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Fortlie Southern Literary Gazette.
THE POET CHATELARD.
EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.
*****
X.
*****
Such was the flame of that enthusiast Bard,
Sprung from chivalric sire,—the minstrel Cha
telard.
xt.
He loved, but loved in vain—yet not the less
Because in vain ; the fervour of his love,
Led him, with passion nothing might repress,
Before that Queen of Beauty, who could
prove,
Herself immovable, who all could move ;
Indifferent to the hope herself inspired,
And which to kindle still too well she strove;
tj.u- whose desire was met when nH <Je-.ned,
And scorn’d to leel the warmth of that sad
breath she fir’d.
XII.
And yet, not evermore a thing of scorn,
Mocking the conquest made : —alas! her lot,
Mourn’d long by those her beauty taught to
mourn,
Ere yet her fate became a cruel blot,
On the fair fame of nations, and a spot,
\ blood-spot on the soul of that fierce Queen,
That unsex’d woman, that all ties forgot,
In the foul venom of the bitter spleen,
That wrought the final crime, too fell for speech,
I ween.
XIII.
Vainly have bards essayed in by-gone hours,
To sing her charms, Vainly, the Painter’s art,
liuth limned her cheek in colours like the
flowers,
\nd, in the quiv’ring eye defin’d the heart:—
They sung, they drew, but only taught a
part,
Small portion of the beauties in their view,
Those excellencies rare that found a mart,
l.i her surpassing beauty, were not few, —
And dazzling every eye, in vain the artist drew.
XIV.
The minstrel sung in vain ; and, casting by
The lute that spoke not us the theme required,
Hi.- song of homage sunk into a sigh,
And nil in vain the spirit she inspir’d ;
lie had no music lor the Muse who fired,
And tears were his sole language ; —she had
grown,
Too potent in his breast, who thus desired,
His skill in the •“ gay science,” and each tone,
Spoke in her queenly praise, came from his
heart alone!
XV.
Thus, doubly sovereign, o’er the enamor’d
Bard,
The gentle Mary, in her court, became
‘l'lie soul and cynosure of Chatelard,
Whose blind and fierce devotion nought
could tame;
She bound him to the stake, and fed the flame.
By her most ’witching glances, and a speech.
When his ear drank the sound that did not
blame, —
For that he proved so apt, when love would
teaeh,
And in his blindness aimed at what ’twere death
to reach.
xvi.
He saw her smile, beheld the glorious play
Os lips that looked delight, and eyes that
grew
To stars, outshining every kindred ray,
And dazzling, when they played upon the
view,
In their sun-centred spheres of softest blue—
How should he ’scape from blindness—was he
not,
Though taught by a true Muse, a mortal too?
How could he gaze so far beyond his lot,
Nor feel his sight grow dim, his wisdom all
forgot ?
XVII,
He gazed and he was maddened. Deep the
spell
That bound him, and the Tempter in his soul,
That won him on, and onward, till he fell
Beyond his own, and far from Hope’s control;
Still blindly dreaming—gazing on the goal,
That he could never compass—but which
yet
Mock’d him with vain delusions, till his
whole
Rash spirit, on that glorious fortune set,
Ru.-h’d in the mad career to ruin and regret.
XVIII.
He threw his tire inside ; —his heart was full
Os st.ange delirium ; and his lyre seem’d
rude,
And its tones vex’d him, for its strains were
dull,
And chimed not with the fever of his mood,
Nor with the rapid coursing of his blood,
Which was one wild pulsation—and he made,
Wand’ring his way to where a coppice stood,
Even in the Palace garden, through each glade,
Roving unconscious on, unheeding where ho
strayed !
XIX.
What were the stars to him, that then shone
forth,
Even in their softest glory? —what the fiow’rs,
That made one rich, gay carpet of the earth,
Around him, and half hid the mazy bow’rs,
That gave but little grace to those huge
tovv’rs ?
What was the gentle brealh, upon his sense,
Os the delicious evening, in those hours,
When, wrapt as in a wizard influence,
lie felt not.kuew not aught hut that deep fire
intense ?
xx.
Though smit with love of all things lovely, yet,
At that wild moment, in the gathering sky,
He knew not that the enamoured stars were
met, —
Nor heard the fiow’rs shut, the zephyrs sigh ;
Visions more dear by far were in his eye,
Aii, would they were as genial!—had they shed
A light, as kindly o’er his destiny,
The Muse had left his story ail unsaid,
Nor pluck’d one lowly (iow'r to grace his
bloody bed.
Wordsworth's Study. —A great
source of health aiul freshness, both of
body and mind, was the out-door life
led by the venerable poet.
“i should like to see your master’s
study,” said someone to his cook; “ 1
suppose it is that,” pointing to some
book shelves.
“ No, sir, that is my master’s library;
bis stuy is out of doors.”
