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No. 249.

THE ATHENÆUM

Journal of English and Foreign Literature, Science, and the Fine Arts.

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REVIEWS

Voyage à l'Abbaye de la Trappe de Melleray. Par M. Edouard Richer. Nantes: Mellinet-Malassis.

AMONG the strange things that are presented daily to our eyes and minds in this, perhaps the most extraordinary period in the history of the human race, we reckon an advertisement which appeared the other day in the London newspapers from the Monks of la Trappe. What an idea! The Monks of la Trappe competing with Miss Zouch, or "a small family," in the Times for the "patronage of the public," with the Patent Brandy men on one hand, and the Blacking men on the other, for bottle-holders! This wrings a smile from us, even in these days of terror, when a man dares not eat a cherry for fear of the pestilence; but it is not at the thing itself we smile, but at the indignant tears which so profane a travesty of romance would have drawn from us in the days of love, wonder,

and Mrs. Radcliffe.

The great convent of the Trappists, at Melleray, in Brittany, has been broken up, it seems, by the French government, and the holy brethren scattered abroad upon the face

of the earth. This is a consummation which

we do not grieve for, although we are sorry it should have been brought about by the exercise of authority, however lawful. Without entering into a question which has at least two sides to examine, if not more, we shall, in the mean time, treat our worthy friend, the public, if it will allow us, to a little gossiping on the customs and manners of this disfranchised burrow.

the river becomes too narrow for navigation,
you continue in the same direction, and after
threading the forest of Vioreau, arrive at
the bourg of Melleray. The convent is
situated at some distance beyond, at the end
of a wood of tall, straight, branchless, spectre-
like trees, and near a smooth, silent, lonely
lake. You are surrounded by clouds of dark
foliage; the trees are everywhere marshalled
and in the middle space are only the calm
in still and solemn ranks along the horizon;
surface of the water reflecting the gloomy
face of the sky, and the grey walls of the
monastery whispering of the peace of death
and the rest of the grave.

the order of St. Bernard, a monk of some
The building belonged, in former times, to
genius, and an admirer of the glory, although
not of the danger of crusades. The Abbot
de Rancé, a reformed libertine, who had be-
come a Bernardine, finding the rules of the
brotherhood not severe enough to mortify
the flesh of so great a sinner, nor even to
restrain his followers within the rules of
priestly decorum, retired, in 1663, to the

convent of La Trappe de Mortagne, and
there instituted the severe and singular re-
form which still bears the name of its birth-

place. St. Bernard, notwithstanding, con-
tinues to be looked on as the founder of the
order, and his portrait is among the most con-
spicuous objects in the parlour of Melleray.

At the French revolution the monks emi-
grated from La Trappe to Frieburg in Switzer-
land, from whence they dispersed themselves
in various colonies, through Spain, Piemont,
Westphalia, Hungary, and England. After
the battle of Waterloo, these colonies mostly
returned to France, and, among others, the
English establishment, whose house was at
Lulworth, near Wareham, in Dorsetshire.
The abiding place chosen by the last-men-
tioned enthusiasts was the ancient Bernar-
dine convent of Melleray, in Brittany, at the
door of which we now find ourselves.

The father having invited our traveller to assist at Complies, they repaired again to the chapel. Everything here was simple, even to rudeness. The cross, the chandeliers, the ornaments of the altar, all were of wood, except the lamp and censor, which were lined with metal to resist the action of fire. The costume of the monks was the same, in all ranks and offices; and each, on entering, took his turn at ringing the bell. This was the only sound heard within the cloister, till the service commenced, when on a sudden

the voices of the devotees burst forth in the

plain solemn strain of the early Christians, now replaced by all other societies of the Church by the more refined music of the Gregorian chant.

