George Crump, the inspired carman, of whose original Muse I have already furnished interesting specimens, having completed a poem entitled "The Skittle Ground," with the exception of the introductory stanzas, applied to me for that difficult portion; and as I was very sure that he would never imitate the discourteousness of Dr. Darwin, who received a similar contribution from Miss Seward, and prefixed it to his Botanic Garden without the smallest acknowledgment, I resolved to gratify his wish, running over in my mind the opening lines of the most celebrated epics. Virgil's "Arma virumque cano"-Tasso's "Canto l'arme pietose"-Ariosto's "Canto le Donne e' i Cavalieri" -Milton's "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit," with many other initiatory verses, occurred to my recollection; but Mr. Crump, having intimated at our conversazione that he had himself hit upon a happy exordium, I obtained silence, when he recited the following four lines as his proposed commencement, assuring us that the fact corresponded with his statement, which he considered a most auspicious augury. While playing skittles, ere I took my quid, It was my intention to have furnished some farther poetical flowers from the literary garland woven at this interesting Symposium, but the recollection of an incident which occurred towards the end of the entertainment actually paralyzes my faculties, and makes the pen flutter in my hand. My father, who is passionately fond of whist, had stipulated for a table in one corner of the room; and for the purpose of tenanting it had invited four or five humdrum neighbours, who could only be called men of letters in the postman's sense of the phrase, although they were perfectly competent to go through the automatical movements of shuffling, cutting, and dealing. After the rubber had been played once over in fact, and twice in subsequent discussion, they prepared to depart, and I heard the announcement of their servants' arrival with a pleasure that I could ill conceal." Mrs. Waddle's maid and umbrella!" sounded up the stairs, and the corpulent old lady slowly obeyed the summons. "Miss Clacket's pattens stop the way!" was the next cry; and her shrill voice, still audible from below, continued without ceasing till the hall-door closed upon her clangour. "Mr. Wheeze's boy and lantern!" followed, when the worthy oilman, having put on two great coats, and tied as many handkerchiefs round his throat, coughed himself out of the house, wishing that he was well over Tower Hill on his way to Ratcliffe. Mrs. Dubbs's shopman came to claim the last of this quartetto of quizzes; and I was just congratulating myself on the prospect of renewing our feast of intellect, free from the interruptions of uncongenial souls, when my father, running up to the table, cried out-" Well, now let's see what card-money they have left." So saying, he looked under one of the candlesticks, took up a shilling, bit it, rung it upon the table, and exclaiming, "Zounds! it's a bad one-it's Mrs. Dubbs's place-Hallo! Mrs. Dubbs, this won't do though, none of your raps"-rushed hastily out of the room. After two or three minutes, passed by me in silent horror, he reentered, nearly out of breath, ejaculating, as he spun another shilling with his finger and thumb-" Ay, ay, this will do; none of your tricks upon travellers, Mrs. Dubbs:-a rank Brummagem!"— Miss Caustic began the titter-but I can describe no farther. I fell into as complete a state of defaillance as the subject of Sappho's celebrated ode-my blood tingled, my eyes swam, "my ears with hollow murmurs rang," and yet this fainting of the mind did not afford any relief to the shame and mortification that overwhelmed the too refined and sensitive bosom of HEBE HOGGINS. NIGHT. "O quante belle Luci il tempio celeste in ve raguna.” WHEN I look forth into the face of night, And see those silent orbs that gem the sky The moon that holds her glorious path on high- All moving on their destined course aright, Through the broad ocean of infinity, Steer'd by the hand of Him whose glories lie TASSO. With this array, and downward turn mine eyes, My soul expands into its native might, And loathes the burden of that coil that lies Like lead upon the soul, and clogs its flight M. MADAME CAMPAN'S MEMOIRS. * MEMOIRS, as compared with those curious specimens of fine writing and false reasoning which pass under the name of " histories," are a decided step in literary civilization. The earlier historical compositions, with their ready-made orations and indiscriminate collections of probable and improbable events, and the more recent and elaborate productions, having some show of criticism as to the details, but stamped in their ensemble with the brand of system,-belong more to the class of belles-lettres, than to morality and political philosophy;. and they are much better adapted to form part of a College course, than to afford the