Wordsworth used to tell this anec
dote with much glee.
a turn mmmi,, nwo w ujsmtom. tm abk a® otsm. a® w smbm, irmHsaa
(Priniiml ifnlrs.
V/
For the Southern Litterary Gazette.
A SIMPLE STORY.
“ What detains vou,” said 1 to my
friend, as he stood undecided, though
he had excus 1 himself from the familv
•/
circle, on the pT-i of having a call to
make.
“ Well,” he answered, “a visit is due
for old acquaintance sake, besides, 1
have been sent for, but it is repugnant
to my feelings to renew a friendship
broken into by her own acts, or rather
by circumstances, for Lucy, (I suppose
1 must now call her Mrs. Herbert,) is
hardly to be condemned for the Jack of
strength of character, though the want
of it, has so materially affected the hap
piness of my earliest friend, that the
results influence my feelings, and
through them my judgment. 1 doubt if
the world would condemn her harshly;”
and here he paused irresolutely, but
looked as if he would like to be en
couraged, to tell the reminiscences that
caine crowding upon his mind, as the
link in the great eiectric chain of mem
ory was touched.
It required little inducement to draw
him into my study, and lead him to
disclose this simple and 1 fear too com
mon tale, to be interesting.
“ it is many years since Lucy enter
ed society,” lie commenced, passing
immediately to the subject uppermost
iu his thoughts, “which welcomed her
as heiresses are welcomed, for if even
homage is not conceded by the wise to
the dormant material, there is a prestige
about the luxuries it commands, which
influences every one. She was not dif
ferent from any of the young compan
ions who grew up with her, nor had
she any striking beauty in face, form,
or character, but the whole was natural
and unassuming. She was simple in
the expression of her thoughts, and
gave herself no undue importance from
being the indulged mistress of a large
property, these traits were the result
of a secluded education, where the in
fluence of her wealth if felt, was not
brought bofore her observation.
“ 1 have drawn you a common-place
picture, you may think, and rightly,
but a characterless girl, with uo prom
inently bad traits, is a dangerous com
panion. Induing her with tile qualities
of the ideal which every young man |
forms in his own mind, and is ready 1
to invest the first pliant material he
meets with, he finds nothing in a na
ture like this to thwart his fancy, the
most ea ual incident confirms the dream,
and when romance and reality are thus
combined what human power can rea
son away the infatuation.
“ Lucy’s first admirer washer school
/
fellow, her boy-beau, endeared to me
by every association, by early friend
ship, sympathy of tastes, and little sac
rifices, which in youth make you but
love the more the object for whom they
arc made. I looked up to him with
the genuine admiration, the quiet, pro
saic, but deep and earnest nature feels
for that energetic, heart-stirring and
vivacious temperament, that does with
out fatigue, what it cannot do, says so
naturally all that it would like to say,
and expresses so gracefully, though like
a second self, the unuttered aspirations
that seem like exaggeration from a less
brilliant spirit. With this impulsive
character, it was not strange that he
should indue the gentle playfellow of
his chiidhood, with the pure and noble
traits that clothed the ideal of his ma
turer years, her quietude of manner,
the lack of all enthusiasm was to him
a charm, for it needed but little effort
of bis imagination to pass for the ear
nestness of a mind in self commu
nion, and drawn within to the spring of
pure thoughts.
“ Such was the character he drew to
me, in a letter begging my immediate
presence, though not stating the cause
of so sudden a summons. Obeying
the request, 1 found Frank,” (for you
must have guessed whose sad story 1
am relating) “in higher spirits than his
ordinary gay moods, I sympathized
with him, for he was a preferred lover,
accepted unconditionally, and in case
of refusal from guardians, the liberty of
naming a day for a clandestine mar
riage. There was uo hope of conces
sion from that quarter; Frank was
living upon a mere pittance; he had
not even pursued the study of any pro
fession, from unsettled views rather
than a want of energy, and his own
pride shrank from a secret marriage
with so young and wealthy a bride,
with such utter disproportion of means
—so the young couple determined to
separate till he could realize something.
India offered a fair market for specula
tion or industry, and when the mo
ment of parting came, the lover adored
the unselfishness and delicacy of the
self-control, that the man would have
shrunk from as want of feeling, for the
voyage was dangerous, years of solita
ry exile were hid behind the sunny sails
of his vessel, the country he was bound
to was unsettled, and their chances of
ultimately re-uniting but small,harassed
by contending emotions, and agitated,
though perhaps not aware of it, by the
serenity of Lucv; Frank impetuously
and wrongly urged her to plight her
faith in presence of myself, as witness,
in a neighbouring church, near the part
ing tryst. She may have been eleva
ted by contact with a nobler nature, or
perhaps awed by the strength of a pas
sion too deep for her feeble conception,
for her answer displayed a character,
which led me to believe I had placed
too low an estimate upon it.”
