Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 556, July 7, 1832», страница 4

"The Italians do not understand the English," said Byron; "indeed, how can they? for they (the Italians) are frank, simple, and open in their natures, following the bent of their inclinations, which they do not believe to be wicked; while the English, to conceal the indulgence of theirs, daily practise hypocrisy, falsehood, and uncharitableness; so that to one error is added many crimes." Byron had now got on a favourite subject, and went on decrying hypocrisy and cant, mingling sarcasms and bitter observations on the false delicacy of the English. It is strange, but true as strange, that he could not, or at least did not, distinguish the distinction between cause and effect, in this case. The respect for virtue will always cause spurious imitations of it to be given; and what he calls hypocrisy, is but the respect to public opinion that induces people, who have not courage to correct their errors, at least to endeavour to conceal them; and Cant is the homage that Vice pays to Virtue. ¹ We do not value the diamond less, because there are so many worthless imitations of it, and Goodness loses nothing of her intrinsic value because so many wish to be thought to possess it. That nation may be considered to possess the most virtue, where it is the most highly appreciated; and that the least, where it is so little understood, that the semblance is not even assumed.

Byron is, I believe, sincere in his belief in supernatural appearances; he assumes a grave and mysterious air when he talks on the subject, which he is fond of doing, and has told me some extraordinary stories relative to Mr. Shelley, who, he assures me, had an implicit belief in ghosts. He also told me that Mr. Shelley's spectre had appeared to a lady, walking in a garden, and he seemed to lay great stress on this. Though some of the wisest of mankind, as witness Johnson, shared this weakness in common with Byron; still there is something so unusual in our matter-of-fact days in giving way to it, that I was at first doubtful that Byron was serious in his belief. He is also superstitious about days, and other trifling things,—believes in lucky and unlucky days,—dislikes undertaking any thing on a Friday, helping or being helped to salt at table, spilling salt or oil, letting bread fall, and breaking mirrors; in short, he gives way to a thousand fantastical notions, that prove that even l'esprit le plus fort has its weak side.

ODE TO THE GERMANS

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

 
The Spirit of Britannia
Invokes across the main,
Her sister Allemania
To burst the Tyrant's chain;
By our kindred blood she cries,
Rise Allemanians, rise,
And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free—of the free!
 
 
With Freedom's lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves
Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOUR ²
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemanians, wake,
And the tyrants now that whelm
Half the world, shall quail and flee,
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free—of the free!
 
 
Mars owes to you his thunder ³
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has peal'd.
Shall the laurell'd land of Art
Wear shackles on her heart?
No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound, the march of time,
Let it clang Oppression's knell
O'er your clime—o'er your clime!
 
 
The Press's magic letters
That blessing ye brought forth,
Behold! it lies in fetters
On the soil that gave it birth:
But the trumpet must be heard
And the charger must be spurr'd;
For your father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven, that ye
Shall gird you for the fight
And be free!—and be free!
 

Metropolitan.

GAZEL

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

 
Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh,
Already, in th' unopened flowers
That sleep around us, Fancy's eye
Can see the blush of future bowers;
And joy it brings to thee and me,
My own beloved Maami!
 
 
The streamlet, frozen on its way,
To feed the marble Founts of Kings,
Now, loosen'd by the vernal ray,
Upon its path exulting springs,
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami!
 
 
Such bright hours were not made to stay,
Enough if they awhile remain;
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away,
From time to time, and come again,
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami.
 
 
O haste, for this impatient heart
Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,
That rends its inmost leaves apart
With passion for the nightingale;
So languishes this soul for thee,
My bright and blushing Maami!
 

Metropolitan.

NOTES OF A READER

ADVICE, BY A MAN OF THE WORLD

[We quoted Contarini Fleming in our last volume, but were silent on its character. It is purely metaphysical, and metaphysics, at this season, may be "like pork in the dog-days;" but there are certain portions which strike out ideas so forcibly, and illustrate the communia of life with such vigour, as to tempt any lounging reader. Contarini is stated to be Mr. D'Israeli, the younger—Vivian Grey and the Young Duke,—with much more of the crust and wing of age and experience than was found in either of the fashionable novels. The real charm of Contarini is in its abstractedness, and consists in being pleased and puzzled at the same moment. The embellishment which the playful genius of the writer has gracefully, not tawdrily, thrown over his pages will attract, but the main purpose and merit of the work lies in its undercurrents, or, rather it would consist in this feature if the judgment of the writer were still more matured. Perhaps Mr. D'Israeli, who began the world of letters as a writer of fashionable novels, may leave us a work on metaphysics.

In the opening chapter of Contarini Fleming, Mr. D'Israeli explains his object as follows:—]

I am desirous of writing a book which shall be all truth, a work of which the passion, the thought, the action, and even the style, should spring from my own experience of feeling, from the meditations of my own intellect, from my own observation of incident, from my own study of the genius of expression.

