up with sin, and pain, and misery, 
 and evil ! Thus hath it been ordained from the 
 beginning ; and the love that hath never mourned, 
 is not love. 
 
 How r sweet, vet how terrible, were the moments 
 
 **> j 
 
 that succeeded ! While Govinda, with fervid elo- 
 quence, poured out his whole soul at her feet, 
 Amra alternately melted with tenderness, or 
 shrunk with sensitive alarm. When he darkly 
 intimated the irresistible power he possessed to 
 overcome all obstacles to their union — when he 
 spoke with certainty of the time when she should 
 be his, spite of the world and men — when he de- 
 scribed the glorious height to which his love would 
 elevate her — the delights and the treasures he 
 would lavish around hef, she, indeed, understood 
 not his words ; yet, with all a woman's trusting 
 faith in him she loves, she hung upon his accents — ■ 
 listened and believed. The high and passionate 
 
170 TALES. 
 
 energy, with which his spirit, so long pent up and 
 crushed within him, now revealed itself; the con- 
 sciousness of Ills own power, the knowledge that 
 he was beloved, lent such a new and strange ex- 
 pression to his whole aspect, and touched his fine 
 form and features with such a proud and sparkling 
 beauty, that Amra looked up at him with a mix- 
 ture of astonishment, admiration, and deep love, 
 not wholly unmingled with fear ; almost believing, 
 that she gazed upon some more than mortal lover, 
 upon one of those bright genii, who inhabit the 
 lower heaven, and have been known in the old 
 time to leave their celestial haunts for love of the 
 earth-born daughters of beauty. 
 
 Amra did not speak, but Govinda felt his power. 
 He saw his advantage, and, with the instinctive 
 subtlety of his sex, he pursued it. He sighed, he 
 wept, he implored, he upbraided. Amra, overpower- 
 ed by his emotion and her own, had turned away 
 her head, and embraced one of the pillars of her 
 mother's tomb, as if for protection. In accents of 
 the most plaintive tenderness she entreated him 
 to leave her — to spare her — and even while she 
 spoke, her arm relaxed its hold, and she was yield- 
 ing to the gentle force with which he endeavored 
 to draw her away ; when at this moment, so danger- 
 ous to both, a startling sound was heard— a rustling 
 among the bushes, and then a soft, low whistle. 
 Govinda started up at that well-known signal, and 
 saw the head of the mute appearing just above the 
 altar. His turban being green, was undistinguish- 
 
THE FALSE ONE, 171 
 
 able against the leafy background : and his small 
 black eves glanced and glittered like those of a 
 snake. Govinda would willingly have annihilated 
 him at that moment. He made a gesture of angry 
 impatience, and motioned him to retire ; but Sahib 
 stood still shook his hand with a threatening ex- 
 pression, and made signs, that he must instantly 
 follow him. 
 
 Amra. meantime, who had neither seen nor heard 
 any thing, began to suspect, that Govinda was com- 
 muning with some invisible spirit : she clung to 
 him in terror, and endeavored to recall his atten- 
 tion to herself by the most tender and soothing 
 words and caresses. After some time he succeeded 
 in calming her fears ; and with a thousand promises 
 of quick return, he at length tore himself away, 
 and followed through the thicket the form of Sahib, 
 who glided like a shadow before him, 
 
 When they reached the accustomed spot, the 
 mute leapt into the canoe, which he had made fast 
 to the root of a mango-tree, and motioning Govinda 
 to follow him, he pushed from the shore, and rowed 
 rapidly till they reached a tall, bare rock near the 
 centre of the stream, beneath the dark shadow of 
 which Sahib moored his little boat, out of the pos- 
 sible reach of human eye or ear. 
 
 All had passed so quickly, that Govinda felt like 
 one in a dream ; but now. awakening to a sense of 
 his situation, he held out his hand for the expected 
 letter from his brother, trembling to learn its im- 
 port, upon which he felt that more than his life 
 
172 TALES. 
 
 depended. Sahib, meanwhile, did not appear in 
 haste to obey. At length, after a pause of breath- 
 less suspense, Govinda heard a low and well-re- 
 membered voice repeat an almost-forgotten name : 
 " Faizi ! " it said. 
 
 " O Prophet of God ! my brother ! " and he was 
 clasped in the arms of Abul Fazil. 
 
 After the first transports of recognition had sub- 
 sided, Faizi (it is time to use his real name) sank 
 from his brother's arms to his feet ; he clasped his 
 knees. "My brother!" he exclaimed, " what is 
 now to be my fate ? You have not lightly assumed 
 this disguise, and braved the danger of discovery ! 
 You know all, and have come to save me — to bless 
 me ? Is it not so ? " 
 
 Abul Fazil could not see his brother's uplifted 
 countenance, flushed with the hectic of feverish 
 impatience, or his imploring eyes, that floated in 
 tears ; but his tones were sufficiently expressive. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " he said, compassionately, " I should 
 have foreseen this. But calm these transports, my 
 brother ! nothing is denied to the sultan's power, 
 and nothing will he deny thee." 
 
 " He knows all, then ? " 
 
 "All — and by his command am I come. I had 
 feared, that my brother had sold his vowed obe- 
 dience for the smile of a dark-eyed girl — what shall 
 I say ? — I feared for his safety ! " 
 
 " O my brother ! there is no cause ! " 
 
 "I know it — enough! — I have seen and heard!" 
 
 Faizi covered his face with his hands. 
 
THE FALSE OXE. 173 
 
 " If the sultan " 
 
 " Have no doubts," said Abul Fazil ; " nothing 
 is denied to the sultan's power, nothing will be de- 
 nied to thee." 
 
 "And the Braham Adhar ? " 
 " It has been looked to — he will not trouble thee." 
 " Dead f O merciful Allah ! crime upon crime ! " 
 " His life is cared for," said Abul Fazil, calmly : 
 " ask no more." 
 
 " It is sufficient. O my brother ! O Amra ! " — 
 " She is thine ! — Now hear the will of Akbar." 
 Faizi bowed his head with submission. " Speak ! " 
 he said ; " the slave of Akbar listens." 
 
 " In three months from this time," continued 
 Abul Fazil, " and on this appointed night, it will 
 be dark, and the pagodas deserted. Then, and 
 not till then, will Sahib be found at the accustomed 
 spot. He will bring in the skiff a dress, which is 
 the sultan's gift, and will be a sufficient disguise. 
 On the left bank of the stream there shall be sta- 
 tioned an ample guard, with a close litter and a 
 swift Arabian. Thou shalt mount the one, and in 
 the other shall be placed this fair girl. Then fly ; 
 haying first flung her veil upon the river to beguile 
 pursuit ; the rest I leave to thine own quick wit. 
 But let all be done with secrecy and subtlety ; for 
 the sultan, though he can refuse thee nothing, 
 would not willingly commit an open wrong against 
 a people he has lately conciliated ; and the violation 
 of a Brahminee woman were enough to raise a 
 province." 
 
174 TALES. 
 
 " It shall not need/' exclaimed the youth, clasp- 
 ing his hands : " she loves me ! She shall live for 
 me — only for me — while others weep her dead ! " 
 
 " It is well ; now return we in silence, the night 
 wears fast away." He took one of the oars, Faizi 
 seized the other, and with some difficulty they 
 rowed up the stream, keeping close under the 
 overshadowing banks. Having reached the little 
 promontory, they parted with a strict and mute 
 embrace. 
 
 Faizi looked for a moment after his brother, then 
 sprung forward to the spot where he had left 
 Ainra; but she was no longer there ; apparently 
 she had been recalled by her nurse to her own 
 apartments, and did not again make her appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Three months more completed the five years 
 which had been allotted for Govinda's Brahminical 
 studies ; they passed but too rapidly away. During 
 this time the Brahman Adhar did not arrive, nor 
 was his name again uttered ; and Amra, restored 
 to health, was more than ever tender and beautiful, 
 and more than ever beloved. 
 
 The old Brahman, who had hitherto maintained 
 towards his pupil and adopted son a cold and dis- 
 tant demeanour, now relaxed from his accustomed 
 austerity, and when he addressed him it was in a 
 tone of mildness, and even tenderness. Alas for 
 Govinda ! every proof of this newly-awakened 
 affection pierced his heart with unavailing remorse. 
 He had lived long enough among the Brahmans, 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 175 
 
 to anticipate with terror the effects of his treachery, 
 when once discovered ; but he repelled such ob- 
 trusive images, and resolutely shut his eyes against 
 a future, which he could neither control nor avert. 
 He tried to persuade himself, that it was now too 
 late ; that the stoical indifference to all earthly evil, 
 passion, and suffering, which the Pundit Sarma 
 taught and practised, .would sufficiently arm him 
 against the double blow preparing for him. Yet, 
 as the hour approached, the fever of suspense con- 
 sumed his heart. Contrary passions distracted and 
 bewildered him ; his ideas of right and wrong be- 
 came fearfully perplexed. He would have given 
 the treasures of Istakar to arrest the swift progress 
 of time. He felt like one entangled in the wheels 
 of some vast machine, and giddily and irresistibly 
 whirled along he knew not how nor whither. 
 
 At length the day arrived ; the morning broke 
 forth in all that splendour with which she descends 
 upon " the Indian steep." Govinda prepared for 
 the early sacrifice, the last he was to perform. In 
 spite of the heaviness and confusion which reigned 
 in his own mind, he could perceive that something 
 unusual occupied the thoughts of his preceptor ; 
 some emotion of. a pleasurable kind had smoothed 
 the old man's brow. His voice was softened ; and 
 though his lips were compressed, almost a smile 
 lighted up his eyes, when he turned them on Go- 
 vinda. The sacrifice was one of unusual pomp and 
 solemnity, in honor of the goddess Parvati, and 
 lasted till the sun's decline. When thev returned 
 
1 7G TALES. 
 
 to the dwelling of Sarma lie dismissed his pupils 
 from their learned exercises, desiring them to make 
 that day a day of rest and recreation, as if it were 
 the festival of Sri, the goddess of learning, when 
 books, pens, and paper, being honored as her em- 
 blems, remain untouched, and her votaries enjoy a 
 sabbath. When they were departed, the old Brah- 
 man commanded Govinda to seat himself on the 
 ground opposite to him. This being the first time 
 he had ever sat in the presence of his preceptor, 
 the young man hesitated ; but Sarma motioned him 
 to obey, and accordingly he sat down at a respect- 
 ful distance, keeping his eyes reverently cast upon 
 the ground. The old man then spoke these words. 
 
 "It is now five years since the son of Mitra 
 entered my dwelling. He was then but a child, 
 helpless, orphaned, ignorant of all true knowledge ; 
 expelled from the faith of his fathers and the privi- 
 leges of his high caste. I took him to my heart 
 with joy, I fed him, I clothed him, I opened his 
 mind to truth, I poured into his soul the light of 
 knowledge ; he became to me a son. If in any 
 thing I have omitted the duty of a father towards 
 him, if ever I refused to him the wish of his heart 
 or the desire of his eyes, let him now speak ! " 
 
 " O my father ! " — 
 
 " No more," said the Brahman, gently, " I am 
 answered in that one word ; but all that I have yet 
 done seems as nothing in mine eyes ; for the love I 
 bear my son is wide as the wide earth, and my 
 bounty shall be as the boundless firmament. Know 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 177 
 
 that I have read thy soul ! Start not ! I have re- 
 ceived letters from the south country. Anrra is 
 no longer the wife of Adhar ; for Adhar has vowed 
 himself to a life of penance and celibacy in the 
 temple of Indore, by order of an offended prince ; 
 —may he find peace ! The writings of divorce are 
 drawn up, and my daughter being already past the 
 age when a prudent father hastens to marry his 
 child, in order that the souls of the dead may be 
 duly honored by their posterity, I have sought for 
 her a husband, such as a parent might desire ; 
 learned in the sciences, graced with every virtue ; 
 of unblemished life, of unmixed caste, and rich in 
 the goods of this world." 
 
 The Brahman stopped short. Faizi, breathing 
 with difficulty, felt his blood pause at his heart. 
 
 " My son ! " continued the old man, " I have 
 not coveted possessions or riches, but the gods have 
 blessed me with prosperity ; be they praised for 
 their gifts ! Look around upon this fair dwelling, 
 upon those fertile lands, which spread far and wide, 
 a goodly prospect ; and the herds that feed on 
 them, and the bondsmen who cultivate them; with 
 silver and gold, and garments, and rich stores 
 heaped up, more than I car* count — all these do I 
 give thee freely ; possess them ! and with them I 
 give thee a greater gift, and one that I well believe 
 is richer and dearer in thine eyes — my daughter, 
 my last and best treasure ! Thus do I resign all 
 worldly cares, devoting myself henceforth solely to 
 pious duties and religious meditation ; for the few 
 12 
 
178 TALES. 
 
 days he has to live, let the old man repose upon thy 
 love ! A little water, a little rice, a roof to shelter 
 him, these thou shalt bestow — he asks no more." 
 
 The Brahman's voice faltered. He rose, and 
 Govinda stood up, trembling in every nerve. The 
 old priest then laid his hand solemnly upon his 
 bowed head and blessed him. " My son ! to me 
 far better than many sons, be thou blest as thou 
 hast blessed me ! The just gods requite thee with 
 full measure all thou hast done ! May the wife I 
 bestow on thee bring to thy bosom all the felicity 
 thou broughtest to me and mine, and thy last hours 
 be calm and bright, as those thy love has prepared 
 for me ! " 
 
 " Ah, curse me not ! " exclaimed Govinda, with 
 a cry of horror: for in the anguish of that moment 
 he felt as if the bitter malediction, thus unconscious- 
 ly pronounced, was already fulfilling. He flung 
 himself upon the earth in an agony of self-humilia- 
 tion ; he crawled to the feet of his preceptor, he 
 kissed them, he clasped his knees. In broken 
 words he revealed himself, .and confessed the 
 treacherous artifice of which he was at once the in- 
 strument and the victim. The Brahman stood mo- 
 tionless, scarcely comprehending the words spoken. 
 At length he seemed to awaken to the sense of 
 what he heard, and trembled from head to foot with 
 an exceeding horror ; but he uttered no word of 
 reproach ; and after a pause, he suddenly drew the 
 sacrificial poniard from his girdle, and would have 
 plunged it into his own bosom, if Faizi had not 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 179 
 
 arrested his arm, and without difficulty snatched 
 the weapon from his shaking and powerless grasp. 
 
 " If yet there be mercy for me," he exclaimed, 
 " add not to my crimes this worst of all — make me 
 not a sacrilegious murderer ! Here," he added, 
 kneeling, and opening his bosom, " strike ! satisfy 
 at once a just vengeance, and end all fears in the 
 blood of an abhorred betrayer ! Strike, ere it be 
 too late ! " 
 
 The old man twice raised his hand, but it was 
 without strength. He dropped the knife, and fold- 
 ing his arms, and sinking his head upon his bosom, 
 he remained silent. 
 
 " O yet ! " exclaimed Faizi, lifting with rever- 
 ence the hem of his robe and pressing it to his 
 lips, " if there remain a hope for me, tell me by 
 what penance — terrible, prolonged, and unheard-of 
 — I may expiate this sin ; and hear me swear, that, 
 henceforth, neither temptation, nor torture, nor 
 death itself, shall force me to reveal the secrets 
 of the Brahmin faith, nor divulge the holy charac- 
 ters in which they are written ; and if I break 
 this vow, may I perish from off the earth like a 
 dog ! " 
 
 The Brahman clasped his hands, and turned his 
 eyes for a moment on the hnploring countenance 
 of the youth, but averted them instantly with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " What have I to do with thee," he said, at 
 length, " thou serpent I Well is it written — 
 ' Though the upas-tree were watered with nectar 
 
180 TALES. 
 
 from heaven instead of dew, yet would it bear 
 poison.' Yet swear — " 
 
 "I do— I will—" 
 
 " Never to behold my face again, nor utter with 
 those guileful and polluted lips the name of my 
 daughter." 
 
 " My father ! » 
 
 " Father ! " repeated the old man, with a flash 
 of indignation, but it was instantly subdued. 
 " Swear ! " he repeated, " if vows can bind a 
 thing so vile ! " 
 
 " My father, I embrace thy knees ! Not heaven 
 itself can annul the past, and Amra is mine be- 
 yond the power of fate or vengeance to disunite us 
 — but by death ! " 
 
 "Hah!" said the Brahman, stepping back, "it 
 is then as I feared ! and this is well too ! " — he 
 muttered ; " Heaven required a victim ! " 
 
 He moved slowly to the door, and called his 
 daughter with a loud voice : Amra heard and 
 trembled in the recesses of her apartments. The 
 voice was her father's, but the tones of that voice 
 made her soul sicken with fear ; and, drawing her 
 drapery round to conceal that alteration in her 
 lovely form which was but too apparent, she came 
 forth with faltering steps. 
 
 " Approach ! " said the Brahman, fixing his eyes 
 upon her, while those of Faizi, after the first eager 
 glance, remained riveted to the earth. She drew 
 near with affright, and gazed wildly from one to the 
 other. 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 181 
 
 " Ay ! look well upon him ! whom dost thou be- 
 hold ? " 
 
 " My father ! — Ah ! spare me ! " 
 
 " Is he your husband ? " 
 
 " Govinda ! alas ! — speak for us ! " — 
 
 " Fool ! " — he grasped her supplicating hands, — 
 " say but the word— are you a wife ? " 
 
 " lam! I am ! 7iis, before the face of Heaven ! " 
 
 " No ! " — he dropped her hands, and spoke in a 
 rapid and broken voice : " No ! Heaven disclaims 
 the monstrous mixture ! hell itself rejects it ! Had 
 he been the meanest among the sons of Brahma, I 
 had borne it : but an Infidel, a base-born Moslem, 
 has contaminated the stream of my life ! Accursed 
 was the hour when he came beneath my roof, like 
 a treacherous fox and a ravening wolf, to betray 
 and to destroy ! Accursed was the hour, which 
 mingled the blood of Narayna with that of the son 
 of a slave-girl ! Shall I live to look upon a race of 
 outcasts, abhorred on earth and excommunicate 
 from heaven, and say, ' These are the offspring of 
 Sarma ? ' Miserable girl ! thou wert preordained 
 a sacrifice ! Die ! and thine infamy perish with 
 thee ! " Even while he spoke he snatched up the 
 poniard which lay at his feet, but this he needed 
 not — the blow was already struck home, and to her 
 very heart. Before the vengeful steel could reach 
 her, she fell, without a cry — a groan — senseless, 
 and, as it seemed, lifeless, upon the earth. 
 
 Faizi, almost with a shriek, sprang forward ; 
 but the old man interposed ; and, with the strong 
 
182 TALES. 
 
 grasp of supernatural strength — the strength of 
 despair — held him back. Meantime the women, 
 alarmed by his cries, rushed wildly in, and bore 
 away in their arms the insensible form of Amra. 
 Faizi strove to follow ; but, at a sign from the 
 Brahman, the door was quickly closed and fasten- 
 ed within, so that it resisted all his efforts to force 
 it. He turned almost fiercely — " She will yet 
 live ! " he passionately exclaimed ; and the Brah- 
 man replied, calmly and disdainfully, " If she be 
 the daughter of Sarma. she will die ! " Then rend- 
 ing his garments, and tearing off his turban, he sat 
 down upon the sacrificial hearth ; and taking up 
 dust and ashes, scattered them on his bare head 
 and flowing beard ; he then remained motionless, 
 with his chin upon his bosom, and his arms crossed 
 upon his knees. In vain did Faizi kneel before 
 him, and weep, and supplicate for one word, one 
 look ; he was apparently lost to all consciousness, 
 rigid, torpid ; and, but that he breathed, and that 
 there was at times a convulsive movement in his 
 eyelids, it might have been thought, that life itself 
 was suspended, or had altogether ceased. 
 
 Thus did this long and most miserable day wear 
 away, and night came on. Faizi — who had spent 
 the hours in walking to and fro like a troubled 
 demon, now listening at the door of the zenana, 
 from which no sound proceeded, now endeavoring 
 in vain to win, by the most earnest entreaties, some 
 sign of life or recognition from the old man — could 
 no longer endure the horror of his own sensations. 
 
THE FALSE OXE, 183 
 
 He stepped into the open air, and leaned his head 
 against the porch. The breeze, which blew freshly 
 against his parched lips and throbbing temples, 
 revived his faculties. After a few moments he 
 thought he could distinguish voices, and the tramp- 
 ling of men and horses, borne on the night air. 
 He raised his hands in ecstasy. Again he bent his 
 ear to listen ; he heard the splash of an oar. 
 "They come!" he exclaimed, almost aloud, " one 
 more plunge, and it is done ! This hapless and 
 distracted old man I will save from his own and 
 other's fury, and still be to him a son, in his own 
 despite. And, Amra ! my own ! my beautiful ! my 
 beloved ! oh, how richly shall the future atone for 
 these hours of anguish ! In these arms the cruel 
 pride and prejudices of thy race shall be forgot- 
 ten. At thy feet I will pour the treasures of the 
 world, and lift thee to joys beyond the brightest 
 visions of youthful fancy ! But — O merciful 
 Allah ! "— 
 
 At the same moment a long, loud, and piercing 
 shriek was heard from the women's apartments, 
 followed by lamentable waitings. He made but 
 one bound to the door. It resisted, but his despair 
 was strong. He rushed against it with a force, 
 that burst it from its hinges, and precipitated him 
 into the midst of the chamber. It was empty and 
 dark ; so was the next, and the next. At last he 
 reached the inner and most sacred apartment. He 
 beheld the lifeless form of Amra extended on the 
 ground. Over her face was thrown an embroidered 
 
184 TALES. 
 
 veil; her head rested on the lap of her nurse, 
 whose features appeared rigid with horror. The 
 rest of the women, who were weeping and wailing, 
 covered their heads, and fled at his approach. 
 Faizi called upon the name of her he loved ; he 
 snatched the veil from that once lovely face — that 
 face which had never been revealed to him but in 
 tender and soul-beaming beauty. He looked, and 
 fell senseless on the floor. 
 
 The unhappy Amra, in recovering from her long 
 swoon, had fallen into a stupor, which her attend- 
 ants mistook for slumber, and left her for a short 
 interval. She awoke, wretched girl ! alone, she 
 awoke to the sudden and maddening sense of her 
 lost state, to all the pangs of outraged love, violated 
 faith, shame, anguish, and despair. In a paroxysm 
 of delirium, when none were near to soothe or to 
 save, she had made her own luxuriant and^beauti- 
 ful tresses the instrument of her destruction, and 
 choked herself by swallowing her hair. 
 
 When the emissaries of the sultan entered this 
 house of desolation, they found Faizi still insen- 
 sible at the side of her he had so loved. He 
 was borne away before recollection returned, 
 placed in the litter which had been prepared for 
 Amra, and carried to Ferrukabad, where the sul- 
 tan was then hunting with his whole court. What 
 became of the old Brahman is not known. He 
 passed away like a shadow from the earth, " and 
 his place knew him not." Whether he sought a 
 voluntary death, or wore away his remaining years 
 
THE FALSE ONE. 185 
 
 in secret penance, can only be conjectured, for all 
 search was vain. 
 
 Eastern records tell, that Faizi kept Ms promise 
 sacred, and never revealed the mysteries intrusted 
 to him. Yet he retained the favor of Akbar, by 
 whose command he translated from the Sanscrit 
 tongue several poetical and historical works into 
 the choicest Persian. He became himself an illus- 
 trious poet : and. like other poets of greater fame. 
 created - an immortality of his tears." He ac- 
 quired the title of Sheich. or -the learned." and 
 rose to the highest civil offices of the empire. All 
 outward renown, prosperity, and fame, were his ; 
 but there was. at least, retributive justice in his 
 early and tragical death. 
 
 Towards the conclusion of Akbar's reign. Abul 
 Fazil was sent upon a secret mission into the 
 Deccan. and Faizi accompanied him. The favor 
 which these celebrated brothers enjoyed at court, 
 their influence over the mind of the sultan, and 
 their entire union, had long excited the jealousy of 
 Prince Selim* the eldest son of Akbar. and he 
 had vowed their destruction. On their return 
 from the south, with a small escort, they were at- 
 tacked by a numerous band of assassins, disguised 
 as robbers, and both perished. Faizi was found 
 lying upon the body of Abul Fazil whom he had 
 bravely defended to the last. The death of these 
 illustrious brothers was lamented, not only within 
 the bounds of the empire, but through all the 
 
 * Afterwards the Emperor Jehangire. 
 
186 TALES. 
 
 kingdoms of the East, whither their fame had ex- 
 tended ; and by the sultan's command they were 
 interred together, and with extraordinary pomp. 
 One incident only remains to be added. When the 
 bodies were stripped for burial, there was found 
 within the inner vest of the Sheich Faizi, and 
 close to his heart, a withered Lotus leaf inscribed 
 with certain characters. So great was the fame of 
 the dead for wisdom, learning, and devotion, that 
 it was supposed to be a talisman endued with ex- 
 traordinary virtues, and immediately transmitted 
 to the sultan. Akbar considered the relic with 
 surprise. It was nothing but a simple Lotus leaf, 
 faded, shrivelled, and stained with blood ; but on 
 examining it more closely, he could trace, in ill- 
 formed and scarcely legible Indian letters, the word 
 Amra. 
 
 And when Akbar looked upon this tender me- 
 morial of a hapless love, and undying sorrow, his 
 great heart melted within him, and he wept. 
 
HALLORAX THE PEDDLER. 187 
 
 HALLOEAX THE PEDDLER* 
 
 u j T g r i e Y es me." said an eminent poet once to 
 me, " it grieves and humbles me to reflect how much 
 our moral nature is in the power of circumstances. 
 Our best faculties would remain unknown even to 
 ourselves did not the influences of external excite- 
 ment call them forth like animalculse. which lie 
 torpid till awakened into life by the transient sun- 
 beam." 
 
 This is generally true. How many walk through 
 the beaten paths of every-day life, who but for the 
 novelist's page would never weep or wonder ; and 
 who would know nothing of the passions but as 
 they are represented in some tragedy or stage 
 piece ? not that they are incapable of high resolve 
 and energy : but because the finer qualities have 
 never been called forth by imperious circum- 
 stances: for while the wheels of existence roll 
 smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber 
 in her vehicle like a lazy traveller. But for the 
 French revolution, how many hundreds — thousands 
 — whose courage, fortitude, and devotedness have 
 
 * This little tale was written in Vlarch. 1826. and in the hands 
 of the publishers long before the appearance of Bainim's novel 
 of ''The Xowlans.'" which contains a similar incident, probably 
 founded on the same fact. 
 
188 TALES. 
 
 sanctified their names, would have frittered away a 
 frivolous, useless, or vicious life in the saloons of 
 Paris ! We have heard of death in its most revolt- 
 ing forms braved by delicate females, who would 
 have screamed at the sight of the most insignificant 
 reptile or insect ; and men cheerfully toiling at 
 mechanic trades for bread, who had lounged away 
 the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their 
 mistresses. We know not of what we are capable 
 till the trial comes ; — till it comes, perhaps, in a 
 form which makes the strong man quail, and turns 
 the gentler woman into a heroine. 
 
 The power of outward circumstances suddenly 
 to awaken dormant faculties — the extraordinary 
 influence which the mere instinct of self-preserva- 
 tion can exert over the mind, and the triumph of 
 mind thus excited over physical weakness, were 
 never more truly exemplified than in the story of 
 Halloran the Peddler. 
 
 The real circumstances of this singular case, 
 differing essentially from the garbled and incorrect 
 account which appeared in the newspapers some 
 years ago, came to my knowledge in the following 
 simple manner. My cousin George C . . . , an 
 Irish barrister of some standing, lately succeeded 
 to his family estates by the death of a near relative ; 
 and no sooner did he find himself in possession of 
 independence than, abjuring- the bar, where, after 
 twenty years of hard struggling, he was just begin- 
 ning to make a figure, he set off on a tour through 
 Italy and Greece, to forget the wrangling of courts, 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 189 
 
 the contumely of attorneys, and the impatience of 
 clients. He left in my hands a mass of papers, to 
 burn or not, as I might feel inclined ; and truly the 
 contents of his desk were no bad illustration of the 
 character and pursuits of its owner. Here I found 
 abstracts of cases, and on their backs copies of 
 verses, sketches of scenery, and numerous carica- 
 tures of judges, jurymen, witnesses, and his breth- 
 ren of the bar — a bundle of old briefs, and the 
 beginnings of two tragedies; with a long list of 
 
 Lord N 's best jokes to serve his purposes as 
 
 occasion might best offer. Among these heteroge- 
 neous and confused articles were a number of 
 scraps carefully pinned together, containing notes 
 on a certain trial, the first in which he had been 
 retained as counsel for the crown. The intense 
 interest with which I perused these documents, 
 suggested the plan of throwing the whole into a 
 connected form, and here it is for the reader's 
 benefit. 
 
 In a little village to the south of Clonmell lived 
 a poor peasant named Michael, or as it was there 
 pronounced Mickle Reilly. He was a labourer 
 renting a cabin and a plot of potato-ground ; and, 
 on the strength of these possessions, a robust frame 
 which feared no fatigue, and a sanguine mind 
 which dreaded no reverse, Reilly paid his addresses 
 to Cathleen Bray, a young girl of his own parish, 
 and they were married. Reilly was able, skilful, 
 and industrious ; Cathleen was the best spinner in 
 the country, and had constant sale for her work at 
 
190 TALES. 
 
 Clonmell ; they wanted nothing ; and for the first 
 year, as Cathleen said, " There wasn't upon the 
 blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for 
 Mick was the best boy in the world, and hadn't a 
 fault to spake of — barring he took a drop now and 
 then ; an' why wouldn't he ? " But as it happened, 
 poor Reilly's love of " the drop " was the beginning 
 of all their misfortunes. In an evil hour he went 
 to the Fair of Clonmell to sell a dozen hanks of 
 yarn of his wife's spinning, and a fat pig, the pro- 
 duce of which was to pay half a year's rent, and 
 add to their little comforts. Here he met with a 
 jovial companion, who took him into a booth, and 
 treated him to sundry potations of whiskey ; and 
 while in his company his pocket was picked of the 
 money he had just received, and something more ; 
 in short, of all he possessed in the world. At that 
 luckless moment, while maddened by his loss and 
 heated with liquor, he fell into the company of a 
 recruiting sergeant. The many-colored and gayly 
 fluttering cockade in the soldier's cap shone like a 
 rainbow of hope and promise before the drunken 
 eyes of Mickle Reilly, and ere morning he was en- 
 listed into a regiment under orders for embarka- 
 tion, and instantly sent off to Cork. 
 
 Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon him- 
 self, and his wife, (whom he loved a thousand times 
 better than himself,) poor Eeilly sent a friend to 
 inform Cathleen of his mischance, and to assure 
 her that on a certain day, in a week from that 
 time, a letter would await her at the Clonmell post- 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 191 
 
 office: the same friend was commissioned to deliver 
 her his silver watch, and a guinea out of his boun- 
 ty-money. Poor Cathleen turned from the gold 
 with horror, as the price of her husband's blood, 
 and vowed that nothing on earth should induce her 
 to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time 
 and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so 
 long a time must elapse before his letter arrived. 
 On the appointed day she was too impatient to 
 wait the arrival of the carrier, but set off to Clon- 
 mell herself, a distance of ten miles : there, at the 
 post-office, she duly found the promised letter : but 
 it was not till she had it in her possession that 
 she remembered she could not read: she had there- 
 fore to hasten back to consult her friend Xancy, 
 the schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar in 
 the village. Reilly's letter, on being deciphered 
 with some difficulty even by the learned Nancy, 
 was found to contain much of sorrow, much of re- 
 pentance, and yet more of affection ; he assured 
 her that he was far better off than he had expected 
 or deserved ; that the embarkation of the regiment 
 to which he belonged was delayed for three weeks, 
 and entreated her, if she could forgive him, to fol- 
 low him to Cork without delay, that they might 
 " part in love and kindness, and then come what 
 might, he would demane himself like a man, and 
 die asy," which he assured her he could not do 
 without embracing her once more. 
 
 Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with 
 clasped hands and drawn breath, but quiet in her 
 
192 TALES. 
 
 nature, she gave no other signs of emotion than a 
 few large tears which trickled slowly down her 
 cheeks. " And will I see him again ? " she ex- 
 claimed ; " poor fellow ! poor boy ! I knew the 
 heart of him was sore for me ! and who knows, 
 Nancy dear, but they'll let me go out with him 
 to the foreign parts ? Oh ! sure they wouldn't be 
 so hard-hearted as to part man and wife that 
 wav ! " 
 
 After a hurried consultation with her neigh- 
 bours, who sympathized with her as only the poor 
 sympathize with the poor, a letter was indited by 
 Nancy and sent by the carrier that night, to inform 
 her husband that she purposed setting off for Cork 
 the next blessed morning, being Tuesday, and as 
 the distance was about forty-eight miles English, 
 she reckoned on reaching that city by Wednesday 
 afternoon ; for as she had walked to Clonmell and 
 back (about twenty miles) that same day, without 
 feeling fatigued at all, " to signify" Cathleen 
 thought there would be no doubt that she could 
 walk to Cork in less than two days. In this san- 
 guine calculation she was, however, overruled by 
 her more experienced neighbours, and by their 
 advice appointed Thursday as the day on which 
 her husband was to expect her, " God willing." 
 
 Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making 
 preparations for her journey ; she set her cabin in 
 order, and made a small bundle of a few articles of 
 clothing belonging to herself and her husband. 
 The watch and the guinea she wrapped up to- 
 
HALLO HAN THE PEDDLER. 193 
 
 gether, and crammed into the toe of an old shoe, 
 which she deposited in the said bundle, and the 
 next morning, at " sparrow chirp," she arose, locked 
 her cabin door, carefully hid the key in the thatch, 
 and with a light expecting heart commenced her 
 long journey. 
 
 It is worthy of remark, that this poor woman, 
 who was called upon to play the heroine in such a 
 strange tragedy, and under such appalling circum- 
 stances, had nothing heroic in her exterior : noth- 
 ing that in the slightest degree indicated strength 
 of nerve or superiority of intellect. Cathleen was 
 twenty-three years of age, of a low stature, and in 
 her form rather delicate than robust : she was of 
 ordinary appearance ; her eyes were mild and 
 dove-like, and her wdiole countenance, though not 
 absolutely deficient in intelligence, was more par- 
 ticularly expressive of simplicity, good temper, and 
 kindness of heart. 
 
 It was summer, about the end of June : the days 
 were long, the weather fine, and some gentle 
 showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant. 
 Cathleen walked on stoutly towards Cork, and by 
 the evening she had accomplished, with occasional 
 pauses of rest, nearly twenty-one miles. She 
 lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the fol- 
 lowing day set forward again, but soon felt stiff 
 with the travel of two previous days : the sun be- 
 came hotter, the ways dustier ; and she could not 
 with all her endeavors get farther than Rathcor- 
 muck, eighteen miles from Cork. The next day, 
 13 
 
194 TALKS. 
 
 unfortunately for poor Cathleen, proved hotter and 
 more fatiguing than the preceding. The cross road 
 lay over a wild country, consisting of low bogs and 
 bare hills. About noon she turned aside to a 
 rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in 
 the shade, she bathed her swollen feet in the 
 stream : then overcome by heat, weakness, and ex- 
 cessive weariness, she put her little bundle under 
 her head for a pillow, and sank into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking she perceived with dismay that the 
 sun was declining : and on looking about, her fears 
 were increased by the discovery that her bundle 
 was gone. Her first thought was that the good 
 people (i. e. the fairies) had been there and stolen 
 it away ; but on examining farther she plainly per- 
 ceived large foot-prints in the soft bank, and was 
 convinced it was the work of no unearthly ma- 
 rauder. Bitterly reproaching herself for her care- 
 lessness, she again set forward ; and still hoping to 
 reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on with 
 increasing difficulty and distress, till as the evening 
 closed her spirits failed, she became faint, foot-sore 
 and hungry, not having tasted any thing since the 
 morning but a cold potato and a draught of but- 
 termilk. She then looked round her in hopes of 
 discovering some habitation, but there was none in 
 sight except a lofty castle on a distant hill, which 
 raising its proud turrets from amidst the plan- 
 tations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly 
 through the gathering gloom, and held out no 
 temptation for the poor wanderer to turn in there 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 195 
 
 and rest. In her despair she sat her down on a 
 bank by the road side, and wept as she thought of 
 her husband. 
 
 Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and 
 four attended by servants, who took no farther no- 
 tice of her than by a passing look ; while they went 
 on their way like the priest and the Levite in the 
 parable, poor Cathleen dropped her head despair- 
 ingly on her bosom. A faintness and torpor seemed 
 to be stealing like a dark cloud over her senses, 
 when the fast approaching sound of footsteps roused 
 her attention, and turning, she saw at her side a 
 man whose figure, too singular to be easily forgotten, 
 she recognized immediately : it was Halloran the 
 Peddler. 
 
 Halloran had been known for thirty years past 
 in all the towns and villages between TVaterford 
 and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did not 
 know his own age ; he only remembered that he 
 was a " tall slip of a boy " when he was one of the 
 
 regiment of foot, and fought in America in 
 
 1 7 78. His dress was strange, it consisted of a wool- 
 len cap, beneath which strayed a few white hairs ; 
 this was surmounted by an old military cocked hat, 
 adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace ; 
 a frieze great coat with the sleeves dangling be- 
 hind, was fastened at his throat, and served to pro- 
 tect his box of wares which was slung at his back ; 
 and he always carried a thick oak stick or kippeen 
 in his hand. There was nothing of the infirmity of 
 age in his appearance ; his cheek, though wrinkled 
 
196 TALKS. 
 
 and weather-beaten, was still ruddy; his step still 
 firm, his eyes still bright ; his jovial disposition made 
 him a welcome guest in every cottage, and his 
 jokes, though not equal to my Lord Norbury's, 
 were repeated and applauded through the whole 
 country. Halloran was returning from the fair of 
 Kilkenny, where apparently his commercial specu- 
 lations had been attended with success, as his pack 
 was considerably diminished in size. Though he 
 did not appear to recollect Cathleen, he addressed 
 her in Irish, and asked her what she did there : 
 she related in a few words her miserable situation. 
 
 " In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor 
 woman," he replied, compassionately ; " and what 
 will ye do ?" 
 
 " An' what can I do ? " replied Cathleen, discon- 
 solately ; " and how will I even find the ford and 
 get across to Cork, when I don't know where I am 
 this blessed moment ? " 
 
 " Musha, then, it's little ye'll get there this night," 
 said the peddler, shaking his head. 
 
 " Then I'll lie down here and die," said Cath- 
 leen. bursting into fresh tears. 
 
 " Die ! ye wouldn't ! " he exclaimed, approach- 
 ing nearer ; " is it to me, Peter Halloran, ye spake 
 that word ; and am I the man that would lave a fay- 
 male at this dark hour by the way-side, let alone 
 one that has the face of a friend, though I cannot 
 remember me of your name either, for the soul of 
 me. But what matter for that ? " 
 
 " Sure, I'm Ratty Keilly, of Castle Conn." 
 
HALLOKAX THE PEDDLER. 19 7 
 
 64 Katty Reilly, sure enough ! and so no more talk 
 of dying ; cheer up, and see. a mile farther on, isn't 
 there Biddy Hogan's ? Was, I mane, if the house 
 and all isn't gone ; and it's there we'll get a bite and 
 a sup, and a bed, too. please God. So lean upon 
 my arm, ma Tourneen, it's strong enough yet." 
 