“ No,” she said with dignity and
force, which joined to her natural sym
plicit v of manner made her words more
impressive, “I will not cast so un
worthy a doubt upon myself, nor seek
to bind your will, when your love may
have passed away ; you are secure in
my affection, neither change, nor lapse
of time, nor solicitation, nor force,
could it be used, would alienate a heart
that has so freely rendered all: its first
impulses were yours, and so shall be
its last pulsations.”
“YY hat lovercould distrust such words,
and the woman became a part of his
life, his thought while awake, his dream
in sleep, purified by absence and soli
tude, for he left her soon after these
vows had been interchanged.
“It she felt grief, it was unspoken, and
left no traces upon (lie smooth cheek,
nor rutiled the placid temper, the deli
cate bloom neither paled nor deepened
as tidings came or failed.
“Intercourse was then uncertain, but
letters came by every opportunity,
and Lucy lived quietly ; she had never
cared for fashion nor display, but in
spite of the impressive parting, and my
own hopes, I doubted the strength of
feeling necessary to the continuance of
a love which would be compelled to
have time and absence to secure its ful
filment; —six years of the allotted eight
had passed, and many changes had
taken place, among others, the intro
duction of an addition to our family
party, in the shape of rather a showy
city lawyer. Confident in himself,and
his powers of pleasing or captivating,
to a degree that almost made him a
butt, he soon professed admiration of
the heiress, though he did not pretend
to admire the woman, and with little
preface offered his devotions in due
form.
“In our simple society, the solemn
pledge between Lucy and Frank had
thrown a veil of sacredness over her,
that despite her wealth, none had at
tempted to lift or put aside. I was
then, from my friendship for Frank,
treated by her as a brother, and when
in a jesting manner she communicated
the proposal, I was painfully impressed
that natural delicacy should not have
made her shrink from vows, which the
last time they had reached her ear, had
been profered by the absent, in such
truth and faith, that the repetition by
another should have alarmed her pride
and humbled her self-respect. Such
was not the case, and the want of dig
nity and decision, in her refusal, might
have encouraged the repetition of the
proposal even in a less confident man.
It was made, over and over again, and
at last accepted.
“She had never appreciated Frank’s
character, his enthusiastic devotion had
pleased her vanity; his quick impul
sive ways had roused her dormant feel
ings, and the ardour of his love had
drawn like the sun from the rose water,
a few drops of pure strength and sweet
ness to the surface, and then there was
nothing left from the distillation, but
the scentless and tasteless liquid be
neath.
“As you may suppose the link which
bound Lucy and myself was broken,
but the subsevent events are familiar.
Lucy, from the moment of her engage
ment seemed anxious to take the final
step, and fix her fate beyond recall; it
wanted but six months of the time ap
pointed for Frank’s return, and con
science which had slumbered as the pe
riod was distant, seemed to awake to
its approach ; the day had been decid
ed upon, and the wedding garments
prepared, when the bride expectant re
ceived a letter in a well known hand,
its contents were never known, but from
the increased hurry of preparation,
it might be supposed to tell ofa speedy
return, but this was conjecture. The
announcement of the wedding day did
not cause as much scandal as regret,
among our simple circle, and a general
feeling of awe, at the breaking of such
solemn pledges made to one, whom ab
sence and constancy had hallowed in
the memory of friends, seemed to per
vade the town, mixed with dislike to
the supplanter, who scarcely kept up
the semblance of devotion; so great
was the popular disapproval that a
minister who was applied to, refused
to perform his sacred office, and his ex
ample was followed by others, how
ever, the services ofa new pastor were
secured.
“A few evenings before Christmas, all
her early friends and associates were
assembled to witness her marriage,
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 21 1850.
gravely and silently for a shell, seemed
on all, but the, thoughtless groom, the
gaiety of the scene, and the self pos
session of Lucy, were well calculated to
dispel the fears of guests, who seemed
to anticipate some startling incident to
punish her perfidy. The ceremony
commenced, had been nearly comple
ted, when in that thrilling pause which
follows the solemn injunction, to speak
if there is aught against the marriage,
or forever afterward hold their peace,
no one had noticed the silent figure ad
ded to the scene, who now, with out
stretched arms, essayed in vain to
speak, till with a mighty effort, the
voice of that travel-worn and woe-strick 1 -
en man, fell distinctly upon every ear
in the stillness around.”
“ Lucy, Lucy, hope deferred hath
made thy heart sick, even unto me,
months have been years, and the strong
man hath bowed to suspense, 1 do not
hold you to your pledge, but give me
time, one day, Lucy, put off this un
holy marriage, and if early love does
not spring bright again from its dying
embers, I will give you up—see how
1 have toiled only for you, Lucy, alas,
alas!”