After Complies, the Trappists glided one by one into the middle of the church, and prostrated themselves before an image of the Virgin, bearing this inscription:-Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. During this ceremony the silence was intense; but at its con

clusion, a single monk at the bottom of the

nave began with a loud majestic voice the Salve Regina; and all the others, bent towards the earth, repeated the burthen like a mournful dying echo. At a signal from the superior, they then fell flat upon their faces, and remained completely motionless during the Miserere; till at length, rising up, they vanished slowly and silently from the church, each receiving the holy water from the prior as he passed.

At supper, in the parlour, there was neither meat nor fish provided for the guest, but abundance of vegetables, eggs, and milk. The fare of the monks themselves, however, is less rich even at dinner, their only meal. It consists of a soup made of vegetables, boiled in salt and water, without butter, a little rice in milk mixed with water, a few potatoes, and half a pound of black bread. While this frugal meal is going on, one of them reads aloud, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, a religious book; but every now and then the prior's bell sounds, and both readers and eaters suddenly stop in the midst of a word or a mouthful, and the brethren pray in deathlike silence. Immediately after dinner, the whole body walk procession to the church, and recite the Miserere and De profundis.

There is a little book before us-and a very little one-which will do some service on the occasion, although, perhaps, under other circumstances, it would not have aspired to the honour of a notice in the Athenæum. The author is M. Richer, a citizen of Nantes, who possesses a sufficiently ductile imagination, When M. Richer was admitted to the which, however, returns the impression with parlour, he stood for some time contemplating somewhat of the dimness of outline that ren- the features of St. Bernard. The door at ders a bread seal less effective than a stone length opened, and two very old men, dressed one. As for ourselves, being in the habit, in a long robe of white linen, the head coverin imitation of a more ancient and eminented with a cowl, entered the room with a slow individual, of" going to and fro in the earth, and solemn pace, and prostrated themselves and walking up and down in it," we have at the feet of the stranger! They then beck-in seen the convent of Melleray with our own oned him to follow, and led him into the eyes, and shall therefore be able to eke out, chapel, where the whole three remained long from the stores of our own memory, anything enough to utter inwardly a prayer. He was that may be wanting in the budget of the then marshalled back again by his spectretraveller. like hosts to the parlour, where one of them broke silence for the first time, by reading a chapter of the "Imitation of Jesus Christ.' The father hotelier, whose office it is to receive strangers, and who is consequently permitted to speak, at length made his appearance, and proved to be a polite and intelligent man.

The direct route from Nantes to Melleray is by the river Erdre, which resembles a juvenile Dead Sea. The very dip of the oar seems to awaken a muffled echo as you glide along the slumbrous wave, and the cry of the birds on the low, dark, and marshy banks, has something dismal and lifeless. Landing at Nort, where

The dortoir is a long gallery with a range of little cells at each side, separate, but without doors. The beds consist of two planks, a straw pillow, and a woollen cover. The monks lie down without undressing, for they wear no linen. They go to bed at eight o'clock in the evening, and rise at halfpast one in the morning.

The Trappists not only make vows of poverty, but of gaining their living by the .sweat of their brow. They exercise, in this

convent, the profession they have learnt in the world. They are mechanics, agriculturists, and gardeners; but, in the midst of all, they remain profoundly silent. The moment they enter the society, they cease to belong to the world. They abandon their baptismal and family name, and take that of their patron saint. Their head is shaved, and their hair burnt; and they kiss the feet of their comrades in token of humility and subjection. The death of a relation, however near, is never heard of. My brethren," says the abbot aloud, addressing the whole community-" one of us has lost a father!" A grave, dug at a general meeting of the monks in the churchyard, always gapes for its expected tenant; and on this desirable object are fixed the longings of the whole community. When one of them is about to die, he is carried into the church to receive the last sacraments, and then to the infirmary, where he is laid upon straw and ashes, till released by death.

what her eloquence can do; and when words
fail, she begins to scatter flowers of all hues
and odours. Shakspeare she has by heart;
she is deep in Schlegel, whom she raptu-
rously admires; her acquaintance extends to
Italian literature, and we may safely call her
a learned lady; though if any one imagines
that she wears her learning as a clown would
a court dress, they do her much wrong; for on
no one can it sit more gracefully. The cha-
racters on which the authoress exercises her
taste and fancy are all to be found in Shak-
speare; they are divided into four classes:
1. Characters of Intellect; 2. Characters of
Passion and Imagination; 3. Characters of
the Affections; and 4. Historical Characters.
We shall give some portions of these deline-
ations; we must, however, confess that half
a dozen flowers can no more be considered
as representing one of the royal gardens,
than as many passages can be said to give
an image of the contents of this very sin-
gular work:-

Portia.