 So saying, the old man, with an air of gallantry, 
 half rustic, half military, assisted her in rising; and 
 supporting her on one arm, with the other he flour- 
 ished his kippeen over his head, and they trudged 
 on together, he singing Cruiskeen-lawn at the top 
 of his voice, " just," as he said, " to put the heart 
 into her." 
 
 After about half an hour's walking, they came to 
 two cros sways, diverging from the high road : down 
 one of these the peddler turned, and in a few min- 
 utes they came in sight of a lonely house, situated 
 at a little distance from the way-side. Above the 
 door was a long stick projecting from the wall, at 
 the end of which dangled a truss of straw, signify- 
 ing that within there was entertainment (good or 
 bad) for man and beast. By this time it was nearly 
 dark, and the peddler going up to the door, lifted 
 the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand : but it 
 was fastened within : he then knocked and called, 
 but there was no answer. The building, which was 
 many times larger than an ordinary cabin, had once 
 been a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. 
 One end of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins ; 
 the other end bore signs of having been at least 
 recently inhabited. But such a dull hollow echo 
 
198 TALES. 
 
 rung through the edifice at every knock, that it 
 seemed the whole place was now deserted. 
 
 Cathleen began to be alarmed and crossed her- 
 self, ejaculating, " O God preserve us ! " But the 
 peddler, who appeared well acquainted with the 
 premises, led her round to the back part of the 
 house, where there were some ruined out-buildings, 
 and another low entrance. Here, raising his stout 
 stick, he let fall such a heavy thump on the door 
 that it cracked again ; and a shrill voice from the 
 other side demanded who was there ? After a sa- 
 tisfactory answer, the door was slowly and cautiously 
 opened, and the figure of a wrinkled, half-famished, 
 and half-naked beldam appeared, shading a rush 
 candle with one hand. Halloran, who was of a fiery 
 and hasty temper, began angrily : " Why then, in 
 the name of the great devil himself didn't you 
 open to us ? " But he stopped suddenly, as if struck 
 with surprise at the miserable object before him. 
 
 " Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see ! " he exclaim- 
 ed, snatching the candle from her hand, and throw- 
 ing the light full on her face. A moment's scrutiny 
 seemed enough, and too much ! for giving it back 
 hastily, he supported Cathleen into the kitchen, 
 the old woman leading the way, and placed her on 
 an old settle, the first seat which presented itself. 
 When she was sufficiently recovered to look about 
 her, Cathleen could not help feeling some alarm at 
 finding herself in so gloomy and dreary a place. 
 It had once been a large kitchen, or hall ; at one 
 end was an ample chimney, such as are yet to be 
 
HALLOKAX THE PEDDLER. 199 
 
 reen in some old country houses. The rafters were 
 black with smoke or rottenness : the walls had been 
 wainscotted with oak, but the greatest part had 
 been torn down for firing. A table with three legs, 
 a large stool, a bench in the chimney propped up 
 with turf sods, and the seat Cathleen occupied, form- 
 ed the only furniture. Every thing spoke utter 
 misery, filth, and famine — the very " abomination 
 of desolation." 
 
 " And what have ye in the house, Biddy, 
 honey ? " was the peddler's first question, as the 
 old woman set down the light. " Little enough, 
 I'm thinking." 
 
 ' ; Little ! It's nothing, then — no, not so much as 
 a midge would eat have I in the house this blessed 
 night, and nobody to send down to Balgowna." 
 
 " No need of that, as our good luck would have 
 it," said Halloran, and pulling a wallet from under 
 his loose coat, he drew from it a bone of cold meat, 
 a piece of bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold 
 potatoes. The old woman, roused by the sight of 
 so much good cheer, began to blow up the dying 
 embers on the hearth ; put down among them the 
 few potatoes to warm, and busied herself in mak- 
 ing some little preparations to entertain her guests. 
 Meantime the old peddler, casting from time to time 
 an anxious glance towards Cathleen, and now and 
 then an encouraging word, sat down on the low 
 stool, resting his arms on his knees. 
 
 " Times are sadly changed with ye, Biddy IIo- 
 gan," said he at length, after a long silence. 
 
200 TALKS. 
 
 " Troth, ye may say so," she replied, with a sort 
 of groan. " Bitter bad luck have we had in this 
 world, anyhow." 
 
 " And where's the man of the house ? And 
 where's the lad, Barny ? " 
 
 " Where are they, is it ? Where should they 
 be ? may be gone down to Ahnamoe." 
 
 a But what's come of Barny ? The boy was a 
 stout workman, and a good son, though a devil- 
 may-care fellow, too. I remember teaching him 
 the soldier's exercise with this very blessed stick 
 now in my hand ; and by the same token, him 
 doubling his fist at me when he wasn't bigger than 
 the turf-kish yonder ; aye, and as long as Barny 
 Hogan could turn a sod of turf on my lord's land, 
 I thought his father and mother would never have 
 wanted the bit and sup while the life was in him." 
 
 At the mention of her son, the old woman 
 looked up a moment, but immediately hung her 
 head again. 
 
 " Barny doesn't work for my lord now," said 
 she. 
 
 " And what for, then ? 
 
 The old woman seemed reluctant to answer — 
 she hesitated. 
 
 " Ye didn't hear, then, how he got into trouble 
 with my lord ; and how — myself doesn't know the 
 rights of it — but Barny had always a bit of wild 
 blood about him ; and since that day he's taken to 
 bad ways and the ould man's ruled by him quite 
 entirely ; and the one's glum and fierce like — and 
 
HALLORAX THE PEDDLER. 201 
 
 t'other's bothered ; and, oh ! bitter's the time I 
 have 'twixt 'em both ! " 
 
 While the old woman was uttering these broken 
 complaints, she placed the eatables on the table ; 
 and Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hun- 
 ger than subdued by fatigue, was first helped by 
 the good-natured peddler to the best of what was 
 there ; but, just as she was about to taste the food 
 set before her, she chanced to see the eyes of the 
 old woman fixed upon the morsel in her hand with 
 such an envious and famished look, that, from a 
 sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she instantly 
 held it out' to her. The woman started, drew back 
 her extended hand, and gazed at her wildly. 
 
 " What is it then ails ye ? " said Cathleen, look- 
 ing at her with wonder ; then to herself, " hunger's 
 turned the wits of her, poor soul ! Take it — take 
 it, mother," added she aloud ; " eat, good mother ; 
 sure there's plenty for us all, and to spare," and 
 she pressed it upon her with all the kindness of 
 her nature. The old woman eagerly seized it. 
 
 " God reward ye," said she, grasping Cathleen's 
 hand, convulsively, and retiring to a corner, she 
 devoured the food with almost wolfish voracity. 
 
 While they were eating, the two Hogans, father 
 and son, came in. They had been setting snares 
 for rabbits and game on the neighboring hills ; and 
 evidently were both startled and displeased to find 
 the house occupied ; which, since Barny Hogan's 
 disgrace with " my lord," had been entirely 
 shunned by the people round about. The old 
 
202 TALKS. 
 
 man gave the peddler a sulky welcome. The son, 
 with a muttered curse, went and took his seat in 
 the chimney, where, turning his back, he set him- 
 self to chop a billet of wood. The father was a 
 lean, stooping figure, " bony, and gaunt, and 
 grim ; " he was either deaf, or affected deafness. 
 The son was a short, brawny, thickset man, with 
 features not naturally ugly, but rendered worse 
 than ugly, by an expression of lowering ferocity 
 disgustingly blended with a sort of stupid drunken 
 leer, the effect of habitual intoxication. 
 
 Halloran stared at them awhile with visible 
 astonishment and indignation, but pity and sor- 
 row for a change so lamentable, smothered the 
 old man's wrath ; and as the eatables were by this 
 time demolished, he took from his side pocket a 
 tin flask of whiskey, calling to the old woman to 
 boil some water " screeching hot," that he might 
 make what he termed " a jug of stiff punch — 
 enough to make a cat spake." He offered to 
 share it with his hosts, who did not decline drink- 
 ing ; and the noggin went round to all but Cath- 
 leen, who, feverish with travelling, and, besides, 
 disliking spirits, would not taste it. The old ped- 
 dler, reconciled to his old acquaintances by this 
 show of good fellowship, began to grow merry 
 under the influence of his whiskey punch ; he 
 boasted of his late success in trade, showed with 
 exultation his almost empty pack, and taking out 
 the only two handkerchiefs left in it, threw one 
 to Cathleen and the other to the old woman of the 
 
HALLOKAN THE PKDDLEli. 203 
 
 house; then slapping his pocket in which a quan- 
 tity of loose money was heard to jingle, he swore 
 he would treat Cathleen to a good breakfast next 
 morning : and threw a shilling on the table, desir- 
 ing the old woman would provide " stirabout for a 
 dozen." and have it ready by the first light. 
 
 Cathleen listened to this rhodomontade in some 
 alarm ; she fancied she detected certain suspicious 
 glances between the father and son. and began 
 to feel an indescribable dread of her company. 
 She arose from the table, urging the peddler good- 
 humoredly to retire to rest, as they intended to 
 be up and away so early next morning ; then 
 concealing her apprehensions under an affectation 
 of extreme fatigue and drowsiness, she desired to 
 be shown where she was to sleep. The old woman 
 lighted a lantern, and led the way up some broken 
 steps into a sort of loft, where she showed her two 
 beds standing close together : one of these she 
 intimated was for the peddler, and the other for 
 herself. Xow Cathleen had been born and bred 
 in an Irish cabin, where the inmates are usually 
 lodged after a very promiscuous fashion : our read- 
 ers, therefore, will not wonder at the arrangement. 
 Cathleen, however, required that, if possible, some 
 kind of screen should be placed between the beds. 
 The old hag at first replied to this request with 
 the most disgusting impudence ; but Cathleen in- 
 sisting, the beds were moved asunder, leaving a 
 space of about two feet between them ; and after 
 a long search a piece of old frieze was dragged 
 
204 TALKS. 
 
 out from among some rubbish, and hung up to the 
 low rafters, so as to form a curtain or partition 
 half-way across the room. Having completed this 
 arrangement, and wished her " a sweet sleep and 
 a sound, and lucky dreams," the old woman put 
 the lantern on the floor, for there was neither 
 chair nor table, and left her guest to repose. 
 
 Cathleen said her prayers, only partly undressed 
 herself, and lifting up the worn-out coverlet, lay 
 down upon the bed. In a quarter of an hour 
 afterwards the peddler staggered into the room, 
 and as he passed the foot of her bed, bid God bless 
 her, in a low voice. He then threw himself down 
 on his bed, and in a few minutes, as she judged 
 by his hard and equal breathing, the old man was 
 in a deep sleep. 
 
 All was now still in the house, but Cathleen 
 could not sleep. She was feverish and restless ; 
 her limbs ached, her head throbbed and burned, 
 undefinable fears beset her fancy ; and whenever 
 she tried to compose herself to slumber, the faces 
 of the two men she had left below flitted and 
 glared before her eyes. A sense of heat and 
 suffocation, accompanied by a parching thirst, 
 came over her, caused, perhaps, by the unusual 
 closeness of the room. This feeling of oppression 
 increased till the very walls and rafters seemed 
 to approach nearer and close upon her all around. 
 Unable any longer to endure this intolerable 
 smothering sensation, she was just about to rise 
 and open the door or window, when she heard 
 
HALLORAX THE PEDDLER. 205 
 
 the whispering of voices. She lav still and 
 listened. The latch was raised cautiously — the 
 door opened, and the two Hogans entered ; they 
 trod so softly that though she saw them move 
 before her, she heard no foot-fall. They ap- 
 proached the bed of Halloran, and presently she 
 heard a dull, heavy blow, and then sounds — 
 appalling, sickening sounds — as of subdued strug- 
 gles and smothered agony, which convinced her 
 that they were murdering the unfortunate peddler. 
 Cathleen listened, almost congealed with horror, 
 but she did not swoon : her turn, she thought, must 
 come next, though in the same instant she felt in- 
 stinctively that her only chance of preservation was 
 to counterfeit profound sleep. The murderers, hav- 
 ing done their work on the poor peddler, approach- 
 ed her bed, and threw the gleam of their lantern 
 full on her face ; she lay quite still, breathing calmly 
 and regularly. They brought the light to her eye- 
 lids, but they did not wink or move ; — there was a 
 pause, a terrible pause, and then a whispering ; — 
 and presently Cathleen thought she could distin- 
 guish a third voice, as of expostulation, but all in 
 so very low a tone that though the voices were close 
 to her she could not hear a word that was uttered. 
 After some moments, which appeared an age of 
 agonizing suspense, the wretches withdrew, and 
 Cathleen was left alone, and in darkness. Then, 
 indeed, she felt as one ready to die : to use her own 
 affecting language, "the heart within me," said 
 she, " melted awav like water, but I was resolute 
 
206 TALES. 
 
 not to swoon, and I did not. I knew that if I 
 would preserve my life, I must keep the sense in 
 me, and / did." 
 
 Now and then she fancied she heard the'murder- 
 ed man move, and creep about in his bed, and this 
 horrible conceit almost maddened her with terror : 
 but she set herself to listen fixedly, and convinced 
 her reason that all was still — that all was over. 
 
 She then turned her thoughts to the possibility 
 of escape. The window first suggested itself: the 
 faint moon-light was just struggling through its 
 dirty and cobwebbed panes : it w r as very small, 
 and Cathleen reflected, that besides the difficulty, 
 and, perhaps, impossibility of getting through, it 
 must be some height from the ground • neither 
 could she tell on which side of the house it was 
 situated, nor in what direction to turn, supposing 
 she reached the ground : and, above all, she was 
 aware that the slightest noise must cause her in- 
 stant destruction. She thus resolved upon remain- 
 ing quiet. 
 
 It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this 
 determination, for without the slightest previous 
 sound the door again opened, and in the faint light, 
 to which her eyes were now accustomed, she saw 
 the head of the old woman bent forward in a listen- 
 ing attitude : in a few minutes the door closed, and 
 then followed a whispering outside. She could not 
 at first distinguish a word until the woman's sharper 
 tones broke out, though in suppressed vehemence, 
 with " If ye touch her life, Barny, a mother's curse 
 go with ye ! enough's done." 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 207 
 
 " She'll live, then, to hang us all." said the mis- 
 creant son. 
 
 " Sooner than that, I'd draw this knife across 
 her throat with my own hands ; and I'd do it again 
 and again, sooner than they should touch your life, 
 Barny, jewel : but no fear, the creature's asleep or 
 dead already, with the fright of it." 
 
 The son then said something which Cathleen 
 could not hear ; the old woman replied, 
 
 <: Hisht ! I tell ye, no, — no ; the ship's now in the 
 Cove of Cork that's to carry her over the salt seas 
 far enough out of the way : and haven't we all she 
 has in the world? and more, didn't she take the 
 bit out of her own mouth to put into mine ? " 
 
 The son again spoke in audibly ; and then the 
 voices ceased, leaving Cathleen uncertain as to her 
 fate. 
 
 Shortly after the door opened, and the father 
 and son again entered, and carried out the body 
 of the wretched peddler. They seemed to have the 
 art of treading without noise, for though Cathleen 
 saw them move, she could not hear a sound of a 
 footstep. The old woman was all this time stand- 
 ing by her bed, and every now and then casting 
 the light full upon her eyes ; but as she remained 
 quite still, and apparently in a deep calm sleep, 
 they left her undisturbed, and she neither saw nor 
 heard any more of them that night. 
 
 It ended at length — that long, long night of 
 horror. Cathleen lay quiet till she thought the 
 morning sufficiently advanced. She then rose, and 
 
208 TALKS. 
 
 went down into the kitchen : the old woman was 
 lifting a pot off the tire, and nearly let it fall as 
 Cathleen suddenly addressed her, and with an ap- 
 pearance of surprise and concern, asked for her 
 friend the peddler, saying she had just looked into 
 his bed, supposing he was still asleep, and to her 
 great amazement had found it empty. The old 
 woman replied, that he had set out at early day- 
 light for Mallow, having only just remembered that 
 his business called him that way before he went to 
 Cork. Cathleen affected great wonder and per- 
 plexity, and reminded the woman that he had 
 promised to pay for her breakfast. 
 
 " An' so he did, sure enough," she replied, u and 
 paid for it too; and by the same token didn't I go 
 down to Balgowna myself for the milk and the male 
 before the sun was over the tree-tops ; and here it 
 is for ye, ma colleen : " so saying, she placed a 
 bowl of stirabout and some milk before Cathleen, 
 and then sat down on the stool opposite to her, 
 watching her intently. 
 
 Poor Cathleen ! she had but little inclination to 
 eat, and felt as if every bit would choke her : yet 
 she continued to force down her breakfast, and ap- 
 parently with the utmost ease and appetite, even to 
 the last morsel set before her. While eating, she 
 inquired about the husband and son, and the old 
 woman replied, that they had started at the first 
 burst of light to cut turf in a bog, about Hve miles 
 distant. 
 
 When Cathleen had finished her breakfast, she 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 209 
 
 returned the old woman many thanks for her kind 
 treatment, and then desired to know the nearest 
 way to Cork. The woman Hogan informed her 
 that the distance was about seven miles, and 
 though the usual road was by the high-way from 
 which they had turned the preceding evening, 
 there was a much shorter way across some fields 
 which she pointed out. Cathleen listened atten- 
 tively to her directions, and then bidding farewell 
 with many demonstrations of gratitude, she pro- 
 ceeded on her fearful journey. The cool morning 
 air, the cheerful song of the early birds, the dewy 
 freshness of the turf, were all unnoticed and un- 
 felt : the sense of danger was paramount, while her 
 faculties were all alive and awake to meet it, for a 
 feverish and unnatural strength seemed to animate 
 her limbs. She stepped on, shortly debating with 
 herself whether to follow the directions given by 
 the old woman. The high-road appeared the safest; 
 on the other hand, she was aware that the slightest 
 betrayal of mistrust would perhaps be followed by 
 her destruction ; and thus rendered brave even by 
 the excess of her fears, she determined to take the 
 cross-path. Just as she had come to this resolution, 
 she reached the gate which she had been directed 
 to pass through ; and without the slightest apparent 
 hesitation, she turned in, and pursued the lonely 
 way through the fields. Often did she fancy she 
 heard footsteps stealthily following her, and never 
 approached a hedge without expecting to see the 
 murderers start up from behind it; yet she never 
 14 
 
210 TALES. 
 
 once turned her head, nor quickened nor slackened 
 her pace : — 
 
 Like one that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 She had proceeded in this manner about three- 
 quarters of a mile, and approached a thick and 
 dark grove of underwood, when she beheld seated 
 upon the opposite stile an old woman in a red 
 cloak. The sight of a human being made her 
 heart throb more quickly for a moment ; but on 
 approaching nearer, with all her faculties sharpened 
 by the sense of danger, she perceived that it was 
 no old woman, but the younger Hogan. the mur- 
 derer of Halloran, who was thus disguised. His 
 face was partly concealed by a blue handkerchief 
 tied round his head and under his chin, but she 
 knew him by the peculiar and hideous expression 
 of his eyes : yet with amazing and almost incredi- 
 ble self-possession, she continued to advance with- 
 out manifesting the least alarm, or sign of recog- 
 nition ; and walking up to the pretended old 
 woman, said in a clear voice, " The blessing of 
 the morning on ye, good mother! a fine day for 
 travellers like you and me ! " 
 
 " A fine day," he replied, coughing and mum- 
 bling in a feigned voice, " but ye see, hugh, ugh ! 
 ye see I've walked this morning from the Cove of 
 Cork, jewel, and troth I'm almost spent, and I've a 
 bad cowld, and a cough, on me, as ye may hear," 
 
HALLOKAN THE PEDDLER. 211 
 
 and he coughed vehemently. Cathleen made a 
 motion to pass the stile, but the disguised old 
 woman stretching out a great bony hand, seized 
 her gown. Still Cathleen did not quail. " Musha, 
 then, have ye nothing to give a poor ould woman? " 
 said the monster, in a whining, snuffling tone. 
 
 " Nothing have I in this wide world," said Cath- 
 leen, quietly disengaging her gown, but without 
 moving. " Sure it's only yesterday I was robbed 
 of all I had but the little clothes on my back, and 
 if I hadn't met with charity from others, I had 
 starved by the way-side by this time." 
 
 " Och ! and is there no place hereby where they 
 would give a potato and a cup of cowld water to 
 a poor old woman ready to drop on her road ? " 
 
 Cathleen instantly pointed forward to the house 
 she had just left, and recommended her to apply 
 there. " Sure they're good, honest people, though 
 poor enough, God help them," she continued, 
 " and I wish ye, mother, no worse luck than my- 
 self had, and that's a good friend to treat you to a 
 supper — aye, and a breakfast too ; there it is, ye 
 may just see the light smoke rising like a thread 
 over the hill, just foment ye ; and so God speed 
 ye!" 
 
 Cathleen turned to descend the stile as she 
 spoke, expecting to be again seized with a strong 
 and murderous grasp ; but her enemy, secure in 
 his disguise, and never doubting her perfect un- 
 consciousness, suffered her to pass unmolested. 
 
 Another half-mile brought her to the top of a 
 
212 TALKS. 
 
 rising ground, within sight of the high-road ; she 
 could see crowds of people on horseback* and on 
 foot, with cars and carriages passing along in one 
 direction ; for it was, though Cathleen did not then 
 know it, the first day of the Cork Assizes. As she 
 gazed, she wished for the wings of a bird that she 
 might in a moment flee over the space which inter- 
 vened between her and safety ; for though she 
 could clearly see the high-road from the hill on 
 which she stood, a valley of broken ground at its 
 foot, and two wide fields still separated her from 
 it ; but with the same unfailing spirit, and at the 
 same steady pace, she proceeded onwards ; and 
 now she had reached the middle of the last field, 
 and a thrill of new-born hope was beginning to 
 flutter at her heart, when suddenly two men burst 
 through the fence at the farther side of the field, 
 and advanced towards her. One of these she 
 thought at the first glance resembled her husband, 
 but that it was her husband himself was an idea 
 which never entered her mind. Her imagination 
 was possessed with the one supreme idea of danger 
 and death by murderous hands ; she doubted not 
 that these were the two Hogans in some new dis- 
 guise, and silently recommending herself to God, 
 she steeled her heart to meet this fresh trial of her 
 fortitude ; aware, that however it might end, it 
 must be the last. At this moment one of the men 
 throwing up his arms, ran forward, shouting her 
 name, in a voice — a dear and well-known voice, in 
 which she could not be deceived : — it was her hus- 
 band ! 
 
HALLORAX THE PEDDLER. 213 
 
 The poor woman, who had hitherto supported 
 her spirits and her self-possession, stood as if rooted 
 to the ground, weak, motionless, and gasping for 
 breath. A cold dew burst from every pore ; her 
 ears tingled, her heart fluttered as though it would 
 burst from her bosom. When she attempted to 
 call out. and raise her hand in token of recognition, 
 the sounds died away, rattling in her throat ; her 
 arm dropped powerless at her side ; and when her 
 husband came up, and she made a last effort to 
 spring towards him, she sank down at his feet in 
 strong convulsions. 
 
 Reilly, much shocked at what he supposed the 
 effect of sudden surprise, knelt down and chafed 
 his wife's temples ; his comrade ran to a neighbor- 
 ing spring for water, which they sprinkled plenti- 
 fully over her ; when, however, she returned to 
 life, her intellects appeared to have fled for ever, 
 and she uttered such wild shrieks and exclamations, 
 and talked so incoherently, that the men became 
 exceedingly terrified, and poor Eeilly himself 
 almost as distracted as his wife. After vainly at- 
 tempting to soothe and recover her, they at length 
 forcibly carried her down to the inn at Balgowna, 
 a hamlet about a mile farther on, where she re- 
 mained for several hours in a state of delirium, 
 one fit succeeding another with little intermission. 
 
 Towards evening she became more composed, 
 and was able to give some account of the horrible 
 events of the preceding night. It happened, op- 
 portunely, that a gentleman of fortune in the neigh- 
 
214 TALES. 
 
 borhood, and a magistrate, was riding by late that 
 evening on his return from the Assizes at Cork, 
 and stopped at the inn to refresh his horse. Hear- 
 ing that something unusual and frightful had oc- 
 curred, he alighted, and examined the woman him- 
 self, in the presence of one or two persons. Her 
 tale appeared to him so strange and wild from the 
 manner in which she told it, and her account of 
 her own courage and sufferings so exceedingly in- 
 credible, that he was at first inclined to disbelieve 
 the whole, and suspected the poor woman either of 
 imposture or insanity. He did not, however, think 
 proper totally to neglect her testimony, but immedi- 
 ately sent off information of the murder to Cork. 
 Constables with a warrant were dispatched the 
 same night to the house of the Hogans, which they 
 found empty, and the inmates already fled ; but 
 after a long search, the body of the wretched Hal- 
 loran, and part of his property, were found con- 
 cealed in a stack of old chimneys among the ruins ; 
 and this proof of guilt was decisive. The country 
 was instantly up : the most active search after the 
 murderers was made by the police, assisted by 
 all the neighboring peasantry ; and before twelve 
 o'clock the following night, the three Hogans, 
 father, mother, and son, had been apprehended in 
 different places of concealment, and placed in safe 
 custody. Meantime the Coroner's inquest having 
 sat on the body, brought in a verdict of wilful 
 murder. 
 
 As the judges were then at Cork, the trial came 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 215 
 
 on immediately ; and from its extraordinary cir- 
 cumstances, excited the most intense and general 
 interest. Among the property of poor Halloran 
 discovered in the house, were a pair of shoes and a 
 cap which Cathleen at once identified as belonging 
 to herself, and Eeilly's silver watch was found on 
 the younger Hogan. When questioned how they 
 came into his possession, he sullenly refused to 
 answer. His mother eagerly, and as if to shield 
 her son, confessed that she was the person who had 
 robbed Cathleen in the former part of the day, that 
 she had gone out on the Carrick road to beg, hav- 
 ing been left by her husband and son for two days 
 without the means of support; and finding Cath- 
 leen asleep, she had taken away the bundle, sup- 
 posing it to conlain food ; and did not recognize her 
 as the same person she had robbed, till Cathleen 
 offered her part of her supper. 
 
 The surgeon, who had been called to examine 
 the body of Halloran. deposed to the cause of his 
 death ; — that the old man had been first stunned 
 by a heavy blow on the temple, and then strangled. 
 Other witnesses deposed to the finding of the body ; 
 the previous character of the Hogans, and the cir- 
 cumstances attending their apprehension ; but the 
 principal witness was Cathleen. She appeared, 
 leaning on her husband, her face was ashy pale, 
 and her limbs too weak for support ; yet she, how- 
 ever, was perfectly collected, and gave her testi- 
 mony with that precision, simplicity, and modesty, 
 peculiar to her character. When she had occasion 
 
216 TALKS. 
 
 to allude to her own feelings, it was with such nat- 
 ural and heartfelt eloquence that the whole court 
 was affected ; and when she described her ren- 
 counter at the stile, there was a general pressure and 
 a breathless suspense ; and then a loud murmur of 
 astonishment and admiration fully participated by 
 even the bench of magistrates. The evidence was 
 clear and conclusive ; and the jury, without retir- 
 ing, gave their verdict, guilty — Death. 
 
 When the miserable wretches were asked, in the 
 usual forms, if they had any thing to say why the 
 awful sentence should not be passed upon them, 
 the old man replied by a look of idiotic vacancy, 
 and was mute — the younger Hogan answered sul- 
 lenly, " Nothing ; " the old woman, staring wildly 
 on her son, tried to speak ; her lips moved, but 
 without a sound — and she fell forward on the bar 
 in strong fits. 
 
 At this moment Cathleen rushed from the arms 
 of her husband, and throwing herself on her knees, 
 with clasped hands, and cheeks streaming with 
 tears, begged for mercy for the old woman " Mercy, 
 my lord judge ! " she exclaimed. " Gentlemen, 
 your honors, have mercy on her. She had mercy 
 on me ! She only did their bidding. As for the 
 bundle, and all in it, I give it to her with all my 
 soul, so it's no robbery. The grip of hunger's hard 
 to bear ; and if she hadn't taken it then, where 
 would I have been now ? Sure they would have 
 killed me for the sake of the watch, and I would 
 have been a corpse before your honors this mo- 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDDLER. 217 
 
 merit. O mercy ! mercy for her ! or never will I 
 sleep asy on this side of the grave ! " 
 
 The judge, though much affected, was obliged 
 to have her forcibly carried from the court, and 
 justice took its awful course. Sentence of death 
 was pronounced on all the prisoners ; but the 
 woman was reprieved, and afterwards transported. 
 The two men were executed within forty-eight 
 hours after their conviction, on the Gallows Green. 
 They made no public confession of their guilt, and 
 met their fate with sullen indifference. The aw- 
 ful ceremony was for a moment interrupted by an 
 incident which afterwards furnished ample matter 
 for wonder and speculation among the supersti- 
 tious populace. It was well known that the younger 
 Hogan had been long employed on the estate of 
 a nobleman in the neighbourhood ; but having 
 been concerned in the abduction of a young 
 female, under circumstances of peculiar atrocity, 
 which for want of legal evidence could not be 
 brought home to him, he was dismissed ; and, find- 
 ing himself an object of general execration, he had 
 since been skulking about the country, associat- 
 ing with housebreakers and other lawless and 
 abandoned characters. At the moment the hang- 
 man was adjusting the rope round his neck, a 
 shrill voice screamed from the midst of the crowd, 
 " Barny Hogan ! do ye mind Grace Power, and 
 the last words ever she spoke to ye ? " There was 
 a general movement and confusion ; no one could 
 or would tell whence the voice proceeded. The 
 
218 TALES. 
 
 wretched man was seen to change countenance for 
 the first time, and raising himself on tiptoe, gazed 
 wildly round upon the multitude ; but he said 
 nothing ; and in a few minutes he was no more. 
 
 The reader may wish to know what has become 
 of Cathleen, our heroine, in the true sense of the 
 word. Her story, her sufferings, her extraordi- 
 nary fortitude, and pure simplicity of character, 
 made her an object of general curiosity and in- 
 terest; a subscription was raised for her, which 
 soon amounted to a liberal sum ; they were en- 
 abled to procure Reilly's discharge from the army, 
 and with a part of the money, Cathleen, who, 
 among her other perfections, was exceedingly pious 
 after the fashion of her creed and country, founded 
 yearly masses for the soul of the poor peddler ; and 
 vowed herself to make a pilgrimage of thanksgiving 
 to St. Gobnate's well. Mr. L., the magistrate who 
 had first examined her in the little inn at Bal- 
 gowna, made her a munificent present ; and anx- 
 ious, perhaps, to offer yet further amends for his 
 former doubts of her veracity, he invited Reilly, 
 on very advantageous terms, to settle on his estate, 
 where he rented a neat cabin, and a handsome plot 
 of potato ground. There Reilly and his Cathleen 
 were living ten years ago, with an increasing family, 
 and in the enjoyment of much humble happiness ; 
 and there, for aught I know to the contrary, they 
 may be living at this day. 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 219 
 
 THE IXDIAN MOTHER* 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love, 
 Making that pang endurable, vrhich else 
 Would overset the brain — or break the heart. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The monuments which human art has raised to 
 human pride or power may decay with that power, 
 or survive to mock that pride : but sooner or later 
 they perish — their place knows them not. In the 
 aspect of a ruin, however imposing in itself, and 
 however magnificent or clear the associations con- 
 nected with it, there is always something sad and 
 humiliating, reminding us how poor and how frail 
 are the works of man. how unstable his hopes, and 
 how limited his capacity compared to his aspira- 
 tions ! But when man has made to himself monu- 
 ments of the works of God ; when the memory of 
 human affections, human intellect, human power, 
 is blended with the immutable features of nature, 
 they consecrate each other, and both endure to- 
 gether to the end. In a state of high civilization, 
 man trusts to the record of brick and marble — 
 the pyramid, the column, the temple, the tomb : — 
 
 ,; Then the bust 
 And altar rise — then sink again to dust.'' 
 
 * This little tale (written in 1830) is founded on a striking 
 incident related in Humboldt's narrative. The facts remain 
 unaltered. 
 
220 TALES. 
 
 In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock 
 — the mountain, cloud-encircled — the river, rolling 
 to its ocean-home — the very stars themselves — 
 were endued with sympathies, and constituted the 
 first, as they will be the last, witnesses and records 
 of our human destinies and feelings. The glories 
 of the Parthenon shall fade into oblivion ; but 
 while the heights of Thermopylae stand, and while 
 a wave murmurs in the gulf of Salamis, a voice 
 shall cry aloud to the universe — " Freedom and 
 glory to those who can dare to die ! — woe and 
 everlasting infamy to him who would enthrall the 
 unconquerable spirit ! " The Coliseum with its 
 sanguinary trophies is crumbling to decay ; but 
 the islet of Nisida, where Brutus parted with his 
 Portia — the steep of Leucadia, still remain fixed 
 as the foundations of the earth ; and lasting as the 
 round world itself shall be the memories that hover 
 over them ! As long as the waters of the Helles- 
 pont flow between Sestos and Abydos, the fame of 
 the love that perished there shall never pass away. 
 A traveller, pursuing his weary way through the 
 midst of an African desert — a barren, desolate, and 
 almost boundless solitude — found a gigantic sculp- 
 tured head, shattered and half-buried in the sand ; 
 and near it the fragment of a pedestal, on which 
 these words might be with pain deciphered : I am 
 Ozymandias, King of Icings ; look upon my works, 
 ye mighty ones, and despair /" Who was Ozyman- 
 dias ? — where are now his works ? — what bond of 
 thought or feeling, links his past with our present ? 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 221 
 
 The Arab, with his beasts of burden, tramples 
 unheedino- over these forlorn vestiges of human art 
 and human grandeur. In the wildest part of the 
 New Continent, hidden amid the depths of inter- 
 minable forests, there stands a huge rock, hallowed 
 by a tradition so recent that the man is not yet 
 gray-headed who was born its contemporary : but 
 that rock, and the tale which consecrates it, shall 
 carry down to future ages a deep lesson — a moral 
 interest lasting as itself — however the aspect of 
 things and the conditions of people change around 
 it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on it with care- 
 less eye ; but each shall whisper to his own bosom 
 — " What is stronger than love in a mother's 
 heart ? — what more fearful than power wielded by 
 ignorance ? — or what more lamentable than the 
 abuse of a beneficent name to purposes of selfish 
 cruelty ? " 
 
 Those vast regions which occupy the central 
 part of South America, stretching from Guinea to 
 the foot of the Andes, overspread with gigantic 
 and primeval forests, and watered by mighty rivers 
 — those solitary wilds where man appears unessen- 
 tial in the scale of creation, and the traces of his 
 power are few and far between — have lately oc- 
 cupied much of the attention of Europeans : partly 
 from the extraordinary events and unexpected rev- 
 olutions which have convulsed the nations round 
 them ; and partly from the researches of enter- 
 prising travellers who have penetrated into their 
 remotest districts. But till within the last twenty 
 
222 TALES. 
 
 years these wild regions have been unknown, ex- 
 cept through the means of the Spanish and Por- 
 tuguese priests, settled as missionaries along the 
 banks of the Orinoco and the Paraguay. The 
 men thus devoted to utter banishment from all 
 intercourse with civilized life, are generally Fran- 
 ciscan or Capuchin friars, born in the Spanish 
 Colonies. Their pious duties are sometimes vol- 
 untary, and sometimes imposed by the superiors 
 of their order ; in either case their destiny appears 
 at first view deplorable, and their self-sacrifice 
 sublime ; yet, when we recollect that these poor 
 monks generally exchanged the monotonous soli- 
 tude of the cloister for the magnificent loneliness 
 of the boundless woods and far-spreading savan- 
 nahs, the sacrifice appears less terrible ; even where 
 accompanied by suffering, privation, and occasion- 
 ally by danger. When these men combine with 
 their religious zeal some degree of understanding 
 and enlightened benevolence, they have been en- 
 abled to enlarge the sphere of knowledge and 
 civilization, by exploring the productions and ge- 
 ography of these unknown regions ; and by col- 
 lecting into villages and humanizing the manners 
 of the native tribes, who seem strangely to unite 
 the fiercest and most abhorred traits of savage life, 
 with some of the gentlest instincts of our common 
 nature. But when it has happened that these 
 priests have been men of narrow minds and tyran- 
 nical tempers, they have on some occasions fear- 
 fully abused the authority entrusted to them ; and 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 223 
 
 being removed many thousand miles from the Eu- 
 ropean settlements and the restraint of the laws, 
 the power they have exercised has been as far 
 beyond control as the calamities they have caused 
 have been beyond all remedy and all relief. 
 
 Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his 
 charge, Father Gomez was a missionary of this 
 character. He was a Franciscan friar of the 
 order of Observance, and he dwelt in the village 
 of San Fernando, near the source of the Orinoco, 
 whence his authority extended as president over 
 several missions in the neighborhood of which San 
 Fernando was the capital. The temper of this 
 man was naturally cruel and despotic ; he was 
 wholly uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of 
 the true spirit of Christian benevolence ; in this 
 respect, the savages whom he had been sent to 
 instruct and civilize were in reality less savage 
 and less ignorant than himself. 
 
 Among the passions and vices which Father 
 Gomez had brought from his cell in the convent 
 of Angostara, to spread contamination and op- 
 pression through his new domain, were pride and 
 avarice ; and both were interested in increasing 
 the number of his converts, or rather, of his slavt^. 
 In spite of the wise and humane law of Charles 
 the Third, prohibiting the conversion of the In- 
 dian natives by force, Gomez, like others of his 
 brethren in the more distant missions, often ac- 
 complished his purpose by direct violence. He 
 was accustomed to go, with a party of his people, 
 
224 TALKS. 
 
 and lie in wait near the hordes of unreclaimed 
 Indians ; when the men were absent he would 
 forcibly seize on the women and children, bind 
 them, and bring them off in triumph to his vil- 
 lage. There, being baptized, and taught to make 
 the sign of the cross, they were called Christians, 
 but in reality were slaves. In general, the women 
 thus detained pined away and died; but the chil- 
 dren became accustomed to their new mode of 
 life, forgot their woods, and paid to their Christian 
 master a willing and blind obedience ; thus in 
 time they became the oppressors of their own 
 people. 
 
 Father Gomez called these incursions, la con- 
 quista espiritual — the conquest of souls. 
 
 One day he set off on an expedition of this 
 nature, attended by twelve armed Indians ; and 
 after rowing some leagues up the river Guaviare, 
 which flows into the Orinoco, they perceived, 
 through an opening in the trees, and at a little 
 distance from the shore, an Indian hut. It is the 
 custom of these people to live isolated in families ; 
 and so strong is their passion for solitude that 
 when collected into villages they frequently build 
 themselves a little cabin at a distance from their 
 usual residence, and retire to it at certain seasons, 
 for days together. The cabin of which I speak 
 was one of these solitary villas — if I may so apply 
 the word. It was constructed with peculiar neat- 
 ness, thatched with palm-leaves, and overshadowed 
 with cocoa-trees and laurels ; it stood alone in 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 22,3 
 
 the wilderness, embowered in luxuriant vegeta- 
 tion, and looked like the chosen abode of simple 
 and quiet happiness. Within this hut a young- 
 Indian woman (whom I shall call Guahiba, from 
 the name of her tribe) was busied in making cakes 
 of the cassava root, and preparing the family meal, 
 against the return of her husband, who was fishing 
 at some distance up the river ; her eldest child, 
 about five or six years old, assisted her ; and from 
 time to time, while thus employed, the mother 
 turned her eyes, beaming with fond affection, upon 
 the playful gambols of two little infants, who, being 
 just able to crawl alone, were rolling together on 
 the ground, laughing and crowing with all their 
 might. 
 
 Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian 
 woman looked towards the river, impatient for the 
 return of her husband. But her bright dark eyes, 
 swimming with eagerness and affectionate solici- 
 tude, became fixed and glazed with terror, when. 
 instead of him she so fondly expected, she beheld 
 the attendants of Father Gomez, creeping stealth- 
 ily along the side of the thicket towards her cabin. 
 Instantly aware of her danger, (for the nature and 
 object of these incursions were the dread of all 
 the country round,) she uttered a piercing shriek, 
 snatched up her infants in her arms. and. call- 
 ing on the other to follow, rushed from the hut 
 towards the forest. As she had considerably the 
 start of her pursuers, she would probably have 
 escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its 
 15 
 
226 TALES. 
 
 tangled depths if her precious burden had not im- 
 peded her flight; but thus encumbered she was 
 easily overtaken. Her eldest child, fleet of foot, 
 and wily as the young jaguar, escaped to carry to 
 the wretched father the news of his bereavement, 
 and neither father nor child were evermore beheld 
 in their former haunts. 
 
 Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba — 
 bound her, tied her two children together, and 
 dragged her down to the river, where Father 
 Gomez was sitting in his canoe, waiting the issue 
 of the expedition. At the sight of the captives 
 his eyes sparkled with a cruel triumph : he 
 thanked his patron saint that three more souls 
 were added to his community ; and then, heed- 
 less of the tears of the mother, and the cries of 
 her children, he commanded his followers to row 
 back with all speed to San Fernando. 
 
 There Guahiba and her infants were placed in 
 a hut under the guard of two Indians ; some food 
 was given to her, which she at first refused, but 
 afterwards, as if on reflection, accepted. A young 
 Indian girl was then sent to her — a captive convert 
 of her own tribe who had not yet quite forgotten 
 her native language. She tried to make Guahiba 
 comprehend that in this village she and her chil- 
 dren must remain during the rest of their lives, in 
 order that they might go to heaven after they were 
 dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing 
 of what was addressed to her ; nor could she be 
 made to conceive for what purpose she was torn 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 227 
 
 from her husband and her home, nor why she was 
 to dwell for the remainder of her life among a 
 strange people, and against her will. During that 
 night she remained tranquil, watching over her 
 infants as they slumbered by her side ; but the 
 moment the dawn appeared she took them in her 
 arms and ran off to the woods. She was immedi- 
 ately brought back ; but no sooner were the eyes 
 of her keepers turned from her than she snatched 
 up her children, and again fled ; — again — and 
 again! At every new attempt she was punished 
 with more and more severity ; she was kept from 
 food, and at length repeatedly and cruelly beaten. 
 In vain ! — apparently she did not even understand 
 why she was thus treated ; and one instinctive idea 
 alone, the desire of escape, seemed to possess her 
 mind and govern all her movements. If her op- 
 pressors only turned from her, or looked another 
 way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her 
 children and ran off towards the forest. Father 
 Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed 
 her " blind obstinacy ; " and, as the only means of 
 securing all three, he took measures to separate the 
 mother from her children, and resolved to convey 
 Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should 
 never find her way back either to them or to her 
 home. 
 
 In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with 
 her hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow 
 of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at the 
 helm, and thev rowed awav. 
 
228 TALES. 
 
 The few travellers who have visited these regions 
 agree in describing a phenomenon, the cause of 
 which is still a mystery to geologists, and which 
 imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropri- 
 ated and unviolated shades an effect intensely and 
 indescribably mournful. The granite rocks which 
 border the river, and extend far into the contigu- 
 ous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes ; and 
 are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, 
 which contrasted with the snow-white foam of the 
 waves breaking on them below, and the pale 
 lichens which spring from their crevices and creep 
 along their surface above, give these shores an 
 aspect perfectly funereal. Between these melan- 
 choly rocks — so high and so steep that a landing- 
 place seldom occurred for leagues together — the 
 canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though 
 urged against the stream by eight robust Indians. 
 
 The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly un- 
 moved, and apparently amazed and stunned by 
 her situation ; she did not comprehend what they 
 were going to do with her ; but after a while she 
 looked up towards the sun, then down upon the 
 stream ; and perceiving, by the direction of the 
 one and the course of the other, that every stroke 
 of the oar carried her farther and farther from her 
 beloved and helpless children, her husband, and 
 her native home, her countenance was seen to 
 change and assume a fearful expression. As the 
 possibility of escape, in her present situation, had 
 never once occurred to her captors, she had been 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 229 
 
 very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched 
 her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms. 
 with a sudden-effort flung herself overboard, and 
 dived under the waves ; but in another moment 
 she rose again at a considerable distance, and 
 swam to the shore. The current, being rapid 
 and strong, carried her down to the base of a dark 
 granite rock which projected into the stream ; she 
 climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant 
 on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants, then 
 plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight. 
 
 Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unex- 
 pectedly escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck 
 for some moments, unable to give utterance to the 
 extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, 
 at length, he found voice, he commanded his In- 
 dians to pull with all their might to the shore ; 
 then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her 
 back to him, dead or alive. 
 
 Guahiba. meantime, while strength remained to 
 break her way through the tangled wilderness, con- 
 tinued her flight, ; but soon exhausted and breath- 
 less, with the violence of her exertions, she was 
 obliged to relax in her efforts, and at length sunk 
 down at the foot of a huge laurel tree, where she 
 concealed herself, as well as she might, among the 
 long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and 
 trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her 
 persecutors hallooing to each other through the 
 thicket. She would probably have escaped but for 
 a larsre mastiff which the Indians had with them. 
 
230 TALKS. 
 
 and which scented her out in her hiding-place. 
 The moment she heard the dreaded animal sriuffino 
 in the air, and tearing his way through the grass, 
 she knew she was lost. The Indians came up. 
 She attempted no vain resistance : but with a sul- 
 len passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and 
 dragged to the shore. 
 
 When the merciless priest beheld her, he deter- 
 mined to inflict on her such discipline as he thought 
 would banish her children from her memory, and 
 cure her for ever of her passion for escaping. He 
 ordered her to be stretched upon that granite rock 
 where she had landed from the canoe, on the summit 
 of which she had stood, as if exulting in her flight, 
 — the rock of the mother, as it has ever since 
 been denominated — and there flogged till she could 
 scarcely move or speak. She was then bound more 
 securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to Javita, 
 the seat of a mission far up the river. 
 
 It was near sunset when they arrived at this 
 village, and the inhabitants were preparing to go 
 to rest. Guahiba was deposited for the night in a 
 large barn-like building, which served as a place 
 of worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, 
 as a barrack. Father Gomez ordered two or 
 three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her 
 alternately, relieving each other through the night ; 
 and then went to repose himself after the fatigues 
 of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither 
 resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered 
 himself that she was now reduced to submission. 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 231 
 
 Little could he fathom the bosom of this fond 
 mother ! He mistook for stupor, or resignation, the 
 calmness of a fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, 
 and in torture, her heart throbbed with but one feel- 
 ing ; one thought alone possessed her whole soul ; — 
 her children — her children — and still her children ! 
 
 Among the Indians appointed to watch her was 
 a youth, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, 
 who, perceiving that her arms were miserabiy 
 bruised by the stripes she had received, and that 
 she suffered the most acute agony from the savage 
 tightness with which the cords were drawn, let fall 
 an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe. 
 Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and ad- 
 dressed him as one of her people. 
 
 " Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, " thou 
 speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my 
 brother ! Wilt thou see me perish without pity, 
 
 son of my people ? Ah cut these bonds which 
 enter into my flesh ! I faint with pain ! I die ! " 
 
 The young man heard, and, as if terrified, re- 
 moved a few paces from her and kept silence. Af- 
 terwards, when his companions were out of sight, 
 and he was left alone to watch, he approached and 
 said, " Guahiba ! — our fathers were the same, and 
 
 1 may not see thee die ; but if I cut these bonds, 
 white man will flog me : — wilt thou be content if I 
 loosen them, and give thee ease ? " And as he 
 spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs on her 
 wrists and arms; she smiled upon him languidly 
 and appeared satisfied. 
 
232 TALES. 
 
 Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped 
 her head on her bosom, and closed her eyes, as if 
 exhausted by weariness. The young Indian, be- 
 lieving that she slept, after some hesitation laid 
 himself down on his mat. His companions were 
 already slumbering in the porch of the building, 
 and all was still. 
 
 Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night — 
 dark night — without moon or star. There was no 
 sound, except the breathing of the sleepers around 
 her, and the humming of the mosquitoes. She 
 listened for some time with her whole soul ; but 
 all was silence. She then gnawed the loosened 
 thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once 
 free, she released her feet ; and when the morning 
 comes she had disappeared. Search was made for 
 her in every direction, but in vain ; and Father Go- 
 mez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village. 
 
 The distance between Javita and San Fernando, 
 where Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five 
 leagues in a straight line. A fearful wilderness of 
 gigantic forest-trees, and intermingling underwood, 
 separated these two missions ; — a savage and awful 
 solitude, which, probably, since the beginning of 
 the world, had never been trodden by human foot. 
 All communication was carried on by the river ; 
 and there lived not a man, whether Indian or Eu- 
 ropean, bold enough to have attempted the route 
 along the shore. It was the commencement of the 
 rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, sel- 
 dom revealed the sun bv day : and neither moon 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 233 
 
 nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers 
 had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. 
 There was no visible object to direct the traveller ; 
 no shelter, no defence, no aid, no guide. Was it 
 Providence — was it the strong instinct of maternal 
 love, which led this courageous woman through 
 the depths of the pathless woods — where rivulets, 
 swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at 
 every step ; where the thorny lianas, twining from 
 tree to tree, opposed an almost impenetrable bar- 
 rier ; where the mosquitoes hung in clouds upon her 
 path : where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to 
 devour her ; where the rattlesnake and the water- 
 serpent lay coiled up in the damp grass, ready to 
 spring at her ; where she had no food to support her 
 exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large 
 black ants which build their nests on the trees ? 
 How directed — how sustained — cannot be told : the 
 poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be 
 known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising 
 sun beheld her at San Fernando : a wild, and 
 wasted, and fearful object : her feet swelled and 
 bleeding — her hands torn — her body covered with 
 wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue ; 
 — but once more near her children ! 
 
 For several hours she hovered round the hut 
 in which she had left them, gazing on it from a 
 distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, with- 
 out daring to advance: at length she perceived that 
 all the inhabitants had quitted their cottages to 
 attend vespers ; then she stole from the thicket, 
 
234 TALES. 
 
 and approached, with faint and timid steps, the 
 spot which contained her heart's treasures. She 
 entered, and found her infants left alone, and play- 
 ing together on a mat ; they screamed at her ap- 
 pearance, so changed was she by suffering ; but 
 when she called them by name, they knew her 
 tender voice, and stretched out their little arms 
 towards her. In that moment, the mother forgot 
 all she had endured — all her anguish, all her fears, 
 every thing on earth but the objects which blessed 
 her eyes. She sat down between her children — 
 she took them on her knees — she clasped them in 
 an agony of fondness to her bosom — she covered 
 them with kisses — she shed torrents of tears on 
 their little heads, as she hugged them to her. 
 Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why 
 she was there ; new terrors seized her ; she rose up 
 hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she stag- 
 gered out of the cabin — fainting, stumbling, and 
 almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She 
 tried to reach the woods, but too feeble to sustain 
 her burden, which yet she would not relinquish, her 
 limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this 
 moment an Indian, who was watching the public 
 oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ring- 
 ing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering 
 round Guahiba with fright and astonishment. 
 They gazed upon her as if upon an apparition, 
 till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling 
 and wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet 
 lived, though apparently nigh to death. They 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 235 
 
 looked upon her in silence, and then at each 
 other ; their savage bosoms were touched with 
 commiseration for her sad plight, and with admira- 
 tion, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism 
 of maternal love. 
 
 While they hesitated, and none seemed willing 
 to seize her, or to take her children from her, 
 Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return 
 from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded 
 them to be separated. Guahiba clasped her chil- 
 dren closer to her breast, and the Indians shrunk 
 back. 
 
 u What ! " thundered the monk : " will ye suffer 
 this woman to steal two precious souls from heaven ? 
 — two members from our community V See ye not, 
 that while she is suffered to approach them, there is 
 no salvation for either mother or children ? — part 
 them, and instantly ! " 
 
 The Indians, accustomed to his ascendency, and 
 terrified at his voice, tore the children of Gua- 
 hiba once more from her feeble arms ; she uttered 
 nor word, nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the 
 earth. 
 
 While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel 
 mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed ; 
 her arms and legs were swathed with cotton 
 bandages ; she was then placed in a canoe, and 
 conveyed to a mission, far, far off, on the river 
 Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco. She 
 continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor 
 
236 TALES. 
 
 during the voyage ; but after being taken out of 
 the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought 
 her back to life, and to a sense of her situa- 
 tion. When she perceived, as reason and con- 
 sciousness returned, that she was in a strange 
 place, unknowing how she was brought there — ■ 
 among a tribe who spoke a language different 
 from any she had ever heard before, and from 
 whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, 
 she could hope nor aid nor pity ; — when she 
 recollected that she was far from her beloved 
 children ; — when she saw no means of discov- 
 ering the bearing or the distance of their abode 
 — no clue to guide her back to it: — then, and 
 only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter 
 despair ; and thenceforward refusing to speak or 
 to move, and obstinately rejecting all nourish- 
 ment, thus she died. 
 
 The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends 
 his oar with a sigh as he passes the rock of 
 the mother. He points it out to the trav- 
 eller, and weeps as he relates the tale of her 
 sufferings and her fate. A<jes hence, when these 
 solitary regions have become the seats of civili- 
 zation, of power, and intelligence ; when the 
 pathless wilds, which poor Guahiba traversed in 
 her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and 
 smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving har- 
 vests, — still that dark rock shall stand, frowning 
 o'er the stream ; tradition and history shall pre- 
 
THE INDIAN MOTHER. 237 
 
 serve its name and fame ; and when even the 
 pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human 
 pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry 
 down to the end of the world the memory of the 
 Indian Mother. 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 
 
 A DRAMATIC PROVERB. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR 
 
 HYACIXTHE, EMILY, CAROLINE, AND EDWARD 
 
 ♦ — 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Dick, the Cobbler, a very honest man, and very merry withal, 
 
 much given to singing. 
 Margery, his wife, simple and affectionate, and one of the best 
 
 women in the world. • 
 
 Lady Amaranthe, a fine lady, full of airs and affectation, but 
 
 not without good feeling. 
 Mademoiselle Justine, her French maid, very like other French 
 
 maids. 
 The SCEXE lies partly in the Garret of the Cobbler, and partly 
 in Lady Amaeanthe's Drawing-room. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Garret meanly furnished ; several pairs of old shoes, a 
 coat, hat, bonnet, and shawl hanging against the Wall. 
 Dick is seated on a low stool in front. He works, and 
 sings. 
 
 As she lay on that day 
 In the Bay of Biscay 0! 
 
 Now that's what I call a good song ; but my wife, 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 239 
 
 she can't abear them blusteration songs, she says ; 
 she likes something tender and genteel, full of fine 
 words. (Sings in a mincing voice.) 
 
 Vake, dearest, vake, and again united 
 Ye'll vander by the sea-he-he-e. 
 
 Hang me, if I can understand a word of it ! but 
 when my wife sings it out with her pretty little 
 mouth, it does one's heart good to hear her ; and I 
 could listen to her for ever : but, for my own part, 
 what I like is a song that comes thundering out 
 with a meaning in it ! (Sings, and flourishes Ms 
 hammer with enthusiasm, beating time upon the 
 shoe.) 
 
 March! march! Eskdale and Tiviotdale, 
 All the blue bonnets are over the border ! 
 
 margery — ( from within. ) 
 Dick ! Dick ! what a noise you do keep ! 
 
 A noise, eh ? Why, Meg, you didn't use to think 
 it a noise : you used to like to hear me sing ! 
 
 margery — ( entering. ) 
 
 And so I did, and so I do. I loves music with all 
 my heart ; but the whole parish will hear you if 
 you go for to bawl out so monstrous loud. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 And let them ! who cares ? [He sings, she laughs. 
 
240 TALKS. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Nay, sing away if you like it ! 
 
 dick — {stopping suddenly.) 
 I won't sing another bit if you don't like it, Meg. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Ob, I do like ! Lord bless us ! not like it ! it 
 sounds so merry ! Why, Dick, love, everybody said 
 yesterday that you sung as well as Mr. Thingumee 
 at Sadler's Wells, and says they, " Who is that 
 young man as sings like any nightingale ? " and I 
 says (drawing herself up), " That's my husband !" 
 
 Ay ! flummery ! — But, Meg, I say, how did you 
 like the wedding vesterdav ? 
 
 Oh, hugeously ! such heaps of smart people, as 
 fine as fivepence, I warrant; and such gay gowns 
 and caps ! and plenty to eat and drink ! — But what 
 I liked best was the walking in the gardens at 
 Bagnigge Wells, and the tea, and the crumpets ! 
 
 And the punch ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes — ha ! ha ! I could see you thought that 
 good ! and then the dancing ! 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 241 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ay, ay ; and there wasn't one amongst them that 
 footed it away like my -Margery. And folks says 
 to me, " Pray, who is that pretty modest young 
 woman as hops over the ground as light as a fea- 
 ther ? " says they ; and says I, " Why, that there 
 pretty young woman is my wife, to be sure ! " 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Ah, you're at your jokes, Dick ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 I'll be hanged then ! 
 
 margery — {leaning on his shoulder.) 
 
 Well, to be sure, we were happy yesterday. It's 
 good to make holiday just now and then, but some 
 how I was very glad to come home to our own little 
 room again. O Dick ! — did you mind that Mrs. 
 Pinchtoe, that gave herself such grand airs ? — she 
 in the fine lavender silk gown — that turned up her 
 nose at me so, and all because she's a master shoe- 
 maker's wife ! and you are only — only — a cob- 
 bler ! — (sighs). I wish you were a master shoemaker, 
 Dick. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 That you might be a master shoemaker's wife, 
 hay ! and turn up your nose like Mrs. Pinchtoe ? 
 
 margery — ( laughing. ) 
 
 No, no; I have more manners. 
 16 
 
242 TALES. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Would you love me better, Meg, if I were a 
 master shoemaker ? 
 
 MAKGERT. 
 
 No. I couldn't love you better if you were a 
 king ; and that you know, Dick ; and, after all, 
 we're happy now, and who knows what might be 
 if we were to change ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ay, indeed ! who knows ? you might grow into 
 a fine lady like she over the way, who comes home 
 o'nights just as we're getting up in the morning, 
 with the flams flaring, and blazing like any thing ; 
 and that puts me in mind 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Of what, Dick ? tell me ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Why, cousin Tom's wedding put it all out of my 
 head last night ; but yesterday there comes over to 
 me one of those fine bedizened fellows we see 
 lounging about the door there, with a cocked hat, 
 and things like stay laces dangling at his shoulder. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 What could he want, I wonder ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 O ! he comes over to me as I was just standing 
 
MUCH COIN. MUCH CARE. 243 
 
 at the door below, a thinking of nothing at all, and 
 singing " Paddy O'Raffetv " to myself, and says he 
 to me, k * You cobbler fellor," says he, " don't you go 
 for to keep such a bawling every morning, awaken- 
 ing people out of their first sleep." says he, i; for if 
 you do, my lord will have you put into the stocks," 
 says he. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 The stocks ! O goodness gracious me ! and what 
 for, pray ? 
 
 dick — [with a grin.) 
 
 Why, for singing, honey ! So says I, •• Hark'ee, 
 Mr. Scrape-trencher, there go words to that bar- 
 gain : what right have you to go for to speak in 
 that there way to me ? " says I ; and says he, 
 " We'll have you 'dited for a nuisance, fellor, " 
 says he. 
 
 margery — (clasping her hands.) 
 
 A nuisance ! my Dick a nuisance ! Lord a' 
 mercy ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Never fear, girl; I'm a free-born Englishman, 
 and I knows the laws well enough : and says I. " Xo 
 more a fellor than yourself; I'm an honest man, 
 following an honest calling, and I don't care that 
 for you nor your lord neither; and I'll sing when I 
 please, and I'll sing what I please, and I'll sing as 
 loud as I please : I will, by jingo ! " and so he lifts 
 me up his cane, and I says quite cool, " This house 
 is my castle ; and if you don't take yourself oat of 
 that in a jiffey, why, I'll give your laced jacket 
 
244 TALES. 
 
 such a dusting as it never had before in its life — I 
 will." 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 O, Dick ! you've a spirit of your own, I warrant. 
 Well, and then ? 
 
 Oh, I promise you he was off in the twinkling of 
 a bed-post, and I've heard no more of him ; but I 
 was determined to wake you this morning with a 
 thundering song ; just to show 'em I didn't care for 
 'em — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Oh, ho ! that was the reason, then, that you 
 bawled so in my ear, and frightened me out of my 
 sleep — was it ? Oh, well, I forgive you ; but bless 
 me ! I stand chattering here, and it's twelve o'clock, 
 as I live ! I must go to market — {putting on her 
 shaivl and bonnet.) What would you like to have 
 for dinner, Dick, love ? a nice rasher of bacon, by 
 way of a relish ? 
 
 dick — (smacking his lips.) 
 Just the very thing, honey. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Well, give me the shilling, then. 
 
 dick — (scratching his head.) 
 What shilling ? 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 245 
 
 MAEGEET. 
 
 Why, the shilling you had yesterday. 
 
 dick— fed* : ' I k pi :- - -':>■ 
 A shilling : 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes. a shilling. (Gai/Ii/.) To have meat, one 
 must have money : and folks must eat as well as 
 sing. Dick. love. Come, out with it ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 But suppose I haven't got it ? 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 How ! what ! you don't mean for to say that the 
 last shilling that you put in your pocket, just to 
 make a show, is gone ? 
 
 dick— . - 
 But I do. though — it's gone. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 What shall we do? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 I don't know. (A pause. They tool: at each. 
 \ ) Stay, that's lucky. Here's a pair of danc- 
 ing pumps as belongs to old Mrs. Crusty, the 
 - s wife at the corner — 
 
246 TALES. 
 
 MARGERY — (f/ayfy. ) 
 
 We can't eat them for dinner, I guess. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 No, no ; but I'm just at the last stitch. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes— 
 
 dick — (speaking and working in a hurry.) 
 And so you'll take them home — 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes— 
 
 DICK. 
 
 And tell her I must have seven-pence halfpenny 
 for them. (Gives them.) 
 
 margery — (examining the shoes.) 
 
 But, Dick, isn't that some'at extortionate, as a 
 body may say ? seven-pence halfpenny ! 
 
 Why, here's heel-pieces, and a patch upon each 
 toe ; one must live, Mes ! 
 
 Yes, Dick, love ; but so must other folks. Now 
 I think seven-pence would be enough in all con- 
 science — what do you. sav ? 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 247 
 
 DICK, 
 
 Well, settle it as you like ; only get a bit of 
 dinner for us, for I'm as hungry as a hunter, I 
 know. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 I'm going. Good bye, Dick ! 
 
 Take care of theeself— and don't spend the 
 change in caps and ribbons, Meg ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Caps and ribbons out of seven-pence ! Lord help 
 the man! ha, ha, ha! (She goes out.) 
 
 dick — {calliny after her.) 
 
 And come back soon, d'ye hear? There she 
 goes — hop, skip, and jump, down the stairs. Some- 
 how, I can't abear to have her out of my sight a 
 minute. Well, if ever there was a man could say 
 he had a good wife, why, that's me myself — tho 'f I 
 say it — the cheerfullest, sweetest temperedst, clean- 
 liest, lovingest woman in the whole parish, that 
 never gives one an ill word from year's end to 
 year's end, and deserves at least that a man should 
 work hard for her — it's all I can do — and we must 
 think for to-morrow as well as to-day. (He works 
 with great energy, and sings at the same time with 
 equal enthusiasm.) 
 
248 TALKS. 
 
 Cannot ye do as I do ? 
 
 Cannot ye do as I do? 
 
 Spend your money, and work for more; 
 
 That's the way that I do ! 
 
 Tol de rol lol. 
 
 (Reenter margery in haste.) 
 
 marg.— - (out of breath.) 
 Oh, Dick, husband ! Dick, I say ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Hay ! what's the matter now ? 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Here be one of those fine powdered laced fellows 
 from over the way corned after you again. 
 
 dick — (rising.) 
 
 An impudent jackanapes ! Ill give him as good 
 as he brings. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Oh, no, no! he's monstrous civil now; for he 
 chucked me under the chin, and says he, "My. 
 pretty girl ! " 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ho ! monstrous civil indeed, with a vengeance ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 And says he, " Do you belong to this here 
 house V " " Yes, sir," says I, making *a curtsy, for I 
 couldn't do no less when he spoke so civil ; and says 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 249 
 
 he, " Is there an honest cobbler as lives here ? " 
 " Yes, sir," says I, " my husband that is." " Then, 
 my dear," says he, "just tell him to step over the 
 way, for my Lady Amaranthe wishes to speak to 
 him immediately." 
 
 DICK. 
 
 A lady ? Lord ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes, so you must go directly. Here, take off 
 your apron, and let me comb your hair a bit. 
 
 What the mischief can a lady want with me ? 
 I've nothing to do with ladies, as I knows of. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Why, she won't eat you up, I reckon. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 And yet I — I — I be afeard, Meg ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Afeard of a lady ! that's a good one ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ay, just — if it were a man, I shouldn't care 
 a fig. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 But we've never done no harm to nobody in our 
 whole lives, so what is there to be afraid of? 
 
250 TALES. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Nay, that's true. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Now let me help you on with your best coat. 
 Pooh ! what is the man about ? — Why, you're 
 putting the back to the front, and the front to the 
 back, like Paddy from Cork, with his coat but- 
 toned behind ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 My head do turn round, just for all the world 
 like a peg-top. — A lady ! what can a lady have to 
 say to me, I wonder ? 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 May be, she's a customer. 
 
 No, no, great gentlefolks like she never wears 
 patched toes nor heel-pieces, I reckon. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Here's your hat. Now let me see how you can 
 make a bow. (lie bows awkwardly.) Hold up 
 your head — turn out your toes. That will do 
 capital ! (She walks round him with admiration.) 
 How nice you look ! there's ne'er a gentleman of 
 them all can come up to my Dick. 
 
 dick — (hesitating. ) 
 
 But — a — a — Meg, you'll come with me, won't 
 you, and just see me safe in at the door, eh ? 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 251 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Yes, to be sure ; walk on before, and let me 
 look at you. Hold up your bead — there, that's it ! 
 
 dick — (marching.) 
 
 Come along. Hang it, who's afraid ? 
 
 f They go out. 
 
 Scene changing to a Drawing-room in the House 
 of Lady Amaranthe. 
 
 Enter Lady Amaranthe, leaning upon her inaid. Made- 
 moiselle Justine. 
 
 lady amaraxthe. 
 
 Avancez un fauteuil. ma chere ! arrangez les 
 conssins. (Justine settles the chair, and places a 
 footstool. Lady Amaranthe. sinking into the 
 arm-chair with a languid air.) Justine. I shall die, 
 I shall certainly die ! I never can survive this ! 
 
 Mon Dieu ! madame, ne parlez pas comme ca ! 
 c'est m'enfoncer un poignard dans le coeur ! 
 
 lady amaranthe — (Despairingly. ) 
 No rest — no possibility of sleeping — 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 
 Et le medecin de madame. qui a ordonne la plus 
 
252 TALES. 
 
 grande tranquillite — qui a meine voulu que je me 
 taisais — moi, par exemple ! 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 After fatiguing myself to death with playing the 
 agreeable to disagreeable people, and talking com- 
 monplace to commonplace acquaintance, I return 
 home, to lay my aching head upon my pillow, and 
 just as my eyes are closing, I start — I wake, — a 
 voice that would rouse the dead out of their graves 
 echoes in my ears ! In vain I bury my head in the 
 pillow — in vain draw the curtains close — multiply 
 defences against my window — change from room 
 to room — it haunts me ! Ah ! I think I hear it still 
 (covering her ears) it will certainly drive me dis- 
 tracted ! 
 
 [During this speech, Justine lias made sundry excla- 
 mations and gestures expressive of horror, sympathy, 
 and commiseration.'] 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 
 Vraiment, c'est affreux. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 In any more civilized country it never could 
 have been endured — I should have had him re- 
 moved at once ; but here the vulgar people talk of 
 laws ! 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 
 Ah, oui, madame, mais il faut avouer que c'est 
 ici un pays bien barbare, ou tout le monde parle 
 
MUCH COIN. MUCH CARE. 253 
 
 loi et metaphysique. et ou Ton ne fait point de 
 difference entre les riches et les pauvres. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 But what provokes me more than all the rest is 
 this unheard-of insolence ! (rises and waits about 
 the room?) — a cobbler too — a cobbler who presumes 
 to sing, and to sing when all the rest of the world 
 is asleep ! This is the march of intellect with a 
 vengeance ! 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 C'est vrai. il ne chante que des marches et de 
 gros chansons a boire — s'il chantait bien douce- 
 ment quelque joli roman par exemple — (She. sings) 
 dormez. dormez. mes chers amours ! 
 
 LADY AXAEANTHE. 
 
 Justine, did you send the butler over to request 
 civilly that he would not disturb me in the morn- 
 ing ? 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 Qui, niiladn dat is, I have send John ; de butler 
 he was went out. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHS. 
 
 And his answer was. that he would sing in spite 
 of me, and louder than ever ? 
 
 Oui, miladi, le monstre ! il dit comme ca. dat he 
 will sing more louder den ever. 
 
254 
 
 lady amaranthe — (sinking again into her chair.) 
 Ah ! the horrid man ! 
 
 Ah ! dere is no politesse, no more den dere is 
 police in dis country. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 If Lord Amaranthe were not two hundred miles 
 off — but, as it is, I must find some remedy — let me 
 think — bribery, I suppose. Have they sent for 
 him ? I dread to see the wretch. What noise is 
 that ? allez voir, ma chere ! 
 
 Justine — {goes and returns.) 
 
 Madame, c'est justement notre homme, voulez- 
 vous qu'il entre ? 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Oui, faites entrer. [She leans bach in her chair, 
 
 justine — (at the door.) 
 
 Entrez, entrez toujours, dat is, come in, good 
 mister. 
 
 Enter Dick. He bows; and, squeezing his hat in his hands, 
 looks round him ivith considerable embarrassment. 
 
 justine — (to Lady Amaranthe.) 
 
 Bah ! comme il sent le cuir, n'est-ce pas, ma- 
 dame? 
 
MUCH COLX, MUCH CAKE. 20 
 
 LADY AMARAOTHE. 
 
 Faugh ! mea sels — ma vinaigrette, Justine — non, 
 l'eau de Cologne, qui est la sur la table. (Justice 
 brings Tier some eau de Cologne: she pours some upon her 
 handkerchief, and applies it to her temples and. to her nose, 
 as if overcome ; then, raising her eye-glass, she examines 
 Dick from head to foot.) Good man — a — pray, what 
 is your name ? 
 
 dick — {with a profound, how.) 
 Dick, please your ladyship. 
 
 LADY A5IAEAXTHE. 
 
 Hum — a — a — pray, Mr. Dick — 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Folks just call me plain Dick, my lady. I'm a 
 poor honest cobbler, and no mister. 
 
 LADY AMAEAXTHE — {pettishly. ) 
 
 Well, sir, it is of no consequence. You live in 
 the small house over the way, I think ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Yes, ma'am, my lady. I does ; I rents the attics. 
 
 LADY AMAEAXTHE. 
 
 You appear a good civil sort of man enough. 
 (He bows.) I sent my servant over to request that 
 you would not disturb me in the night — or the 
 morning, as you call it. I have very weak health 
 
256 TALKS. 
 
 — am quite an invalid — your loud singing in the 
 morning just opposite to my windows 
 
 dick — {eagerly.) 
 
 Ma'am, I — I'm very sorry ; I ax your ladyship's 
 pardon ; I'll never sing no more above my breath, 
 if you please. 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 
 Comment ! c'est honnete, par exemple. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE — {surprised.) 
 
 Then you did not tell my servant that you would 
 sing louder than ever, in spite of me ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Me, my lady ? I never said no such thing. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 This is strange ; or is there some mistake ? Per- 
 haps you are not the same Mr. Dick ? 
 
 Why, yes, my lady, for that matter, I be the 
 same Dick. (Approaching a few steps, and speak- 
 ing confidentially.') I'll just tell your ladyship the 
 whole truth, and not a bit of a lie. There comes 
 an impudent fellow to me, and he tells me, just out 
 of his own head, I'll be bound, that if I sung o' 
 mornings, he would have me put in the stocks. 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 257 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Good heavens ! 
 
 -Justine — {in the same tone.) 
 Grands dieux ! 
 
 dick — {with a grin.) 
 
 Now the stocks is for a rogue, as the saying is. 
 As for my singing, that's neither here nor there ; 
 but no jackanapes shall threaten me. I will sing if 
 I please (sturdily.) and I won't sing if 1 don't 
 please; and (lowering his tone.) I don't please, if it 
 disturbs your ladyship. (Retreating) I wish your 
 ladyship a good day, and better health. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Stay ; you are not then the rude uncivil person 
 I was told of? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 I hopes I knows better than to do an uncivil 
 thing by a lady. 
 
 [Bows and retreats towards the door. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Stay, sir — a — a — one word. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Oh, as many as you please, ma'am ; I'm in no 
 hurry. 
 
2r>$ TALES. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHS — (fj variously. ) 
 
 Are you married ? 
 
 dick — [nibbing his hands with glee.) 
 
 Yes, ma'am, I be ; and to as tight a bit of a wife 
 as any in the parish. 
 
 Ah ! il parait que ce Monsieur Dick aime sa 
 femme ! Est-il amusant ! 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 You love her then ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Oh, then I do ! I love her with all my heart ! 
 who could help it ? 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Indeed ! and how do you live ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Why, bless you, ma'am, sometimes well, some- 
 times ill, according as I have luck and work. 
 When we can get a bit of dinner, we eat it, and 
 when we can't, why, we go without : or, may be, a 
 kind neighbour helps us. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Poor creatures ! 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 259 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Oh, not so poor neither, my lady ; many folks is 
 worser off. I'm always merry, night and day ; and 
 my Meg is the good temperedst, best wife in the 
 world. We've never had nothing from the parish, 
 and never will, please God, while I have health 
 and hands. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 And you are happy ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 As happy as the day is long. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE — (aside.) 
 
 This is a lesson to me. Eh bien, Justine ! voila 
 done notre sauvage ! 
 
 H est gentil ce Monsieur Dick, et a present que 
 je le regarde — vraiment il a une assez jolie tour- 
 nure. 
 
 lady amaranthe — (with increasing interest.) 
 Have you any children ? 
 
 dick — (with a sigh.) 
 No, ma'am ; and that's the only thing as frets us. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 Good heavens ! you do not mean to say yon wish 
 
2G0 TALES. 
 
 for them, and have scarce enough for yourselves ? 
 how would you feed them ? 
 
 Oh, I should leave Meg to feed them ; I should 
 have nothing to do but to work for them. Provi- 
 dence w^ould take care of us while they were little ; 
 and, when they were big, they would help us. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE — •( aside. ) 
 
 I could not have conceived this. (She whispers 
 Justine, who goes out.) (To Dick.) Can I do 
 any thing to serve you ? 
 
 Only, if your ladyship could recommend me any 
 custom ; I mend shoes as cheap as e'er a cobbler in 
 London, though I say it. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 I shall certainly desire that all my people em- 
 ploy you whenever there is occasion. 
 
 Reenter Justixe, holding a purse in her hand. 
 
 dick — (bowing.) 
 
 Much obliged, my lady ; I hopes to give satis- 
 faction, but (looking with admiration at Lady 
 Am aranthe's foot as it rests on the footstool} such 
 a pretty, little, delicate, beautiful foot as yon, I 
 
MUCH COIN. MUCH CARE. 261 
 
 never fitted in all my born days. It can't cost 
 your ladyship much in shoe leather, I guess ? 
 
 lady amaranths— (smiting complacently.) 
 
 Rather more than you would imagine, I fancy, 
 mv good friend. 
 
 Comment done — ce Monsieur Dick, fait aussi 
 des complimens a Madame ? II ne manque pas 
 de gout, — (aside) et il sait ce qu'il fait, apparem- 
 ment. 
 
 lady amara:s'the. — {glancing at her foot.) 
 
 C'est a dire — il a du bon sens, et ne parle pas 
 mal. (She takes the purse.) As you so civilly- 
 obliged me, you must allow me to make you some 
 return. 
 
 dick. — {putting his hand behind him.) 
 
 Me, ma'am ! I'm sure I don't want to be paid for 
 being civil. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 But as I have deprived you of a pleasure, my 
 good friend, some amends surely — 
 
 Oh, ma'am, pray don't mention it ; my wife's a 
 little tired and sleepy sometimes of a morning, and 
 if I didn't sing her out of bed, I do think she would, 
 
262 TALKS. 
 
 by chance, snooze away till six o'clock, like any 
 duchess ; but a pinch or a shake or a kiss will do as 
 well, may be ; and (earnestly) she's, for all that, 
 the best woman in the world! 
 
 LADY AMAKANTHE — {smiling. ) 
 
 I can believe it, though she does sleep till six 
 o'clock like a duchess. Well, my good friend, there 
 are five guineas in this purse ; the purse is my own 
 w r ork ; and I request you will present it to your 
 wife from me, with many thanks for your civility. 
 
 dick— {confused.) 
 
 Much obliged, much obliged, but I can't, I can't 
 indeed, my lady. Five guineas ! O Lord ! I 
 should never know what to do with such a power 
 of money. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHS. 
 
 Your wife will not say the same, depend upon 
 it ; she will find some use for it. 
 
 My Meg, poor woman ! she never had so much 
 money in all her life. 
 
 LADY AMAKANTHE. 
 
 I must insist upon it ; you will offend me. 
 
 justice — {taking the purse out of her lady's hand, and forc- 
 ing it upon Dick.) 
 
 Dieux ! est-il bete ! — vou no understand ? — It is 
 
MUCH COiX, MUCH CAKE. 263 
 
 de gold and de silver money {laughing). Comme 
 il a Pair ebahi ! 
 
 dick — (patting up the money.) 
 
 Many thanks, and I pray God bless your lady- 
 ship ! 
 
 LADY AMARASTHE — {g^lj- ) 
 
 Good morning, Mr. Dick. Remember me to 
 your wife. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 I will, my lady. I wish your ladyship, and you, 
 miss, a good morning. {To himself.) Five guineas ! 
 — what will Meg say ? — Now I'll be a master shoe- 
 maker. {Going out in an ecstasy, he knocks his 
 head against the wall.) 
 
 LADY AMAKANTHE. 
 
 Take care, friend. Montrez-lui la porte, Justine ! 
 
 Mais venez done. Monsieur Dick — par ici — et 
 n'allez pas donner le nez contre la porte ! 
 
 [ Dick follows Justine out of the door, after making 
 several bows. 
 