[We can only admit a passage which appears to us to contain much world-knowledge and wholesome experience—what half the coroneted heads in Europe lack most lamentably. It is the advice tendered to Contarini by his father, previous to the youth of promise repairing to the University:]

I wish you to mix as much as is convenient with society. I apprehend that you have, perhaps, hitherto indulged a little too much in lonely habits. Young men are apt to get a little abstracted, and occasionally to think that there is something singular in their nature, when the fact is, if they were better acquainted with their fellow creatures, they would find they were mistaken. This is a common error, indeed the commonest. I am not at all surprised that you have fallen into it. All have. The most practical business-like men that exist have many of them, when children, conceived themselves totally disqualified to struggle in the world. You may rest assured of this. I could mention many remarkable instances. All persons, when young, are fond of solitude, and, when they are beginning to think, are sometimes surprised at their own thoughts. There is nothing to be deplored, scarcely to be feared, in this. It almost always wears off; but sometimes it happens, that they have not judicious friends by them to explain, that the habits which they think peculiar are universal, and, if unreasonably indulged, can ultimately only turn them into indolent, insignificant members of society, and occasion them lasting unhappiness.

But to enter society with pleasure, you must be qualified for it. I think it quite time for you to make yourself master of some accomplishments. Decidedly you should make yourself a good dancer. Without dancing, you can never attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which is of the highest importance in life, and should be every man's ambition. You are yet too young fully to comprehend, how much in life depends upon manner. Whenever you see a man, who is successful in society, try to discover what makes him pleasing, and, if possible, adopt his system. You should learn to fence. For languages, at present, French will be sufficient. You speak it fairly: try to speak it elegantly. Read French authors. Read Rouchefoucault. The French writers are the finest in the world, for they clear our heads of ridiculous ideas. Study precision.

Do not talk too much at present, do not try to talk. But whenever you speak, speak with self-possession. Speak in a subdued tone, and always look at the person whom you are addressing. Before one can engage in general conversation with any effect, there is a certain acquaintance with trifling, but amusing subjects, which must be first attained. You will soon pick up sufficient by listening and observing. Never argue. In society, nothing must be discussed: give only results. If any person differ with you—bow and turn the conversation. In society, never think—always be on the watch, or you will miss many opportunities, and say many disagreeable things.

Talk to women, talk to women as much as you can. This is the best school. This is the way to gain fluency—because you need not care what you say, and had better not be sensible. They too will rally you on many points, and, as they are women, you will not be offended. Nothing is of so much importance, and of so much use, to a young man entering life, as to be well criticised by women. It is impossible to get rid of those thousand bad habits, which we pick up in boyhood, without this supervision. Unfortunately, you have no sisters. But never be offended if a woman rally you. Encourage her. Otherwise, you will never be free from your awkwardness, or any little oddities, and certainly never learn to dress.

You ride pretty well, but you had better go through the manège. Every gentleman should be a perfect cavalier.

As you are to be at home for so short a time, and for other reasons, I think it better that you should not have a tutor in the house. Parcel out your morning, then, for your separate masters. Rise early and regularly, and read for three hours. Read the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz—the Life of Richelieu—everything about Napoleon,—read works of that kind. Read no history: nothing but biography, for that is life without theory. Then fence. Talk an hour with your French master, but do not throw the burden of the conversation upon him. Give him an account of something. Describe to him the events of yesterday, or give him a detailed account of the constitution. You will have then sufficiently rested yourself for your dancing. And after that ride and amuse yourself as much as you can. Amusement to an observing mind is study.

I pursued the system which my father had pointed out, with exactness, and soon with pleasure. I sacredly observed my hours of reading, and devoted myself to the study of the lives of what my father considered really great men—that is to say, men of great energies, and violent volition, who look upon their fellow creatures as mere tools, with which they can build up a pedestal for their solitary statue, and who sacrifice every feeling which should sway humanity, and every high work which genius should really achieve, to the short-sighted gratification of an irrational and outrageous selfism. As for my manners, I flattered myself that they advanced in measure with my mind, although I already emulated Napoleon. I soon overcame the fear which attended my first experiments in society, and by scrupulously observing the paternal maxims, I soon became very self-satisfied. I listened to men with a delightful mixture of defference and self-confidence: were they old, and did I differ with them, I contented myself by positively stating my opinion in a most subdued voice, and then either turning the subject, or turning upon my heel. But as for women, it is astonishing how well I got on. The nervous rapidity of my first rattle soon subsided into a continuous flow of easy nonsense. Impertinent and flippant, I was universally hailed an original and a wit. But the most remarkable incident was, that the baroness and myself became the greatest friends. I was her constant attendant, and rehearsed to her flattered ear all my evening performance. She was the person with whom I practised, and as she had a taste in dress, I encouraged her opinions. Unconscious that she was at once my lay figure and my mirror, she loaded me with presents, and announced to all her coterie, that I was the most delightful young man of her acquaintance.

From all this it may easily be suspected, that at the age of fifteen I had unexpectedly become one of the most affected, conceited, and intolerable atoms that ever peopled the sunbeam of society.

[This gem is from a volume of Songs and other small Poems, by Barry Cornwall. It is one of the prettiest poetical bijoux of the season, and shall receive more attention in our next.]