"Each of us, said the hôtelier," writes an anonymous author, "had hopes that this open "Portia, Isabella, Beatrice, and Rosalind, grave was for him; but alas! it now seems may be classed together, as characters of intelto be reserved for father Stanislas. He is lect, because, when compared with others, they only twenty-five years of age, yet it is he are at once distinguished by their mental supewho will gain the prize! He cannot live riority. In Portia it is intellect, kindled into out the day; but he has sufficient strength romance by a poetical imagination; in Isabella, left to repress the joy and pride, which such it is intellect elevated by religious principle; in a preference causes; and he tries to console Beatrice, intellect animated by spirit; in Rosathe rest of us in our disappointment, seemlind, intellect softened by sensibility. The wit which is lavished on each is profound, or pointing to beg our pardon for the sort of larceny ed, or sparkling, or playful-but always femihe is guilty of!" We conclude with a sennine; like spirits distilled from flowers, it always tence or two from the correspondence of a reminds us of its origin;-it is a volatile essence, brother of Chateaubriand, who died in a sweet as powerful; and to pursue the compariTrappist convent:-"We have here a number son a step further, the wit of Portia is like attar of little contradictions, which, running coun- of roses, rich and concentrated; that of Rosater to our habits, disgust us at first. For lind, like cotton dipped in aromatic vinegar; example, we must never lean when seated, the wit of Beatrice is like sal volatile; and that nor sit down when fatigued; because, man of Isabel, like the incense wafted to heaven. is born to labour in this world, and should Of these four exquisite characters, considered never expect repose till the term of his pil-cult to pronounce which is most perfect in its as dramatic and poetical conceptions, it is diffigrimage. We lose also all property in our own body; if we happen to wound it even severely, we must accuse ourselves of the fault on our knees, just as if we had broken a vase of clay. If at any time, leaning against a wall, I fall asleep through fatigue, some charitable brother passing by, rouses me, seeming to say-thou wilt repose in thy father's house, in domum æternitatis!" One wonders what political offence the French government can see in such a society! At all events, it is to be hoped that the breaking up of their convent may be the means of restoring these poor enthusiasts to reason and to mankind.

Characteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and Historical. By Mrs. Jameson.

[Second Notice.]

WE have said that this is a work of great depth of feeling and knowledge of human nature it is much more: the authoress is lively, eloquent, and discriminating; she has great quickness of fancy, readiness of illustration, and a sense of whatever is noble, heroic, and natural. There is, however, a good deal of idle gossip in the introductory portion, and something approaching to an overflow of fine words when discussing the merits of her heroines, real and imaginary; yet we never tire in the company of the intelligent and exuberant lady: when she sees we are weary of her sprightliness, she tries

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way, most admirably drawn, most highly finish-
ed. But if considered in another point of view,
as women and individuals, as breathing reali-
ties, clothed in flesh and blood, I believe we
must assign the first rank to Portia, as uniting
in herself in a more eminent degree than the
others, all the noblest and most loveable quali-
ties that ever met together in woman; and pre-
senting a complete personification of Petrarch's
exquisite epitome of female perfection:

Il vago spirito ardento,
E'n alto intelletto, un puro core.