 LADY AMAEANTHE. 
 
 Poor man ! — well, he's silenced — he does not 
 look as if he would sing, morning or night, for the 
 next twelve months. 
 
264 TALKS. 
 
 Reenter Justine 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 
 Voici Madame Mincetaille, qui vient pour es- 
 sayer la robe-cle-bal de maclame. 
 
 LADY AMARANTHE. 
 
 All ! allons done. 
 
 j" They go out. 
 
 The Scene changes to the Cobbler's Garret. 
 
 Enter Margery, in haste; a basket in her hand. She tools 
 about her. 
 
 MARGERY, 
 
 Not come back yet ! what can keep him, I won- 
 der ! (Takes off her bonnet and shawl.) Well, I 
 must get the dinner ready. (Pauses, and looks 
 anxious.) But, somehow, I feel not easy in my 
 mind. What could they want wnth him ? — Hark ! 
 (Goes to the door) No — what a time he is! But 
 suppose they should 'dite him for a nuisance — O 
 me ! or send him to the watch-house — O my poor 
 dear Dick ! I must go and see after him ! I must 
 go this very instant moment ! (Snatches up her 
 bonnet.) Oh, I hear him now ; but how slowly he 
 
 comes up ! 
 
 [Runs to the door, and leads him in. 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CAKE. 265 
 
 Enter Dick. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Oh, my dear, dear Dick, I am so glad you are 
 come at last ! But how pale you look ! all I don't 
 know how ! What's the matter ? why don't you 
 speak to me, Dick, love ? 
 
 dick — {fanning himself with his hat.) 
 Let me breathe, wife. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 But what's the matter ? where have you been ? 
 who did you see ? what did they say to you ? 
 Come, tell me quick. 
 
 Why. Meg. how your tongue does gallop ! as if 
 a man could answer twenty questions in a breath. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Did you see the lady herself? Tell me that. 
 
 dick — (looking round the room suspiciously.) 
 Shut the door first. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 There. [Shuts it. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Shut the other. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 The other ? — There. [Shuts it. 
 
2G(J TALES. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Lock it fast, I say. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 There's no lock ; and that you know. 
 
 dick — (frightened. ) 
 No lock ; — then we shall all be robbed ! 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Robbed of what ? Sure, there's nothing hure 
 for any one to rob ! You never took such a thing 
 into your head before. 
 
 [Dick goes to the door, arid tries to fasten it, 
 
 M A R ger y — ( aside . ) 
 
 For sartain, he's bewitched — or have they given 
 him something to drink ? — or, perhaps, he's ill. 
 (Very affectionately, and laying lier hand on his 
 shoulder.) Are you not well, Dick, love ? Will 
 you go to bed, sweetheart ? 
 
 dick— (gruffly.) 
 
 No. Go to bed in the broad day ! — the woman's 
 cracked. 
 
 margery — (whimpering. ) 
 
 Oh, Dick, what in the world has come to you ? 
 
 Nothing — nothing but good, you fool. There — 
 there — don't cry, I tell you. 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 267 
 
 makgery — {wiping her eyes.) 
 And did you see the lady ? 
 
 Ay, I seed her; and a most beautiful lady she is, 
 and she sends her sarvice to you. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Indeed ! lauk-a-daisy ! I'm sure I'm much 
 obliged — but what did she say to you ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Oh, she said this, and that, and t'other — a great 
 deal. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 But what, Dick ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Why, she said — she said as how I sung so fine, 
 she couldn't sleep o' mornings. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Sleep o' mornings ! that's a good joke ! Let 
 people sleep o' nights, I say. 
 
 dick — (solemnly. ) 
 
 But she can't, poor soul, she's very ill: she has 
 pains here, and pains there, and everywhere. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Indeed ! poor lady ! then you mustn't disturb her 
 no more, Dick, that's a sure thing. 
 
2(38 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ay, so I said ; and so she gave me this. 
 
 [ Takes out the purse, and holds it tip. 
 
 MARGERY — {dapping Iter hands.) 
 O goodness ! what a fine purse ! — Is there any 
 thing in it ? 
 
 dick — {chinks the money.) 
 Do ye hear that ? Guess now. 
 
 Margery — ( timidly. ) 
 Five shillings, perhaps, eh ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Five shillings ! — five guineas, girl. 
 
 margery — {with a scream.) 
 
 Five guineas ! five guineas ! (skips about) tal, 
 lal, la ! five guineas ! (Runs, and embraces her hus- 
 band.) Oh, Dick ! we'll be so rich and so happy. 
 I want a power of things. I'll have a new gown- 
 lavender, shall it be ? — Yes, it shall be lavender ; 
 and a dimity petticoat ; and a lace cap, like Mrs. 
 Pinchtoe's, with pink ribbons — how she will stare ! 
 and I'll have two silver spoons, and a nutmeg- 
 grater, and 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ho, ho, ho ! what a jabber ! din, din, din ! 
 You'll have this, and you'll have that ! First, I'll 
 have a o-ood stock of neat's leather. 
 
MUCH COTX, MUCH CARE. 269 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Well, well, give nie the purse ; I'll take care of 
 jt, [Snatches at it. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 No, thankee, Til take care of it. 
 
 MARGERY — ( COOXing. ) 
 
 You know I always keep the money, Dick ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Ay, Meg, but I'll keep this, do ye mind ? 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 What ! keep it all to yourself ? — No, you won't ; 
 an't I your wife, and haven't I a right ? I ax you 
 that. 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Pooh ! don't be bothering me. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Come, give it me at once, there's a dear Dick ! 
 
 DICK. 
 
 What, to waste it all in woman's nonsense and 
 frippery ? Don't be a fool ! we're rich, and we'll 
 keep it safe. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Why, where's the use of money but to spend ? 
 Come, come, I will have it. 
 
270 
 
 imck. 
 Hey-day ! you will ? — You shan't ■ who's the 
 master here, I say ? 
 
 m argery — (passionately. ) 
 
 Why, if you come to that, who's the mistress 
 here, I say ? 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Now, Meg, don't you go for to provoke me. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Pooh ! I defy you. 
 
 dick — {doubling his fist. ) 
 Don't you put me in a passion, Meg ! 
 
 Get along ; I don't care that for you ! {snaps her 
 fingers?) You used to be my own dear Dick, and 
 now you're a cross, miserly curmudgeon — 
 
 dick — ( quite furious. ) 
 
 You will have it then ! Why, then, take it, with 
 a mischief; take that, and that, and that ! 
 
 [He beats her ; she screams. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Oh ! oh ! oh ! — pray don't — pray — (Breaks from 
 him, and throws herself into a chair.) O Dick ! to 
 
MUCH COIN. MUCH CARE. '271 
 
 go for to strike me ! that I should ever see the 
 day ! — you cruel, unkind Oh ! oh ! 
 
 [ Covers her face with her apron, sobs, and cries ; and he 
 stands looking at her sheepishly. A long pause. 
 
 dick — {in great agitation.) 
 Eh, why ! women be made of eggshells, I do 
 think. Why, Meg, I didn't hurt you, did I ? why 
 don't you speak ? Now, don't you be sulky, come ; 
 it wasn't much. A man is but flesh and blood, after 
 all ; come, I say — I'll never get into a passion with 
 you again to my dying day — I won't — come, don't 
 cry ; {tries to remove the apron :) come, kiss, and be 
 friends. Won't you forgive your own dear Dick, 
 won't you ? {ready to cry) She won't ! — Here, here's 
 the money, and the purse and all — take it, do what 
 you like with it. (She shakes her head.) What, you 
 won't then ? why, then, there — (throws it on the 
 ground.) Deuce fetch me if ever I touch it again ! 
 and I wish my fingers had been burnt before ever 
 I took it, — so I do ! (with feeling.) We were so 
 happy this morning, when we hadn't a penny to 
 bless ourselves with, nor even a bit to eat ; and 
 now, since all this money has come to us of a sud- 
 dent, why, it's all as one as if old Nick himself were 
 in the purse. I'll tell you what, Meg, eh ! shall I ? 
 Shall I take it back to the lady, and give our duty 
 to her, and tell her we don't want her guineas, 
 shall I, Meg ? shall I, dear heart ? 
 
 [During the last few words MapwGERY lets the apron fall 
 from her face, looks up at him. and smiles. 
 
272 
 
 DICK. 
 
 Oh, that's right, and we'll be happy again, and 
 never quarrel more. 
 
 No, never ! (they embrace.) Take it away, for 
 I can't bear the sight of it. 
 
 Take it you then, for you know, Meg, I said I 
 would never touch it again ; and what I says, I 
 says — and what I says, I sticks to. 
 
 [Pushes it towards her icith his foot. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 And so do I : and I vowed to myself that I 
 wouldn't touch it, and I won't. 
 
 [Kicks it bach to Mm. 
 
 How shall we manage then ? Oh, I have it. 
 Fetch me the tongs here. (Takes up the purse in 
 the tongs, and holds it at arm's length.) Now I'm 
 going. So, Meg, if you repent, now's the time. 
 Speak — or forever hold your tongue. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Me repent ? No, my dear Dick ! I feel, somehow, 
 quite light, as if a great lump were gone away from 
 here. 
 
 [Laying her hands on her bosom. 
 
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE. 273 
 
 DICK. 
 
 And so do I ; so come along. We never should 
 have believed this, if we hadn't tried : but its just 
 what my old mother used to say — Much coin, 
 
 MUCH CARE.* 
 
 * It need hardly be observed that this little trifle was written 
 exclusively for young actors, to whom the style was adapted. 
 The subject is imitated from one of Theodore Leclerq : s Proverbes 
 Dramatiques. 
 
 18 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF ART. 
 
 What if the little rain should say — 
 
 " So small a drop as I 
 Can ne'er refresh the thirsty plain, 
 
 I'll tarry in the sky ? " 
 
 What if a shining beam of noon 
 Should in its fountain stay. 
 
 Because its feeble light alone 
 Cannot create a day ? 
 
 Doth not each raindrop help to form 
 The cool refreshing shower ? 
 
 And every ray of light to warm 
 And beautify the flower ? 
 
 Anon. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 
 
 Doch ist der Mensch 
 Nicht Kunstler bios. auch. Mensch : die Menschlichkeit 
 Schon zu entwickeln. Freund. auch das istKunst ! 
 
 Oehlexscht.ager. 
 
 For the Painter 
 Is not the Painter only, hut the man ; 
 And to unfold the human into beauty. 
 That also is art. 
 
 Venice. September, 1845. 
 
 If I were required to sum up in two great 
 names whatever the art of painting had contem- 
 plated and achieved of highest and best, I would 
 invoke Raphael and Titiax. The former as the 
 most perfect example of all that has been accom- 
 plished in the expression of thought through the 
 medium of form : the latter, of all that has been 
 accomplished in the expression of life through the 
 medium of color. Hence it is. that, while both 
 have given us mind, and both have given us 
 beauty. Mind is ever the characteristic of Raphael 
 — Beauty, that of Titian. 
 
 Considered under this point of view, these won- 
 derful men remain to us as representatives of the 
 
278 MEMOIRS. 
 
 two great departments of art. All who went be- 
 fore them, and all who follow after them, may be 
 ranged under the banners of one or the other of 
 
 these oreat kin^s and leaders. Under the ban- 
 s' o 
 
 ners of Raphael appear the majestic thinkers in 
 art, the Florentine and Roman painters of the fif- 
 teenth and sixteenth centuries ; and Albert Durer, 
 in Germany. Ranged on the side of Titian ap- 
 pear the Venetian, the Lombard, the Spanish, and 
 Flemish masters. When a school of art arose 
 which aimed at uniting the characteristics of both, 
 what was the result ? A something second-hand 
 and neutral — the school of the Academicians and 
 the Mannerists, a crowd of painters, who neither 
 felt what they saw, nor saw what they felt ; who 
 trusted neither to the God within them, nor the 
 nature around them ; and who ended by giving us 
 Form without Soul — Beauty without Life. 
 
 I once heard it said, by a celebrated connoisseur 
 of the present day, " that there were but three 
 inventors or originators in modern art — Giorgione, 
 Correggio, and Rembrandt. Each of these broke 
 up a new path for himself; they were inventors, 
 inasmuch as they saw nature truly, yet under an 
 aspect which had never before been rendered 
 through the medium of art. Raphael had the an- 
 tique, and -Titian had Giorgione, as precursors and 
 models." This is true ; and yet to impugn the 
 originality of Raphael and Titian, is like impugn- 
 ing the originality of Shakspeare. They, like him, 
 did not hesitate to use, as means, the material pre- 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 279 
 
 sented to them by the minds of others. They, 
 like him, had minds of such universal and un- 
 equalled capacity, that all other originalities seem 
 to be swallowed up — comprehended, as it were, in 
 theirs. How much, in point of framework and 
 material, Shakspeare adopted, unhesitatingly, from 
 the playwrights of his time is sufficiently known ; 
 how frankly Raphael borrowed a figure from one 
 of his contemporaries, or a group from the An- 
 tique, is notorious to all who have studied his 
 works. 
 
 I know that there are critics who look upon Ra- 
 phael as having secularized, and Titian as having 
 sensualized art ; I know it has become a fashion to 
 prefer an old Florentine or Umbrian Madonna to 
 Raphael's Galatea ; and an old German hard- 
 visaged, wooden-limbed saint to Titian's Venus. 
 Under one point of view, I quite agree with the 
 critics alluded to. Such preference commands our 
 approbation and our sympathy, if we look to the 
 height of the aim proposed, rather than to the com- 
 pleteness of the performance as such. But here I 
 am not considering art with reference to its aims or its 
 associations, religious or classic; nor with reference 
 to individual tastes, whether they lean to piety or 
 poetry, to the real or the ideal ; nor as the reflection 
 of any prevailing mode of belief or existence ; but 
 simply as art, as the Muta Poesis, the interpreter 
 between nature and man ; giving back to us her 
 forms with the utmost truth of imitation, and, at 
 the same time, clothing them with a high signifi- 
 
280 MEMOIRS. 
 
 cance derived from the human purpose and the 
 human intellect. 
 
 If, for instance, we are to consider painting as 
 purely religious, we must go back to the infancy 
 of modern art, when the expression of sentiment 
 was all in all, and the expression of life in action 
 nothing ; when, reversing the aim of Greek art, 
 the limbs and form were defective, while charac- 
 ter, as it is shown in physiognomy, was delicately 
 felt and truly rendered. And if, on the other 
 hand, we are to consider art merely as perfect 
 imitation, we must go to the Dutchmen of the 
 seventeenth century. Art is only perfection when 
 it fills us with the idea of perfection ; when we are 
 not called on to supply "deficiencies, or to set limits 
 to our demands ; and this lifting up of the heart 
 and soul, this fulness of satisfaction and delight, 
 we find in the works of Raphael and Titian. In 
 this only alike — in all else, how different ! Differ- 
 ent as were the men themselves — the antipodes of 
 each other ! 
 
 In another place, I jnight be tempted to pursue 
 the comparison, or rather contrast, between these 
 two worshippers and high-priests of the Beautiful, 
 in all other respects so unlike — working, as one 
 might say, under a different dispensation. But 
 B.aphael, elsewhere the god of my idolatry, seems 
 here — at Venice — to have become to me like a dis- 
 tant star, and the system of which he is the amaz- 
 ing central orb or planet, for awhile removed and 
 comparatively dim; while Titian reigns at hand, 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 281 
 
 the present deity, the bright informing sun of this 
 enchanted world, this sea-girt city, where light, 
 and color, and beauty are. " wherever we look, 
 wherever we move." In Venice. I see every- 
 where Titian ; as in his pictures. I see, or rather I 
 feel, Venice ; not the mere external features of 
 the locality, not the material Venice — buildings, 
 churches, canals — but a spirit which is nowhere 
 else on earth to be perceived, felt, or understood, 
 but here ! Here, where we float about as in a 
 waking dream — here, where all is at once so old 
 and so new — so familiar and so wonderful — so 
 fresh to the fancy, and so intimate to the memory ! 
 These palaces, with their arabesque facades and 
 carved balconies, and portals green with seaweed ; 
 and these tall towering belfries, and these black 
 gliding gondolas, have we not seen them a thou- 
 sand and a thousand times reproduced to fancy, 
 in pictures vivid and real as themselves ? And 
 yet, every time we come upon them, though it 
 were ten times in an hour, do we not feel inclined 
 to clap our hands, and exclaim aloud, like delighted 
 children when the curtain draws up at their first 
 play ? O ! to make children of us again, nothing 
 like Venice ! 
 
 And so it is with Titian's pictures: tliey make 
 children of us again ; they surprise us with the 
 feeling of a presence ; they melt us with a familiar 
 sympathy : we rejoice in them as we do in music, 
 in spring-tide, in the fresh air and morning breath 
 of flowers. It is long before we can bring the in- 
 
282 MEMOIIis. 
 
 tellect to bear on them, for the faculties of judg- 
 ment and comparison are lost in the perception of 
 beauty, in admiration, in faith unbounded. In 
 them we acknowledge that " touch of nature which 
 makes the whole world kin." And where but at 
 Yenice+could Titian have lived and worked ? I 
 know not well how or why it is, but color, which 
 seems elsewhere an accidental property of things, 
 seems to be here a substance, an existence, a part 
 of one's very life and soul ; — color vivid and in- 
 tense, broken by reflected lights flung from glanc- 
 ing waters, and enhanced by strange contrasts of 
 wide-spread sunny seas, and close-shut shadowy 
 courtyards, overgrown with vines, or roses, or 
 creeping verdure in all the luxury of neglect, each 
 with its well and overhanging fig-tree in the 
 midst. These court yards, haunts of quiet seclu- 
 sion and mystery, in which I should think is 
 concentred the Venetian idea of a home — how 
 few who visit Venice know of their cool, silent, 
 picturesque recesses ! Yet to understand and feel 
 Titian aright, we ought to know Venice thoroughly, 
 — its cortili as well as its canals ; for it is precisely 
 these peculiar, these merely local characteristics — 
 this subdued gloom in the midst of dazzling sun- 
 shine ; this splendor of hue deepened, not dark- 
 ened, by shade ; this seclusion in the midst of vast- 
 ness ; this homeliness in the midst of grandeur ; 
 this artlessness in the midst of art ; this repose in 
 the midst of the fulness of life ; which we feel 
 alike in Titian's pictures, and in Venice. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TUT AX. 283 
 
 And then his men and women. — his subtle, dark, 
 keen-eyed, grand-looking men ; and his full-formed, 
 luxuriant, yet delicate-featured women — are they 
 not here still ? Such I have seen as I well remem- 
 ber, at afesta on the Lido : women with just such 
 eyes, dark, lustrous, melancholy, — and jwst such 
 hair, in such redundance, plaited, knotted, looped 
 round the small elegant heads — sometimes a tress 
 or two escaping from the bands, and falling from 
 their own weight, — so like his and Palma's and 
 Paolo's rich-haired St. Catherines and St. Barbaras, 
 one would have imagined them as even now walked 
 out of their pictures, — or rather walked into them, 
 — for the pictures were yet more like life than the 
 life like pictures. 
 
 And with regard to the Venetian women : every 
 one must remember in the Venetian pictures, not 
 only the peculiar luxuriance, but the peculiar color 
 of the hair, of every golden tint from a rich full 
 shade of auburn to a sort of yellow flaxen hue, — or 
 rather not flaxen, but like raw silk, such as we have 
 seen the peasants in Lombardy carrying over their 
 arms, or on their heads, in great, shining, twisted 
 heaps. I have sometimes heard it asked with won- 
 der, whether those pale golden masses of hair, the 
 true " biondina " tint, could have been always 
 natural ? On the contrary, it was oftener artificial 
 — the color, not the hair. In the days of the elder 
 Palma and Giorgione yellow hair was the fashion, 
 and the paler the tint the more admired. The 
 women had a method of discharging the natural 
 
284 MEMOIRS. 
 
 color by first washing their tresses in some chemical 
 preparation, and then exposing them to the sun. I 
 have seen a curious old Venetian print, perhaps 
 satirical, which represents this process. A lady is 
 seated on the roof, or balcony, of her house, wear- 
 ing a sort of broad-brimmed hat without a crown ; 
 the long hair is drawn over these wide brims, and 
 spread out in the sunshine, while the face is com- 
 pletely shaded. How they contrived to escape a 
 brain fever, or a coup de soleil, is a wonder ; — and 
 truly of all the multifarious freaks of fashion and 
 vanity, I know none more strange than this, unless 
 it be the contrivance of the women of Antigua, to 
 obtain a new natural complexion. I have been 
 speaking here of the people ; but any one who has 
 looked up at a Venetian lady standing on her bal- 
 cony, in the evening light, or peeping out from the 
 window of her gondola, must be struck at once with 
 the resemblance in color and countenance to the 
 pictures he has just seen in churches and galleries. 
 We may also contrast in the Venetian portraits the 
 plain black habits of the men (the only exception 
 bein^ the crimson robes of the Procuradori di San 
 Marco), with the splendid dresses and jewels of the 
 women, to whom, apparently, the sumptuary laws 
 did not extend ; and still you see their love of 
 ornaments, and of gay, decided, bright colors, which 
 nowhere else appear so bright as at Venice. 
 
 I am acquainted with an English artist, who, 
 being struck by the vivid tints of some stuffs which 
 he saw worn by the women, and which appeared 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 285 
 
 to him precisely the same as those he admired in 
 Titian and Paul Veronese, purchased some pieces 
 of the same fabric, and brought them to England ; 
 but he soon found that for his purpose he ought to 
 have brought the Venetian atmosphere with him. 
 When unpacked in London the reds seemed as 
 dingy, and the yellows as dirty, and the blues as 
 smoky, as our own. 
 
 But it is not merely the brightness and purity 
 of the atmosphere — elsewhere in Italy as pure and 
 as bright — it is still more the particular mode of 
 existence at Venice, which has rendered the per- 
 ception of colors in masses so great a source of 
 pleasure, while it has become a leading characteris- 
 tic in Venetian art. There is a most interesting 
 note appended to the translation of " Goethe's 
 Theory of Colors," which exemplifies, and, in some 
 sort, explains this relation between the circum- 
 stances of the locality, and the peculiar sentiment 
 of the painters as regards the treatment of color. 
 The translator (Mr. Eastlake), after some general 
 remarks on various systems of coloring in various 
 schools, thus continues : " The color of general 
 nature may be observed in all places, with almost 
 equal convenience ; Jmt with regard to an impor- 
 tant quality in living nature, namely, the color of 
 the flesh, perhaps there are no circumstances, in 
 which its effects at different distances can be so 
 conveniently compared, as when the observer and 
 the observed gradually approach and glide past 
 each other on so smooth an element, and in so un- 
 
286 MEMOIRS. 
 
 disturbed a manner, as on the canals, and in the 
 gondolas at Venice; the complexions, from the 
 peculiar mellow carnations of the Italian women to 
 the sunburnt features and limbs of the mariners, 
 presenting at the same time the fullest variety in 
 another sense. At a certain distance — the color 
 being always assumed to be unimpaired by inter- 
 posed atmosphere — the reflections appear kindled 
 to intenser warmth, the fiery glow of Giorgione is 
 strikingly apparent, the color is seen in its largest 
 relation. The macchia, an expression used so em- 
 phatically by Italian writers (u e. the local color), 
 appears in all its quantity; and the reflections 
 being the focus of warmth, the hue seems to deepen 
 in shade." As the gondola floats towards us, " a 
 nearer view gives the detail of cooler tints more 
 perceptibly, and the forms are more distinct. 
 Hence Lanzi is quite correct when, in distinguish- 
 ing the style of Titian from that of Giorgione, he 
 says, that Titian's was at once more defined and 
 less fiery ; in a still nearer observation the eye de- 
 tects the minute lights which Leonardo da Vinci 
 says were incompatible with the effects we have 
 just been describing, and which, accordingly, we 
 never find in Titian and Giorgione." " In assum- 
 ing that the Venetian painters may have acquired 
 a taste for this breadth of color under the circum- 
 stances alluded to, it is moreover to be remembered, 
 that the time for this agreeable study was the even- 
 ing ; when the sun had already set behind the hills 
 of Bassano ; when the light was glowing but dif- 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 287 
 
 fused ; when tlie shadows were soft — conditions all 
 agreeing with the character of their coloring ; above 
 all. when the hour invited the fairer portion of the 
 population to betake themselves in their gondolas 
 to the Lagunes." 
 
 It results from this, that what we call the " Vene- 
 tian coloring " is at Venice a truth ; it is the faith- 
 ful transcript of certain effects, having their causes 
 in the very nature of the things and the conditions 
 of the existence around us ; but. elsewhere, it is a 
 fashion, an imitation, a beautiful supposition ; we 
 ate obliged to grant those conditions which here 
 we see and feel. 
 
 The character of grandeur given to color, both 
 by Giorgione and Titian, and more particularly by 
 Giorgione, is very extraordinary. The style of the 
 Caravaggio and Guercino school, with their abrupt 
 lights and shadows, their u light upon dark, and 
 dark upon light," may be very effective and excit- 
 ing, but, to my taste, it is tricky and vulgar in com- 
 parison to the Venetian style. It is like an epigram 
 compared with a lyric, or a melodrama compared 
 with an epic poem. 
 
 That which in Giorgione was the combined re- 
 sult of a powerful and imaginative temperament, 
 and a peculiar organic sensibility to the appear- 
 ances of external nature, was more modified bv 
 observation aiid comparison in Titian: but Gior- 
 
288 MEMOIRS. 
 
 gione was the true poet and prophet, the precursor 
 of what subsequently became the wanner of the 
 school, as we see it in the best of the late Vene- 
 tians, Pietra della Vecchia, Tiepolo, and others. 
 
 It is this all-pervading presence of light, and this 
 suffusion of rich color glowing through the deepest 
 shadows, which make the very life and soul of 
 Venice ; but not all who have dwelt in Venice, 
 and breathed her air and lived in her life, have 
 felt their influences ; it is the want of them which 
 renders so many of Canaletti's pictures false and 
 unsatisfactory — to me at least. All the time I was 
 at Venice I was in a rage with Canaletti. I could 
 not come upon a palace, or a church, or a corner 
 of a canal which I had not seen in one or other 
 of his pictures. At every moment I was reminded 
 of him. But how has he painted Venice ? just as 
 we have the face of a beloved friend reproduced 
 by the daguerreotype, or by some bad conscien- 
 tious painter — some fellow who gives us eyes, nose, 
 and mouth by measure of compass, and leaves 
 out all sentiment, all countenance ; we cannot deny 
 the identity, and we cannot endure it. Where in 
 Canaletti are the slowing evening skies — the trans- 
 parent gleaming waters — the bright green of the 
 vine-shadowed Traglietto — the freshness and the 
 glory — the dreamy, aerial, fantastic splendor of 
 this city of the sea ? Look at one of his pictures 
 — all is real, opaque, solid, stony, formal ; — even 
 his skies and water — and is that Venice ? 
 
 " But," says my friend. " if you would have Ven- 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 289 
 
 ice, seek it in Turner's pictures ! " True. T may 
 seek it. but shall I find it ? Venice is like a 
 dream; — but this dream upon the canvas, do you 
 call this Venice ? The exquisite precision of form, 
 the wondrous beauty of detail, the clear, delicate 
 lines of the flying perspective — so sharp and de- 
 fined in the midst of a flood of brightness — where 
 are they ? Canaletti gives us the forms without 
 the color or light. Turner, the color and light 
 without the forms. 
 
 But if you would take into your soul the very 
 soul and inward life and spirit of Venice — breathe 
 the same air — go to Titian : there is more of Ven- 
 ice in his ' ; Cornano Family." or his i; Pesaro 
 Madonna," than in all the Canalettis in the cor- 
 ridor at Windsor. Beautiful they are. I must 
 needs say it ; but when I think of enchanting 
 Venice, the most beautiful are to me like prose 
 translations of poetry. — petrifactions, materialities: 
 " We start, for life is wanting there ! " * 
 
 I know not how it is. but certainly things that 
 would elsewhere displease, delight us at Venice. 
 It has been said, for instance. " put down the 
 church of St. Mark anywhere but in the Piazza, 
 it is barbarous;" here, where east and west have 
 met to blend together, it is glorious. And again, 
 with regard to the sepulchral effigies in our 
 
 * Guardi gives the local coloring of Venice more truly than 
 Canaletti : Bonuington better than either, in one or two ex- 
 amples which remain to us. I remember particularly a picture, 
 which is, or was, in the possession of Mr. Munroe. of Park- 
 
 19 
 
290 MEMOIRS. 
 
 churches— I have always been of Mr. Westma- 
 cott's principles and party ; always on the side of 
 those who denounce the intrusion of monuments of 
 human pride insolently paraded in God's temple ; 
 and surely cavaliers on prancing horses in a church 
 should seem the very acme of such irreverence and 
 impropriety in taste ; but here the impression is far 
 different. O those awful, grim, mounted warriors 
 and doges, high over our heads against the walls of 
 the San Giovanni e Paolo and the Frari ! — man 
 and horse in panoply of state, colossal, life-like — 
 suspended, as it were, so far above us, that we can- 
 not conceive how they came there, or are kept 
 there, by human means alone. It seems as though 
 they had been lifted up and fixed on their airy 
 pedestals as by a spell. At whatever hour I visited 
 those churches, and that was almost daily, whether 
 at morn, or noon, or in the deepening twilight, still 
 did those marvellous effigies — man and steed, and 
 trampled Turk ; or mitred doge, upright and stiff 
 in his saddle — fix me as if fascinated; and still I 
 looked up at them, wondering every day with a new 
 wonder, and scarce repressing the startled exclama- 
 tion, " Good heavens ! how came they there ? " 
 
 And not to forget the great wonder of modern 
 times, — I hear people talking of the railroad across 
 the Lagune, as if it were to unpoetize Venice ; as 
 if this new approach were a malignant invention 
 to bring the siren of the Adriatic into the " dull 
 catalogue of common things ; " and they call on me 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 291 
 
 to join the outcry, to echo sentimental denuncia- 
 tions, quoted out of Murray's Handbook ; but I 
 cannot — I have no sympathy with them. To me, 
 that tremendous bridge, spanning the sea, only 
 adds to the wonderful one wonder more ; — to great 
 sources of thought one yet greater. Those per- 
 sons, methinks, must be strangely prosaic au fond 
 who can see poetry in a Gothic pinnacle, or a 
 crumbling temple, or a gladiator's circus, and in 
 this gigantic causeway and its seventy-five arches, 
 traversed with fiery speed by dragons, brazen- 
 winged, to which neither alp nor ocean can oppose 
 a barrier — nothing but a common-place. I mast 
 say I pity them. / see a future fraught with hopes 
 for Venice : — 
 
 Twining memories of old time 
 With new virtues more sublime! 
 
 I will join in any denunciations against the de- 
 vastators, whitewashers, and so-called renovators; 
 
 may they be rewarded ! But in the midst of our 
 
 regrets for the beauty that is outworn or profaned, 
 why should we despond, as if the fountains of 
 beauty were reserved in heaven, and flowed no 
 more to us on earth ? Why should we be alwavs 
 looking back, till our heads are wellnigh twisted 
 off our shoulders V Why all our reverence, all our 
 faith for the past, as if the night were already come 
 " in which no man can work ? " — as if there were 
 not a long day before us for effort in the cause of 
 humanity — for progress in the knowledge of good ? 
 
 While thinking of that colossal range of piers 
 
292 MEMOIRS. 
 
 and arches, bestriding the sea — massy and dark 
 against the golden sunset, as I last saw them, I am 
 reminded of another occasion, on which I beheld 
 the poetry of science and civilization, and the 
 poetry of memory and association, brought into 
 close and startling propinquity. 
 
 At this time it happened that the young queen 
 of Greece was at Venice. We used to meet her 
 sometimes gliding about in an open gondola, with 
 her picturesque attendants ; and with that kind of 
 interest which those singled out for high and mourn- 
 ful destinies excite in every human heart, we could 
 not help watching her as she passed and repassed, 
 and looking into her countenance, pale and ele- 
 gant, and somewhat sad. I believe it was partly in 
 her honor and partly to amuse two boy-princes of 
 Austria, also there, that a French aeronaut was 
 engaged on a certain day to ascend in his balloon 
 from the Campo di San Luca. Now every one 
 knows that as the streets of Venice are merely 
 paved alleys, so these open spaces, dignified by the 
 name of campi (fields or squares), are, most of 
 them, not larger than the little paved courts in the 
 heart of London — gaps, breathing-places, some 
 few yards square. On this grand occasion, the 
 whole of the Campo di San Luca was let out, 
 every window occupied. We also were of the in- 
 vited, but we wisely considered that it would be 
 much like looking up at the balloon from the bot- 
 tom of a well. So we ordered- our gondolier to 
 row us out on the Grand Canal, and in the direc- 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 293 
 
 tion which we knew the wind would discreetly 
 oblige the aeronaut to take, that is. towards the 
 main land : and there we floated about in the open 
 Lagune beyond Santa Chiara. till we beheld the 
 balloon emerging suddenly from ami! the clustered 
 buildings, then ascending slowly — gracefully, and 
 hovering like a ball of fire over the city. The sun 
 was just setting, as it sets at Venice, dome, and 
 pinnacle, and lofty campanile bathed in crimson 
 light The people had all crowded to the other 
 end of the town, and were congregated round 
 royalty in the Piazza and the public gardens. Sol- 
 itary in our gondola, on the wide Lacrune. we 
 leaned back and watched the balloon soaring over- 
 head in the direction of Padua : while our gondo- 
 lier, rendered perhaps for the first rime in his lite 
 silent with astonishment, stood leaning on his oar. 
 breathless . his mouth wide open, from which, as 
 soon as he could find voice, issued a volley of 
 adjurations and imprecations, after the Venetian 
 fashion. A month afterwards, at Verona, I en- 
 countered the same aeronaut, but this time he had 
 undertaken to rise from the centre of the ancient 
 amphitheatre. It is calculated to hold 22,000 per- 
 sons : therefore, as it was nearly full, there must 
 have been from 15,000 to 18,000 people collected 
 within the circuit of its massy walls, and ranged, 
 tier above tier, on its marble sears. In feet, the 
 )le population of Verona and its neighborhojd 
 seemed, on this occasion, to have poured into its 
 vast enclosure. 
 
294 MEMOIKS. 
 
 It was a holiday ; all were gayly dressed. There 
 were bands of music, a regiment or two of Aus- 
 trian soldiers, under arms, as usual ; and the 
 multitude of spectators, one half in sunshine, the 
 other half in shade, sat for some time, now hushed 
 into silence by suspense ; now breaking into a 
 murmur of impatience, swelling like a hollow 
 sound, just heard so far as impatience and discon- 
 tent are allowed to be audible in this submissive, 
 military-ridden country. Meantime the process of 
 filling the balloon was going on, even in that very 
 recess whence the wild beasts were let loose on 
 their victims. When it was filled, and while still 
 held down by the cords, the aeronaut slowly made 
 the circuit of the arena above the heads of the 
 people, throwing down as he passed showers of 
 bonbons on the ladies beneath. The men then 
 let go the ropes, and the machine ascended swiftly, 
 to the sound of triumphant music and animated 
 bravos, and floated off in the direction of Mantua. 
 Many hundreds of the people rushed up to the 
 topmost summit of the building, which is without 
 any defensive parapet, and there they stood gestic- 
 ulating on the giddy verge, their forms strongly 
 defined against the blue sky. We also ascended ; 
 what a scene was there ! Below us the city spread 
 out in all the vividness of an Italian atmosphere ; 
 with its winding river and strange old bridges, and 
 cypress-crowned hill ; on one side the sun setting 
 in a blaze of purple and gold ; on the other', the 
 pale large moon rising like a gigantic spectre of 
 
THE HCHJSE OF TITIAN. 295 
 
 herself: and far to the south, the balloon diminish- 
 ing to a speck— a point, till lost in the depths of 
 space. Turning again to the interior, we saw the 
 crowds sinking from sight, with an awful rapidity, 
 as i: swallowed up by the cavern-like Vomitories; 
 and by the time we had descended into the arena, 
 there were but a few stragglers left, flitting like 
 ghosts to and fro in the midst of its vast circuit, 
 already gloomily dark, while all without was 
 still u-lowinu in the evening light. It was in the 
 midst of this scene, and while lost in the thousand 
 speculations to which it gave rise, that I heard 
 some travellers talking of the profanation of the 
 antique circus, by being made a theatre of amuse- 
 ment and by the admission of a motley crowd of 
 
 •m barbarians. Could they see in the con- 
 trast suggested by such a spectacle only the 
 desecration of an old Roman relic — the intrusion 
 of die common-place into the poetical ? To me 
 it was earnest of the victory of mind over fero- 
 cious ignorance — a purifying of those blood-stained 
 precincts — that they should witness the peaceful 
 yet glorious triumphs of science even there where 
 such wholesale horrors were once enacted asfre 
 
 blood to think of. Do the admirers of the 
 world's old age. which, as Bacon truly says, ought 
 rather to be called the world's rash infancy, wish 
 such time- returned ? Italy will not be regener- 
 ated by looking back, but by looking forward. 
 
 People may gaze up at that old Verona amphi- 
 
296 MEMOIR^. 
 
 theatre, and 'On the fallen or falling palaees of 
 Venice, and moralize on the transitoriness of all 
 human things : — well is it for us that some things 
 are transitory ! Let ns believe, as we must, if we 
 have faith in God's good government of the world, 
 that nothing dies that deserves to live ; that nothing 
 perishes into which the spirit of man has entered; 
 that we are the heirs not only of immortality in 
 heaven, but of an immortality on earth — of im- 
 mortal mind bequeathed to us, and which we in 
 our turn transmit with increase to our descendants. 
 Why ask of all-various, infinite Nature another 
 Shakspeare, another Raphael, another Titian ? 
 Have they not lived and done their work ? Why 
 ask to have the past, even in its most excellent 
 form, reproduced ? Is it not here, beside us, a part 
 of our present existence ? 
 
