Marquis de Laval, a Marshal of France, and a General of uncommon intrepidity. He distinguished himself greatly in the reigns of Charles the VI. and VII. by his courage; particularly against the English when they invaded France. He rendered those services to his country which were sufficient to immortalize his name, had he not forever tarnished his glory by the most horrible and cruel murders, blasphemies and licentiousness of every kind. Wherever he went he had in his suite a seraglio, a company of players, a band of musicians, a society of sorcerers, and above two hundred led horses. Mezeray, an author of the highest repute, says, that he maintained men, who called themselves sorcerers, to discover hidden treasures, and afterwards killed them for the sake of their blood, which was requisite to form his incantations. Such excesses were often practised in that barbarous age (1440). He was finally sentenced to be strangled and afterwards burnt.
The following nervous passage is transcribed from one of the early effusions of the late Prime Minister of England, Mr. CANNING. The Poem is entitled "New Morality," and the lines which ensue, contain a fine picture of the genuine Sensibility, contrasted with the counterfeit resemblance exhibited by Rousseau:
Next comes a gentler Virtue.-Ah! beware
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.
Visit her not too roughly; the warm sigh
Breathes on her lips :-the tear-drop gems her eye.
Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;-
With delicate Mimosa's sense endued
Who shrinks, instinctive, from a hand too rude;
Or, like the Anagallis, prescient flower,
Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Sweet child of sickly fancy!-her of yore,
From her lov'd France Rousseau to exile bore ;
And, while mid lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shun'd the haunts of man;
Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep,
To lisp the story of his wrongs and weep;
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in the brooks that babbled by ;-
-Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;
-For the crush'd beetle first, the widowed dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove ;-
Next for poor suffering guilt ;-and last of all,
For Parents, Friends, a King, and Country's fall.
From the same admirable satire, we transcribe a vigorous and breathing portrait of CANDOUR. The likeness may be recognized among some trimming politicians of our own age. Hark! I hear
A well-known voice that murmurs on my ear,-
'The voice of CANDOUR.-Hail! most solemn sage,
Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,
CANDOUR, which softens party's headlong rage;
CANDOUR, which spares its foes, nor e'er descends
With bigot zeal to combat for its friends.
CANDOUR,-which loves in see-saw strain to tell
Of acting foolishly, but meaning well;
Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,
Convinc'd that all men's motives are the same ;-
And finds with keen discriminating sight,
BLACK's not so black, nor WHITE so very white.
Give me the avow'd, the erect, the manly foe,
Bold I can meet-perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good heaven, thy wrath can send,
Save, save, oh! save me from the Candid Friend!
When first o'er Psyche's angel breast
Love's infant wings undreaded play'd,
Of either parent's grace possess'd,
My birth their secret flame betray'd.
No limbs my aery charms obscure,
No bone my elfin frame sustains,
Yet blood I boast, as warm, as pure,
As that which throbs in Hebe's veins.
I sleep with beauty, watch with fear,
I rise in timid youth's defence;
My gentle warmth alone can rear
The snow-drop buds of innocence.
Without a tongue, a voice, a sound,
My eloquence o'er all prevails;
I still in ev'ry clime am found
To tell my parent's tend'rest tales.
Love's sunshine, beam'd from brightest eyes,
Less cheers his vot'ry's painful duty,
Than my auspicious light that flies
Like meteors o'er the face of beauty.
Home's home, however homely, Wisdom says, And certain is the fact, tho' coarse the phrase: To prove it, if it needed proof at all,
Mark what a train attends the muse's call;
And as she leads the ideal group along,
Let your own feelings realize her song.
Clear, then, the stage; no scen'ry we require,
Save the snug circle round the parlour fire;
And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,
Each happier influence that governs there.
First, love, by friendship mellow'd into bliss,
Lights the warm glow, and sanctifies the kiss!
When, fondly welcom❜d to th' accustom'd seat,
In sweet complasance wife and husband meet:
Look mutual pleasure, mutual purpose share,
Repose from labours, but unite in care.
Ambition! Does ambition there reside?
Yes, when the boy in manly mood astride,
Of headstrong prowess innocently vain,
Canters, the jockey of his father's canc.
While emulation, in the daughter's heart,
Bears a more mild, though not less pow'rful part;
With zeal to shine, her flutt'ring bosom warms,
And in the romp the future house-wife forms;
Or both, perchance, to graver sport incline,
And art and genius in their pastime join:
This, the cramp riddle's puzzling knot invents,
That, rears aloft the card-built tenements.
Think how joy animates, intense tho' meek,
The fading roses on their grandame's cheek;
When proud the frolic progeny to survey,
She feels, and owns, an interest in their play:
Adopts each wish, their wayward whims unfold,
And tells at every call the story ten times told.
Good-humour'd dignity endears, mean while
The talking grandsire's venerable style;
If haply feats achiev'd in prime of youth,
Or pristine anecdote, historic truth,
Or maxim shrewd, or admonition bland,
Affectionate attention's ear command.
To such society, so form'd, so blest, Time, thought, remembrance, all impart a zest ; And expectation, day by day, more bright, Round ev'ry prospect throws increasing light; The simplest comforts act with strongest force; Whate'er can give them, can improve the course.
All this is common-place, you tell me; true: What pity 'tis not common fashion too! Roam as we may, plain sense at last will find 'Tis only seeking what we left behind. If individual good engage our hope, Domestic virtues give the largest scope : If plans of public eminence we trace, Domestic virtues are its surest base.
When things are done and past recalling,
"Tis folly then to fret or cry.
Prop up a rotten house that's falling
But when it's down e'en let it lie.
O patience! patience! thou'rt a jewel,
And, like all jewels, hard to find.
'Mongst all the various men you see,
Examine ev'ry mother's son ;
You'll find they all in this agree,
To make ten troubles out of one;
When passions rage, they heap on fuel,
And give their reason to the wind.
Hark! don't you hear the gen'ral cry?
Whose troubles ever equal'd mine!
How readily each stander-by
Replies, with captuous echo, mine!
Sure from our clime this discord springs;
Heav'ns choicest blessings we abuse.
For ev'ry Englishman alive,
Whether duke, lord, esquire, or gent,
Claims as his just prerogative,
Ease, liberty, and discontent.
A Frenchman often starves and sings,
With cheerfulness, and wooden shoes.
A peasant, of the true French breed,
Was driving in a narrow road
A cart, with but one sorry steed,
And fill'd with onions: sav'ry load!
Careless, he trudg'd along before,
Singing a Gascon roundelay.
Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook,
The road hung shelving tow'rds the brim ;
The spiteful wind advantage took;
The wheel flies up; the onions swim ;
The peasant saw his fav'rite store,
At one rude blast, all puff'd away.
How would an English clown have sworn,
To hear them plump, and see them roll?
Have curs'd the day that he was born,
And, for an onion, damn'd his soul?
Our Frenchman acted quite as well,
He stopt (and hardly stopt) his song;
First rais'd the bidet from his swoon;
Then stood a little while to view
His onions bobbing up and down;
At last, he shrugging cry'd, "Parbleu!
*Il ne manq ici, que du sel,
Pour faire du potage excellent."
*There wants nothing but salt to make excellent soup.
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