It is singular, that hitherto no critical justice
has been done to the character of Portia: it is
yet more wonderful, that one of the finest writers
on the eternal subject of Shakspeare and his
perfections, should accuse Portia of pedantry
and affectation, and confess she is not a great
favourite of his,-a confession quite worthy of
him, who avers his predilection for servant
maids, and his preference of the Fannys and the
Pamelas over the Clementinas and Clarissas.
Schlegel, who has given several pages to a rap-
turous eulogy on the Merchant of Venice, simply
designates Portia as a rich, beautiful, clever
heiress whether the fault lie in the writer or
translator, I do protest against the word clever.
Portia clever! what an epithet to apply to this
heavenly compound of talent, feeling, wisdom,
beauty, and gentleness!"

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a particular age; but the individual and dramatic character which forms the groundwork, is strongly discriminated; and being taken from general nature, belongs to every age. In Beatrice, high intellect and high animal spirits meet, and excite each other like fire and air. In her wit, (which is brilliant without being imaginative,) there is a touch of insolence not unfre quent in women, when the wit predominates over reflection and imagination. In her temper, too, there is a slight infusion of the termagant, and her satirical humour plays with such an unrespective levity over all subjects alike, that it required a profound knowledge of women to bring such a character within the pale of our sympathy. But Beatrice, though wilful, is not wayward, she is volatile, not unfeeling. She has not only an exuberance of wit and gaiety, but of heart, and soul, and energy of spirit; comedy,-whose wit consists in a temporary and is no more like the fine ladies of modern allusion or a play upon words, and whose petulance is displayed in a toss of the head, a flirt of the fan, or a flourish of the pocket handkerchief -than one of our modern dandies is like Sir Philip Sidney.

"In Beatrice, Shakspeare has contrived that the poetry of the character shall not only soften, but heighten its comic effect. We are not only inclined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs, all her biting jests, all her assumption of superiority; but they amuse and delight us the more, when we find her, with all the head-long simplicity of a child, falling at once into a snare laid for her affections. When we see her, who thought a man of God's making not good enough for her, who disdained to be o'ermastered by 'a piece of valiant dust,' stooping like the rest of her sex, vailing her proud spirit, and taming her wild heart to the loving hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted, and misused, 'past the endurance of a block.' And we are yet more completely won by her generous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. When the father of Hero believes the tale of her guilt; when Claudio, her lover, without remorse or a lingering remains silent, and the generous Benedick himdoubt, consigns her to shame; when the Friar

self knows not what to say,-Beatrice, confi dent in her affections, and guided only by the impulses of her own feminine heart, sees through the inconsistency, the impossibility of the charge, and exclaims, without a moment's

hesitation

O, on my soul! my cousin is belied!" Rosalind. "Though sprightliness is the distinguishing characteristic of Rosalind, as of Beatrice, yet we find her much more nearly allied to Portia in temper and intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's, genial and buoyant; she has something too of her softness and sentiment; there is the same confiding abandonment of self in her affections; but the characters are otherwise as distinct as the situations are dissimilar. The age, the manners, the circumstance in which Shakspeare has placed his Por tia, are not beyond the bounds of probability; nay, have a certain reality and locality. We fancy her a cotemporary of the Raffaelles and the Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants, and magnificos,-the Rialto, and the long canals,-rise up before us when we think of her. But Rosalind is surrounded with the purely ideal and imaginative; the reality is in the characters and in the sentiments, not in the circumstances or situation. While Portia is splendid and romantic, Rosalind is pastoral and picturesque: both are in the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic and the other lyric. "Everything about Rosalind breathes of youth's sweet prime. She is fresh as the morn ing, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, and light as the breeze that plays among them. She

is as witty, as voluble, as sprightly as Beatrice; but in a style altogether distinct. In both, the wit is equally unconscious; but in Beatrice it plays about us like the lightning, dazzling, but also alarming; while the wit of Rosalind bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refreshing all around. Her volubility is like the bird's song; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet and affectionate impulses. She has as much tenderness as mirth, and in her most petulant raillery there is a touch of softness-By this hand it will not hurt a fly!'"

Miranda.