 When I wandered through some of those glori- 
 ous old churches in Lombardy, surrounded by 
 their faded frescos and mystic groups, — 
 
 Virgin, and babe, and saint, 
 With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard, 
 
 a solemn feeling was upon me — a sense of the sub- 
 lime and the true, which did not arise merely from 
 the perception of excellence in art, neither was it 
 a yearning after those forms of faith which have 
 gone into the past ; but because in these enduring 
 monuments the past was made present; because 
 the spirit of devotion which had raised them, and 
 filled them with images of beauty and holiness, 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 297 
 
 being in itself a truth, that truth died not — could 
 not die — but seemed to me still inhabiting there, 
 still hovering round, still sanctifying and vivifying 
 the forms it had created. When a short time after- 
 wards I crossed the Alps and found myself at 
 Munich, how different all ! The noble churches, 
 professedly and closely imitated from the types and 
 models left by mediaeval art. lavishly decorated 
 with pictures and sculpture executed to perfection. 
 found me every day admiring- praising, criticizing 
 — but ever cold. I felt how vain must be the 
 attempt to reanimate the spirit of Catholicism 
 merely by returning to the forms. " Still," as 
 Schiller says so beautifully. ■• doth the old feeling 
 bring back the old names : " — but never will the 
 old names bring back the old feeling. How 
 strongly I felt this at Munich ! In the Basilica 
 especially, which has been dedicated to St. Boni- 
 face, where every group, figure, ornament, has 
 had its prototype in some of the venerable edifices 
 of old Christian Borne, brought from the Sanf 
 Agnese. or the Santa Prasseda. There they were, 
 awful — soul-lifting — heart-speaking, because they 
 were the expression of a faith which lived in men's 
 souls, and worked in their acts — were, and are, for 
 time cannot silence that expression nor obliterate 
 that impress ; but these factitious, second-hand ex- 
 hibitions of modern religious art. fall comparatively 
 so cold on the imagination — so flat — so profitless ! 
 Of course I am speaking here not of their merit, 
 but of their moral effect, or rather their moral 
 
298 MEMOIRS. 
 
 efficacy. The real value, the real immortality of 
 the beautiful productions of old art lies in their 
 truths as embodying the spirit of a particular age. 
 We have not so much outlived that spirit, as we 
 have comprehended it in a still larger sphere of 
 experience and existence. We do not repudiate 
 it ; we cannot, without repudiating a trulli ; but we 
 carry it with us into a wider, grander horizon. It 
 is no longer the whole, but a part, as that which is 
 now the whole to us .shall hereafter be but a part ; 
 for thus the soul of humanity spreads into a still- 
 widening circle, embracing the yet unknown, the 
 yet unrevealed, unattained. This age, through 
 which we have lived — are living — in what form 
 will it show itself to futurity, and be comprehend- 
 ed in it— by it? — not, as I believe, in any form of 
 the fine arts ; in machinery perhaps ; in the per- 
 fecting of civil and educational institutions. This 
 is our prosaic present which is the destined cradle 
 of a poetical future. Sure I am, that an age is 
 opening upon us which will seek and find its mani- 
 festation in the highest art : all is preparing for 
 such an advent; but they who would resuscitate 
 the forms of art of the past ages, might as well think 
 to make Attic Greek once more the language of 
 our herb-women. Those tongues we call and 
 account as dead have ceased to be the medium 
 of communion between soul and soul ; yet they are 
 really living, are immortal, through the glorious 
 thoughts they have served to embody ; and as it 
 has been with the classical lano-uao-es, so it is with 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAX. 299 
 
 the arts of the middle ages ; they live and are im- 
 mortal, — but for all present purposes they are 
 dead. 
 
 Piety in art — poetry in art — Puseyism in art, — 
 let us be careful how we confound them. 
 
 Titian — for we are still in Venice, where every 
 object recalls him, so that whatever the train of 
 thought, it brings us round to him — -Titian was 
 certainly not a pietist in art, nor yet a mannerist. 
 He neither painted like a monk, nor like an acade- 
 mician ; nor like an angel, as it was said of Ra- 
 phael; nor like a Titan, as one might say of 
 Michael Angelo ; but he painted like a max ! like 
 a man to whom God had given sense and soul, a 
 free mind, a healthy and a happy temperament ; 
 one whose ardent human sympathies kept him on 
 earth and humanized all his productions ; who was 
 satisfied with the beauty his mother Nature re- 
 vealed to him, and reproduced the objects he be- 
 held in such a spirit of love as made them lovely. 
 Sorrow Avas to him an accidental visitation which 
 threw no shadow either on his spirit or his canvas. 
 He perhaps thought, like another old painter, that 
 " il -non mai fare altro die affaticard senza pigli- 
 arsi un piacere al mondo, non era cosa da Christi- 
 ani" But the pleasures he so vividly enjoyed 
 never seem to have either enslaved or sullied his 
 clear, healthful mind. He had never known sick- 
 ness ; his labor was his delight ; and from the day he 
 had learned to handle his pencil, he never passed a 
 
300 MEMOIRS. 
 
 day without using it. His life of a century, spent, 
 with the exception of a few occasional absences, 
 in his beloved Venice, was one of the happiest, 
 the most honored, the most productive, as it was 
 one of the longest on record. 
 
 Ludovico Dolce, who' knew Titian personally, 
 and was, for many years, one of his social circle, 
 assures us that " he was most modest ; that he 
 never spoke reproachfully of other painters ; that, 
 in his discourse, he was ever ready to give honor 
 where honor was due ; that he was, moreover, an 
 eloquent speaker, having an excellent wit and a 
 perfect judgment in all things ; of a most sweet 
 and gentle nature, affable and most courteous in 
 manner ; so that whoever once conversed with him, 
 could not choose but love him thenceforth for- 
 ever." On the whole, this praise was, probably, 
 deserved ; but it is unsatisfactory to reflect that 
 precisely the same praise, nearly in the same 
 words, has been applied to Raphael ; and that 
 Raphael and Titian were, in character and in 
 temperament, the antipodes of each other. It 
 sounds like a string of approving phrases, which 
 might apply to any amiable and distinguished man. 
 We wish to hear something of Titian more dis- 
 tinct, more discriminative — founded in a knowl- 
 edge of those peculiar elements which made up his 
 individuality, and which influenced every produc- 
 tion of his mind and hand. That he was a man 
 of great energy ; of a gay and genial temper ; 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 301 
 
 independent, not so much from a love of liberty, 
 as a love of ease ; of strong passions and affec- 
 tions ; and, notwithstanding the praise of his 
 friend Ludovico. quite capable of hating a rival ; 
 all this we may infer from various anecdotes of 
 his life : and that he was accomplished in the 
 learning of his time, and fond of the society of 
 learned men. is also apparent. It was not for his 
 vices he loved Aretino, but in spite of them. Are- 
 tino had wit. learning, admirable taste in art : and 
 his attachment to Titian of thirty years, by its du- 
 ration, proved its sincerity : but Titian had other 
 and more honorable friendships ; and there is some- 
 thing very characteristic and touching also in the 
 pleasure with which he represented himself and one 
 or other of his intimate friends in the same picture. 
 One of these twin portraits is at Windsor, and rep- 
 resents Titian and the Chancellor Franceschini ; 
 another gives us Titian and his gossip (compare), 
 Francesco Zuccati. the •• Maitre Mosaiste,"* who is 
 one of the principal personages in George Sand's 
 beautiful Tale : and there are other instances. 
 Then we have himself and his mistress, or his wife ; 
 and himself and his daughter. No painter has 
 more stamped his soul, affections, and inmost being 
 on the works of his hand, than did this magnificent 
 and genial old man. Old. we say. in speaking of 
 him ; for we see him ever with that furrowed brow, 
 
 * D. Francesco del Musaico : he stood godfather to a daughter 
 of Titian, ^vho died in her infancy: "Francesco e il mio compare 
 ch? ei mi batizd una Puta die me morse." says Titian. 
 
302 MEMOIRS. 
 
 piercing eye, aquiline nose, and ample flowing 
 beard, which his portraits exhibit; we think of 
 him painting his Venus and Adonis when he was 
 eighty ; and we can no more bring Titian before 
 us as a young man, than we can fancy the angelic 
 Raphael old. The Tenerable patriarchal dignity 
 with which we invest the personal image of Titian 
 in our minds is in contrast equally with the immor- 
 tal loveliness of his works — full of the very " sap 
 of life,'' — the untiring energy of his mortal career, 
 and the miserable scene of abandonment which 
 closed it. 
 
 After a pilgrimage through the churches and 
 palaces of Venice, after looking, every day, with 
 ever new delight, on the " Presentation in the 
 Temple," and the " Assumption" in the Academia, 
 we had resolved to close our sojourn by a visit of 
 homage to the house in which the great old master 
 dwelt for fifty years (the half of his long life), 
 and lived and loved, and laughed and quaffed 
 with Aretino, and Sansovino, and Bembo, and 
 Bernardo Tasso ; and feasted starry-eyed Vene- 
 tian dames, and entertained princes, and made 
 beauty immortal, and then — died — O, such a 
 death ! a death which should seem, in its horror 
 and its loathsomeness, to have summed up the bit- 
 terness of a life-long sorrow, in a few short hours ! 
 
 It was not in the Barberigo Palace that Titian 
 dwelt, nor did he, as has been supposed, work or 
 die there. His residence, previous to his first fa- 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 303 
 
 mous visit to Bologna, was in a close and crowded 
 part of Venice, in the Calle Gallipoli, near San 
 Toma ; in the same neighborhood Giorgione had 
 resided, but in an open space in front of the 
 church of San Silvestro. The locality pointed out 
 as Titian's residence is very much the same as it 
 must have been in the sixteenth century ; for Yen- 
 ice has not changed since then in expansion, 
 though it has seen many other changes ; has in- 
 creased in magnificence — has drooped in decay. 
 In this alley, for such it was and is, he lived for 
 many years, a frugal as well as a laborious life ; 
 his only certain resource being his pension as 
 state painter, in which office he succeeded his 
 master, Gian Bellini. When riches flowed in 
 with royal patronage, he removed his atelier to a 
 more spacious residence in a distant, beautiful 
 quarter of the city ; and, without entering into any 
 extravagance, he proved that he knew how to 
 spend money, as well as how to earn money, to 
 his own honor and the delight of others. 
 
 It is curious that a house so rich in associations, 
 and, as one should suppose, so dear to Venice, 
 should, even now, be left obscure, half-ruined, 
 wellnigh forgotten, after being, for two centuries, 
 unknown, unthought of. It was with some diffi- 
 culty we found it. The direction given to us was, 
 " Nella contrada di S. Canciano, in Luogo appellate* 
 Biri-grande, nel campo Rotto, sopra la palude o 
 Canale ch'e in faccia all isola di Murano dove*ora 
 
304 MEMOIRS. 
 
 stanno innalzate le. Fondajnenta nuove ;" minute 
 enough, one would think ; bat, even our gondolier, 
 one of the most intelligent of his class, was here 
 at fault. We went up and down all manner of 
 canals, and wandered along the Fondamenta 
 Nuove, a beautiful quay or terrace, built of solid 
 stone, and running along the northern shore of 
 this part of the city. Here we lingered about, so 
 intoxicated with the beauty of the scene, and the 
 view over the open Lagune, specked with gondo- 
 las gliding to and fro, animated by the evening 
 sunshine, and a breeze which blew the spray in 
 our faces, that every now and then we forgot our 
 purpose, only, however, to resume our search with 
 fresh enthusiasm ; diving into the narrow alleys, 
 which intersect, like an intricate network, the 
 spaces between the canals ; and penetrating into 
 strange nooks and labyrinths, which those who 
 have not seen, do not know some of the most pecu- 
 liar and picturesque aspects of Venice. 
 
 We were now in San Canciano, near the church 
 of the Gesuiti, and knew we must be close upon the 
 spot indicated, but still it seemed to elude us. At 
 length a young girl, looking out of a dilapidated, 
 unglazed window, herself like a Titian portrait set 
 in an old frame — so fresh — so young — so mellow- 
 cheeked — with the redundant tresses and full dark 
 eyes alia Veneziana, after peeping down archly on 
 the perplexed strangers, volunteered a direction to 
 the Casa di Tiziano, in the Campo Rotto ; for she 
 seemed to guess, or had overheard our purpose. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 305 
 
 We hesitated ; not knowing how far we might trust 
 this extemporaneous benevolence. The neighbor- 
 hood had no very good reputation in Titian's time ; 
 and, as it occurred to me, had much the appear- 
 ance of being still inhabited by persons delle quali 
 e hello il tacere. But one of my companions gal- 
 lantly swearing that such eyes could not play us 
 false, insisted on following the instruction given ; 
 and he w r as right. After threading a few more of 
 these close narrow passages, we came upon the 
 place and edifice we sought. That part of it look- 
 ing into the Campo Kotto is a low wine-house, dig- 
 nified by the title of the " Trattaria di Tiziano ; " 
 and under its. vine-shadowed porch sat several men 
 and women regaling. The other side still looking 
 into a little garden (even the very " delettevole 
 giardino de Messer Tiziano "), is portioned out to 
 various inhabitants ; on the exterior wall some in- 
 dications of the fresco paintings which once adorned 
 it are still visible. A laughing, ruffianly, half- 
 tipsy gondolier, with his black cap stuck roguishly 
 on one side, and a countenance which spoke him 
 ready for any mischief, insisted on being our cice- 
 rone ; and an old shoemaker, or tailor, I forget 
 which, did the honors with sober civility. We 
 entered by a little gate leading into the garden, 
 and up a flight of stone steps to an antique porch, 
 overshadowed by a vine, wdiich had but lately 
 yielded its harvest of purple grapes, and now hung 
 round the broken pillars and balustrades in long, 
 wild, neglected festoons. From this entrance 
 20 
 
306 MEMOIRS. 
 
 another flight of stone steps led up to the principal 
 apartments, dilapidated, dirty, scantily furnished. 
 The room which had once been the chief saloon 
 and Titian's atelier, must have been spacious and 
 magnificent, capable of containing very large-sized 
 pictures, — the canvas, for instance, of the Last 
 Supper, painted for Philip II. We found it now 
 portioned off by wooden partitions, into various 
 small tenements ; still one portion of it remained, 
 in size and loftiness oddly contrasted with the 
 squalid appearance of the inmates. About forty 
 years ago, there was seen, on a compartment of the 
 ceiling, a beautiful group of dancing Cupids. One 
 of the lodgers, a certain Messer Francesco Breve, 
 seized with a sudden fit of cleanliness, whitewashed 
 it over ; but being made aware of his mistake, he 
 tore it down, and attempted to cleanse off the 
 chalk, for the purpose of selling it. What became 
 of the maltreated relic is not known ; into such 
 hands had the dwelling of Titian descended ! # 
 
 * See the documents appended to a work, by the Abbate Cador- 
 in, published in 1833, and which bears the rather fantastic title, 
 " Dello Amore di Tiziano per i Veneziani.'' The greater part and 
 the more valuable part of the quarto consists in the extracts from 
 the public registers, &c, which have settled finally many dates 
 and many disputed points relative to the life and the residence 
 of Titian. Of the diligence and good faith of the Abbe Cadoriu, 
 there can be no doubt. I am not aware that there exists in any 
 language a good life of Titian. Ridom and Ticozzi are full of 
 mistakes, which have been copied into all other biographies. It 
 is curious that the earliest life of Titian (published at Venice in 
 1622) was dedicated to an Englishwoman, the Countess of Arundel 
 and Surrey. The dedication may be found in Bottari, Lettere 
 Pittoriche. vol. i. p. 574. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 307 
 
 The little neglected garden, which once sloped 
 down to the shore, and commanded a view over the 
 Lagnne to Murano, was now shut in by high build- 
 ings, intercepting all prospect but of the sky, and 
 looked strangely desolate. The impression left by 
 the whole scene was most melancholy, and no as- 
 sociations with the past, no images of beauty and 
 of glory, came between us and the intrusive vul- 
 garity of the present. 
 
 Titian removed hither from the close neighbor- 
 hood of San Toma, in the year 1531, and at that 
 time a more beautiful site for the residence of a 
 painter can hardly be conceived. Claude's house, 
 on the Monte Pincio, at Rome, was not more suited 
 to him than was the San Canciano to Titian. The 
 building was nearly new ; it had been erected in 
 1527, by the Patrician Alvise Polani, and was then 
 called the Casa Grande, to distinguish it from others 
 in the neighborhood ; it stood detached, and facing 
 the north ; the garden, then a vacant space (terreno 
 vacuo) reaching to the Lagune. In September, 
 1531, Titian hired from Bianca Polani, and her 
 husband Leonardo Molini, the upper part of the 
 house, at a yearly rent of forty ducats, and removed 
 into it with all his family. He was then in his fifty- 
 third year, and at the height of his reputation. In 
 a renewal of the lease, in 1536, we find Titian 
 called 11 celeberrimo D. Tiziano, which appears to 
 us Northerns rather a singular phrase to be intro- 
 duced into a formal legal document. 
 
308 MEMOIRS. 
 
 He had recently lost his wife Cecilia.* His eldest 
 son, Pomponio, was about six years old ; his second 
 son, Orazio, about three ; and his daughter, Lavinia, 
 an infant of about a year old. His sister, Ursula, 
 was at the head of his household, which she regu- 
 lated for twenty years with great prudence and 
 diligence. Up to this time Titian had lived with 
 frugality. Though honored and admired by his 
 fellow-citizens, the prices he had received for his 
 works were comparatively small. Could he have 
 resolved to leave his beloved Venice he might have 
 revelled in riches and honors, such as princes lavish 
 on their favorites ; Francis I., Leo X., and the 
 Dukes of Mantua, Urbino, and Ferrara, had con- 
 tended for the honor of attaching him to their ser- 
 vice. " But," to quote his own words, in one of 
 his memorials to the Doge and Council of Ten, " I 
 preferred living in humble mediocrity, under the 
 shadow of my natural lords, than in what prosper- 
 ous condition soever under foreign princes ; and I 
 have constantly refused all the proposals made to 
 me, that I might remain near your Illustrious Excel- 
 lencies." What the princes of Italy had failed to 
 accomplish, the Emperor Charles V., with all the 
 allurements of his power, could not effect; he could 
 not tempt the generous, high-souled painter to give 
 up his independence and his country. It appears, 
 
 * Not Lucia, as she is called by Ticozzi. The dates of the birth 
 of Titian's children are also given from the documents brought 
 forward by Cadorin, and differ from former authorities. Cecilia 
 died in 1530. V. Cadorin, note 19, p. 70. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 309 
 
 however, that the patronage of the Emperor added 
 considerably to his fortune ; from the date of Ti- 
 tian's first visit to Bologna, where he painted the 
 portraits of Charles V-, Clement VII., the Cardinal 
 de Medici, the Duke of Alva, and from which he 
 returned with 2000 gold crowns in his purse, we 
 find him increasing in riches and honors. He had, 
 at first, taken only the upper part of this house ; 
 he then, from 1539, rented the whole of it ; and a 
 few years later he took the piece of land, the terreno 
 vacuo adjoining, which he fenced in and converted 
 into a delicious garden, extending to the shore. 
 No buildings then rose to obstruct the view ; — the 
 Fondamenta Xuove did not then exist. He looked 
 over the wide canal, which is the thoroughfare 
 between the city of Venice and the Island of 
 Murano ; in front the two smaller islands of San 
 Cristoforo* and San Michele ; and beyond them 
 Murano, rising on the right, with all its domes and 
 campanili, like another Venice. Far off extended 
 the level line of the mainland, and, in the distance, 
 the towering chain of the Frinli Alps, sublime, half 
 defined, with jagged snow-peaks soaring against the 
 sky: and more to the left, the Euganean hills, 
 Petrarch's home, melting, like visions, into golden 
 light. There, in the evening, gondolas filled with 
 ladies and cavaliers, and resounding with music, 
 were seen skimming over the crimson waves of the 
 Lagune, till the purple darkness came on rapidly — ■ 
 
 * San Cristoforo is now a cemeteiy, and in one corner of it lies 
 poor Leopold Robert, the painter. 
 
310 MEMOIRS. 
 
 not, as in the north, like a gradual veil, but like a 
 gemmed and embroidered curtain suddenly let 
 down over all. This was the view from the gar- 
 den of Titian ; so unlike any other in the world, 
 that it never would occur to me to compare it 
 with any other. More glorious combinations of 
 sea, mountain, shore, there may be — I cannot 
 tell ; like it, is nothing that I have ever beheld or 
 imagined. 
 
 In this beautiful residence dwelt Titian for the 
 last fifty years of his life. He made occasional 
 excursions to Bologna, Ferrara, Urbino, Mantua, 
 Milan, and to Augsburg and Inspruck, in compli- 
 ance with the commands of his princely patrons. 
 But this was his home, to which he returned with 
 ever-increasing love and delight, and from whi h 
 no allurements could tempt him. He preferred, to 
 the splendid offers of sovereigns, his independence, 
 his friends, his art, his country — for such Venice 
 had become to him — " la mia Venezia" as he fondly 
 styles her. Nor did his love for his magnificent 
 foster-mother diminish his affection for his little 
 paternal home among the mountains. In proof of 
 this we find the scenery of Pieve di Cadore perpet- 
 ually reproduced in his pictures : the towering 
 cliff, the castle, the w T ild, broken ground, the huge 
 plane and chestnut-trees, with their great wreathed 
 roots, — these form the backgrounds of his classical 
 and sacred subjects ; these furnished the features 
 of his beautiful pastoral landscapes and his harvest 
 scenes — all of which are from nature. While, of 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 311 
 
 Venetian localities, I can remember no instance, 
 except the backgrounds of some of the historical 
 
 pictures painted for the Doges. Among the 
 sketches by Titian I have seen in various col- 
 lections, I do not remember one taken from his 
 garden at Venice. The solitary instance I have 
 heard of. is the introduction of the bushy tree, with 
 the round-shaped leaves, introduced into the fore- 
 ground of the picture of St. Peter Martyr : which 
 is traditionally said to be a study from a certain 
 tree which grew in his garden at San Canciano. 
 The tradition, first mentioned I believe by Za- 
 netti,* is always repeated by those who show you 
 the picture in the church of St. John and St. Paul. 
 But if it be true that the San Pietro was painted 
 in 1520. seven years before the house was built, 
 and twenty years, at least, before the garden was 
 laid out. what becomes of the tradition ? Unfor- 
 tunately, dates and documents are inexorable 
 things to deal with, k - putting down " theories and 
 traditions with plain matter of fact, to the utter 
 confusion of the credulous and the affliction of 
 the sentimental. 
 
 But without having recourse to these doubtful 
 stories, there remains enough of what is certain 
 and indisputable to lend to the house of Titian a 
 thousand charming associations. It is true that the 
 Bacchus and Ariadne, the Four Ages, the Assump- 
 tion, the Peter Martyr, and many of his finest 
 
 * 4i Trattato della Pittura," p. 159. Edit. 1792. 
 
#12 MEMOIRS. 
 
 pictures, were painted before be took up bis resi- 
 dence bere ; * but most of tbe pictures painted after 
 1531 were finished in tbis atelier, even when begun 
 elsewhere. Here Ippolito de' Medicis sat to him 
 on his return from Hungary, in bis Hungarian 
 costume. Here be painted the Venus of the 
 Florence Gallery, The Entombment, the Ecce 
 Homo of the Louvre, the St. Jerome of the Brera, 
 the two Dianas in Lord Francis Egerton's Gallery, 
 the Yenus and Adonis, the Last Supper of the 
 Escuriel, the San Nicolo in the Vatican, the Mar- 
 tyrdom of St. Laurence, and hundreds of other 
 chefs-d'oeuvre.] In bis garden, after bis day's 
 work, the table was spread and he supped with 
 bis friends Aretino, Sansovino, Cardinal Bembo, 
 Cardinal Trivulzi, Ludovico Dolce, Sperone Spe- 
 roni. The conversations at his table gave rise to 
 Dolce's Dialogo delle Pittura, and neither music 
 nor good cheer was wanting to the feast. Here 
 the princely painter entertained Henry III. of 
 France, with his suite of nobles, and all their 
 attendants ; but it does not appear that Henry sat 
 
 * The Bacchus and Ariadne, now in our National Gallery, 
 was painted for the Duke of Ferrara in 1516 ; the Four Ages of the 
 Bridgewater Gallery, in 1515; the Assumption, in 1518; and the 
 St. Peter Martyr, begun about 1516, was finished in 1520. See 
 Bidolfi and Cadorini. 
 
 t I believe we may add to this list the Presentation of the Virgin 
 in the Temple which has usually been supposed to be one of 
 Titian's early pictures; but the introduction of Bembo, in his 
 cardinal's robes, shows that it must have been painted after 
 1C39. Bembo was created cardinal in that year. See his Life. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAX. 313 
 
 to him.* In fact, Titian painted few portraits dur- 
 ing the last twenty years of his life ; he had been, 
 on account of his great age rather than the loss of 
 power, absolved from his state duty of painting the 
 Doges — the seventh, and the last who sat to him, 
 was the Doge Yeniero, in 1558. 
 
 We cannot think of Titian, gifted by nature with 
 that sound, equable, and harmonious character, not 
 often the concomitant of genius.f and prosperous 
 even to the height of his wishes, without picturing 
 him to ourselves as a happy man ; and he must 
 have been so on the whole, but sorrow found him 
 as it finds all men. His son Pomponio must have 
 been a perpetual source of pain and humiliation. 
 He was an ecclesiastic who every way disgraced 
 his profession, — apparently the excellent advice 
 and exhortations of Aretino were of less force 
 than his example. Orazio, the second son of 
 Titian, became his father's friend, companion, and 
 manager of his interests in foreign courts. He was 
 a very good painter, but worked so continually with 
 his father as his assistant, that few separate works 
 remain to attest his ability. One incident in the 
 otherwise peaceful and laborious life of Orazio is 
 
 * I doubt whether even the art of Titian could have ennobled 
 the mean, sickly, effeminate features of this odious King: but he 
 would probably have given us, as in his picture of Paul III., a 
 wonderful transcript of nature. 
 
 f Lanzi says, u Dal suo nascere, il Yecellio avea sortito ur.o 
 spirito sodo, tranquillo, portato al vero piuttosto che al nuovo ; 
 ed e quello spirito che forma siccome i veri litterati, cosi i yeri 
 pit tori," 
 
314 MEMOIRS. 
 
 so little known, and so singularly characteristic of 
 the manners of that time, that I am tempted to 
 give it here. There was a certain Leone Leoni, 
 a sculptor, remarkable equally for his talents and 
 his ruffianly vices. He had been banished succes- 
 sively from Rome, Ferrara, and Venice ; but still 
 found patrons. A young man, his scholar, wearied 
 of his tyranny and excesses, refused to leave 
 Venice with him, and took refuge in the house of 
 Titian, where he was received and kindly treated 
 by Orazio. Leoni dispatched from Milan a hired 
 assassin to murder the scholar in the house of his 
 protector ; but the blow missed, and the assassin 
 escaped. Two years afterwards, in 1559, Orazio 
 was sent by his father to Milan, with sundry pic- 
 tures, for which he was to receive payment. Here 
 he found Leoni living in affluence, and was received 
 by him with professions of friendship ; nor does it 
 appear that Orazio was prevented, by his knowl- 
 edge of Leoni's infamous character, from accepting 
 his proffered kindness. On a certain evening, 
 about the Ave-Maria, Orazio being seated in con- 
 versation with Leoni, a thrush, which hung in the 
 room, began to flutter, on which Orazio took off 
 his cloak, and flung it over the cage. At the same 
 time it happened that two of Orazio's servants 
 were seen passing by, carrying the pictures of 
 Titian to the ducal palace. Either from the im- 
 mediate impulse of envy and jealousy, or from 
 premeditated vengeance for the protection given to 
 his scholar Martino, Leoni drew his da<™*er, and 
 
 ' Do 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 315 
 
 struck Orazio, who was occupied by the thrush, two 
 blows, neither of which was mortal, and pursuing 
 him to the door, inflicted several other wounds. 
 Orazio escaped from the house, and took refuge 
 with one of his friends ; and what renders the 
 whole story as curious as it is revolting, is the fact, 
 that Leoni, who was under deep obligation to 
 Titian for many kind offices, received no punish- 
 ment ; and that Orazio, after his recovery and 
 return to Venice, memorialized the Council of Ten 
 for the privilege of going armed himself, and 
 attended by an armed servant ; " being," as he 
 averred, " in manifest peril of his life through the 
 treachery of Leone Leoni, seeing that it was only 
 through the benignity of his father's loving friend, 
 the Lord Bishop of Bressa, who had given him an 
 escort of armed men, that he had been able to 
 return in safety to the bosom of his most happy 
 and beloved nest (pido) in Venice," &c* The 
 mild Orazio was evidently not overburdened with 
 personal courage. He is said to have painted 
 portraits admirably ; f and Boschini mentions a 
 portrait of a Venetian lady " vestida gravamente 
 alia Veneziana " of great beauty, which was pur- 
 chased in his time by a certain Pitt, an Englishman, 
 who carried it away "to delight his eyes in Eng- 
 land." One would like to know whether this 
 u certo Pitti" was one of the progenitors of that 
 
 * See the legal documents and depositions given at length by 
 Cadorin, p. 50. 
 t V. Ridolfi. v. i. p. 200, and Lanzi. 
 
316 MEMOIRS. 
 
 noble family, and whether such a portrait of a 
 Venetian lad) r be in the possession of any one 
 bearing the name ? 
 
 Titian's beautiful daughter Lavinia, the young- 
 est and best beloved of his children, died 
 before her father. He had often painted her ; 
 and seems to have so delighted in her society, 
 that he could not easily part with her. One of 
 the last pictures for which she served him as a 
 model, was the Pan and Syrinx,* now in the 
 Palazzo Barberigo, and apparently never quite 
 finished. In March, 1555, Titian bestowed his 
 daughter, with a noble dowry ,f on Cornelio Scar- 
 senello, of Serravalle, in Cadore. She became 
 the mother of six children, and died in childbirth 
 about 1561. 
 
 The Abbe Cadorin believes that Lavinia, and 
 the circumstances of her death, form the subject 
 of a very singular picture, which is, or was lately, 
 in the possession of Mr. Morrison, of Harley 
 Street, and of which there is a well-known 
 etching by Van Dyck. A very different inter- 
 pretation has been given to this picture ; but when 
 we recollect the supposed cause and circumstances 
 of Lavinia's death ; the age of Titian, who, in the 
 picture, is an old man of eighty at least ; we can 
 hardly doubt that this hypothesis of Cadorin is the 
 
 * As his eulogist observes, lt Pensiero per verity capriccioso e 
 intorno a cui si potrebbe filosofare. ma rum so con qual frutto. 
 II Yecellio ne avra avuto la sua ragione," 
 
 t He gave her 2400 ducats in money and jewels. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 317 
 
 true one. My own belief, after observation of the 
 picture, is, that it represents Lavinia at the age of 
 twenty-eight or thirty : that it was begun by Titian 
 before her death, and that after her death, the head 
 of Titian, the too significant action, the death's head 
 in the casket, and the Latin inscription, were 
 added — not perhaps by Titian himself — but by 
 Orazio. or one of his scholars : this, however, is 
 only a supposition, which must go for what it is 
 worth. 
 
 As for the beautiful Yiolante Palma. supposed to 
 have been Titian's early lore, as some say his 
 mistress, and as others say, his wife, — it seems quite 
 in vain to attempt to reconcile the conflicting dates, 
 traditions, and testimonies, with regard to her. All 
 that we can regard as certain is, that the same 
 person (and a most beautiful creature she must 
 have been) was the model of Giorgione, of Palma, 
 and of Titian, for so we must conclude from the 
 evident identity of a face painted by all these 
 artists under different names. 
 
 The tradition has been constant that this person 
 was Yiolante. one of the three daughters of the 
 elder Palma, and that she was beloved by Titian. 
 But. say the critics. " how could she be the love 
 of Titian, since Palma. according to Yasari, was 
 born in 1525 ? Titian must have been an old man 
 of eighty while she was yet a child." 
 
 Now it is no little comfort to find that if dates 
 and documents sometimes confound the enthusiasm 
 
318 MEMOIRS. 
 
 of the credulous ; they also, sometimes, put to shame 
 the sneers of the incredulous ; and an examina- 
 tion of certain particulars will, at least, help to 
 determine what was possible and what impossible. 
 Vasari, notoriously unscrupulous with regard to 
 dates, must be set aside ; for it is proved from 
 official documents that Palma was a painter of 
 eminence in 1520. Cadorin sees reason to sup- 
 pose that he was the contemporary of Titian, and 
 born about 1480 ; therefore, in 1516, he might have 
 had a daughter old enough, and lovely enough, 
 to be introduced as one of the nymphs into the 
 Bacchanal painted for the Duke of Ferrara,* — ■ 
 for so the tradition ran ; — she might even be the 
 original of the picture in the Matifrini Palace, 
 celebrated by Lord Byron — this is asserted 
 (though, for my own part, I do not believe it), 
 - — and of the exquisite portrait in the Pitti Palace ; 
 and the yet more delicious Flora in the Florence 
 Gallery; and the Venus of Paris Bordone. With 
 regard to the portraits of Violante, by her father, 
 there can be no doubt. One is at Vienna, head 
 and bust only ; and to express her name she has a 
 violet in her bosom. She appears in this picture as 
 a young girl — about seventeen, full-formed, with a 
 face of exquisite beauty, somewhat pensive in 
 expression, and with very fair hair, apparently 
 of the artificial tint already described. The other 
 is at Dresden, in the same picture with her two 
 sisters, Violante being the centre figure. The 
 * Now in Spain in the Madrid Gallery. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 319 
 
 divine St. Barbara, in the church of S. Maria 
 Formosa, at Venice, is also the portrait of Vio- 
 lante, and her father's masterpiece. With regard 
 to the picture in the Louvre, called Titian's Mis- 
 tress, as far as I can compare it in memory with 
 these portraits, I should suppose it to represent quite 
 a different person ; neither can I subscribe to the 
 theory of those who fancy that this most beautiful 
 Contadina is the portrait of the Laura who was mar- 
 ried to Alphonso of Ferrara. after the death of bis 
 first wife, Lucretia Borgia. If the Santa Giustina, 
 at Vienna, with Alphonso kneeling at her feet, 
 represents this beautiful Laura. — and I hope it 
 does, — then the picture in the Louvre is a differ- 
 ent person. The man in this picture certainly 
 bears a resemblance to the Duke Alphonso. and no 
 resemblance whatever to Titian. But the question 
 could only be set at rest by bringing all these pic- 
 tures into close comparison with each other, — a 
 thing impossible. A comparison of the engravings, 
 or of copies, would not suffice. 
 
 What became of the beautiful Violante we do 
 not know. She is named, with Paola Sansovino 
 and La Franceschini, among the ladies who 
 adorned Titian's garden suppers ; but whether we 
 have any grounds for associating her memory with 
 the house at San Canciano, is, I think, doubtful. 
 
 Of his other associates, Bembo died in 1547, 
 Aretino in 1559, and Sansovino in 1586. The 
 death of Aretino, his fast friend and companion 
 
320 MEMOIRS. 
 
 for thirty-five years, touched him most. The per- 
 petual, unavoidable association of the name and 
 fame of Titian with the measureless infamy of this 
 dissolute man, is very painful. But the worst are 
 not wholly bad ; and no one has denied the 
 strength and sincerity of Aretino's attachments 
 where he really loved, and particularly his devoted 
 friendship for Titian. 
 
 As to the degrading and deteriorating influence 
 which Aretino is said to have exercised over the 
 morals, genius, and productions of Titian, I do not 
 believe in any such influence. I did once, and 
 had a strong feeling on the subject ; more knowl- 
 edge — or rather less ignorance — has changed my 
 opinion. We have the united testimony of all 
 Titian's contemporaries, with regard to the becom- 
 ing dignity and decorum of his manners. Aretino 
 was twenty years younger than Titian ; their 
 friendship did not commence till about 1527 ; 
 and I must observe, that such was the reputation 
 of Aretino, at that time, that even the severe 
 Michael Angelo addressed him with respect, and 
 called him " brother " (Fratello mio) ; and the 
 grave and virtuous Vittoria Colonna was in cor- 
 respondence with him. If Aretino had been the 
 friend of the mild and modest Correggio, we 
 should probably have attributed to his influence 
 or inspiration several pictures, which we have 
 reason to wish that Correggio had never painted. 
 The truth is, that the artists of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury took their impress from the age ; and what an 
 
THE HOUSE OE TITIAN. 321 
 
 age it was, — how brilliant and how polluted ! The 
 predominance in Italy of certain great families, 
 remarkable for their public vices and the atrocities 
 of their domestic history, the Borgia, Medici, 
 Farnese, Este, and Gonzago races, in all their 
 branches, had infected Italy from north to south, 
 — had made every excess of the most flagitious 
 wickedness common-place : the dregs left behind 
 by the savage and depraved mercenaries of France 
 and Germany complete a picture from which the 
 mind would recoil in unmingled disgust, if the 
 wonderful activity and brilliance of intellect dis- 
 played did not dazzle us, and the working out of a 
 new spirit, which we are now able to trace through 
 all this mass of corruption, did not fix our attention. 
 Aretino was the rank product of this rank age, 
 which yet he had sense enough, and wit enough, to 
 estimate truly, even while concentrating all its 
 characteristics of baseness and sensuality in his 
 own person. 
 
 The profligate churchmen, and the vicious and 
 perfidious princes of his time, whether they were 
 the themes of his flattery or his satire, seem to have 
 been, at least, the perpetual objects of his absolute 
 and bitter scorn. His praise and his invective were 
 put up to public sale ; all was open, shameless barter 
 or bribery, of which, as it seems to me, the greater 
 infamy does not fall on Aretino. But not longer to 
 defile my pen and paper with the subject, I will 
 only observe, that Aretino had a true judgment in 
 art; — the tone of criticism, all through his letters (I 
 21 
 
322 MEMOIRS. 
 
 allude of course to those in the collection of Bottari), 
 is excellent. 
 
 There are several portraits of Aretino, by Ti- 
 tian ; one, in the Munich Gallery, which repre- 
 sents him as a young man, is remarkable for the 
 lofty intellectual brow and refined expression. And 
 there is a famous engraving by Marc Antonio, of 
 the authenticity of which, as a portrait, there can be 
 no doubt, as it is alluded to by Aretino himself. It 
 exhibits a head of great power, but with a debased 
 and sensual expression, which must be characteris- 
 tic. As a piece of art this engraving is wonderful. 
 If both these portraits represent Aretino, the de- 
 pravation of the head and countenance in the 
 second one is a lesson in morals and in physiology, 
 worth consideration. 
 
 After the death of Aretino, Titian quitted his 
 house and Venice, for a time, and went into the 
 Friuli, where he spent some months with Andrea, 
 lord of Spilimbergo, and gave some instructions in 
 painting to his accomplished daughter, Irene.* 
 
 But, after a while, he returned to Venice, and 
 found, in his incessant devotion to his art, his best 
 consolation. On the whole, we must agree with 
 Vasari, who, when he visited Titian, in his house 
 at San Canciano, and found him, in his 90th year, 
 still cheerful and healthful, in full possession of his 
 faculties, and looking back on a long life of glory 
 
 * Lanzi reckons Irene da Spilimbergo among the scholars of 
 Titian, and notices, with praise, three pictures by her. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 323 
 
 and prosperity, pronounced him happiest among 
 mortal men. But then came the closing scene ; so 
 dark and dismal, that it seemed as if the destinies 
 would, at last, be avenged on their favorite. Here, 
 in this same house, Titian lay dying of the pesti- 
 lence, which had half depopulated Venice: — on a 
 bed near him, his son Orazio. The curators of the 
 sick, in the sternly-pitiful fulfilment of their office, 
 carried off Orazio to the plague-hospital : but they 
 left the old man. for whom there was no hope, — 
 and who was, even then, in the death-gasp, — to die 
 alone. It appears that, before he could have ceased 
 to breathe, some of those wretches who come as 
 surely in the train of such horrors as vultures in 
 the rear of carnage — robbers, who went about 
 spoiling the dead and the dying — entered his room, 
 ransacked it, carried off his jewels, the gifts of 
 princes, valuable cups and vases chased in gold and 
 silver, — and, worse than all, some of his most pre- 
 cious pictures. Let us hope that the film of death 
 was already on his eyes ; that he saw it not — felt it 
 not. He died on the 27th of August, 1576. 
 
 Even in that hour of terror and affliction, the 
 Venetian State could not overlook the honors due 
 to their glorious painter. The rites of burial were, 
 by law, suspended : but an exception was made for 
 Titian. He was carried to the grave with such 
 solemnity as the calamitous times would permit — 
 and buried, as he himself had willed, at the foot of 
 the Altar of the Crucifix, in the Church of the 
 Frari. 
 