“She said not a word, but his agony j
had moved even her cold heart, the I
groom, was also mute; and in awe
struck silence, the pastor closed his |
book, and softly withdrew, followed
by the guests, none paused to greet .
their old playmate and friend, but pass
ed with eyes averted from his silent i
suffering, one more considerate, carried j
offthe bewildered groom.and the injured ;
man was left with the idol of his own j
creation.
“He needed not for her sake, to have
exerted such a mighty power, to calm
the tempest that drove his blood throb
bing back to the heart, and still the ;
torrent of words that might even have
stirred her cold nature, for she would
not have felt the extent of their power,
nor responded to their truth, but it was
to spare her, that he spoke even in that
hour of trial, so calmly and gently.”
“ Lucy, let me speak with you, I
will not distress you, can l say a few
words? They may be the last that
will ever pass between us. You do not
answer. If you wish me to cease, a I
word, a look, will be all that is neces
sary. I thought to have come back a
wealthier man, Lucy, for I have toiled j
for life and happiness, only to be be
stowed by you. Am I poorer now,
than when we parted ? 1 do not re
proach you if your love lias passed to
another ; for eight years is a long tmd
sad ordeal for the love of one so un
worthy as myself, but test your feel
ings before you marry this man, see if
old associations, Lucy, long plighted
love, and unwearied devotion may not;
strike against the hidden chords of your
heart, wakening its deepest vibrations,
nay, do not answer me now. I would
not take advantage of transient im
pulses ; that pity for my desolation
may have aroused, probe your inmost
feelings, calmly and dispassionately
and decide between us ; you are agita
ted, and 1 will not detain you, but if
possible —spare me suspense.”
“He left her thus, suppressing all vio
lence of manner, the struggle within
showing itself in the whitened face, and
heard in the hollow and husky voice.
“I was with Frank that sad night,
and did not leave him until Lucy’s an
swer came the next day ; it was a com
mon place and cold rejection ; softened
by no regret, no self-accusation ; she
had injured him too severely not to
feel resentful to the innocent cause of
her treachery.
“She had propriety in lieu of feeling,
and was not married till three months
after these events; the romance in
which she played so prominent a part
appeared to have left no impression.
Her fate has been sad ,for her showy
and weak, though hardly worthless
husband, has squandered her property,
and taken her away from early associa
tions, curiosity, pity and her own de
sire for an interview impelled me to
see her to-night, as she passes through
on her way to the far west.”
“Frank remained my only and dear
est friend till his death, whether he
was the bowed and broken man I met
on his return, or the sudden shock of
the wedding scene upon his excitable
temperament, produced the work of
years, I never have had a chance of find
ing out, but when 1 call tu mind his
joyous spirit and great vitality, I can
not think that a few years, spent in in
dustrious occupation, with a bright fu
ture and happy reward in view, could
have altered either appearance in char
acter ; we lived together from that
time, he was absent and quiet, no bit
terness, but yet no interest in life ;
strange to say the idol of h : s own cre
ation was not shattered, and fancy still
invested with bright hues the cold
stone, for he spoke of Lucy with pity,
deplored the severity of the ordeal he
had caused her to pass through, and
his consequent disappointment.—But
you seem tired,” said he, break
ing off his narration suddenly, either
from indifference or because the simple
tale had affected me.
1 failed to answer,perhaps he thought
his remark was true, for his feelings
had been to deeply agitated to let him
mark the flight of time, what he had
intended for a sketch had lengthened to
a narration, and glancing at the clock,
he ilently put my night candle into
m y hand, while his own still trembled
from the sudden renewal of the past.
TELLULAH.
(T'Jif itonj (E'cllrr.
reminiscences.
Rv v sveucu pnvaiciAN.
THE NERVOUS GENTLEMAN.
1 he most troublesome patient which
a medical man can possibly have is a
nervous, fidgity, hypochondrical gen
tleman, and were it not that such pa
tients were rather profitable, the mem
bers of the medical profession would
raise a great outcry upon the subject,
and nerves and nervousness would be 1
rated bores instead of being attended
to with great gravity, and prescribed
for with great regularity, the “ordina
ry medicine ’ given consisting usually j
ot bread pills rolled in magnesia, and !
effervescing draughts ad libitum , tic
cording to the strength of the patient’s
credulity and purse. I am a retired
physician now, so 1 can afford to be a
little candid now and then.
Nearly twenty years ago, there lived
in Bloomsbury Square one of my best
patients, by nameMr. Augustus Brown.
Mr. Brown was a gentleman of com
petent independence, and of a literary
and virtuoso turn of mind. At about
forty years ot age he began to study
medicine a little, and to take care of
his health a great deal, lie bought
medical books, prowled about the wards I
of hospitals, and made himself as un- j
happy as any uncomfortable, middle
aged, single gentleman could wish to
be. I learned these particulars of him
from e friend who recommended him
to me.