"The character of Miranda resolves itself into the very elements of womanhood. She is beautiful, modest, and tender, and she is these only; they comprise her whole being, external and internal. She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately refined, that she is all but etherial. Let us imagine any other woman placed beside Miranda-even one of Shakspeare's own loveliest and sweetest creationsthere is not one of them that could sustain the comparison for a moment, not one that would not appear somewhat coarse or artificial when brought into immediate contact with this pure child of nature, this Eve of an enchanted Paradise.'

"What, then, has Shakspeare done?- O wondrous skill and sweet wit of the man!'-he has removed Miranda far from all comparison with her own sex; he has placed her between the demi-demon of earth and the delicate spirit of air. The next step is into the ideal and supernatural, and the only being who approaches Miranda, with whom she can be contrasted, is Ariel. Beside the subtle essence of this etherial sprite, this creature of elemental light and air, that 'ran upon the winds, rode the curl'd clouds, and in the colours of the rainbow lived'-Miranda herself appears a palpable reality, a woman, 'breathing thoughtful breath,' a woman, walking the earth in her mortal loveliness, with a heart as frail-strung, as passion-touched, as ever fluttered in a female bosom.

"I have said that Miranda possesses merely the elementary attributes of womanhood, but each of these stand in her with a distinct and peculiar grace. She resembles nothing upon earth; but do we therefore compare her, in our own minds, with any of those fabled beings with which the fancy of ancient poets peopled the forest depths, the fountain, or the ocean?Oread or dryad fleet, sea-maid, or naiad of the stream? We cannot think of them together. Miranda is a consistent, natural, human being. Our impression of her nymph-like beauty, her peerless grace and purity of soul, has a distinct and individual character. Not only she is exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but we are made to feel that she could not possibly be otherwise than as she is portrayed. She has never beheld one of her own sex; she has never

caught from society one imitated or artificial

grace.

The impulses which have come to her, in her enchanted solitude, are of heaven and nature, not of the world and its vanities. She has sprung up into beauty beneath the eye of her father, the princely magician; her companions have been the rocks and woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds, and the silent stars; her playmates the ocean billows, that stooped their foamy crests, and ran rippling to kiss her feet. Ariel and his attendant sprites hovered over her head, ministered duteous to her every wish, and presented before her pageants of beauty and grandeur."

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individuals rather than as heroines, Imogen is the most perfect. Portia and Juliet are pictured to the fancy with more force of contrast, more depth of light and shade; Viola and Miranda, with more aërial delicacy of outline; but there is no female portrait that can be compared to Imogen as a woman-none in which so great a variety of tints are mingled together into such perfect harmony. In her we have all the fervour of youthful tenderness, all the romance of youthful fancy, all the enchantment of ideal grace,the bloom of beauty, the brightness of intellect, and the dignity of rank, taking a peculiar hue from the conjugal character which is shed over all, like a consecration and a holy charm. In Othello and the Winter's Tale, the interest excited for Desdemona and Hermione is divided with others; but in Cymbeline, Imogen is the angel of light, whose lovely presence pervades and animates the whole piece. The character altogether may be pronounced finer, more com

plex in its elements, and more fully developed in all its parts, than those of Hermione and Desdemona; but the position in which she is placed is not, I think, so fine—at least, not so effective, as a tragic situation."

Cleopatra.

"Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Miranda and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonderful. The first, unequalled as a poetical conception; the latter, miraculous as a work of

art.

If we could make a regular classification

of his characters, these would form the two ex

tremes of simplicity; and all his other characters would be found to fill up some shade or gradation between these two.

"Great crimes, springing from high passions, grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source of tragic poetry. But to make the ex

tremes of littleness produce an effect like grandeur-to make the excess of frailty produce an effect like power-to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial, frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense of the sublime spring from the very elements of littleness,-to do this belonged only to Shakspeare, that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant antithesis -a compound of contradictions-of all that we most hate, with what we most admire. The whole character is the triumph of the external over the innate, and yet like one of her country's hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. But how are we to arrive at the solution of this glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continually mocks and eludes us? What is most astonishing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical construction-its consistent inconsistency, if I may use such an expression-which renders it quite impossible to reduce it to any elementary principles. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole, that vanity and the love of power predominate; but I dare not say it is so, for these qualities and a hundred others mingle into each other, and shift, and change, and glance away, like the colours in a peacock's train."

embellished; some of the designs are clever, though not a little German; but we may spare all comment on the subject, for we have not met with a work for some time which less required the attractions of the

graver.