324 MEMOIRS. 
 
 It is worth noting that the last picture on which 
 Titian worked, before he died (a sketch left un- 
 finished), was a figure of St. Sebastian, who is, in 
 Italy, regarded as the patron saint against plague 
 and pestilence ; — probably intended as a votive 
 offering from himself, or some other, when the 
 scourge had passed away. It is now in the Bar- 
 berigo Palace. 
 
 Another picture, on which he had been working 
 up to the time of his death, was the Pieta, now in 
 the Academy at Venice. Titian intended this 
 picture to be placed over his own tomb, in the 
 Chapel of the Crucifixion. It represents a niche 
 or arch of rustic architecture ; on one side the 
 statue of Moses ; — on the other, that of the Sibyl 
 Hellespontica ; within the niche sits the Virgin, 
 bearing the dead Redeemer on her knees ; Mary 
 Magdalen, with outstretched arms, is lamenting 
 aloud, and comes forward, as if she called on the 
 spectators to sympathize in her sorrow ; — near the 
 Saviour, and supporting one of his arms, kneels 
 the figure of an aged man almost undraped, meagre 
 and wrinkled, with a bald head, and a long flowing 
 beard. This has been supposed, by some critics, to 
 be Joseph of Arimathea ; according to others, a St. 
 Jerome. My own impression, when I stood before 
 the picture, was, that Titian had intended to repre- 
 sent himself. I mention this merely as the impres- 
 sion, before I was aware of any interpretation given 
 to the picture, which is very peculiar in conception 
 — quite different from the usual treatment ; the 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 325 
 
 execution, however, is feeble. To the younger 
 Palma, his scholar, was intrusted the task of pre- 
 paring this picture for its destination. He did so ; 
 placing conspicuously on it a touching inscription, 
 to this effect: " That which Titian left unfinished, 
 Palma reverently completed, and dedicated the 
 work to God." The picture is now placed in the 
 Gallery of the Academia, while the monument to 
 Titian is in progress. Whether it will be restored 
 to the Altar — its original destination — I could not 
 learn. 
 
 But we must return, once more, to the house at 
 San Canciano. After the death of Titian and the 
 cessation of the plague, Pomponio Veeelli hastened 
 to Venice, to take possession of his inheritance. 
 Though a dissipated, he was not absolutely a 
 worthless man ; for we find that he bestowed, as a 
 gift,* the estates at Cadore on the children of his 
 sister Lavinia. The house at San Canciano re- 
 verted to the proprietors ; but, as it was proved 
 that Titian was a creditor to the amount of 510 
 ducats, which they were unable to pay, the house re- 
 mained in possession of Pomponio ; and he sold his 
 interest in it to Crist oforo Barberigo, together with 
 a number of his father's pictures, which Barberigo 
 removed to his palace at San Polo, where they are 
 now to be seen. 
 
 Nothing more is known of Pomponio. except 
 that he dissipated his patrimony, and was living in 
 obscurity and poverty in the year 1595. In 1581, 
 * (la dono.) See the document in Cadorin. 
 
326 .MEMOIRS. 
 
 Barberigo lent or gave the house at San Caneiano 
 to the painter Francesco da Ponte, the son of old 
 Bassano. After inhabiting it for about ten years, 
 Francesco threw himself from the window, in a fit 
 of insanity, and was killed on the spot. This hap- 
 pened on the 4th of July, 1592. 
 
 The next inhabitant was again a painter. Leo- 
 nardo Corona, one of the Venetian mannerists, 
 who most successfully imitated Titian, rented the 
 house from Barberigo, and lived there for ten 
 years. I remember one good picture by this 
 painter : an Annunciation over one of the altars 
 in the Frari. There are others at Venice, but I 
 cannot recall them. He died here in 1605. 
 
 Cristoforo Barberigo left the house of Titian, by 
 will, to his natural son Andrea ; but the pictures 
 by Titian, which he had purchased from Pomponio, 
 he left to his legal heirs, to descend as an inaliena- 
 ble heirloom in the family. This is the reason we 
 find them still preserved in the Barberigo Palace. 
 Andrea left the house to his daughter Chiara ; and 
 her husband, one Marconi, residing at Rome, sold 
 it, in 1674, to Pietro Berlendis, a patrician of 
 Venice. At this period the house was let out in 
 various tenements, but apparently to persons of 
 condition. We find among the lodgers two sisters 
 of the Faliero family.* All this time the heirs of 
 the original proprietor, Alviso Polani, had certain 
 claims on the estate ; but these we're finally paid 
 
 * Cadorin, document G. p. 121. 
 
THE HOUSE OF TITIAN. 327 
 
 oil; and in 1759, the house and garden became, 
 bond fide, the property of the Berlendis family. 
 
 As the house decayed, it continued to be rented 
 by various lodgers ; and these became gradually of 
 the poorer class — mechanics, tradesmen, gondoliers 
 ■ — till we come to that Ser Francesco Breve, who 
 tore down the Cupids from the ceiling, about 1805. 
 In 1812, Pietro, Baron Berlendis, ruined by the 
 political revolutions of his country, sold the house 
 and its appendages, which had been in his family 
 150 years, to four brothers, named Locatelli ; and 
 these, again, in 1826, sold it to a certain Antonio 
 Busetto, who is, I believe, the present proprietor. 
 At what period the edifices were erected along the 
 Fondamente Xuove, which now shut out the view 
 of the Lagune from the house and garden, I do 
 not find ; they have not, by any means, the appear- 
 ance of new buildings, and are very lofty. 
 
 This is the history of the house of Titian. It is 
 going fast to ruin, and has long been desecrated by 
 mean uses and vulgar inmates ; yet as long as one 
 stone stands upon another, it will remain one of 
 the monuments of Venice. When I visited the 
 place of his rest, at the foot of the altar of the 
 crucifix in the " Frari," I found the site closed in 
 with boards ; and was told that a magnificent tomb 
 was at last to be erected over his hitherto almost 
 nameless grave. What it is to be I know not ; 
 something, perhaps, in the most egregious bad taste 
 — a mere job — like that of Canova. But. what- 
 
328 M KM OIKS. 
 
 ever it may be, good or bad, it seems to me that it 
 is now too late for any thing of the kind. On what 
 monument could we look with more respect than 
 on a tablet inscribed with his name ; leaving out, 
 of course, the common-place doggerel about Zeuxis 
 and Apelles ? * And what performance, in the 
 way of " storied urn or animated bust," will not 
 suggest a comparison with his own excelling 
 works ? What can do him more honor than the 
 simple recognition of his excellence, living, as it 
 does in the divine productions of his art, which are 
 everywhere around us ? How much better to have 
 restored his house — that home he so loved — and 
 converted it into some national institution? It as 
 much deserves this distinction as the Palace of the 
 Foscari ; f the size and situation are even more 
 favorable for such a purpose ; and this would have 
 been a monument worthy of the generous heart of 
 Titian. Arqua still boasts of the house of Pe- 
 trarch ;— Ferrara still shows, with pride, the little 
 study of Ariosto; — Sorrento, the cradle of Tasso ; 
 — Urbino, the modest dwelling in which Raphael 
 saw the light ; — Florence, the Casa Buonarotti. In 
 Venice, the house of Titian is abandoned to the 
 most heartless neglect ; and the people now think 
 as little of it as we do of the house in Crutched 
 
 * The inscription, 
 
 ' ; Qui giace il gran Tiziano Yecelli 
 Emulator dei Zeusi e degli Appelli, 
 was written by one of the monks of the convent. 
 I Which is to be converted into a School of Engineers. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 329 
 
 Friars, where Milton wrote his " Paradise Lost." 
 If it were in a village, three hundred miles off, we 
 should be making pilgrimages to it ; but the din of 
 a city deafens the imagination to all such voices 
 from the dead. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, 
 aud his axioms on art. 
 
 January 1, 1844. 
 It has been suggested that I should throw to- 
 gether such notes and reminiscences as occur to 
 me relative to Allston, his character, and his works. 
 I commence the task, not without a feeling of rev- 
 erential timidity, wishing that it had fallen into 
 more competent hands ; — and yet gladly ; — strong 
 in the feeling that it is a debt due to his memory ; 
 since, when living, he honored me so far as to 
 desire I should be the expositor of some of his 
 opinions, thoughts, and aims as an artist. I knew 
 him, and count among the memorable passages of 
 my life the few brief hours spent in communion 
 with him : — 
 
 " Benedetto sia il giorno, e'l mese, 
 E l'anno. " 
 
 It is understood that his letters, papers, and 
 
330 MEMOIRS. 
 
 other memorials of his life, have been left by will 
 at the disposal of a gifted relative every way capa- 
 ble of fulfilling the task of biographer.* Mean- 
 time, these few personal recollections, these frag- 
 ments of his own mind, which I am able to give, v 
 will be perused with the sympathy of indulgence 
 by those who in the artist reverenced the man ; 
 and with interest, and perhaps with advantage, by 
 those who knew the artist only in his works. 
 
 When in America, I was struck by the manner 
 in which the imaginative talent of the people had 
 thrown itself forth in painting ; the country 
 seemed to me to swarm with painters. In the 
 Western States society was too new to admit of 
 more than blind and abortive efforts in Art ; genius 
 itself was extinguished amid the mere material 
 wants of existence ; the green wood kindled, and 
 was consumed in its own smoke, and gave forth no 
 visible flame either to warm or to enlighten. In 
 the Eastern States, the immense proportion of 
 positively and outrageously bad painters, was, in 
 a certain sense, a consolation and an encourage- 
 ment ; there was too much genius for mediocrity ; 
 — they had started from a wrong point ; — and in 
 the union of self-conceit and ignorance with talent 
 — and in the absence of all good models, or any 
 guiding-light — they had certainly put forth perpe- 
 
 * His brother-in-law, Mr. Dana, himself a poet, and whose son 
 wrote that admirable book, " Two Years before the Mast."' Up 
 to this time (May, 1846) the promised Memoir has not appeared. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. Sol 
 
 trations not to be equalled in originality and per- 
 versity. The case, individually, was as hopeless 
 as mediocrity would be in any other country ; — 
 but here was the material ready ; — the general, 
 the national talent to be worked out. I remember 
 a young American, who, having gained a local 
 celebrity in some township, or perhaps some Sov- 
 ereign State, about as old as himself, and as wise, 
 had betaken himself to Italy. I met him at Vi- 
 enna as he was hurrying back ; he had travelled 
 from Milan to Naples, and found all barren ; he 
 said he had "looked over the old masters, and could 
 see nothing in them — all their fame nothing but 
 old-world cant and prejudice ! " I thought of some, 
 who, under the same circumstances and influences, 
 would have gone back and rent their garments, 
 or at least their canvas, and begun anew. What 
 this young man may have since done remains, with 
 his name, unknown. I found some others actu- 
 ated by a far different spirit ; — laboring hard for 
 what they could get ; — living on bread and water, 
 and going in threadbare coats, aye, and brimless 
 hats, that they might save enough to make a voy- 
 age to Europe. Some I found looking at Nature, 
 and imitating her in her more obvious external 
 aspects, with such a simplicity and earnestness, that 
 their productions, in spite of most crude and de- 
 fective execution, fixed attention. Some had 
 stirred deeper waters, — had begun aright, — had 
 given indications of high promise, of high power, 
 — yet, for want of a more exalted standard of taste 
 
332 MEMOIRS. 
 
 to keep the feeling of beauty striving upwards, 
 pure and elevated, were degenerating gradually 
 into vulgarity, littleness, and hopeless mannerism. 
 
 Coleridge says somewhere, " The Arts and the 
 Muses both spring forth in the youth of nations, 
 like Minerva from the front of Jupiter, all armed." 
 
 Now this is not true of America — at least not yet. 
 I remember that when I was at Boston, and pos- 
 sessed for the time with the idea of Allston and his 
 pictures, I made the acquaintance of Father Taylor, 
 a man whose ordinary conversation was as poetical, 
 as figurative, as his sermons, and I could add, as 
 earnest and as instructive ; poetry seemed the nat- 
 ural element of his mind, and "he could not ope 
 his mouth but out there flew a trope," unaffectedly 
 and spontaneously, however, — as it were, uncon- 
 sciously. One evening, when deprecating the idea 
 of rivalry between England and America, he said, 
 u Are they not one and the same ? even as Jacob's 
 vine, which being planted on one side of the wall, 
 grew over it, and hung its boughs and clusters on 
 the other side — but still it was the same vine, 
 nourished from the same root." Now to vary a 
 little this apposite and beautiful illustration, I would 
 say, that while America can gather grapes from the 
 old vine, she will not plant for herself, nor even 
 cherish the off-shoots ; in other words, — America, 
 as long as she can import our muses cheap, will 
 have no muses of her own — no literature ; for half 
 a dozen or a dozen charming authors do not make 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTOX. 333 
 
 a national literature : but she cannot import our 
 painters, therefore I have some hope that she will 
 produce a national and original school of art. Is 
 it not much that America in her youfhhood has 
 already sent forth so many painters of European 
 celebrity ? Once it was her glory, that she had 
 given us West : but the fame of West is paling in 
 the dawn of a better and a brighter day. and there 
 is nothing in his genius that does not savor more of 
 the decrepitude than the youth of art. He con- 
 ceived great things, but he never conceived them 
 greatly : neither his mind nor his hand ever rose 
 k - to the height of his argument." — the most blame- 
 less and the most undramatic of painters ! Let 
 America be more justly proud that she has given to 
 the world — to the two worlds — greater men, whose 
 genius can only " brighten in the blaze of day." 
 I will not speak here of Xewton. of Greenough the 
 sculptor, of Cole the admirable landscape painter, 
 of Inman the portrait painter, and others, whose 
 increasing reputation has not yet spread into fame ; 
 but of Leslie, yet living among us. one of the most 
 poetical painters of the age. the finest interpreter 
 of the spirit of Shakspeare the world has yet seen, 
 — Leslie, whom England. — deliberately chosen tor 
 his dwelling-place, and enriched by his works. — 
 may claim as her own : and of Allstox. not in- 
 ferior in genius, and of grandeur of aim and pur- 
 pose, who died recently in his own land — would 
 that he had died, or at least lived in oars ! There 
 was in the mind of this extraordinarv man a touch 
 
834 MEMOIRS. 
 
 of the listless and the morbid, which required the 
 spur of generous emulation, of enlightened criti- 
 cism, of sympathetic praise, to excite him to throw 
 forth the rich creative power of his genius in all its 
 might. 
 
 Wilkie used to say, that after receiving one of 
 Sir George Beaumont's critical letters, he always 
 painted with more alacrity for the rest of the day ; 
 an artist feels the presence — the enlightening and 
 enlivening power of sympathy, even when it comes 
 in the shape of censure. If the genius of Allston 
 languished in America, certainly it was not for want 
 of patronage so called — it was not for want of 
 praise. The Americans, more particularly those 
 of his own city, were proud of him and his Euro- 
 pean reputation. Whenever a picture left his easel, 
 there were many to compete for it. They spoke of 
 pictures of Allston which existed in the palaces of 
 English nobles, — of Lord Egremont's " Jacob's 
 Dream," of the Duke of Sutherland's " Uriel in 
 the Sun," — and they triumphed in the astonishment 
 and admiration of a stranger, who started to find 
 Venetian sentiment, grandeur, and color, in the 
 works of a Boston painter, buried out of sight, 
 almost out of mind, for n've-and-twenty years — a 
 whole generation of European amateurs. 
 
 Though glorified by his fellow-citizens, and con- 
 scious that he had achieved an immortality on 
 earth, it did strike me when I was in Allston's 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTOX. 335 
 
 society, that some inward or outward stimulus to 
 exertion was wanting ; that the ideal power had 
 of late years overwhelmed his powers of execution; 
 that the life he was living as an artist was neither 
 a healthy nor a happy life. He dreamed away, or 
 talked away whole hours in his painting-room, but 
 he painted little. He had fallen into a habit which 
 must be perdition to an artist. — a habit of keeping 
 late hours, sleeping in the morning, and giving 
 much of the night to reading, or to conversation. I 
 heard complaints of his dilatoriness. He said of 
 himself, with a sort of consciousness, and in a dep- 
 recating tone, " You must not judge of my in- 
 dustry by the number of pictures I have painted, 
 but the number I have destroyed." In a letter from 
 one of his friends now lying before me, I find a 
 passage alluding to this point, which deserves to be 
 transcribed for its own feeling and beauty, as well 
 as its bearing on the subject. " Often have I 
 rebelled against the unthinking judgments which 
 are sometimes passed upon Allston, because he does 
 not produce more works ; he is sometimes called 
 idle : let those who make the charge first try to 
 comprehend the largeness and the fineness of his 
 views of fame." (What these views were we shall 
 see presently in his own words.) k> What right 
 have I to sit in judgment upon genius, until I know 
 more of that mysterious organization which, how- 
 ever lawless it may seem to others, is yet a law to 
 itself? this, that, and the other thing I would 
 amend ; am I quite sure that in so doing, I should 
 
336 MEMOIRS. 
 
 not break or mar the whole ? We must take 
 genius as it is, and thank it for what it gives us, 
 and thank Heaven for having given us it. How 
 beautifully the intellectual and spiritual part of 
 AUston's nature is blended with his genius as an 
 artist, you have seen and felt ; it is the spirit of the 
 man which hallows his works. You once said we 
 had no right to him — that you envied us the pos- 
 session of such a man. Oh, envy us not ! — rob us 
 not of the little we have, which can call off our 
 American mind from the absorbing and hot pursuit 
 of vulgar wealth, and the love of perishing things, 
 to those calm contemplations which embody in im- 
 mortal forms the beautiful and the true ! " 
 
 Allston has been for so many years absent from 
 England, his merits, even his name, so little known 
 to the present generation of artists and lovers of 
 art in this country, that a sketch of the incidents 
 of his life, before the period of my own personal 
 recollections, may not be unwelcome.* 
 
 Washington Allston was a native of South Caro- 
 lina, and born in 1779. He says of himself, in 
 some notes sent to Mr. Dunlop, that the turn for 
 imitation and composition had shown itself as early 
 as six years old. His delight was to put together 
 
 * Most of the facts and dates in the following sketch are taken 
 from " Duolop's History of the Arts of Design in the United 
 States," a gossiping, tedious, and conceited hook ; yet, in par- 
 ticular biographies, bearing evident marks of authenticity and 
 sincerity. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 337 
 
 miniature landscapes of his own invention, built up 
 with moss, sticks, pebbles, and twigs representing 
 trees : and in manufacturing little men and women 
 out of fern stalks. These childish fancies, he says, 
 " were the straws by which an observer might have 
 guessed which way the current was setting for after- 
 life. And yet. after all, this love of imitation may 
 be common to childhood. General imitation cer- 
 tainly is : but whether adherence to particular 
 kinds may not indicate a permanent propensity, I 
 leave to those who have studied the subject more 
 than I have, to decide." 
 
 He adverts to another characteristic : his early 
 passion for the wild, the marvellous, and the terri- 
 fic, and his delight in the stories of enchantments, 
 hags, and witches, related by his father's negroes. 
 From these sports and influences he was soon torn 
 away — sent to school and college, where he went 
 through the usual course of studies : never relin- 
 quishing the darling pursuit of his childhood, but 
 continuing, unconsciously, the education of his imi- 
 tative powers. He drew from prints : and before 
 he left school had attempted compositions of his 
 own. " I never," he says. " had any regular in- 
 structor in the art (a circumstance. I would observe, 
 both idle and absurd to boast of), but I had much 
 incidental instruction, which I have always, through 
 life, been glad to receive from every one in advance 
 of myself. And I may add, that there is no such 
 thing as a self-taught artist, in the ignorant accep- 
 tation of the words : for the greatest genius that 
 
338 MEMOIRS. 
 
 ever lived must be indebted to others — if not by 
 direct teaching, vet indirectly through their works." 
 This reminds us of what Goethe once said of 
 himself: "People talk of originality, — what do 
 they mean ? — as soon as we are born the surround- 
 ing world begins to operate upon us, and so on to 
 the end ; and after all, what can we truly call our 
 own but energy, power, ivill? Could I point out all 
 I owe to my great forerunners and contemporaries 
 — truly there would remain but little over." Yet 
 there is such a thing as originality, and we all feel 
 it as a presence — -just as we acknowledge a partic- 
 ular look in a portrait or countenance without 
 exactly defining in what consists the differences 
 between this particular face and all other faces ; — 
 that which is produced may be the result of a com- 
 bination of influences ; — but if stamped by the in- 
 dividual mind, it is what we call original, for it 
 could have been produced only by that mind ; — it 
 can be imitated, but never be reproduced by an- 
 other. Mozart, who was certainly no metaphy- 
 sician, seems to have hit upon the true definition. 
 He said : " I do not aim at originality ; 1 do not 
 know in what mine consists ; — why my productions 
 take from my hand that particular form or style 
 which makes them Mozartish and different from the 
 works of other composers, is probably owing to the 
 same cause which renders my nose thus or thus, — 
 aquiline, or otherwise, — or, in short, makes it Mo- 
 zart's, and different from other people's."* Self- 
 taught persons,— be they artists or not, — are not 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 339 
 
 always, nor even often, original as regards the 
 product of the mind. 
 
 But, to return from this long digression. All- 
 ston's artistic education continued with little help, 
 certainly, as regards the direction of his genius. 
 When at Harvard College, he attempted to paint 
 in miniature, but " could make no hand of it." 
 We can easily imagine that the teeming powers of 
 his young mind required a far readier and a far 
 larger medium of expression, than the elaborate 
 iteration of miniature painting.* 
 
 He was seized about this time with what he calls 
 a banditti mania. All his inventions and sketches 
 were of scenes of violence ; and he did not get rid 
 of these " cut-throat fancies " till he had been for 
 some time in Europe. 
 
 Before he left college, his future career was 
 determined. Left early master of himself, he sold 
 his paternal estate for the purpose of studying in 
 Europe. He had generous friends, who came for- 
 ward with offers of aid — who would fain have 
 prevented this sacrifice of his property. But All- 
 ston, with the high spirit which through life distin- 
 guished him, refused these offers, and threw 
 himself, at once and finally, on his own resources. 
 
 * Haydon, once expressing his admiration of Allston, alluded 
 to his having given up miniature painting, and remarked acutely, 
 " Next to knowing what he can do, the "best acquisition for an 
 artist is to know what he cannot do.-' Did Mr. Haydon ever 
 study to acquire this knowledge ? 
 
340 MEMOIRS 
 
 He arrived in England in 1803 ; was received 
 by his countryman, West, then President of our 
 Academy, with his usual urbanity and kindness ; 
 and by Fuseli — not always courteous — with distin- 
 guished courtesy. There seems to have been, from 
 the first, an immediate and intelligent sympathy 
 between these two poetically gifted spirits. Allston 
 confesses that, he then thought Fuseli " the greatest 
 painter in the world ; " and he retained a more 
 qualified predilection for him ever after. His pre- 
 ference of Fuseli to West at that time, favored as 
 he was by the attention and kindness of the latter, 
 marks the poet : for such Allston was. Fuseli 
 asked him what branch of art he intended to pur- 
 sue ; he replied, " History." u Then, Sir, you have 
 come a great way to starve ! " was the characteristic 
 reply. 
 
 The effect which Sir Joshua's pictures produced 
 and left on his imagination, also stamps the partic- 
 ular bent of his mind and character. He said, 
 happily, " There is a fascination about them, which 
 makes it almost ungrateful to think of their de- 
 fects." 
 
 Allston remained two years in England, and 
 exhibited three pictures ; one of them (a comic 
 subject) he sold. This was beginning well. In 
 1804 he went to Paris, studied and meditated in' 
 the Gallery of the Louvre, then rich with the spoils 
 of nations ; copied Rubens in the Luxembourg ; 
 and proceeded to Italy, where he remained four 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 341 
 
 years, residing chiefly at Rome, where Thorwaldsen 
 was his fellow-student. His feeling for what the 
 grand old masters had achieved, was deep — was 
 genuine. They grew upon his mind, as they do on 
 all minds large enough to take them in. In his 
 appreciation of Michael Angelo, he agreed with 
 Sir Joshua : " I know not," he said, " how to speak 
 of Michael Angelo in adequate terms of reverence." 
 Allston was not satisfied with reverencing the old 
 masters, and copying their pictures : he imitated 
 their mode of study, and devoted much time to the 
 modelling of the figure in clay. That boldness and 
 firmness of drawing and foreshortening which he 
 displayed in his pictures, even his smallest composi- 
 tions, may be traced to this practice. He said, late 
 in life, " I would recommend modelling to all young 
 painters, as one of the best means of acquiring an 
 accurate knowledge of form. I have occasionally 
 practised it ever since." At Rome Allston first 
 became distinguished as a mellow and harmonious 
 colorist ; and acquired, among the native German 
 painters, the name of the American Titian : there 
 he formed a lasting friendship with Coleridge and 
 Washington Irving. He said of Coleridge, " To 
 no other man whom I have ever known do I owe 
 so much intellectually. He used to call Eome ' the 
 silent city ; ' but I never could think of it as such 
 while with him ; for — meet him when or where I 
 would — the fountain of his mind was never dry ; 
 but, like the far-reaching aqueducts that once sup- 
 plied this mistress of the world, its living streams 
 
342 MEMOIRS. 
 
 seemed especially to flow for every classic ruin over! 
 which we wandered. When I recall some of ourl 
 walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, I am I 
 almost tempted to dream that I had once listened I 
 to Plato in the groves of the Academy. It was 
 there he taught me this golden rule, ' never to 
 judge of a work of art by its defects ; ' — a rule as 
 wise as benevolent ; — and one which, while it has 
 spared me much pain, has widened my sphere of 
 pleasure." Notwithstanding his sensitive taste, 
 Allston remained to the end of his life " a wide- 
 liker," to borrow his own expression. 
 
 He returned to America in 1809, and in 1810 
 married Miss Channing, the sister of the great Dr. 
 Channinor. In 1811 we find him again in England, 
 accompanied by his wife. The first work he com- 
 menced, after his arrival, was one of his grandest 
 pictures, " The Dead Man revived by Elisha's 
 Bones," which is now at Philadelphia. While this 
 picture was in progress, Allston was seized with a 
 dangerous nervous disorder. He went down to 
 Clifton, where he placed himself under Dr. King, 
 the celebrated surgeon (married to one of the 
 Edge worths), who, from his medical attendant, be- 
 came his friend. He painted half-length portraits 
 of Dr. King and Mrs. King, which he considered 
 among his best works in that style. For Mr. Van- 
 derhost, of Bristol, he painted a large Italian land- 
 scape and a sea-piece. On his return to London 
 he lost his amiable wife, after a union of three 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 343 
 
 short years. In the letters already quoted, he al- 
 ludes feelingly and briefly to his loss : " The death 
 of my wife left me nothing but my art. which then 
 seemed to me as nothing ! " In fact, his bereavement 
 is said to have caused a temporary derangement 
 of his intellect. Under this sorrow he was sustained 
 and consoled by his friend Leslie, and by degrees 
 his mind regained its tone and its powers. The 
 beautiful little picture of the " Mother and Child " 
 (which seems at first to have been intended for a 
 representation of the Virgin and Infant Saviour, 
 and instantly brings that subject to mind in its 
 truly Italian and yet original treatment) was 
 painted in England at this time. I saw it at Phila- 
 delphia in the possession of Mr. M'Murtie, and 
 thought it charming ; but, as he had said himself, 
 " the mother was too matronly for a madonna." In 
 the year 1816 Allston sold his great picture of 
 " The Dead Man Restored to Life," &c, to the 
 Pennsylvanian Academy for 3500 dollars, about 
 700/. It had previously obtained, from the Direc- 
 tors of the British Institution, the prize of 200 
 guineas. He had planned a great picture of 
 "Christ Healing the Sick," but, on reflection, 
 abandoned it, deterred by the failure of all at- 
 tempts, ancient and modern, to give an adequate 
 idea of the Saviour. Yet I cannot help wishing 
 that he had entered the lists with West, who never 
 seems to have mistrusted his own powers to repre- 
 sent any theme, however high, however holy. But 
 Allston was a poet — felt, thought, painted like a 
 
344 MEMOIRS. 
 
 poet; knew what it is to recoil and tremble in 
 presence of the divine ; — and this is just what the 
 pious and excellent West knew not. 
 
 In 1817, Allston painted his picture of " Jacob's 
 Dream," which was purchased immediately by Lord 
 Egremont, and is now at Petworth. The subject 
 is very sublimely and originally treated, with a 
 feeling wholly distinct from the shadowy mysti- 
 cism of Rembrandt, and the graceful simplicity of 
 Raphael. Instead of a ladder or steps, with a few 
 angels, he gave the idea of a glorious vision, in 
 which countless myriads of the heavenly host are 
 seen dissolving into light and distance, and im- 
 measurable flights of steps rising, spreading above 
 and beyond each other, till lost in infinitude. 
 
 That Allston had seen Rembrandt's miraculous 
 little picture in the Dulwich Gallery — a thing, 
 which once seen, ever afterwards haunts the im- 
 agination, as though it had been itself stolen out 
 of the mysterious land of dreams, — is proved by a 
 sonnet, suggested by the picture, and which I copy 
 here as a fair specimen of his printed poems. 
 
 As in that twilight superstitious age 
 
 When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind 
 
 Seemed fraught with meanings of supernal kind; 
 
 When e'en the learned, philosophic sage 
 
 Wont with the stars through boundless space to range, 
 
 Listen' d with reverence to the changeling's tale, 
 
 E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange! 
 
 E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail, 
 
 That like the rambling of an idiot's speech 
 
 No image giving of a thing on earth. 
 
WASHIXGTOX ALLSTOX. 345 
 
 Nor thought significant in reason's reach. 
 
 Yet in their random sha do wings give birth 
 
 To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, 
 
 And fill the soul and strike the reason dumb. 
 
 Not that I can believe that Rembrandt's " shad- 
 owings" were mere random, or that he deserved to 
 be likened to an " inspired idiot." any more than 
 Shakspeare ; but general or egotistic criticism is 
 here out of place. I return to my proper theme, 
 which is Allston, not Rembrandt. 
 
 Another grand picture, painted in England, 
 u Uriel in the Sun " (Paradise Lost, b. hi.), was 
 purchased by the late Marquis of Stafford, and is 
 now at Trentham Hall. It is a colossal figure, fore- 
 shortened, nearly twice the size of life. His own 
 account of the method he took to produce the 
 effect of light in this picture is worth preserving : 
 u I surrounded him, and the rock of adamant on 
 which he sat, with the prismatic colors, in the order 
 in which the ray of light is decomposed by the 
 prism. I laid them on with the strongest colors; 
 and then with transparent color, so intimately 
 blended them as to reproduce the original ray ; it 
 w r as so bright that it made your eyes twinkle as 
 you looked at it." * 
 
 In 1818, he returned to America, seized with a 
 home-sickness which no encouragement or adrnira- 
 
 * I have never seen this picture, therefore cannot say what is 
 the present effect of the coloring, or whether it retains this 
 dazzling effect. 
 
346 MEMOIRS. 
 
 tion received in England — no friendships formed 
 here (though among his friends he counted such 
 men as Coleridge, Sir George Beaumont, and Les- 
 lie) — could overcome. He was elected Associate 
 of the Royal Academy the same year — and would 
 have been an R. A. but for one of the laws of 
 the Academy, which renders no artist eligible as 
 Academician, who is not resident in England. He 
 took with him to America only one finished picture, 
 " Elijah in the Wilderness," and this picture re- 
 mained on his hands till the year 1832. Mr. La- 
 bouchere, when travelling in America, saw it in 
 the house of Mr. Davis, of Boston, and became the 
 purchaser ; it is now in England. 
 
 From the period of his arrival in America in 
 1818, Allston remained settled at Cambridgeport, 
 near Boston. In the vicinity of his dwelling-house 
 he had erected a large and commodious painting- 
 room. His benevolent and social qualities, not 
 less than his various intellectual accomplishments, 
 had gathered round him many loving and admir- 
 ing friends, — and among the professors of Harvard 
 University he found many congenial associates. 
 He was an admirable narrator, his good stories 
 being often invented for the occasion. The vi- 
 vacity of his conceptions, and the glowing language 
 in which he could clothe them, rendered, his con- 
 versation inexpressibly delightful and exciting. I 
 remember, after an evening spent with him, return- 
 ing home very, very late (I think it was near three 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 347 
 
 in the morning) — with the feelings of one who had 
 been magnetized. Could I remember to detail any 
 thing he said I should not here report it, but I will 
 give one or two passages from my notes which 
 show that he could paint with words as well as with 
 pigments. 
 
 He says in one of his letters — " I saw the sun 
 rise on lake Maggiore — such a sunrise ! the giant 
 Alps seemed, literally, to rise from their purple beds, 
 and putting on their crowns of gold to send up a 
 Hallelujah almost audible ! " In speaking of a pic- 
 ture — the " Entombment of the Virgin," " in which 
 the expression and the tremendous depth of color " 
 had forcibly struck him, he said, " it seemed as 1 
 looked at it as if the ground shook under their tread, 
 as if the air was darkened by their grief" When a 
 young painter brought him a landscape for his 
 inspection, he observed, " Your trees do not look 
 as if the birds would fly through them ! " About 
 four or five years ago he published a romance 
 entitled " Moldini," which I thought ill constructed 
 as a story, but which contained some powerful de- 
 scriptions, and some passages relative to pictures 
 and to art such as only a painter-poet could have 
 written. It is said, I know not how truly, that he 
 has left a series of lectures, on painting, in a com- 
 plete state : these, no doubt, will be given to the 
 public. 
 
 His death took place on the 9th of June, 1843 
 After a cheerful evening spent with his friends, the 
 
348 
 
 MEMOIRS. 
 
 pang of a single moment released his soul to its 
 immortal home. He had just laid his hands on 
 the head of a favorite young friend, and after beg- 
 ging her to live as near perfection as she could, he 
 blessed her with fervent solemnity. Even with 
 that blessing on his lips he died. He was buried 
 by torchlight in the beautiful cemetery of Mount 
 Auburn, where hundreds had gathered round to 
 look, for the last time, on a face which death had 
 scarcely changed, save that " the spirit had left her 
 throne of light." 
 
 About two years before his death, there was an 
 exhibition of his works at Boston — an exhibition 
 which, in the amount of excellence, might well be 
 compared to the room full of Sir Joshua's at the 
 Institution last year. Those who have not seen 
 many of Allston's pictures will hardly believe this ; 
 those who have, will admit the justice of the com- 
 parison — will remember those of his creations, in 
 which he combined the richest tones of color with 
 the utmost delicacy and depth of expression ; and 
 added to these merits a softness and finish of exe- 
 cution and correctness of drawing — particularly in 
 the extremities — which Sir Joshua never enter- 
 tained, nor, perhaps, attempted. When I have 
 thought of the vehement poetical sensibility with 
 which Allston was endowed — his early turn for the 
 wild, the marvellous, the terrible — his nervous tem- 
 perament, and the sort of dreamy indolence which 
 every now and then seemed to come over him, I 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 349 
 
 have more and more deeply appreciated the sober 
 grandeur of his compositions, the refined grace of 
 some of his most poetical creations, the harmoni- 
 ous sweetness which tempered his most gorgeous 
 combinations of color, and the conscientious pa- 
 tient care with which every little detail was exe- 
 cuted ; in this last characteristic, and in the pre- 
 dominance of the violet tints in the flesh and 
 shadows, some of his pictures reminded me more 
 of Lionardo da Vinci thari of Titian or of Rey- 
 nolds. His taste was singularly pure — even to 
 fastidiousness. It had gone on refining and refin- 
 ing ; and in the same manner his ideal had become 
 more and more spiritual, his moral sense more and 
 more elevated, till in their combination, they 
 seemed at last to have overpowered the material of 
 his art — to have paralyzed his hand. 
 
 In his maturer years, he was far, very far, from 
 the banditti mania of his youth. When applied to 
 by the American government to assist in decorat- 
 ing the Rotunda at Washington, he said, " I will 
 paint only one subject, and choose my own — no 
 battle-piece ! " In this, and in many other things, he 
 reminded me of a great painter of our own — East- 
 lake — who also, if I remember rightly, began with 
 the banditti mania and the melodramatic in art, 
 and is now distinguished by the same refined and 
 elevated taste in the selection as well as in the 
 treatment of a subject, the same elaborate ele- 
 gance of execution, and I may add, the same 
 power as a thinker in his art. Xo man ever more 
 
350 MEMOIRS. 
 
 completely stamped the character of his mind upon 
 his works than did Allston. In speaking of the 
 individuality which the old masters threw into 
 their works, he 'said — " This power of infusing 
 one's own life, as it were, into that which is 
 feigned, appears to me the prerogative of Genius 
 alone. In a work of art, it is what a man may 
 well call his own, for it cannot be borrowed or 
 imitated." This, in fact, is what we may truly call 
 originality. He combated strenuously the axiom 
 cherished and quoted by young and idle painters, 
 that leaving things unfinished is " leaving some- 
 thing to the imagination. " The very statement, 
 as he observed, betrays the unsoundness of the 
 position, " for that which is unfinished, must neces- 
 sarily be imperfect — so that, according to this rule, 
 imperfection is made essential to perfection ; the 
 error lies in the phrase, ' left to the imagination/ 
 and it has filled modern art with random flour- 
 ishes of no meaning." 
 
 Instead of saying, in common phrase, that " in a 
 picture something should always be left to the 
 imagination," we should rather say that a picture 
 "should always suggest something to the imagina- 
 tion ; " or, as Goethe has finely expressed it, " every 
 consummate work of art should leave something for 
 the intellect to divine." In the axiom so put, there 
 is no danger of misinterpretation — no excuse for 
 those who put us off with random flourishes, where 
 feet, or fingers, eyes, nose, and mouth ought to be, 
 but are left, in the common phrase, to the imagina- 
 tion. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 351 
 
 As Allston's works were in accordance with his 
 mind — so. to complete the beautiful harmony of 
 the man's whole being, were his countenance, per- 
 son, and deportment, in accordance with both. 
 
 When I saw him, in 1838, I was struck by the 
 dignity of his figure, and by the simple grace of 
 his manners ; his dress was rather careless, and he 
 wore his own fine silver hair long and flowing ; his 
 forehead and eyes were remarkably good; the 
 general expression of his countenance open, seri- 
 ous, and sweet ; the tone of his voice earnest, soft, 
 penetrating. Notwithstanding the nervous irrita- 
 bility of his constitution, which the dangerous and 
 prolonged illness in 1811 had enhanced, he was 
 particularly gentle and self-possessed. 
 