statesman or philosopher an insight into the human heart, and enable him to regulate the future by the experience of the past. It has been objected to memoirs, that they reflect too faithfully the passions and prejudices of the times in which they are written, to admit of their being received with confidence as historical; or rather, it is insinuated that they are mere registers of the lie of the day, and worthy of consideration only as a species of romance. Yet it is in this very particular and distinctive characteristic that the superior utility of such compositions consists-namely, that they are reflections of the passing hour, that they are fac-similes of the society of which they speak, and, as it were, dried preparations of the anatomy of the times. A single memoir, it is true, may exhibit individual facts in false colours; may detail anecdotes that are defective, embroidered, or wholly untrue; but the entire work will rarely fail to exhibit so faithful a transcript of the author's mind, so complete an exposure of his prejudices, leanings, credulity, means of information, and capability of using them, that his credibility may be estimated like that of a living man; while the testimony of contemporary writers will confirm or contradict any particular statements which may appear questionable and uncertain. The superiority of memoirs over the cold digests of chronicles and state papers is marked in this single circumstance; that while we know little more of general history than a few leading events, of which we only guess at the remote and predisposing causes, without any acquaintance with the personal trifles which are the immediate springs of the greatest, as of the smallest actions,-while we remain in ignorance of all the humanity of events, and are presented only with the abstractions and generalities of the history of other nations,-we appear to live and breathe in the court of France; and to have a personal acquaintance with all the leading personages who have figured in that corrupt and intriguing, but active and enterprising arena of conflicting interests. In the memoirs with which French literature abounds, there is to be found not only "le dessous des cartes," the little causes which produce great events, but we have an encyclopedia of the current ideas of the day, of the mental fashions that prevail,—the forms and qualities of the "walking gentlemen" of society, no less than of its heroes,--the average of prevailing virtues and vices, ignorance and knowledge, the materials with which statesmen work, the mass * Mémoires sur la Vie privée de Marie Antoinette, &c. &c. they have to move, the resistances by which they are opposed-in one word, the " very mirror of the time, its form, and pressure." The lights and shades are not purposely distributed to produce effect; words are not artfully arranged to balance a sentence; the mock majesty of dramatic character, and the forced parade of a tragic unity of action, are not supported with poetic dexterity; but we are admitted at ance to that levelling intimacy and familiarity which give events and personages their natural dimensions and proper colours: while an intelligent reader gets as much information by what escapes from his author, as by what is intentionally set down on the subject. It is a characteristic of the bustling and inquisitive age in which we live, to bring compositions of this species to immediate light. Families are no longer content to let the papers of their distinguished members rot in obscurity, subject to the chances of literature and the accidents of life; but, duly appreciating their pecuniary value in the market, they hastep at once to realize this part of the deceased's property, as they would settle a partnership or foreclose a mortgage. Thus the French Revolution has been laid fully open to its contemporaries: and though as yet we are but at the end of the second act of the drama, we are rich in abundant materials for judging the characters and assigning the occasions of its events. We pass freely, not only from the disappointed ambition and iron despotism of Louis XIV. to the corrupting and debasing tyranny of his successor;-from the stern religious persecutions of the former, to the ridiculous squabbles concerning the bull Unigenitus of the latter, and thence forward to the embarrassed finances and vacillating character of Louis XVI.;—but we are enabled to trace step' by step, and day by day, the regular march of causes and consequences, from the canting piety and real intrigue of the prudish Maintenon, down to the infamies of the Duc de Richelieu, the bankrupty of Guémenée, the transaction of the diamond necklace, the profligacy of Egalité and Mirabeau, and the fatal double-dealing, which brought the unfortunate inheritors of so many false and vicious combinations to a bloody and degrading death. The papers of Madame Campan, though last in the series of published