FAMILY LIBRARY.

Letters on Natural Magic, addressed to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. By Sir David Brewster, K.H., LL.D., &c.

[Second Notice.]

No work of importance pressing on us this week, we return with pleasure to this pleasant volume, and shall glean a few more interesting facts:—

Of Spectral Apparitions.

"In his admirable work on this subject, Dr. nothing more than ideas or the recollected Hibbert has shown that spectral apparitions are images of the mind, which in certain states of bodily indisposition have been rendered more vivid than actual impressions, or, to use other words, that the pictures in the mind's eye' are more vivid than the pictures in the body's eye. This principle has been placed by Dr. Hibbert beyond the reach of doubt; but I propose to go much farther, and to show that the 'mind's eye' is actually the body's eye, and that the retina impressions are painted, and by means of which is the common tablet on which both classes of they receive their visual existence according to the same optical laws.

*

"In the healthy state of the mind and body, the relative intensity of these two classes of impressions on the retina are nicely adjusted. The mental pictures are transient and comparatively capable of disturbing or effacing the direct feeble, and in ordinary temperaments are never images of visible objects. The affairs of life could not be carried on if the memory were to intrude bright representations of the past into the domestic scene, or scatter them over the external landscape. The two opposite impressions, indeed, could not co-exist: The same nervous fibre which is carrying from the brain to the retina the figures of memory, could not at the same instant be carrying back the impressions of external objects from the retina to

the brain. *

"In darkness and solitude, when external

objects no longer interfere with the pictures of the mind, they become more vivid and distinct; and in the state between waking and sleeping, the intensity of the impressions approaches to habits, who are much occupied with the operathat of visible objects. With persons of studious tions of their own minds, the mental pictures are much more distinct than in ordinary persons; and in the midst of abstract thought, external objects even cease to make any impression on the retina.

"If it be true, then, that the pictures of the mind and spectral illusions are equally impressions upon the retina, the latter will differ in no respect from the former, but in the degree of vividness with which they are seen; and those frightful apparitions becoming nothing more than our ordinary ideas, rendered more brilliant This, as our readers will see, is no every- by some accidental and temporary derangement day book: we scarcely ever met with any of the vital functions. Their very vividness thing so thoroughly enthusiastic: the au- too, which is their only characteristic, is capable thoress speculates upon the character of her of explanation. I have already shown that the sex with singular ease and boldness, and in- retina is rendered more sensible to light by voclines generally to the gentle and affectionate luntary local pressure, as well as by the invoside: she sees tender mercies in Lady Mac-luntary pressure of the blood-vessels behind it;

beth. We have neither room nor leisure to question the accuracy of some of her notions; nor can we do more than allude to the beauty and truth of others. We consider this as by far the best of her works. It is profusely

and if, by looking at the sun, we impress upon the retina a coloured image of that luminary, which is seen even when the eye is shut, we may by pressure alter the colour of that image, in consequence of having increased the sensibility of that part of the retina on which it is

impressed. Hence we may readily understand how the vividness of the mental pictures must be increased by analogous causes.

"In the case both of Nicolai and Mrs. A. the immediate cause of the spectres was a deranged action of the stomach. When such a derangement is induced by poison, or by substances which act as poisons, the retina is peculiarly affected, and the phenomena of vision singularly changed. Dr. Patouillet has described the case of a family of nine persons who were all driven mad by eating the root of the Hyoscyamus niger or black Henbane. One of them leapt into a pond. Another exclaimed that his neighbour

would lose a cow in a month, and a third vociferated that the crown piece of sixty pence would in a short time rise to five livres. On the following day they had all recovered their senses, but recollected nothing of what had happened. On the same day they all saw objects double, and, what is still more remarkable, on the third day every object appeared to them as red as scarlet. Now this red light was probably nothing more than the red phosphorescence produced by the pressure of the blood-vessels on the retina, and analogous to the masses of blue, green, yellow, and red light, which have been already mentioned as produced by a similar pressure in headaches, arising from a disordered state of the digestive organs."