When I was first called to attend
him, not knowing that his diseases
were all imaginary, I was quite taken
in for about a quarter of an hour or so.
I found him lying on his back on the ;
sofa; the room was darkened, and lie
was groaning in an extremity of an
guisli. 1 turned to his housekeeper,
who had marshalled me in, and said—
‘What is the matter with Mr. Brown?” j
He heard me and called me out,
‘ YV hat is the matter —the mutter ?
Oh! oh! oh!’
J advaneo.: towaiJ him, and said, —
4 I am soi y to find you so indis
posed, sir.’
‘Oh! oh! oh! was his only an
swer.
‘Perhaps,’ 1 continued, ‘ you will j
have the kindness to describe your ;
symptoms.’
After a few preparatory groans, he
commenced, ‘ l—oh ! oh] oh! you’ll
scarcely believe it, but look at my leg,
down by my ankle, I mean. Oh ! oh !
oh !—horrible, horrible.’
1 cast my eyes down at his ancle,
and to my surprise, saw that it was tied ’
fast by a silk handkerchief to the leg of J
the sofa.
‘What is this for?’ I said.
‘You may well ask, —oh ! oh !’
‘YY hatever may be the matter with
your ankle I shall undo this most un
surgical and very improper bandage.’
‘Wretch !’ he cried, ‘would you de
stroy me ?’
‘Destroy you ?’
‘Yes. What dependence have I, if
I am not tied : what hold upon the :
world have 1 ?’
‘What do you mean?’ said I.
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘Well.’
‘I am too light?
‘Too light?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pray, sir, explain yourself.’
‘You know why a balloon goes up ?’
‘Yes, surely.’
‘Why ?’
‘Because it is lighter than an equal
bulk of air.’
Wery good.’
‘Well, but, sir, how does that 1
‘Apply to me, you would say, Doc
tor?’
‘Exactly.’
‘This way. lam lighter than an equal
bulk of air ; and if I wasnot tied down,
whiff’ 1 should go up, up, up ! Oh, it’s
dreadful! —oh! oh! ah!’
He always put in the ah! as if he
had been suddenly seized with some
dreadful pain, and it really had a most
comical effect.
1 now saw through the case in a mo
ment, and I said,
‘Are you sure you are not mistaken?’
‘Mistaken?’ he cried.
‘Yes.’
‘You ought to know better. A friend
ot mine told me you were a very clever
man.’
‘What! suppose, now,’ 1 said, ‘you
were to allow me to undo this hand
kerchief.’
‘Up I should go !’ he roared ; ‘and if
the window was open, out I should sail.’
‘lndeed,’ I said.
A es,’ he continued, ‘I have a very
slight hold upon the earth. For some
days 1 found myself getting lighter, un
til at last you see I am forced to tie
myself down, —oh ! oh ! ah !’
‘Suppose I hold your collar,’ said I,
‘while the handkerchief is taken off.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he replied, ‘just to con
vince you.’
I therefore held his collar with one
hand, and unbound the handkerchief
with the other.
‘There, you see,’ he said, “look at
my leg,’ and he poked his leg up as high
as he could.
‘But you could put it down,’ said I.
‘No, no.’
‘Oh ! yes, you could. There, you
see, I’ve let go your collar.’
‘But I’m holding on, you perceieve
and it’s no little exertion. I begin to
think you don’t understand my case.’
‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said I; ‘you must
j have a course o i preponderating pills.’
‘YY hat ?’ he cried, suddenly dropping
his leg.
; ‘Preponderating pills !’
‘1 never heard of them.’
‘Very likely.’
‘But, my dear sir,’ he exclaimed bolt
ing upright.
‘Dear me, Mr. Brown,’ I said, ‘you
are better.’
‘No, 1 ain’t—oh! oh ! ah !’
‘Well, I can remedy your disease.’
‘You can ?’
‘Yes, by the preponderating pills.’
‘lliey will increase my density, I
suppose, by contracting the—the ab
sorbents, and so on.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Astonishing ! My dear sir, you are
the only medical man that ever under
stood my case; and last year when 1
was gradually vitrifying ’
‘Gradually what ?’
‘Turning into a kind of porcelain— ’
‘Oh!’
‘Well, I went to Abcrnethy, and
what do you think he did ? —the* fool!’
I shook my head.
‘YY hy, he told me to squat down like
a Chinese, and try and have some old
colours burnt into me, so that by the
time I was finished, 1 should be a re
spectable mandarin for an old China
closet.’
‘lndeed.’
‘Yes; and when I remonstrated he
actually turned me out!—oh ! oh! ah!’