memoirs, are by no means least in interest; and if they do not add much to the stock of positive information concerning the great events which have been so often illustrated, they derive an intense interest from the author's nearness to the illustrious personages of the eventful drama; and from the many anecdotes which she presents under other aspects than those in which we have been accustomed to see them. Madame Campan was placed in the court of Louis XV. towards the latter end of his reign, as reader to Mesdames his daughters; from whose service she afterwards passed into that of the Dauphine, Marie Antoinette. Her memoirs commence from the first epoch of her existence as a courtier, and they terminate with her last separation from that unfortunate queen, on her confinement in the Temple. Madame Campan paints with much felicity and fidelity that vicious, corrupt, but ennuié monarch, Louis XV. such as we see him in the generality of contemporary writers, -indolent and melancholy,-harassed with the fatigue of royal representation, and escaping from it by an indulgence of the lowest habits, both of conversation and morals,-unequal himself to the labours of governing, yet occupied in an inces sant surveillance of his ministers, of whose secrets, by force of espionage, he possessed himself with much dexterity. The insolent contempt of public opinion of Dubarry, and the horrors of the parc aux cerfs are unequivocally admitted by Madame Campan, if any confirmation were now wanting to authenticate the total overthrow of morality of that degenerate period. But by far the most curious part of her picture of the court is that which relates to the four maiden ladies to whose service she was in the first instance attached. It is impossible to conceive any thing more melancholy than the, worse than claustral, life to which those wretched women were condemned. Their education had been wholly neglected, and they were cut short from the pleasures of rational occupation; while a rigid and relentless etiquette watched over every moment of their lives, and interfered with their most trifling amusements. The King himself treated them with unfeeling indifference; and so little were "the daughters of France" possessed of the comforts of life, that they had not even a garden at their disposal, and were obliged to gratify a taste for flowers, like a London citizen, by placing pots in the balconies of their windows. The royal intercourse between the parent and his children exhibits in striking colours the hideous annihilation of the charities of life, which the vanity of high station too often tends to produce. "Louis XV. saw very little of his family; he came every morning by a private staircase into the apartment of Madame Adelaide. He often brought and drank there, coffee that he had made himself. Madame Adelaide pulled a bell, which apprised Madame Victoire of the king's visit; Madame Victoire, on rising to go to her sister's apartment, rang for Madame Sophie, who in her turn rang for Madame Louise. The apartments of the princesses were of very large dimensions. Madame Louise occupied the farthest room. This latter lady was deformed and very short; the poor princess used to run with all her might to join the daily meeting, but, having a number of rooms to cross, she frequently, in spite of her haste, had only just time to embrace her father before he set out for the chase. "Every evening at six, the ladies interrupted my reading to them, to accompany the princes to Louis XV.; this visit was called the king's debotter,* and was marked by a kind of etiquette. The princesses put on an enormous hoop, which set out a petticoat ornamented with gold or embroidery; they fastened a long train round their waists, and concealed the undress of the rest of their clothing, by a long cloak of black taffety which enveloped them up to the chin. The gentlemen ushers, the ladies in waiting, the pages, the esquires, and the ushers bearing large flambeaux, accompanied them to the King. In a moment the whole palace, generally so still, was in motion; the King kissed each princess on the forehead, and the visit was so short, that the reading which it interrupted was frequently resumed at the end of a quarter of an hour: the princesses returned to their apartments, and untied the strings of their petticoats and trains; they resumed their tapestry, and I my book." From the intolerable restraints of this royal life, Madame Louise, one of the four sisters, took shelter in a convent, where she passed the rest of her days, contented in having exchanged, for voluntary rigours and self-imposed mortifications, the enjoined restraints of heartless representation. In the hour of her death, however, this princess did not wholly forget her rank and dignity. Louis the XVIth related to Madame Campan that her last words were, " Au paradis vite, vite, an * Debetter meaning the time of unbooting.-Tr. |