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A curious proof of the influence of imagination is given in the life of Peter Heaman, a Swede, executed at Edinburgh in 1822. The following are his own words :

"One remarkable thing was, one day as we mended a sail, it being a very thin one, after laying it upon deck in folds, I took the tar brush and tarred it over in the places which I thought needed to be strengthened. But when we hoisted it up I was astonished to see that the tar I had put upon it represented a gallows

and a man under it without a head. The head

was lying beside him. He was complete, body, thighs, legs, arms, and in every shape like a man. Now, I oftentimes made remarks upon it, and repeated them to the others. I always said to them all, you may depend upon it that something will happen. I afterwards took down the sail on a calm day, and sewed a piece of canvas over the figure to cover it, for I could not bear to have it always before my eyes."

Reading Coins in the Dark.

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"The echo which is produced by parallel
walls is finely illustrated at the Marquis of Si-
monetta's villa near Milan, which has been de-
scribed by Addison and Keysler, and which we
believe is that described by Mr. Southwell in

the Philosophical Transactions for 1746. Per-
pendicular to the main body of this villa there
extends two parallel wings about fifty-eight
paces distant from each other, and the surfaces
of which are unbroken either with doors or
windows. The sound of the human voice, or
rather a word quickly pronounced, is repeated
above forty times, and the report of a pistol from
fifty-six to sixty times. The repetitions, how-
ever, follow in such rapid succession that it is
difficult to reckon them, unless early in the
morning before the equal temperature of the
atmosphere is disturbed, or in a calm still even-
ing. The echoes appear to be best heard from
a window in the main building between the two
projecting walls, from which the pistol also is
fired. Dr. Plot mentions an echo in Woodstock
Park which repeats seventeen syllables by day
and twenty by night. An echo on the north
side of Shipley church in Sussex repeats twenty-
one syllables."

ALDINE POETS.-VOL. XXI.
Poems of John Dryden. Vol. I. London:
Pickering.

Or all our great poets, no one commenced
den: his taste was bad; his style forced and
the race of fame with less promise than Dry-
exaggerated, and his verses harsh and unmu-
sical. Till he attained the age of thirty years
or so, he never deviated into true poetry; his
muse danced, indeed, but she seemed to dance
in gyves, and her contortions and grimaces
were such as excited merriment rather than
pleasure. Compared to the early works of
Milton, or Cowley, or Pope, his efforts were

"Among the numerous experiments with untuneable, and, what was worse, prosaic :

which science astonishes and sometimes even strikes terror into the ignorant, there is none more calculated to produce this effect than that of displaying to the eye in absolute darkness the legend or inscription upon a coin. To do this, take a silver coin, (I have always used an old one,) and after polishing the surface as much as possible, make the parts of it which are raised rough by the action of an acid, the parts not raised, or those which are to be rendered darkest, retaining their polish. If the coin thus prepared is placed upon a mass of red hot iron, and removed into a dark room, the inscription upon it will become less luminous than the rest, so that it may be distinctly read by the spectator."