I flattered myself that I had made a
great hit at Mr. Augustus Brown’s case,
by my mention of the preponderating
pills, and I was only astonished at the
amount of his credulity upon the sub
ject. 1 sent him some extremely mild
pills, composed ofa common harmless
drug, and waited the result with some
degree of patience and a considerable
degree of expectation.
In a few days a message came to me
to go to Mr. Brown immediately, for
that he feared he was sinking fast.
‘Sinking fast ?’ said I.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘ls so weak ?’
‘Weak, sir?’
‘Yes ; you say he is sinking.’
f Oh, it’s cos he’s too heavy!’
‘Too what?’
‘Ridiculous !’
‘Master says, sir, as he’s got so
heavy he’s obliged to be on the ground
floor.’
‘lell him I’ll be with him imme
diately.’
The boy, who had come from Mr. j
Brown’s departed, and I felt myself!
thoroughly posed by this second ex
traordinary fancy of Mr. Augustus
Brown.
Ou muen,’ tnougnt 1, “for my ex
treme cleverness in inventing the pre
ponderating pills.’
I, however, lost no time in going to
my most eccentric patient. I found
him in the kitchen, lying on his back,
in the middle of the floor, and groan
ing, as usual.
‘Oh ; —ah !’ he cried, when he saw
me, “you are come. Oh, —oh, —ah !”
‘Yes,’ I said, with difficulty repress
ing a smile ; ‘ Dam sorry to hear you
are not quite well, Mr. Brown.’
‘Quite well! Oh, —oh, —ah!’
‘What is the matter now, sir?’
‘Oh, doctor, these preponderating
pills, Oh, —oh, —ah !’
‘What of them, sir?’
‘They are too powerful. Much too
strong sir.—awfully strong.’
‘Too strong?’
‘Yes, doctor; they have driven me
to the other extreme.’
‘lndeed.’
Wes. You know how dreadfully
light I was ; you had, you recollect, to
hold me from shooting out of the win
dow.’
‘Hem I’said I.
‘Well, do you know,’ he continued,
‘l’m now altogether as dreadfully dense
and heavy. You see I’m forced to be
on a ground floor, or else I should go
through the boards. Oh, —oh, —ah!’
‘You must leave off the pills,’ said I.
‘Ah, that’s all very well,doctor; but
you see the mischief is done. Here’s
a weight.’
So saying up went his leg, and down
again with a heavy dab.
‘What do you think of my case now?’
he said. ‘Here is a dreadful situation
to be placed in. Heavier than lead, —
horrible, horrible! If I once begin,from
my extreme heaviness, to break through
the crust of the earth, where shall 1
stop?’ Oh! oh! ah!’ ‘
‘lt’s rather a serious case,’ said I ;
‘but there are remedies.’
‘Remedies! you bring me new life.
‘Yes. You must take some anti-pon
derous draught, and be careful of your
diet.
‘My diet ?’
‘Yes.’
‘\Y r hat must I eat ?’
‘Mutton, principally.’
‘Very good. Oh, doctor, you are a
clever practitioner. I find you under
stand my case. You are the only med
ical man who ever took a sensible view
of mv terrible constitution. Oh, —oh,
—ah!’
******
‘Now,’ thought I, as I made up a
draught of distilled water with some
vegetable colouring matter, for Mr.
Augustus Brown ; now 1 think I have
managed this troublesome patient pret
ty well.’
Alas! how vain are humananticipa
! tions. Just three nights after, I was
rung up in the middle of my first
sleep, so violently, that I thought for a
moment that the house must be on fire.
I popped my head out of the window,
and asked,
‘Who’s there ?’
‘Me,’ was the reply, a very usual
j one by the way, under such eircum
| stances.
‘Who’s me?’ said 1, with a laudable
contempt, at the moment for grammar.
‘Please, sir, Mr. Brown’s boy.’
‘Oh! Mr. Augustus Brown?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘ Well, what’s the matter?’
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 31 WHOLE NO 134.
‘Oh ! please, sir, master very un
common bad.’
‘lndeed ?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘ls he light or heavy this time ?’
‘That’s gone off", sir!’
‘What,’ cried I, ‘some new freak ?’
‘Please sir, yes.’
‘What is it ?’
‘Master, sir, says as how you must
come directly, cos he’s going to be mer
rymopussed.’
‘Eh!’
‘Mcrrymopussed , please, sir.’
‘Merry—what ?’
‘That’s what he called it, sir.’
‘Just try and explain yourself, will
you, my boy ?’
‘Why, sir, I thinks as he means he’s
a going to be turned into something
else.’
‘Oh! metamorphosed.’
‘Something like that, sir, or some oth
er wild animal.’
“Tell your master, I’ll be with him
soon.”
The boy departed, and with great
vexation, which even the prospect of
my fee could not subdue, 1 put on my
clothes, and sallied out to see Mr.
Brown’s metamorphoses.