 He was at that time painting on two great pic- 
 tures, "the Death of King John," and " Belshaz- 
 zar's Feast." The first he declined showing me, 
 because, as he said, " to exhibit his pictures to any 
 other eye in certain stages of their progress, always 
 threw cold water on him." * The latter I was 
 
 * He afterwards, with the sensitive delicacy which belonged to 
 his character, apologized for his refusal in words which I tran- 
 scribe. "Mrs. Jameson must not suppose that I declined show- 
 ing her w King John ' in its unfinished state, because I had any 
 secrets in my practice, which, she is no doubt aware, is the case 
 with some artists. On the contrary, I hold it as a duty freely to 
 communicate all that I know to every artist who thinks it worth 
 the asking. To the younger artists especially, who come to me 
 for advice, I am in the habit of showing my pictures in their 
 various stages, in order to illustrate the principles on which I 
 proceed. The reason I assigned for not showing what I was im- 
 mediately engaged on, that it tlirev: cold water upon me. was the 
 true one ; I must beg her not to say that I have written any 
 
352 MEMOIRS. 
 
 warned not to speak of. It had been in hand 
 since 1814, had been begun on an immense scale 
 (16 or 17 feet in length), and he had gone on 
 altering, effacing and marring, promising and de- 
 laying its completion till it had become a subject 
 he could hardly bear to allude to, or to hear men- 
 tioned by others; his sensitiveness on this one 
 point did at last almost verge on insanity. I heard 
 various reasons assigned for this ; one was, that an 
 execution had been levied on the work, which had 
 excited in the painter's mind so deep a feeling of 
 discouragement and disgust, that he would not 
 afterwards touch it ; the other reason given was, 
 that the leading idea of the picture, that of mak- 
 ing the light radiate from the supernatural hand, 
 had been anticipated by Martin in his " Belshaz- 
 zar's Feast." At the period of my visit to Allston, 
 I saw this fatal picture rolled up in a corner of the 
 apartment, and scarcely dared to look that way. 
 On his easel lay a sketch of two sisters, life-size, 
 the figure and attitude of one of them borrowed or 
 adapted from " Titian's Daughter." The two 
 heads in contrast, one dark, the other fair ; one 
 gay, coquettish, the other thoughtful ; the whole 
 admirable, as a piece of color and expression. 
 But I was most struck by two beginnings ; one a 
 
 thing on my art. for it troubles me to have the puhlic expect any 
 thing of me. I feel as if they were looking over my shoulder. 
 I may not live to complete what I have begun, and it is better 
 that they should not have it in their power to reproach my mem- 
 ory for any disappointment they might choose to feign or feel." 
 He was probably shrinking under some reproach on account of 
 the ill-fated Belshazzar. when he wrote the above. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 353 
 
 Dance of Fairies on the Sea-shore, from the Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream, exquisitely poetical. The 
 other left a still greater — an ineffaceable impres- 
 sion on mv mind. It was a sea-piece — a thunder- 
 storm retiring, and a frigate bending to the gale ; 
 it was merely a sketch in white chalk upon a red 
 ground, and about five feet high as nearly as I can 
 recollect, — not even the dead coloring was laid on ; 
 I never saw such an effect produced by such a 
 vehicle, and had not mine own eyes seen it, I could 
 not have conceived or believed it to be possible. 
 There was absolute motion in the clouds and 
 waves — all the poetry, all the tumult of the tem- 
 pest were there ! — and I repeat, it was a sketch in 
 white chalk — not even a shadow ! Around the 
 walls of his room were scratched a variety of sen- 
 tences, some on fragments of paper stuck up with 
 a wafer or pin, — some on the wall itself. They 
 were to serve, he said, as " texts for reflection be- 
 fore he began his day's work." One or two of 
 these fixed my attention ; became the subject of 
 discussion and conversation ; and at length he 
 allowed a mutual friend to copy them for me — 
 with the express permission to make any use of 
 them I thought proper; and thus sanctioned, I do 
 not hesitate to subjoin a few of them. In the ab- 
 sence of his pictures, and until a fuller exposition 
 of his mind be placed before us by his biographer, 
 they will better illustrate the character and genius 
 of this remarkable man than any thing that can be 
 said of him. 
 
 23 
 
354 MEMOIRS. 
 
 1. The painter who is content with the praise 
 of the world in respect to what does not satisfy 
 himself, is not an artist but an artisan ; for though 
 his reward be only praise, his pay is that of a 
 mechanic for his time, and not for his art. 
 
 2. He that seeks popularity in art closes the 
 door on his own genius : as he must needs paint 
 for other minds, and not for his own. 
 
 3. Reputation is but a synonyme of popularity: 
 dependent on suffrage, to be increased or dimin- 
 ished at the will of the voters. It is the creature 
 so to speak, of its particular age, or rather of a 
 particular state of society ; consequently, dying 
 with that which sustained it. Hence we can 
 scare ely r go over a page of history, that we do 
 not, as in a churchyard, tread upon some buried 
 reputation. But fame cannot be voted down, 
 having its immediate foundation in the essential. 
 It is the eternal shadow of excellence, from which 
 it can never be separated, nor is it ever made 
 visible but in the light of an intellect kindred with 
 that of its author. It is that light by which the 
 shadow is projected, that is seen of the multitude, 
 to be wondered at and reverenced, even while so 
 little comprehended as to be often confounded with 
 the substance — the substance being admitted from 
 the shadow, as a matter of faith. It is the econo- 
 my of Providence to provide such lights : like 
 rising and setting stars, they follow each other 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. tS55 
 
 through successive ages : and thus the monumental 
 form of Genius stands forever relieved against its 
 own imperishable glory. 
 
 4. All excellence of every kind is but variety 
 of truth. If we wish, then, for something beyond 
 the true, we wish for that which is false. Accord- 
 ing to this test how little true is there in art ! 
 Little indeed ! but how much is that little to him 
 who feels it ! 
 
 5. Fame* does not depend on the will of any 
 
 * In transcribing this aphorism, I am reminded of a noble 
 passage in one of Joanna Baillie's poems. How many such 
 passages are scattered through her works, which have been 
 quoted, and applied, and familiarized to ear and memory 
 for forty years past — until we almost forget to whom we owe 
 them ! 
 
 0. who shall lightly say that fame 
 Is nothing but an empty name. 
 Whilst in that sound there is a charm, 
 The nerves to brace, the heart to warm ; 
 As, thinking of the mighty dead. 
 The young from slothful couch will start, 
 And vow, with lifted hands outspread, 
 Like them to act a noble part ? 
 
 0, who shall lightly say that fame 
 Is nothing but an empty name, 
 
 When, but for those our mighty dead, 
 All ages past a blank would be, 
 Sunk in oblivion's murky bed — 
 A desert bare — a shipless sea ? 
 
 They are the distant objects seen. 
 
 The lofty marks of what hath been. 
 
356 MEMOIRS. 
 
 man, but reputation may be given or taken away :l 
 for Fame is the sympathy of kindred intellects,! 
 and sympathy is not a subject of willing: while! 
 Reputation, having its source in the popular voice,! 
 is a sentence which may either be uttered or sup- 
 pressed at pleasure. Reputation being essentially! 
 contemporaneous, is always at the mercy of thel 
 Envious and the Ignorant. But Fame, whose I 
 very birth is posthumous, and which is only £7202071! 
 to exist by the echo of its footsteps through congenial! 
 minds, can neither be increased nor diminished by! 
 any degree of wilfulness. 
 
 6. What light is in the natural world, such is I 
 fame in the intellectual : both requiring an atmos- 
 phere in order to become perceptible. Hence the 
 fame of Michael Angelo is, to some minds, a non- 
 entity ; even as the sun itself would be invisible in 
 vacuo. 
 
 7. Fame has no necessary conjunction with 
 praise : it may exist without the breath of a 
 word : it is a recognition of excellence which must 
 be felt, but need not be spoken. Even the envious 
 must feel it : feel it, and hate it in silence. 
 
 0, who shall lightly say that fame 
 Is nothing but an empty name, 
 When memory of the mighty dead 
 To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye 
 The brightest rays of cheering shed 
 That point to immortality ! 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 357 
 
 8. I cannot believe, that any man who deserved 
 fame, ever labored for it : that is, directly. For as 
 fame is but the contingent of excellence, it would 
 be like an attempt to project a shadow before its 
 substance was obtained. Many, however, have so 
 fancied : " I write and paint for fame," has often 
 been repeated : it should have been, " I write, I 
 paint for reputation." All anxiety, therefore, 
 about fame, should be placed to the account of 
 reputation. 
 
 9. A man may be pretty sure that he has not 
 attained excellence, when it is not all in all to him. 
 Nay, I may add, that if he looks beyond it, he has 
 not reached it. This is not the less true for being 
 good Irish. 
 
 10. An original mind is rarely understood until 
 it has been reflected from some half-dozen conge- 
 nial with it : so averse are men to admitting the true 
 in an unusual form : whilst any novelty however 
 fantastic, however false, is greedily swallowed. Xor 
 is this to be wondered at ; for all truth demands a 
 response, and few people care to think, yet they 
 must have something to supply the place of 
 thought. Every mind would appear original, 
 if every man had the power of projecting his 
 own into the mind of others. 
 
 11. All effort at originality must end either in 
 the quaint or the monstrous. For no man knows 
 
358 MEMOIRS. 
 
 himself as an original : he can only believe it on 
 the report of others to whom he is made known, as 
 he is by the projecting power before spoken of. 
 
 12. There is an essential meanness in the wish 
 to get the better of any one. The only competition 
 worthy of a wise man is with himself. 
 
 13. Reverence is an ennobling sentiment ; it 
 is felt to be degrading only by the vulgar mind, 
 which would escape the sense of its own little- 
 ness, by elevating itself into the antagonist to what 
 is above it. 
 
 14. He that has no pleasure in looking up, is 
 not fit to look down ; of such minds are the man- 
 nerists in art ; and in the world, the tyrants of all 
 sorts. 
 
 15. The phrenologists are right in putting the 
 organ of self-love in the back part of the head. It 
 being there that a vain man carries his light ; the 
 consequence is that every object he approaches 
 becomes obscure by his own shadow. 
 
 16. A witch's skiff cannot more easily sail in the 
 teeth of the wind, than the human eye can lie 
 against fact ; but the truth will often quiver through 
 lips with a lie upon them. 
 
 17. It is a hard matter for a man to lie all over., 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTOX. 359 
 
 Nature having provided king's evidence in almost 
 every member. The hand will sometimes act as a 
 vane, to show which way the wind blows, when 
 every feature is set the other way ; the knees smite 
 together and sound the alarm of fear under a fierce 
 countenance ; the legs shake with anger, when all 
 above is calm.* 
 
 18. Make no man your idol ! For the best man 
 must have faults, and his faults will usually become 
 yours, in addition to your own. This is as true in 
 art, as in morals. 
 
 19. The Devil's heartiest laugh, is at a detract- 
 ing witticism. Hence the phrase, " devilish good," 
 has sometimes a literal meaning. 
 
 *20. There is one thing which no man, however 
 generously disposed, can give, but which every one, 
 however poor, is bound to pay. This is Praise. 
 He cannot give it, because it is not his own : since 
 what is dependent for its very existence on some- 
 thing in another, can never become to him a pos- 
 
 * An eminent lawyer, who is accustomed to cross-examine wit- 
 nesses, once told me. that in cases under his scrutiny where he 
 has known the words and oaths to have come forth glibly, while 
 the whole face and form seemed converted into one impenetrable 
 and steadfast mask, he has detected falsehood in a trembling of 
 the muscle underneath the eye : and that the perception of it 
 has put him on the scent again: when he had thought himself 
 hopelessly at fault ; so true it is, that a man ~ cannot lie all 
 over." 
 
dbl) MEMOIRS. 
 
 session ; nor can he justly withhold it, when the 
 presence of merit claims it as a consequence. As 
 praise, then, cannot be made a gift, so, neither, 
 when not his due, can any man receive it ; he may 
 think he does, but he receives only words; for 
 desert being the essential condition of praise, there 
 can be no reality in the one without the other. 
 This is no fanciful statement ; for though praise 
 may be withheld by the ignorant or envious, it can- 
 not be but that, in the course of time, an existing 
 merit will, on some one, produce its effects ; inas- 
 much as the existence of any cause without its 
 effect, is an impossibility. A fearful truth lies at 
 the bottom of this, an irrecersible justice for the 
 weal or woe of him who confirms or violates it. 
 
 After this first introduction to Allston, I spent 
 two whole mornings at Boston, hunting out his 
 pictures, wherever they were to be found. At 
 this distance of time, I will not trust to memory, 
 but mention only those of which I have a memo- 
 randum,— of which the description, and the im- 
 pression they left on my own mind, were noted 
 on the spot. 
 
 u Rosalie Listening to Music." The figure of a 
 young girl, life-size and three-quarters. She has 
 been reading. The hand which holds the book 
 has dropped ; the other is pressed on her bosom. 
 The head a little raised. Rapt, yet melancholy 
 attention in the opening eyes and parted lips. 
 The coloring deep, delicate, rich. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 361 
 
 When I first saw this picture, in the drawing- 
 room of Mr. Appleton, of Boston, I had never 
 seen Allston — did not even recollect his name. It 
 at once so captivated my attention, that I could not 
 take my eyes from it — even though one who might 
 well have sat for a Rosalie was at my side. I 
 thought I had never beheld such a countenance, 
 except in some of the female heads of Titian or 
 Palma. Yet the face was not what would be 
 termed beautiful ; and oh, how far from the sen- 
 timental, ringletted prettiness of our fashionable 
 painters ! 
 
 When I afterwards asked Mr. Allston whether 
 his poem of " Rosalie" had suggested the picture, 
 or the picture the stanzas, he replied, that. " as 
 well as he could recollect, the conception of the 
 poem and of the picture had been simultaneous 
 in his mind." He received for this picture 1200 
 dollars, about £250. 
 
 '•Miriam Singing her Song of Triumph." Figure 
 three-quarters, extremely fine, especially in color ; 
 perhaps too much of solemn melancholy and ten- 
 derness in the expression, — in the mouth particu- 
 larly ; yet there may be a propriety in this concep- 
 tion of the character. In the possession of Mr. 
 Sears, of Boston. 
 
 "A Roman Lad}' Reading." Figure three-quar- 
 ters. The same kind of beauty as the picture of 
 Rosalie ; a head and countenance with something 
 
362 MEMOIRS. 
 
 finer than beauty ; a contemplative grandeur and 
 simplicity in the attitude, the hands very elegant 
 and characteristic, and admirably drawn; alto- 
 gether a noble painting ! In the possession of Mr. 
 D wight, of Boston. 
 
 " Jeremiah Dictating to the Scribe his Prophecy 
 of the Destruction of Jerusalem." Two figures, 
 life-size ; a grand composition, but the canvas seem- 
 ed to me to want height, which took away from 
 the general effect. The prophet seated, with flow- 
 ing beard, and w T ide eyes glaring on the future ; 
 the head of the scribe, looking up and struck with 
 a kind of horror, finer still. Coloring admirable, 
 rich, and deep and clear ; olive and purple tints 
 predominating. There is a jar on the left, about a 
 foot and a half high, painted with such a finish of 
 touch and tone, such illusive relief, as to cheat the 
 sense, — and yet it is not obtrusive. In the posses- 
 sion of Mrs. Gibbs. I have reason to remember 
 this picture ; for, while looking at it, I was leaning 
 on the arm of Dr. Charming. He afterwards told 
 me, that when the picture was exhibited, the water- 
 jar excited far more wonder and admiration than 
 the prophet ; and that a countryman, after con- 
 templating the picture for a considerable time, 
 turned away, exclaiming, " Well ! he was a 'cute 
 man that made that jar!" The merely imitative 
 always strikes the vulgar mind. 
 
 u Beatrice " — Dante's, not Shakspeare's — Figure 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTOX. 363 
 
 three-quarters — the same kind of merit as the " Ro- 
 salie " and the •• Roman Lady.'" This most lovely 
 picture struck me more the second time I saw it 
 than the first : the hand holding the cross, painted 
 with exceeding truth and delicacy. In the posses- 
 sion of Mr. Eliot, mayor of Boston. 
 
 ■• Lorenzo and Jessica." a small picture. The 
 two figures seated on a bank in front, her hand 
 lies in his : I never saw anything better felt than 
 the action and expression of those hands ! — one 
 could see they were thrilling to the finger ends. 
 The dark purple sky above : the last gleam of day- 
 light along the horizon — no moon. In the posses- 
 sion of Mr. Jackson, of Boston. For this exquisite 
 little picture Allston received GOO dollars. 
 
 " The Evening Hymn.'' A young girl seated 
 amid ruins. She is on a bank, and her feet hang 
 over a subterranean arch, within which, in the 
 deep shadow, is dimly descried the fragment of a 
 huge torso; she is singing her vesper hymn to the 
 Virgin : the expression of devotion and tenderness 
 in the head of the girl, and of deep repose in the 
 whole conception, very beautiful : there is a gleam 
 of golden sunset thrown across the foreground of 
 the picture, which has an extraordinary effect. In 
 the possession of Mr. Dutton. 
 
 •■ Saul and the Witch of Endor," beautifully 
 painted, but I did not like the conception : in this 
 
364 MEMOIRS. 
 
 instance, the genius of Salvator had rebuked and 
 overpowered that of Allston. In the possession of 
 Colonel Perkins, of Boston. 
 
 At Boston I saw, likewise, several fine landscapes, 
 some of Italian and some of American scenery. 
 
 At New York. " Rebecca at the Well." In the 
 possession of M. Van Schaick. 
 
 At Philadelphia. " The Dead Man restored to 
 Life on Touching the Bones of the Prophet Elisha" 
 — (2 Kings xiii. 20). The scene is the interior of 
 a mountain cavern, into which the dead man has 
 been let down by two slaves, one of whom is at 
 the head, the other at the feet of the body ; other 
 figures above ; life-size. This picture has some 
 magnificent points, and much general grandeur, 
 without anything exaggerated or intrusive, which 
 is the fine characteristic of Allston's compositions 
 (those I have seen at least). The best part of the 
 picture is the dead man extended in front, in whose 
 form and expression the sickly dawn of returning 
 life is very admirable and fearful. The drawing 
 in the feet and hands extremely fine. The bones 
 of the prophet are just revealed behind, in a sort 
 of faint phosphoric light emitted by them. Several 
 figures above in the background, in various atti- 
 tudes of horror, fear, amazement. I suppose the 
 female figure fainting to be the wife or mother of 
 the man. The picture is 13 feet by 11. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 365 
 
 I heard much of a picture I did not see — "Spa- 
 latro's Vision of the Bloody Hand," from Mrs. 
 Radcliffe's " Italian." It is now in the possession 
 of Mr. Ball, of Charleston. 
 
 Thus far the written memoranda at the time. I 
 saw several other pictures, of which there was not 
 time to note any particular description, but all 
 bearing more or less the impress of mind, of power, 
 and of grace. 
 
 When I heard of Allston's death it was not with 
 regret or pain, but rather with a start, a shudder, 
 as when a light, which, though distant, is yet 
 present, is suddenly withdrawn. It seemed to me, 
 that in him America had lost her third great man. 
 What Washington was as a statesman, Channing 
 as a moralist — that was Allston as an artist. 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE : 
 
 AND THE LYRICAL DRAMA IN 1841. 
 
 Written to accompany a series of full-length Drawings executed 
 by Mr. John Hayter, for the Marquess of Titchfield, represent- 
 ing Miss Kemble in all the characters in which she had appeared, 
 and the most striking passages of each. 
 
 August, 1843. 
 How often we have had cause to regret that the 
 histrionic art, of all the fine arts the most intense 
 in its immediate effect, should be, of all others, the 
 most transient in its result ! — and the only me- 
 morials it can leave behind, at best, so imperfect 
 and so unsatisfactory ! When those who have 
 attained distinguished celebrity in this department 
 of art retire from the stage, it is the most mournful 
 of all departures for those who disappear, and for 
 those who are left behind ; for there is no other 
 bond between the public and its idol than this un- 
 limited sympathy of mutual presence. Adelaide 
 Kemble exists to us no more. She has retired 
 within the sacred precincts of domestic life, 
 whither those who made her the subject of 
 public homage, or public criticism, will not pre- 
 sume to follow her, except with silent blessing, 
 heartfelt good-wishes, and grateful thoughts for 
 remembered pleasure, mingled, perhaps, with some 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 367 
 
 regrets, to waken up whenever her name is heard, 
 — as heard it will be. Her short career as a 
 dramatic artist, has become a part of the history 
 of our country's Drama ; — as such, it must be 
 recorded ; — as such, it will be the subject hereafter 
 of comparison — of reference. Those who imagine 
 that when the distinguished artist, whose life and 
 destinies have in a manner mingled with our own, 
 is withdrawn from our sight, sympathy and mem- 
 ory are extinguished, commit a great mistake. 
 Without entering here into the question of its 
 expediency or inexpediency, public or private, — 
 since it is a necessity, — since the record must and 
 will live, — it had better live in a form that is digni- 
 fied by its instructiveness and its truth, than in 
 a form degraded by levity and untruth ; and 
 therefore it is that this sketch, which was at first 
 intended to be strictly private, is here allowed a 
 place : that a name and a fame, familiar to the 
 many, might be rescued from vulgar and ephemeral 
 criticism, and take — as far as this inadequate tribute 
 may avail — the place they deserve to hold in our 
 memory. 
 
 When Johnson said of Garrick, that " his death 
 had eclipsed the gayety of nations," he expressed a 
 simple fact, which yet was only a part of the whole 
 truth. Not gayety only, not merely the amusement 
 of an idle hour, have we owed to the great artist, 
 — more especially the great vocal and lyrical 
 artist, — but that blessed relief from the pressure 
 of this working-clay world ; that genial warming 
 
368 MEMOIRS. 
 
 up of the spirit, under the sympathetic influ- 
 ences of beauty, passion, power, poetry, melody, 
 which fuses together a multitude of minds in the 
 one delicious and kindred feeling ; and surely this 
 is much to be thankful for ! Those who have felt 
 and acknowledged the influence of this fascination 
 have too generally, and under the excitement of 
 the moment, exhibited their gratitude by impulses 
 as short-lived, by tributes as empty, by rewards as 
 glittering, as the mere stage triumph ; shouts and 
 bravoes, — some tears perhaps, forgotten as soon as 
 shed, — jewels, flowers, flattery, lip-homage. — all 
 that is readiest and easiest to pay. But never, 
 certainly, did chivalrous admiration tender a more 
 elegant and appropriate homage than in the series 
 of Drawings which this memoir was written to 
 illustrate. It was surely a beautiful thought, that 
 of summoning a kindred art to give permanence to 
 what seemed in its nature so transient — the charm 
 of the momentary action, the varied turns of ex- 
 pression, the grace of which words could only 
 preserve the record, not the image. And as the 
 idea was in itself beautiful, so it has been beauti- 
 fully carried out: Mr. Hayter has avoided those 
 mistakes into which one with less feeling, — one who 
 had less sympathy with the object, and less enthu- 
 siasm for the subject of his work, would inevitably 
 have been betrayed. These Drawings are a good 
 example of what such representations ought to be ; 
 they were to be as faithful as could be required to 
 the moment, to the action, to the expression : they 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 369 
 
 were to be scenic, dramatic, but, at the same time, 
 they were to be poetical, and as far as possible 
 removed from the theatrical ; — and herein lay the 
 difficulty, — conquered, I must say, with singular 
 felicity. While the figure and action of the 
 principal person are given with portrait-like fidel- 
 ity, down to the very minutiae of her dress, the 
 accompaniments are generalized, and all that could 
 recall the conventional stage arrangements, and 
 stage effects, has been carefully avoided. Thus 
 they have all the value of truth, and all the 
 charm of fancy. They appeal to the imagina- 
 tion and to the memory without recalling, for one 
 moment, any associations but those of graceful 
 movement and delicious song; and if the record 
 I am about to trace should add to such associations 
 some others, from a higher and a deeper source of 
 interest, it will at least be not unworthy of its aim, 
 and the motive which gave it birth. 
 
 Any one who had undertaken to write of Ade- 
 laide Kemble without knowing her personally, 
 could never have done justice to her artistic ex- 
 cellence. For one to whom she has long been 
 personally known, to write of her merely as an 
 artist, is very difficult. 
 
 It has been said, and with a plausible appear- 
 ance of candor, that, in estimating the distin- 
 guished artist in any department of art, the moral 
 qualities of the individual, apart from the mani- 
 festations of the genius, concern us not ; that our 
 24 
 
370 MEMOIRS. 
 
 business is with the processes, mental, moral, orl 
 accidental (if anything be accidental), through! 
 which it is produced and perfected ; that in bring- 
 ing these considerations to bear on the principal I 
 subject, we hazard injustice, if we do not offer 
 indignity, to the object of our admiration. Yet to 
 set such considerations wholly aside, what is it but 
 to confound the artist with the artisan ? It is a I 
 matter of indifference to me who made this table 
 at which I write. It is no matter of indifference 
 to me who wrote this book I read ; from what mind 
 emanated these words over which I have shed 
 burning tears ; whose hand fixed on the canvas 
 these forms which are to me as a revelation from 
 heaven, It is, on the contrary, of the highest 
 import to me that I should know that which I 
 must needs love, and be able to approve where I 
 am called on to admire. The eager curiosity, the 
 insatiate interest with which we seek to penetrate 
 the characters, to disclose the existence of those 
 on whom the public gaze has been fixed in delight 
 and wonder, is among the strongest forms of human 
 sympathy. We have been forced to feel their 
 power through every pulse of our being ; — in re- 
 turn we " would pluck out the heart of their mys- 
 tery." This form of sympathy may be very 
 inconvenient to its object, and sometimes very 
 suspicious in its motive, and oftentimes very indis- 
 creet in its application ; but to say that it is wrong, 
 that it either can be, or ought to be, otherwise, is 
 both false and absurd. It is so ; and as long as 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 371 
 
 human beings are constituted as they are, it must 
 be so. What great artist ever lived and worked 
 in this world with regard to whom fame was not 
 " love disguised ?" The genius which could be 
 wholly analyzed without reference to the perso- 
 nality, would be wanting in all that gives genius 
 its value on earth — the power of awakening to 
 sympathy, and exciting to action. Where the 
 moral qualities of the artist have not strongly influ- 
 enced his art, that art, in its manifestation, has had 
 no deep nor lasting influence on others. In fact, to 
 unravel and divide the character, and setting aside 
 the woman in all her womanly relations with soci- 
 ety, exhibit only the artist, would be to convert the 
 44 burning and the shining light " into a hollow, 
 flimsy transparency ; — to set up what Carlyle calls 
 a simulacrum in place of the living, breathing, 
 heart-warming reality. 
 
 The true artist organization, fully developed by 
 exercise of its predominant faculties, will always 
 retain something childlike ; I should even say, 
 judging from examples I have met with, something 
 childish. I use the word with no irreverence. 
 The Countess Faustina says, characteristically, 
 " What I do not know, I cannot learn ; " and so 
 it often is with artist minds of a high order. 
 Through passion, through power, through suffer- 
 ing, we effect much ; unless to these are added 
 faculties of comparison, reflection, sympathy — we 
 do not learn much. And by sympathy I do not 
 mean here the instincts of benevolence or pity, 
 
3^2 MEMOIRS. 
 
 but the power of throwing one's own being into 
 the being of another. The artist mind, on the 
 contrary, absorbs other minds into itself ; such 
 characters are objects to others, they do not make 
 objects of others, unless there be the desire to pos- 
 sess. The faculties through which we learn are 
 precisely those which the artist either exercises not 
 at all or within a limited range ; the judgment is 
 not often brought to bear on realities ; the sympa- 
 thies recoil from the practical and flow into the 
 imaginative part of the being. Hence it is that 
 minds of this class, otherwise highly gifted and sur- 
 prisingly developed in power of a particular kind, 
 ■ — artist minds, as long as they exist chiefly in and 
 for their art, their faculties bent on working, cre- 
 ating, representing, — often remain immature in 
 judgment, and unfitted to cope with the actual. 
 Experience either comes to them more slowly and 
 at a later period than to most others ; or, if it come, 
 it teaches nothing ; they never seem the wiser for it. 
 In such minds experience is not material for con- 
 duct, but material for fancy, and their theory and 
 their practice are found strangely and uncon- 
 sciously at variance ; — in short, they remain chil- 
 dren ; and — spite of all their faults and provoca- 
 tions — one is tempted to add, " Of such are the 
 kingdom of heaven ; " so ethereal are they, com- 
 pared to those whose minds have been shaped by 
 pressure of outer circumstances — like clay, instead 
 of being developed from within, like the flower. 
 Some artist natures, with which my own has 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE, oi6 
 
 been brought into contact, I have likened in my 
 impatience to ill-managed wall fruit — ripe, rich, 
 blooming, luscious on one side ; on the other, im- 
 mature, defective, sometimes worse — hard, if not 
 rotten. 
 
 How far in such natures we might bring the bal- 
 ance right, through watchful discipline and due 
 cultivation, is a question : — how much might be 
 gained, how much lost — for something would cer- 
 tainly be lost in the process — and how far such 
 natures, and how far society, would be benefited 
 by the result, are also questions not to be hastily 
 answered. One thing is certain, the Darteneufs 
 in art would fare the worse ; they would lose their 
 "bite out of the sunny side of the peach." 
 
 Such reflections may appear rather too general 
 and serious for the matter in hand, — the eloge of 
 an accomplished singer ; but they will not be 
 deemed out of place, nor, as I trust, in danger of 
 misapprehension, where the theme is such a woman 
 and such an artist as Adelaide Kemble. With her, 
 as with every true woman, the intellect and the 
 genius were modified by the sensibilities and the 
 moral qualities. With Jier, as with every great 
 artist, her art was not a profession merely, — acci- 
 dental and divisible from the rest of her existence ; 
 it was in her blood, in her being, a part of the ma- 
 terial of her life. Was she not a Kemble born — 
 the true daughter of her race ? And though in 
 her the artistic organization was more than bal- 
 
374 MEMOIRS. 
 
 ancecl by large sympathies and warm affections, it 
 was of force enough to give the bent to her dispo- 
 sition and determine the vocation. Not that Ade- 
 laide Kemble could ever have found her sole, or 
 even her highest happiness in her theatrical voca- 
 tion ; not that the loftiest triumph of gratified ambi- 
 tion, however nobly directed, could have sufficed to 
 such a heart, " or have filled full the soul hungry 
 for joy." But the experiment was to be tried. 
 Till it had been tried, till a part of her life had 
 flowed out in this, its natural direction, she never, 
 as I firmly believe, could have entered with satis- 
 faction, or a settled mind, or, assurance in herself, 
 on any other condition of existence. 
 
 Yet in her case, as in her sister's, there were 
 prejudices to be overcome, or, at least, pre-arrange- 
 ments to be set aside. She was first, at the age of 
 seventeen, intended for a concert singer, without 
 any view to the stage.* Her magnificent voice, 
 naturally a contralto, was more remarkable at this 
 time for volume and quality of tone, than for com- 
 pass and flexibility. The range of power and exe- 
 cution necessary for a dramatic singer, was to be 
 
 * She made her first appearance, as a concert singer, in Lon- 
 don, and subsequently at the York festival in 1834. She failed, 
 or. at least, produced no effect. She had not been sufficiently 
 prepared by study : her appearance was, I hare heard, contrary 
 to her own wishes, and she had not the free and entire use of 
 her own powers, even as far as they were developed. It would 
 be difficult for those who have seen her tread the stage in Se- 
 rniramide to imagine, bow timid she was, how gauche, how totally 
 devoid of self-possession at this time, and for a long time after- 
 wards. 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 3 75 
 
 acquired only by long and profound study, and 
 incessant practice. To attain that command over 
 her voice, which was to be with her a means, not 
 an end, she went first to Paris, and placed herself 
 under the tuition of Bordogni for three years. She 
 then visited Germany ; revisited England in the 
 spring of 1838: and in the same year proceeded 
 to Italy, for the purpose of practice and improve- 
 ment. 
 
 Her first theatrical engagement was made for 
 the Theatre at Trieste. On her way from Milan 
 to Trieste she was detained at Venice. The Im- 
 presario there, the Marchese Pallavicini. whose 
 Prima Donna had failed, and who was at a loss 
 how to finish his season, prevailed on her to ap- 
 pear for one night. This accident was the cause 
 of her making her first appearance as a singer and 
 actress on the stage of the Fenice, at Venice. 
 
 The opera was the " Xorma ; " her success com- 
 plete, notwithstanding a degree of timidity and 
 emotion which had nearly overpowered her self- 
 possession. She sang in the same opera seven 
 more nights at the other theatre, the San Bene- 
 detto, and with increasing effect and popularity. 
 She then proceeded to fulfil her engagement at 
 Trieste. 
 
 She remained in that city for about three months, 
 and sang with great success, first in the Gemma di 
 Vergy. a poor part, and not well calculated either 
 for acting or singing, and then in Ricci's - Xozze 
 
376 MEMOIRS. 
 
 di Figaro." Tills last opera, though full of charm- 
 ing music, failed in consequence of two cabals at 
 the same time, — Mazzucato's party, who wished 
 his opera of " Esmeralda " to carry the day, and 
 the party of Conte Tasca, whose wife (La Taccani) 
 was the other Prima Donna, and w r ho tried to 
 make everything fail in which she did not sing. 
 This, perhaps, was the first initiation of a high and 
 generous spirit into the mean intrigues and tracas- 
 series of the Italian theatres. Long experience 
 rendered such displays of selfishness and envious 
 temper a mere matter of course ; but even when 
 use had lessened the amazement and disgust with 
 which they w r ere at first encountered, the sense of 
 the painful and the ridiculous remained to the 
 last. 
 
 From Trieste Adelaide returned to Milan, and 
 made her first appearance at the Scala, in the 
 " Lucia di Lammermoor." In consequence of one 
 of those intrigues de theatre to which I have allud- 
 ed, and which, in this particular instance, had ar- 
 rayed against her the whole corps d'opera, and 
 even the Impresario himself, she had nearly foiled ; 
 but recovered her hold on the public sympathies ; 
 maintained her position, and sang for sixteen nights 
 with increasing success. 
 
 She then proceeded to Padua, and sang there in 
 Mercadante's " Elena da Feltre " with the highest, 
 the most enthusiastic applause. Then succeeded a 
 long illness, produced by being called on to sing 
 when under the influence of fever. During; an in- 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 377 
 
 fcerval of several months she did not appear before 
 the public, at least not on the stage. She remained 
 at Bologna, studying for the greatest part of the 
 time, under the direction of Mercadante and 
 Cartagenova, — the former the most profound 
 musician, the latter the most accomplished lyrical 
 actor, in Italy. 
 
 Her next appearance was at Mantua, where 
 she sang in the "Lucia" and "Elena de Feltre," 
 with complete success. Thence she proceeded to 
 Naples, where she sang for ten months with in- 
 creasing popularity, before the most fastidious au- 
 diences in Italy, in the " Beatrice di Tenda," the 
 " Otello," the " Due Figaro," an opera buffa of 
 Speranza ; in the " Bravo " of Mercadante, the 
 "Xorma," and the " Sonnambula ; " acquiring in 
 every new part added power, and added celebrity. 
 She was at the height of her reputation, and 
 might now have commanded her own terms on any 
 stage in Italy, when the news of her father's dan- 
 gerous illness recalled her suddenly to England. 
 She arrived in London in April, 1841, after an 
 absence of three years ; during half that period 
 she had sung in public, the rest of the time had 
 been devoted to unremitting study of her art. 
 
 Of her existence in Italy taken altogether, — its 
 vicissitudes, its triumphs, and its trials, — enough has 
 been said as preparatory to her career in England ; 
 yet the retrospect suggests some reflections which 
 
378 MEMOIRS. 
 
 may find a place here. In Italy, the prestige of her 
 name, her acknowledged position in her own conn- 
 try, the highest qualities of mind and heart, abso- 
 lutely went for nothing in the estimate formed of 
 her publicly and privately ; but as a secret source 
 of self-respect, even tl*ere.they availed much. They 
 " bore her, dolphin-like, above the element she 
 moved in." Brought into close contact with the 
 meanly malignant rivalries, the vicious recklessness 
 of a theatrical life, every way far below the lowest 
 and the worst we can imagine of the same exis- 
 tence here, she appears to have steered her course 
 through all that was base and perilous, as one 
 whom it could not touch, — as one who, morally 
 speaking, bore a charmed life. True it is, that 
 what was revolting and contemptible, was at the 
 same time too open, gross, and palpable to present, 
 danger or perplexity to such a mind as hers. 
 But this was not her only, nor her best safe- 
 guard. 
 
 Even in the depth of weariness and disgust, in- 
 spired by the low moral state of those around her, 
 her appreciation of the beautiful and the good, 
 wherever they were to be found, left her not with- 
 out some sources of pure and heartfelt pleasure, 
 apart from the exercise of her talents, and the 
 triumphs of gratified ambition. A real, yet half- 
 unconscious superiority, moral, and mental, in 
 which there mingled no alloy of bitterness or as- 
 sumption, left her judgment free. — left her awake 
 and alive to everv circumstance in her artist- 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 379 
 
 destiny which could strike a mind endowed with 
 powers of reflection and comparison, as well as 
 with true feelings and quick perceptions. Yile as 
 were some of her forced associates, still there were 
 to be found among them, and not seldom, those ele- 
 ments of poetry with which her own poetical nature 
 could assimilate, or, at least, could sympathize. In 
 the intervals of her public engagements she lived 
 in retirement, devoting herself wholly to the study 
 of the scientific and practical difficulties of her 
 profession, until she had achieved a perfect mas- 
 tery over those vocal and mechanical processes 
 through which the ardent mind within was to make 
 itself heard and felt. Before she quitted Italy, the 
 hereditary histrionic genius of her family, and her 
 rare musical talent, both fully developed, and aided 
 by those advantages which only Italian training 
 can give the vocalist, had combined to place her, 
 even there, as a lyrical actress beyond all compe- 
 tition, beyond all comparison, except with the re- 
 membered glories of Pasta and Mali bran. In Eng- 
 land she was viewed in another light, and had to 
 go through a different ordeal. 
 
 To say that the women of the Kemble family 
 owed their preeminence in their profession solely 
 to professional talent, appears to me a great mis- 
 take. To say that they owed the interest and 
 dignity with which they were invested in public, 
 and the position they held in private society, 
 merely to their unsullied reputation in domestic 
 
380 MEMOIRS. 
 
 life, is not only a mistake, — it is a positive insult I 
 to them, not less than to the many amiable and ex-l 
 cellent women who have adorned the profession by | 
 virtues as well as by talents. No ; it has been 
 through every branch of this remarkable family 
 the element of the ideal in aspiration and intellect I 
 — -something more generous and elevated in their 
 ambition — which has thus distinguished them ; the 
 prevalence of the poetical in the whole tone of the 
 mind, interfused through all their artistic concep- 
 tions on the stage ; and in private life a self-respect 
 which ennobled at once themselves and their pro- 
 fession. Such women had a right to hold them- 
 selves above those of the metier — and they did so. 
 
 The world has been accused of regarding the 
 profession of the stage with unjustifiable contempt; 
 — but, without referring here to insolent prejudices 
 which I have heard avowed, even there where 
 they were most ungraceful and most ridiculous ; — 
 it seems to me, that the artists, taken as a class, 
 must blame themselves for the low place they hold 
 in the public estimation. I have known those of 
 the profession who, in the midst of infinite personal 
 assumption, and a dependence on applause, almost 
 mean in its excess, have affected to hold in abso- 
 lute contempt the profession by which they lived, 
 — to speak of it merely as a forced means of gain- 
 ing a livelihood, — and to talk as if it were beneath 
 them. Now this is pitiable, and the effect of it 
 debasing. I have heard such professional people 
 murmur bitterly against the pride of the Kembles 
 
ADELAIDE KBMBLK. 381 
 
 and the Macreadys. They might reflect, that the 
 pride from which their individual amour prapre 
 may suffer more or less, has raised their whole pro- 
 fession in the public estimation, — would raise it 
 higher, if elevated principle and self-respect were 
 a little more the rule, — not, as I am afraid it is, the 
 exception. 
 