An Extraordinary Whispering Gallery. "A naval officer who travelled through Sicily in the year 1824, gives an account of a powerful whispering place in the cathedral of Girgenti, where the slightest whisper is carried with perfect distinctness through a distance of 250 feet, from the great western door to the cornice be

similitudes unlike; ideas far fetched, and
not worth the carriage; and in short, all the
evils which unite in a man destined by the
Gods to be dull, were gathered together in
his earlier pieces. But men of genius are like
the trees of an orchard, some of which bear
summer, others autumn, and a few winter
fruits: Dryden was of the latter sort; his
ripening was late; his mind had to through
go
a long course of severe discipline, before he
discovered that nature had a greater share
than art in all works of talent. There are,
it is true, many glimpses of real grandeur,
and many bursts of fine nature in his rhymed
dramas written in middle life; while in his
prefaces, he exhibits a deep sense of all that
was material for the poet who desires to
live hereafter: yet these excellencies are
coupled with many deformities; and we
must come far into Dryden's life before
we have him in his strength and freedom
and glory. It was not, however, in poetry

mandate commends both his and
prose verse.
Labour and perseverance rendered him per-
fect at last; in his later poetry, he is natural,
nervous, varied, and flowing; all the early
Dalilahs of his fancy, as he called them, are
banished; his knowledge strengthens his
thoughts without oppressing them; and no
poet has written so many rhymed lines of
heroic metre, without becoming cloying and
monotonous. He has been fortunate too in
his biographers: the labours of Johnson and
Scott were labours of love; nor is the present
Life, by the Rev. John Mitford, unworthy of
being named after them; on the contrary, it
is clever and discriminating, abounds with
happy passages, and gives us a clear idea of
the poet and the man, and much insight into
his household.

We shall say nothing of the birth and education of Dryden, save that the latter was by no means extensive, though it was respectable; we prefer taking a look with Mr. Mitford at some of his brother bards, whose characters are thus briefly and accurately delineated:

"The metaphysical productions (to use the common phrase) of Cowley and Donne, their wild unlicensed flights and strange inharmonious lines, once so admired as to eclipse even Milton's fame, now found but few imitators. Waller, and especially Denham, had looked back on Fairfax and our elder poets with advantage, and had shown that a simpler and easier style, a more melodious and smoother system of verse might be attained without much difficulty. The light and sprightly manner of Suckling in his ballads and smaller poems was much admired. In Marvell true poetry might be found; nor must some of Withers's earlier notes be forgotten, though lost too soon by him. They were full of the simplest melody, the sweetest music. It was the gentle voice of his captivity, wild pastoral songs that beguiled his imprisoned hours, and then were heard no more. Dryden had evidently looked with somewhat of admiration or affec tion to the poetry of Davenant, and notwithstanding the ridicule of the wits, and with the confession of much that is absurd, and more that is tedious, Gondibert is the work of a man of powerful intellect and fine genius; it is full of fanciful images, ingenious reflections, and majestic sentiments: Hobbes has praised its vigour and beauty of expression. Davenant indeed, in all his poetry, throws out gleams of loftier and brighter creations, pathetic touches, sweet pensive meditations, imaginative and visionary fancies, and lines that run along the keen edge of curious thoughts, such as commanded the attention of Dryden beyond any other poet of the age, and such as long after Pope was not too proud to transplant into the most impassioned, and the most imaginative of all his productions. This early style of Dryden, or Davenant, is chiefly faulty, because the authors have not the courage, or inclination to reject an ingenious allusion, however remote, or a brilliant thought, however superfluous. Hence the surface of their poetry glitters with similes, is crowded with learned analogies, and surrounded with unnecessary illustrations; whatever is subtle, laboured, and unusual, is forced into the subject. The interest of the story is encumbered with imagery, and the progress of the narrative impeded by reflection. Davenant himself confesses, that 'Poetical excellence consists in the laborious and lucky resultances of

hind the high altar. By an unfortunate coinci- alone, that his vigour was acknowledged: thought, having towards its excellence as well a

dence the focus of one of the reflecting surfaces was chosen for the place of the confessional, and when this was accidentally discovered, the overs of secrets resorted to the other focus, and hus became acquainted with confessions of the

he was the first of this island who laid down
rules for composition, and expressed them
too in language yet unequalled for force and
variety; of this, the King was not unaware
when he made him Poet Laureate; the royal

happiness as care, and not only the luck and labour, but also the dexterity of thought, rounding the world like a sun with unimaginable motion, and bringing swiftly home to the memory universal surveys.'"

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