‘What can have put such a thing in
to 1 head?’ said Ito myself; ‘at
least my medicine is innocent thistime.”
YVhen I arrived at Bloomsbury
Square, I found the whole house in con
fusion, and I was shown into the draw
ing room, where sat Mr. Brown in a
night gown and slippers.
‘Good night, Mr. Brown,’ said I.
He replied by a wave of his hand
toward a seat. I sat down and said,
‘Well,sir,you are looking very well.’
lie shook his head.
‘Doctor, oh, —oh, —ah !’
‘Well, sir!’
‘You have done it at last ?’
‘Done what.’
‘Me. si r, me —Augustus Brown, Esq.’
‘As how, sir ?’
‘What directions did you give when
you were last here ?’
‘What directions?’
‘Yes now don’t cavil.’
‘Certeinly not. I told you to take
the pills I would send to you.’
‘Well sir? and what else sir?’
‘I told you to attend to your diet.’
‘But what did you tell me to eat ?’
‘Mutton.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, mutton ?’
‘ W T ell, doctor, 1 have eaten mutton.
I have taken mutton for breakfast, mut
ton for luncheon, mutton for dinner,
mutton for tea, and d—njt, sir, I took
mutton for supper.’
I could not, for my life, suppress a
smile, and it put Mr. Brown quite in a
rage.
‘you laugh, do VOU?
‘Nay, my good sir ’
‘Don’t good sir,me —you laughed sir.’
‘Very well.’
‘Oh! its very well is it? Well,
doctor what do you suppose has been
the result of all this mutton, eh, sir? 1
wait your answer.’
‘A great demand tor sheep,’ said I,
smiling.
‘Don’nt smile,’ he cried.
‘Well, then, seriously speaking, Mr.
Brown, 1 don’t apprehend any particu
lar result.’
•You don’t?’
‘I don’t. ’
‘Then I do.’
‘So I presume. But may I ask what, j
Mr. Brown ?’
‘You may.’
‘Well what sir ?’
‘Ala—a—a—a.’
‘What ?’
‘Ma—a—a ?’
‘Are you mad or joking ?’
‘Neither, doctor; but I’ve eaten so
much mutton, that you see, as a natu
ral result., I am in process of becoming
a sheep.’
‘Air. Brown,’ said I.
‘Ala—a—a—a,’ he replied.
‘Sir!’
‘Ala—a—a—a.’
‘Let me tell you, once for all—,
‘Ala—a—a—a.’
‘You are the unhappy victim ’
‘1 know it. Ala—a—a.’
‘Of self delusion.’
‘Eh ?’
‘Self delusion, I repeat, Air. Brown.’
‘YV'hat, sir.’
‘You are a nervous hypochondriac,
sir.’
‘I am no such thing, sir.’
‘You are, Air. Brown. Your com
plaints are all delusion—the creatures
of your own fancy.’
‘Yon don’t understand my case, sir.’
‘Perfectly, I do.’
‘You are a fool!’ I smiled—‘an idiot,
sir. Delusion, indeed ! Ala—a—a—a
oh —oh—ah !’ 1 laughed outright.
‘Leave my house, ignoramus,’ he
roared.
‘With pleasure,’ said I,taking my hat.
Thus ended my first connexion with
Air. Augustus Brown, the nervous gen
tleman whom, however, l attended for
years after that.
Tact and Talent.—Talent is some
thing, but tact is everything. Talent
is serious, sober, grave, and respectable
—tact is all that, and more too. It is
not another sense, but it is the life of
all five. It is the open eye, the quick
ear, the judging taste, the keen smell,
and the lively touch. It is the inter
preter of all riddles—the surmounter
of all difficulties. It is useful in all
places and at all times, it is useful in
solitude, for it shows a man his way
into the world. Talent is power; tact
is skill. Talent is weight; tact is mo
mentum. Talent knows what to do;
tact knows how to do it. Talent makes
a man respectable; tact makes a man
respected. Talent is wealth; tact is
ready money. For all the practical
purposes of life, tact carries it against
talent ten to one.
Washington Allston, the day
before his death, speaking of Coler
idge, said: “ He was the greatest man
l ever knew, and one of the best—a
thousand times more sinned against
than sinning.”
ftlisrcllnnif.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
AN INCIDENT IN IRISH LIFE.
“ Hallo, waiter!”
“ Corning, sir.”
“ Hits my horse been fed ?”
“ He has just had his oats, sir.”
‘•Did you see that his near hind shoe
was secured, as I desired V‘
“All’s right, sir; the smith is only
this moment gone.”
“ Well, my good fellow, have him
1 saddled and brought round in about
i half an hour; meantime you may
amuse yourself by making outmy bill.”