 We draw, or ought to draw, a wide distinction 
 between what the French call une artiste, and 
 what we and the Germans designate as an artist in 
 the truer and higher, as well as the more general, 
 sense of the word. Une artiste, in the French 
 sense, may designate any woman who gains a live- 
 lihood by " public means," — who sings, dances, 
 acts : who considers her talent merely as a com- 
 modity, to be exchanged against so much gold and 
 silver. Her beauty, her grace, her art, her genius 
 itself, are means only to an end, and that end the 
 most vulgar, and altogether unsanctined — the ac- 
 quisition of money for merely selfish purposes. 
 Even if she lead what is usually termed and con- 
 sidered a respectable life, she is not preserved by 
 any innate sense of her own dignity, or the dignity 
 of her objects, from the one-sided influences of an 
 engrossing profession and the faults incidental to, 
 almost inseparable from it ; of which the insatiate 
 avidity for gain, and for applause as a means of 
 gain, is not the worst. We ask nothing of such a 
 woman but that she should do her work well, and 
 give us the worth of our money. We consider the 
 
382 MEMOIRS. 
 
 product merely, and much in the light she con- 
 siders it herself: we pay her demand in solid gold 
 or empty bravoes ; — in the double sense, the labor- I 
 er is worthy of her hire. 
 
 An artist, properly so called, is a woman who is 
 not ashamed to gain a livelihood by the public ex- 
 ercise of her talent, — rather feels a just pride in pos- 
 sessing and asserting the means of independence, 
 — but who does not consider her talent merely as so 
 much merchandise to be carried to the best market, 
 but as a gift from on High, for the use or abuse of 
 which she will be held responsible before the God 
 who bestowed it. Being an artist she takes her 
 place as such in society, — stands on her own ground, 
 content to be known and honored for what she is ; 
 and conscious that in her position as a gifted artist, 
 there belongs a dignity equal to, though it be 
 different from, rank or birth. Not shunning the 
 circles of refined and aristocratic life, nor those of 
 middle life, nor of any life; — -since life, in all its 
 forms, is within the reach of her sympathies, and it 
 is one of the privileges of her artist-position to be- 
 long to none — and to be the delight of all : she wears 
 the conventional trammels of society just as she 
 wears her costume de theatre : it is a dress in which 
 she is to play a part. The beautiful, the noble, the 
 heroic, the affecting sentiments she is to utter before 
 the public, are not turned into a vile parody by her 
 private deportment and personal qualities — rather 
 borrow from both an incalculable moral effect ; 
 while in her womanly character, the perpetual 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 383 
 
 association of her form, her features, her voice, 
 with the loveliest and loftiest creations of human 
 genius, enshrines her in the ideal, and plays like a 
 glory round her head. Meantime, an artist among 
 artists, identifying herself with their interests. — 
 sympathizing, helpful. — she keeps far aloof from 
 their degrading competitions and sensual habits ; 
 and doomed to go in company with all that is most 
 painful, most abhorrent to her feelings. — ■• turns 
 that necessity to glorious gain."* She moves 
 through the vulgar and prosaic accompaniments 
 of her behind-the-scenes existence, without allowing 
 it to trench upon the poetry of her conceptions ; 
 and throws herself upon the sympathy of an excit- 
 ed and admiring public without being the slave of 
 its caprices. She has a feeling that on the distin- 
 guished women of her own class is laid the deep 
 responsibility of elevating or degrading the whole 
 profession ; — of rendering more accessible to the 
 gifted and high-minded a really elegant and exalt- 
 ed vocation, or leaving it yet more and more a 
 stumbling-block in the way of the conscientious and 
 the pure-hearted. f 
 
 To the former class belong the greater number 
 
 * •■ And doomed to go in company with pain. 
 
 And fear, and bloodshed. — miserable train, — 
 
 Turns that necessity to glorious gain '." — Wordsworth. 
 
 t When writing this character of a female artist. I had Mrs. 
 Henry Siddons in my mind, and in my heart. It is no ideal 
 portrait, for such she was : — and hail I not known that most 
 excellent and admirable woman. I should not probably have con- 
 ceived or written it. One more eminently the gentlewoman in 
 
384 MEMOIRS. 
 
 of those women, to whom we owe much that 
 sweetens and embellishes life ; — much of pleasur- 
 able sensation ; of the latter class are the few ex- 
 ceptions, but such have been, and are among us. 
 
 When Adelaide Kemble prepared to make her 
 debut on the English stage, it was with the ac- 
 knowledged determination to attain, by every 
 possible exertion, distinction and independence ; 
 but it was also with some larger and less selfish 
 views than are usually entertained by a young 
 aspirant for public applause : — views which she 
 frequently and earnestly discussed with such ot 
 her friends as could sympathize with them. She 
 wished to naturalize the Italian lyrical drama, with 
 all its beautiful capabilities, on the English stage ; to 
 cultivate a taste for a higher and better school of 
 dramatic music. She said, after her first great 
 success, — " Whatever may be the issue of this, — 
 whether I eventually stand or fall, — whether 1 
 keep the high place I have won, or lose it, — I shall 
 at least have opened a path for those who come 
 after me ; — a path, in which great things may 
 be done, both for themselves and for the cause of 
 
 the highest, truest sense of the word, I have never met with. 
 She left the stage after thirty-two years of professional life, " pure 
 in the inmost foldings of her heart ;" — preserving to the latest 
 hour of her existence her faith in goodness, her fervent, yet 
 serene piety, and a power of elevating the minds of all who 
 approached her, through the simple moral dignity of her own 
 nature, which I have never seen equalled. She died in Octoher, 
 1844. 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 385 
 
 dramatic music in England." And her intense 
 perception of the grand and the beautiful in her 
 own art, — and her rare power of realizing both, — 
 rendered such enthusiasm, on her part, noble and 
 worthy of all praise, which had sounded like pre- 
 sumption in any other. Such feelings, such views, 
 became her well : there might have been moments 
 of impatience, of despondency, when they were 
 not consciously uppermost in her mind, — when 
 they were even put aside as visionary, — but they 
 were always there : — and I have not the slightest 
 doubt that, by giving a loftier grace to her step, 
 and to the expression of her fine face a more 
 serious dignity, they enhanced her moral power 
 over her auditors, and imparted, unconsciously, a 
 profounder significance to the grand style of her 
 acting. 
 
 Her first appearance on a London stage was 
 attended by circumstances, which lent it an extra- 
 ordinary interest in the eyes of the public, and 
 gave it some peculiar advantages and disadvan- 
 tages as regarded herself. As the youngest daugh- 
 ter of that " Olympian dynasty." which had held 
 and transmitted, through several generations, the 
 sceptre of supremacy in her art, and which the 
 whole English nation regarded with a just pride 
 and reverence, she seemed to have a prescriptive 
 right, not merely to the indulgence, but to the 
 homage and affections of her audience. On the 
 other hand, if the high name she bore was as a 
 25 
 
380 MEMOIRS. 
 
 diadem round ber brow, it was also a pledge of 
 powers and talents not easily redeemed. It raised 
 expectations not easily satisfied. Where there was 
 genius, it was a grace the more ; — " where virtue 
 was, it was more virtuous ; " it could impart an 
 added splendor to the triumph of excellence ; but 
 on mediocrity and defeat it had stuck a fatal and 
 lasting stigma. To any other in the same position, 
 failure would have been a misfortune ; to her it 
 must have been disgrace. These w r ere the advan- 
 tages and disadvantages, which, in the very outset, 
 pressed upon her mind. How strongly, how acute- 
 ly they were felt, — with what a mingled throb of 
 pride and apprehension she prepared to meet the 
 ordeal, — those can tell who were near her in that 
 hour of trial — and of triumph. 
 
 Then the Opera selected for her first appear- 
 ance, the " Norma " of Bellini, — in some respects 
 an excellent choice, — had also its difficulties and 
 disadvantages. She had sung in it at Venice ; it 
 was associated with her first success ; it was well 
 calculated for her person and her features, which 
 had the historical and poetical cast of the Kemble 
 family ; modified, however, by strong likeness to 
 her mother. The music suited the natural and 
 acquired qualities of her voice ; and the character 
 and situations were calculated to exhibit to ad- 
 vantage her style of acting — majestic, earnest, pas- 
 sionate. On the other hand, both the music and 
 the character were so familiar, that the effect of 
 noveltv in either was wanting. Pasta, the original 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 387 
 
 Norma, had left behind her undying recollections ; 
 and Grisi, the successor of Pasta on the stage of 
 the Italian Opera, was then triumphant in her 
 beauty, and at the height of her matured powers 
 as singer and actress. The translation, though 
 well executed on the whole, offered great difficul- 
 ties to one who had been accustomed to sing the 
 music to the words for which it was composed, 
 and who was now obliged to adapt the organs of 
 her voice to a different enunciation of syllables 
 and sounds. The cultivated taste, the exquisitely 
 nice ear, revolted against the blending of awk- 
 wardly inverted words with notes for which they 
 had no affinity. Milton speaks of "Music married 
 to immortal verse ; " this, to continue the metaphor, 
 was a forced and unequal marriage, and threatened 
 discord. The difficulty was, however, met and 
 overcome, as it had been vanquished before by 
 Malibran and others : but never so completely. <o 
 successfully, as by Adelaide Kemble. There were 
 passages in the recitative in which her distinct and 
 perfect articulation was felt through the music, and 
 told most beautifully. 
 
 But to return to her first appearance, and the 
 first impression it produced. Her entrance on the 
 stage was a moment of intense interest. The 
 audience gave her that enthusiastic welcome which, 
 under the circumstances, was not merely a thing 
 of course, but expressive of the cordial good-will 
 and respect due to a Kemble. Then for a time all 
 expression of feeling was hushed by expectation, 
 
388 MEMOIRS. 
 
 perhaps by anxious doubt; the first effect was pro- 
 duced by the sustained note at the conclusion of 
 the first recitative, on the word sever (in Italian, 
 " il sacro vischio mieto " ) ; the wondering, de- 
 lighted, breathless suspense in which it held her 
 auditors, was succeeded by a short pause of ab- 
 solute astonishment, and then by a general and 
 deafening shout of applause. Still the more re- 
 fined and enlightened portion of her audience with- 
 held their judgment ; they felt that this wonderful 
 passage was, after all, a mere tour deforce. They 
 waited for higher proofs of higher powers. The 
 execution of her first cavatina, the " Casta Diva" 
 particularly of the cabaletta " hello a me ri- 
 torni ! " showed to advantage the capabilities of 
 her voice. As the opera proceeded,- more delicate 
 touches of passion and feeling, especially in the 
 first duet with Adalgisa, the fine opening of the 
 trio, " di qual sei tu vitt'una: " and the last scene 
 of the first act, " Vanne, si! mi lascia, indegno!" 
 displayed her power of tragic declamation, com- 
 bined with musical science. Her impassioned and 
 pathetic acting all through the last scenes showed 
 how completely she had entered into her part as a 
 whole ; and the curtain fell amid the most enthu- 
 siastic demonstrations of applause and delight. 
 
 Speaking from recollection, I should say that the 
 finest, the most impressive passage in the whole 
 opera, both in vocal and in tragic power, was the 
 deep, calm solemnity with which she commenced 
 the duett, " In mia man alfin tu sei ; " it was 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 389 
 
 terrible : — and the power of her voice in the $os- 
 tenuto passages told wonderfully all through this 
 grand scena. I pass over some other effects ; but 
 must be allowed one observation, which is irresis- 
 tibly suggested by my recollection of her in this 
 particular-part. 
 
 Though a consummate musician. Adelaide Kem- 
 ble was not a mere singer. A larger range of 
 reflection, an intellect more generally cultivated 
 than is usual in her profession, had opened to her 
 more extended views of her own art. She felt all 
 the capabilities, all the fascinations, of the lyrical 
 drama ; but she had been nourished on Shak- 
 speare, and felt the bounds within which, as a lyr- 
 ical actress, her powers were to be circumscribed ; 
 felt, not without some impatience, the line which di- 
 vides the opera-seria from legitimate tragedy ; and 
 was sometimes tempted too near the extreme bound- 
 ary of the former. The sacrifice of all verisimilitude 
 •as regards story and character is. in opera, a thing 
 of course. Certain unreal and impossible prem- 
 ises must be granted, — and are so : — but sometimes 
 the necessity of sacrificing the truth of expression 
 and character to the vocal intonation was felt as a 
 sore infliction by one who, as I have observed, was 
 not a mere singer. This led her, at times, into a 
 fault not unworthy of a true daughter of the Kem- 
 ble line. She was apt to sacrifice the music, the 
 vocal intonation, to the more emphatic expression 
 of character or passion. This was an absolute 
 fault ; and for this reason several passages in 
 
390 MEMOIRS. 
 
 the Norma, — as for example, " See the wretch- 
 the wretch thou hast made me" — " That I am a 
 mother I may forget" — and the whole scene with 
 Orovecso were imperfectly given to the last ; she 
 forgot the vocalist in the tragedian. Had she 
 sung in Italian, this perhaps, would not have oc- 
 curred ; and, at all events, had she remained on 
 the stage, she would have surmounted the tempta- 
 tion thus nobly to err. Where the development 
 of a character is restricted within the bounds of 
 situation and emotion, and confined to certain ef- 
 fects, produced through a conventional medium, 
 difficulties are to be vanquished, of which only the 
 most gifted and intellectual among vocal artists 
 have a complete perception. Adelaide Kemble, as 
 she saw beyond the limits within which she was to 
 circumscribe her aims, had all the more deeply 
 reflected on whatever could possibly be achieved 
 within those limits, — by propriety of accentuation 
 and expression, and by adjusting to the music 
 every variety of movement and attitude. A lyr- 
 ical actress must not only be graceful ; she must 
 set grace to music, and measure it by time. If the 
 figure do not bend ; if the arm be not raised or 
 lowered ; the head thrown back ; the step advanced, 
 not only at a particular moment, but to a particular 
 ' note, the result is discord to the nice ear and prac- 
 tised eye. But no teaching can give this, no study, 
 no thought; only a most harmonious mind, to which 
 the limbs and frame move in spontaneous accord- 
 ance, can convey the impression of perfect ease 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 391 
 
 and grace, where every motion and action is cal- 
 culated. Lyrical acting is. in fact, a species of 
 dance. Seldom is the musical organization so per- 
 fect as to combine in exquisite proportion the 
 power of musical utterance with the sense of grace, 
 as regards form and movement. Hence so few 
 singers, particularly English and French singers, 
 have "been good performers. 
 
 Adelaide Kemble excelled in harmonious pro- 
 priety of action and expression, and with her it 
 was partly the result of spontaneous impulse, partly 
 of reflection. One instance among many reminded 
 me of her aunt Siddons It was recorded of that 
 great actress, that she had, at different periods. 
 adopted successively three different ways of giving 
 one phrase in Lady Macbeth, — 
 
 " If we fail — we fail." 
 
 At first with a quick, contemptuous interrogation, 
 — '• TTe fail?*' as if indignant at the implied 
 doubt. Afterwards with the note of admiration, 
 and an accent of astonishment, laying the empha- 
 sis on the word we, — " we fail ! " Lastly, she fixed 
 on what must appear to all the true reading, and 
 consistent with the fatalism of the character, — 
 •• We fail." — with the simple period, modulating her 
 voice to a deep. low. resolute tone, as if she had 
 said. — ,; If we fail, why then we fail, and all is over." 
 In the same manner Adelaide Kemble varied 
 certain effects, after due consideration of the true 
 significance of the character as bearing on the situa- 
 
392 MEMOIRS. 
 
 tion and the momentary feeling. In the " Norma," 
 in that fine scene and duet with Pollio, when she 
 sees her faithless lover at her mercy, she had tried 
 three different intonations in giving the phrase, — 
 E tua vita ti perdono : at first with a bitter con- 
 tempt for what she gave ; next with a scorn of him 
 to whom she gave it ; lastly with a tremulous re- 
 lenting in the voice, which was inexpressibly 
 touching, and in accordance with the feeling sug- 
 gested by the words which follow, — E non piu ti 
 r'wedrb ! The last was doubtless the true expres- 
 sion. These successive alterations were remarked 
 and appreciated by an Italian audience. I am not 
 sure that her English audience would have proved 
 either so sensitive or so discriminating. 
 
 The people showed themselves, however, not 
 unworthy of the bright vision which had risen 
 upon them, nor slow in appreciating the intelli- 
 gence, the feeling, and the musical science, which 
 surpassed all that had yet been seen on the Eng- 
 lish stage. Those who differed at first with regard 
 to the precise rank she was to hold as a singer 
 were at least agreed in this, that no English vocal- 
 ist had ever yet approached her as an actress. 
 Every nioht she sans she gained on the affections 
 and the judgment of the public ; and those who 
 had long forsaken the theatre as a place of amuse- 
 ment became for her sake habitues. 
 
 The crowds which flocked to the representation 
 of the " Norma " had not diminished even after 
 forty repetitions, and the excitement was still at 
 
ADELAIDE EEMBLE. 893 
 
 its height when she appeared (January 23, 1842) 
 in the " Elena Uberti," an English version of the 
 " Elena cla Feltre " of Mereadante, in which she 
 had sung with so much applause at Padua and at 
 Naples. But of all the operas in which she ap- 
 peared here this was the least popular. The music 
 was a pasticcio, with a seen a from Pacini (the u II 
 soave e bel contento "), and a finale from the " Em- 
 ma de Antiocho." The rest of the opera, though 
 extremely well put together — " gut instrumentirt," 
 as the Germans say — had little of either melody 
 or originality. The situations, though striking, 
 were commonplace. With all these disadvantages, 
 and a confined canvas, there were points in which 
 she displayed a power of tragic acting beyond 
 anything in the " Norma ; " and though the opera 
 failed in effect, she herself rose higher than ever 
 in the estimation of the public — particularly in the 
 last scene of despair and madness. To go mad to 
 music, and to preserve, in the very tempest and 
 whirlwind of passion, the vocal effects and the har- 
 monious grace of movement, so that all shall be 
 calculated instinctively (if I may so express my- 
 self}, and keep time with the orchestral accompa- 
 niments, is one of the greatest difficulties — and 
 when vanquished, one of the greatest triumphs — 
 of lyrical acting. 
 
 The transition from the grandeur of Norma and 
 the deep tragedy of the " Elena Uberti " to the 
 gayety of the u Figaro," was a trial and a proof 
 
394 MEMOIRS. 
 
 of the versatility of her talent. Those who had 
 allowed and admired her capabilities for tragic 
 acting, and her effective execution of modern 
 Italian music, seemed uncertain how far she was 
 fitted for the opera buffa, or how far she might be 
 trusted with the classic melodies of Mozart, Such 
 doubts were soon dissipated. Of all her triumphs, 
 the part of Susanna was, perhaps, the most bril- 
 liant. She not only understood, she revelled in 
 the beauty of the music. She sang it with a purity 
 of style which fully evinced her real taste and cor- 
 rect judgment ; and at the same time, with an 
 exuberance of delight which seemed to overflow 
 throughout the part, and in which her audience 
 sympathized cordially. If, in her conception of 
 the character, there was a little too much of dig- 
 nity and refinement for the Susanna of Beaumar- 
 chais, it was only the more true to the musical ver- 
 sion of the character, as conceived by Mozart. 
 We cannot but feel how much his charming music, 
 so earnest and passionate in the midst of its gayety, 
 had been desecrated by the common stage-repre- 
 sentation of a mere romping chambermaid. Ade- 
 laide Kemble felt, with exquisite taste, how false, 
 with all its apparent literalness, would have been 
 such an impersonation of Mozart's Susanna. 
 There was no want of archness, of sprightliness, 
 . of buoyant animal spirits ; but all melodized, all 
 softened by the truth of the lyrical effect ; thus 
 combining attention to the original spirit of the 
 character, and to the spirit infused into it by Mo- 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 395 
 
 zart. That fine cavatina in the last scene, u Deh 
 vienL — non tardar" generally omitted on the Ital- 
 ian stage, was retained ; and she sang it with such 
 admirable taste and pathos, and such a finished 
 delicacy of style, that, among musicians, this suc- 
 cess crowned her as a first-rate vocal artist. But 
 the manner in which she gave the famous air, Vol 
 die sapete die cosa e amor, was as fine as a piece of 
 vocalism, as it was novel and exquisite as an ex- 
 ample of her consummate judgment in comic act- 
 ing. It was marked by such a feeling of propriety 
 and expression, regarding this song as a j)art of a 
 whole, that it may be mentioned here as a lesson 
 in art. At first, when she snatched the page's 
 song out of his hand, she began with a sort of 
 ironical air, and a glance at him and the countess, 
 as if consciously expressing his sentiments ; but 
 she proceeded as if hurried away by her feeling of 
 the sentiment, and continued her song with more 
 and more of heartfelt expression, as if forgetting, 
 till she approached the conclusion, that she was 
 personating another. In general, this air, which 
 belongs to Cherubino, but is always given to Su- 
 sanna, is sung as a mere piece de pretention, as if 
 to the audience or the stage-lamps, without refer- 
 ence to the action or the business of the scene — all 
 truth of situation, all vraisemblance forgotten. 
 
 In this opera the recitative was omitted, and the 
 dialogue substituted, not the witty dialogue of 
 Beaumarchais, but a translation of the very insipid 
 and pointless dialogue of the Italian libretto, and 
 
396 MEMOIRS. . 
 
 of this only just so much as was necessary to con- 
 nect the songs. Still, it was delightful to hear, for 
 the first time, the speaking tones of a voice which 
 seemed to be made up of music. Her perfect and 
 beautiful enunciation was pronounced to be " wor- 
 thy of the school in which it was formed," and the 
 easy grace of her movements, and the charming 
 naivete of some of her scenes, recalled her mother 
 to the recollection of all who had seen that 
 delightful actress in the days of her youth and 
 beauty. 
 
 The " Sonnambula," in which she had sung at 
 Naples with brilliant success, was her next triumph ; 
 and the part of Amina was certainly one of those 
 in which she produced the greatest effect on the 
 English stage. In this opera she had to sustain a 
 formidable comparison with two of the most accom- 
 plished singers the world has yet seen — Malibran 
 and Persiani. The " Sonnambula " was a part in 
 which Pasta had never produced a pleasing effect, 
 because she was too great. She threw into the 
 peasant girl too much of the tragic heroine — too 
 much weight and grandeur. Malibran had too much 
 passion and vehemence — too much of the gipsy. 
 Persiani was a little too ladylike. Adelaide Kem- 
 ble had conceived the character differently, and, 
 as I think, more truly than any one of these great 
 artists. She delineated the simple, affectionate, 
 joyous country girl overtaken by a misery against 
 which she has no defence, not even in her inno- 
 cence. She made a gentle, confiding tenderness 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 397 
 
 the predominant sentiment in her impersonation, 
 as it is of the music ; and to this conception of the 
 character, sustained from first to last with infinite 
 delicacy and consistency, she was content to sacri- 
 fice some of those brilliant and wonderful effects 
 which, as a singer, she might have produced .had 
 she been so minded. For instance, in singing the 
 last bravura, " Ah! non giunge uman pensiero," she 
 neither aimed at the sparkling grace and triumph- 
 ant rapture with which the enchantress Malibran 
 had poured it forth, as from some fountain of song 
 in the depths of her own soul, looking the while 
 half gypsy and half sibyl, nor did she emulate the 
 elegance and elaborate finish which characterized 
 Persiani, in the same song ; but she gave it more 
 of sentiment than either, and here and there with 
 a touch of tremulous feeling, in which the rich 
 tones of pleasure seemed to vibrate to a. past but 
 recent sorrow. When asked why she had varied 
 from the usual style of execution in this particular 
 song, and from the more obvious expression, she 
 replied, with quick feeling, ' ; What ! do you think 
 the poor girl has forgotten in a few moments all the 
 agonies she has passed through ? " I have said 
 that of all her parts, this was one of the most suc- 
 cessful. It was also the one most severely trying 
 to her strength and feelings. She frequently faint- 
 ed after or during the performance ; and, to the 
 last, never sang in it without being exhausted by 
 her own emotions. 
 
 On the first of October in this vear, after a tour 
 
398 MEMOIRS. 
 
 of a few months in the provinces, she made her 
 first appearance in the " Semiramide." From the 
 representation of the lively Cameriera and the 
 gentle heart-stricken Amina; from the profound 
 soul-thrilling music of Mozart and the tender 
 melodies of Bellini, she stepped at once into the 
 impersonation of the haughty Assyrian Queen, and 
 lent her charming voice to the brilliant spirit-stir- 
 ring airs of Rossini. 
 
 On her first appearance in the " Semiramide," it 
 was my impression that either she had pitched her 
 conception a tone and a half too low, or that she 
 was disabled by her nervous terror and want of 
 self-reliance, — by the very sensibility, in short, 
 which was the charm of her acting as of her char- 
 acter, — from working out her conception in all its 
 strength. She made the woman predominate 
 throughout, whereas the Assyrian Queen ought to 
 do so ; in the first place because more true to the 
 traditional character ; secondly, because distin- 
 guishing the role from others of the same class, as 
 the Norma and the Medea ; lastly, because the bar- 
 baric pomp of the music bears out this reading of 
 the part. It is true that we have strains here and 
 there of voluptuous tenderness, but these are lost 
 immediately in the clash of cymbals, and the rich, 
 tumultuous, triumphant orchestral effects. It was 
 not till after the third or fourth representation, that 
 the character assumed that coloring of grandeur and 
 power which it afterwards retained ; and from this 
 time she sang it better and better every night ; — 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 399 
 
 but it remained a feminine and peculiar conception 
 to the end. 
 
 In the " Semiramide " she had to contend with 
 undying recollections of Pasta. Next to the 
 Medea it had been the grandest effort of that 
 unequalled artist. It was perhaps fortunate for 
 Adelaide Kemble that she had never witnessed 
 Pasta's performance of this character ; that she 
 was left untrammelled by any influences or recol- 
 lections, to work out her own conception, which 
 differed altogether from that which Pasta had 
 originated, and which Grisi and others had adopt- 
 ed, with more or less success. 
 
 Pasta had conceived the part in a tone of great- 
 ness, in which the imperious queen predominated 
 over the woman. In her impersonation, Semira- 
 mide was a magnificent barbaric heroine, who 
 could feel love, hatred, fury, scorn, but hardly fear 
 or remorse, still less tenderness. Adelaide, on the 
 contrary, had conceived the Semiramide as a 
 voluptuous and despotic queen, in whom, amid 
 crimes of the darkest die, the woman still pre- 
 dominated. The music of this opera, fascinating as 
 it is, and full of fine dramatic effects, has yet little 
 originality, character, or solidity. It is deficient in 
 style, — it is precisely of that kind on which an ac- 
 complished singer could stamp her own conception. 
 In this respect how different from the music of 
 Mozart ! — so full of dramatic individuality, that 
 he obliges the singer to adopt his conception of a 
 character, or falsify it altogether, and produce a 
 
400 MEMOIRS- 
 
 palpable discord. In singing Mozart, her instinc- 
 tively fine taste had impelled her to defer to the 
 feeling of the composer, even where that diverged 
 from the more obvious truth of the situation ; for 
 instance, she made Susanna poetical, because all 
 the music she sings is passionate and poetical ; but 
 in singing the Semiramide she felt quite at liberty 
 to interpret the music as she chose. It was 
 altogether a beautiful and consistent delineation 
 in the singing and in the acting. For example, 
 in the scene with the spectre, in giving the pas- 
 sage — 
 
 " Atroce palpita 
 M'opprima Tamma," 
 
 she displayed more of terror ; Pasta, in the same 
 scene, less fear, and more horror, not unmin- 
 gled with a sort of defiance. Throughout this 
 scene Adelaide's voice trembled — she herself trem- 
 bled. Pasta did not tremble but sank her voice to 
 a fearful hollow tone, low as the deepest whisper, 
 yet distinctly audible. It was quite consistent with 
 Adelaide's conception, that, in the extremity of 
 sudden terror, she should cling for support to the 
 arm of Assur, and the next moment shrink from 
 him in disgust, — and it was finely imagined. In 
 Pasta's representation such an action had been 
 wholly inconsistent and unnatural. This distinc- 
 tion was still more marked in the famous duet with 
 Assur, in the second Act. And I do not hesitate 
 to say, that her conception here was superior to 
 that of Pasta, — more varied, more delicately felt, 
 
ADELAIDE EEMBLE. 401 
 
 both in the action and the musical expression. The 
 predominant sentiment, as Pasta sang and acted 
 this scene, was not so much remorse for her crime 
 as indignant scorn of her accomplice. This was 
 the coloring throughout. Adelaide displayed all 
 the successive passions and shades of passion 
 which, under such circumstances, would over- 
 whelm the soul of the insulted queen, and the 
 guilty trembling woman. At one moment she 
 grasped her poniard as though she would have 
 struck it to the traitor's heart : the next she cower- 
 ed, she writhed under his threats and reproaches, 
 her bowed head and clasped hands seeming to im- 
 plore his forbearance ; and none can easily forget 
 the look of horror with which she glanced round, 
 as she sang the words 
 
 " L'ombra terribile 
 Del tuo consorte 
 Che rninaccioso 
 Infra le tenebre," &c 
 
 as if the very air was filled with avenging furies. 
 The exulting stretto — 
 
 " Regina e Guerriera 
 Punirti sapro 1 ' 
 
 was a magnificent display of passion, power, fine 
 acting, and vocal science. I have known the 
 audience, in the midst of this passage, as if ab- 
 solutely carried away as she ran up the notes to 
 the top of her voice and swept across the stage, 
 break into an involuntary shout of admiration, as 
 instantly repressed, and again " they held their 
 26 
 
402 MEMOIRS. 
 
 breath for a time ! " Most true to her conception 
 of the part, and inexpressibly touching and beauti- 
 ful in itself, was the smile gleaming through tears, 
 and the pathetic tremulous intonation with which, 
 in the famous duet, " Giorno d'orrore !" she gave 
 the words, " E di contento ! " Nothing, through- 
 out her whole career, gave me a more vivid 
 impression of her capabilities as a first-rate intel- 
 lectual artist, than did this profound and exquisite 
 touch of feeling, whether the result of impulse, or 
 of reflection, or both. 
 
 On the 5th of November, in this year, she gave 
 us the " Matrimonio Segreto." As in the " Fi- 
 garo," the recitative was omitted, and there was 
 only as much dialogue retained as was absolutely 
 necessary to connect the songs by the thread of 
 an intelligible story. The English version, was, 
 however, executed with unusual spirit and felicity. 
 And never, perhaps, were the enchanting melo- 
 dies of Cimarosa given in a more perfect style, nor 
 with a finer feeling of their tender beauty and arch 
 significance. Her execution of the part of Caro- 
 lina was an example of the purely simple and 
 classical Buffa singing, with a thorough apprecia- 
 tion of its true character ; and her acting through- 
 out was as affectively charming and piquant. This 
 Opera and the " Figaro " were those in which she 
 sang with most pleasure to herself and least physi- 
 cal exertion. The conclusion of the performance 
 always found her untired in voice and spirits, — 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 403 
 
 often in a state of buoyant excitement ; and I do 
 not recollect that she ever came off the stage with- 
 out some strong expression of rapturous delight in 
 the beauty of the music. 
 
 Her brief career of successive triumphs was now 
 drawing to a close. She had, in one short year, 
 given evidence of the wide range of her powers — 
 a range as wide as ever was taken by any lyrical 
 actress. She had shown herself on the stage, or 
 in the concert-room, perfectly at home in every 
 school, — every style of music. She had sung Mer- 
 cadante, Donizetti, Bellini ; she had sung Mozart, 
 Cimarosa, Weber. In the " Norma," and the 
 " S emir amide," and the " Sonnambula," she had 
 emulated Pasta and Malibran. In the famous 
 scena of the " Der Frieschutz," she had competed 
 with Schroder Devrient. She had sung the " Erl- 
 Konig" and the " Ave-Maria" of Schubert, and made 
 every pulse throb or tremble to the music ; and 
 she had drawn tears in " Auld Robin Gray." * 
 
 * Among- the songs she sang most beautifully were Mendel- 
 sohn's " Fruhlings-lied ; " Schubert's " Hark, hark the lark;" 
 and Dessauer's " Ouvrez, ouvrez." The same composer set for 
 her Alfred Tennyson's fine ballad, " We were two Daughters of 
 one Race," which she saug divinely ; it was like a scene out of 
 a tragic drama ; and the style in which she sang it was suitable 
 to the words and to the music ; but I could not say the same of 
 '• Auld Robin Gray," which she made too dramatic. It ought to 
 be sung as the u spinners and the knitters in the sun" would sing 
 it, not like an air out of the " Sonnambula ; " — this at least, was 
 my own feeling, but others felt differently. When she sang 
 " Auld Robin Gray " for the first time in public, the venerable 
 
404 MEMOIRS. 
 
 Those who had watched her progress as a dra- 
 matic singer felt that, in her departure, the stage 
 had sustained a loss never to be replaced ; and, as 
 yet it has so proved. Some, who knew what her 
 own aspirations had been, ardently wished that, 
 before her retirement, she had appeared in three 
 characters especially suited to her person, her 
 mind, and her vocal powers ; — the Iphigenia, the 
 Medea, and the Donna Anna. 
 
 For the first, she was fitted by her deep appreci- 
 ation of all that constitutes ideal grandeur of style 
 in impersonation as in song. She would have 
 entered into the Iphigenia as conceived by Euripi- 
 des, and by Goethe, and steeped its statue-like 
 beauty in the music of Gliick. In the Medea she 
 would have entered the lists with Pasta, and would 
 have given us, probably, a new version of that 
 grand impersonation ; for Adelaide Kemble could 
 never (overflowing as she was with original power) 
 have been an imitator of any one ; and her Medea 
 would certainly, like her Semiramide, have derived 
 a coloring from her own individual temperament 
 and genius. The Donna Anna of Mozart she had 
 
 Bishop of Kildare, the brother of Lady Anne Lindsay, was pres- 
 ent ; as soon as the performance was over, he came up to thank and 
 compliment the singer, but was so much moved as to be scarcely 
 able to speak. In referring afterwards to this incident, her own 
 eyes sparkled and filled with tears, showing how strongly she felt 
 the moral power of her art. It should seem, however, that the 
 true ballad style is incompatible with the dramatic style, for not- 
 withstanding the improvement in general power, she never sang 
 ballads so well after her return from Italy as before she went 
 there ; the manner was too intense for the subject. 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 405 
 
 studied, and had resolved on adopting that view 
 of the character which is suggested in Hoffmann's 
 poetical critique of the " Don Juan." In her im- 
 personation. Donna Anna would not have been 
 merely a lady walking about the stage with a dig- 
 nified air. lamenting and singing in deep mourn- 
 ing. She had conceived the character not merely 
 as a part to sing, but as a grand tragic role : as it 
 is developed in the passionate and luxuriant music 
 of Mozart, not merely as it is set forth in the 
 words of the libretto. She intended to give it a 
 depth of coloring such as no singer had ever im- 
 parted, or thought of imparting to it before. This, 
 and far more, we might have looked for from her. 
 But her retirement took place under circumstances 
 which those who most admired her could least 
 regret : and her last appearance, like her first, 
 was accompanied by incidental associations which 
 rendered it as peculiar and touching as it was 
 memorable. Her career had been so short ! — so 
 crowded by triumphs, which had left the public 
 almost breathless ! Musical critics had decided, 
 •• that tried even by the standard of Pasta and 
 Malibran, she maintained, through original power 
 and intellect, her own high place : — measured 
 against all English competitors and predecessors, 
 she stood alone, and supreme."' Yet they had 
 scarcely come to this decision, when she was 
 snatched from their sight, like Ipihegnia from the 
 eager gaze of the multitude, to sacrifice, or be sac- 
 rificed, at a holier shrine. She disappeared so 
 
406 MEMOIRS. 
 
 suddenly and at such a height of popularity, it was 
 as if she had been spirited away by some en- 
 chanter. 
 
 She left the stage before her profession had been 
 vulgarized to her by habit, — before the excitement 
 of applause had become to her like an intoxicating 
 drug. Her art was not yet to her a metier, it had 
 still poetry left for her. Her voice still trembled, 
 her hand still turned ice-cold after a scene of pas- 
 sion or emotion. She was in the bloom of health, 
 youth and strength ; — she had intellect, energy, 
 physical power ; — she was gaining, every hour, in 
 finish and certainty of execution, in grace and 
 smoothness of action ; — and she retired, with her 
 wreath of glory yet fresh and budding round her 
 brow, and while the sympathy between her and 
 her audience had all the novelty and enthusiasm 
 of a first love. She chose, for her last appearance 
 in public, the Norma. In this character she had 
 appeared on her debut at Venice, in 1838, when 
 she passed the Rubicon which separates a private 
 from a public existence. In this character she 
 had produced her first great effect in England. 
 She wished to take leave of her audience under 
 the same semblance in which she had captivated 
 and conquered them. She had not faltered in her 
 resolution, which had become a duty ; she could 
 not for a moment regret the change from a bril- 
 liant, but troubled existence, to an honored and 
 tranquil home, — but she had sufficient sensibility 
 
ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 407 
 
 to feci that this was not merely a parting, but a 
 sacrifice ; that, in taking leave of the stage — that 
 arena of glory for all her family, — she was re- 
 nouncing her vocation and her birthright. She 
 sat for some time weeping in her dressing-room, 
 trying in vain to regain composure. Behind the 
 scenes — where all was usually noise and gossip- 
 reigned a sort of funereal silence. From her com- 
 panions, who were accustomed to sing with her, 
 and to derive inspiration from her genius, down to 
 the lowest officials of the theatre, — all of whom 
 she had won by multiplied kind offices, and by her 
 frank and gentle bearing, — there was not one who 
 did not look serious if not sad ; some were even 
 in tears. Before the curtain there was an immense 
 house, — hushed, yet, now and then, breaking into 
 sounds of impatience, — for there was some unu- 
 sual delay. The overture and first scenes were 
 scarcely listened to; and, when she appeared, — 
 the whole audience rising simultaneously, greeted 
 her with such an acclaim as made the very walls 
 shake. Overpowered, so as to lose all self posses- 
 sion, she covered her face with her hands — and 
 still keeping her majestic attitude by the Druid 
 altar — stood still, — the tears streaming, — her whole 
 frame trembling ; at last making a motion as if to 
 implore forbearance, the shouts of applause sub- 
 sided, and she made a desperate effort to com- 
 mence. In vain ! — the sounds were choked — 
 suffocated. After a struggle, almost painful to 
 witness, she clasped her hands together ; and, lean- 
 
 124^7 1^2 
 
408 MEMOIRS. 
 
 ing her face on the altar, fairly gave way to un- 
 controllable emotion. There was a short pause of 
 deep silence, respect, and sympathy — then the 
 feelings of the excited audience burst forth again 
 in prolonged acclamations. 
 
 At length she gained sufficient self-possession to 
 begin. Her voice was at first feeble, husky, scarce 
 audible ; but gathering courage as she proceeded, 
 she gave the " Casta Diva" with something of her 
 usual spirit and brilliance, — was encored, — suc- 
 ceeded better, — and went through the rest of the 
 part with the more energy, perhaps, from the state 
 of excitement and emotion into which she had 
 been thrown ; and certainly, she never acted more 
 magnificently. She made no attempt at a farewell 
 address ; but picking up a wreath of laurel, and a 
 bouquet from among those flung at her feet, she 
 pressed them to her lips, and, with an expressive 
 look and gesture, and a gentle inclination of the 
 head, disappeared. On recovering herself, in her 
 dressing-room, she looked at the laurel-wreath and 
 flowers, still clasped in her hand, and exclaimed, 
 with a gush of mournful feeling : " What ! — is it 
 all over ? — And is this all that remains ? " 
 
 No — not all ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 
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