The servitor vanished, and the gen
tleman was left alone to his medita
tions and a pint of port. He was evi
dently an old and exne.rie.noad t.ravel
i ler, well appointed in all respects for
I the road ; he was a stout-built, well-fed
Englishman, exhibiting that thoughtful
and practical expression of countenance
wl ich so much characterises the man
of business. He had already travelled
twenty Irish miles, and nearly the same
number vet intervened between where
•/
he then was, and the village at which
he purposed to put up for the night. —
He had not been long in Ireland ; and
the tales he had read and heard repeat
ed (often grossly exaggerated) of pikes
sixteen feet, long, of boughings, burn
ings, and other aboriginal amusements,
had not conveyed an over-favourable
impression regarding the country he
had undertaken to journey through. —
Evening was fast closing in; and when
from the window, he looked on the wide
black bog through which his road lay
—presenting, as it did, after a heavy
day’s wet in November, a dismal con
trast to the level surface of the English
“turnpike road,” —and then turned al
ternately to the pleasant turf fire which
glowed upon the hearth, and to the fine
old wine that sparkled seductively in
his glass, he sighed at the thought of
resigning the comforts which these con
ferred, for the cheerless misery w hich
that presented. He was not a man,
however, to be easily depressed ; so fin
ishing his port, and ordering a few
more sods to the fire, he mixed, by
way of a finisher, a fiery tumbler,
strorgly impregnated with the “spirit
of the mountain.” He then turned
his huge ‘.‘Petersham,” so as to acquire
more of the genial influence of the
blazing turf, and proceeded to examine
his arms. These consisted of a case of
pistols splendidly mounted, f ather
springed, and detonating. Having per
fectly satisfied himself that no tricks
had been played with their charges, he
placed them carefully in the two breast
pockets of his great coat, situated in
side the limner cr ac ’ r *--■* tU ~‘“
ahke from damp and prying observa
tion. With such companions, he
thought himself capable of facing Col
lier or Captain Rock, should either ven
ture to oppose him. The waiter now
entered, and announced that his horse
was ready ; so, settling his bill, he
rose, and tying a silk handkerchief
round his throat, and pulling on his
large “fearnought,” mounted his horse
—a fine strong animal, who answered
his rider’s caress by a spirited neighing;
then, placing in his mouth a lighted
cigar, and slipping a douceur into the
ready hand of the officious hostler, who,
in rather a mysterious tone, wished
him a “ safe journey,” the traveller
rode off.
The night was becoming pitchy dark,
and the rain, driven full in his teeth by
a biting gust, was falling fast; but his
horse, which possessed great strength
and action, having been well refreshed,
bore him gallantly ; and, after an hour’s
good going, he calculated upon having
distanced the inn eight or nine miles.
As he advanced, however, the road be
came more hilly, broke’ and difficult,
and was in some places so narrow,that
he was in danger of being swamped in
the deep drains which ran parallel on
each side, and he was, therefore, obliged
to dismount and lead his horse by the
| bridle. Having proceeded a little furth
i er on, he came to where four roads
j crossed ; and seeing a light in a miser
! able hovel, w hich was situated in a
small field, a little from the way-side,
he secured his horse to a tree, and ad
vanced towards it, in order to ascertain
his way correctly. His path, though
short, like some passages in music, he
; found very difficult to get through.—
: lie had sunk knee-deep in the mire,and
i on attempting to cross a trench, fell
into a poo] of green and stagnant wa
| ter, scrambling out of which,he straight
way found himself in the company of
a portly animal, “epicuri de grege por
| cum,” who, with her infant progeny,
i had been enjoying a profound repose.
The noise occasioned by his unceremo
nious entrte seemed to cause great
I alarm in the hovel; the rushlight w hich
had gleamed from the four-paned win
dow (three of straw and one of glass)
’ was instantly extinguished, and a loud
and boisterous chorus became hushed
in silence. Having made good his en
trance, he found himself in a small earth
floored room, furnished with a deal ta
ble, flanked by low forms of the same
1 material ; at the head of the table sat
| three men, dressed in dark freize coats,
j all busily employed in inflicting sum
: mary justice upon a coarse cheese of
! home manufacture, and oaten bread,
! while occasionally they made acquaint
-1 ance with a large black bottle, whose
| contents appeared somewhat more ca
liforic than “ blessed water from the
spring.” At the lower end of the ta
bh sat the mistress of the establish
ment, and four ragged half-starved chil
dren, engaged at their vesper-time
meal, composed of that root which
Malthus vituperates and Sadler praises.
Our friend having procured the ne
cessary information, requested the as
sistance of one of the youngsters to
guide him through the difficulties of the
way. \\ hile he was speaking, he ob
served that one of the freize-coated
personages, a pale, thin, determined
looking man, was eyeing him most
serutinizingly. Accompanied by the
j boy, the traveller took his departure —
j previously, however, requesting the