clay out of which he kneaded the brains of most men...Give Claudius and Claudia, and all the young masters and misses who have a regard for me, the salutation of a bard. I wish with all my wishing powers that God may strengthen you, and preserve you for your friends and beloved. Farewell-write to me often, whenever you have half an hour to yourself. On the 12th of June, he thus writes from Mariensee: I again send you two articles. They 1ere both composed in the lovely month of May, among nightingales and luxuriant trees, and I shall be rejoiced if they exhale any of that vernal sweetness which on all sides streamed in upon me as I sang. I can send you three sheets if you want so much; if not, I will not stint the others for want of room. I wish you would send me all the pieces which you have of mine, and point out those passages which need the file or burnisher. I have leisure enough for using these favourite implements,-and I wish to remove all inequalities from the surface, before I send the children of my imagination into the world. I shall, with much thankfulness, adopt any alterations which you and Claudius may suggest. Again, on the 22d of August: You receive herewith three poems, which I struck off last week, and sundry alterations which I have made in former compositions. Make what use you please of them. The "Future Mistress" is my favorite. You can, perhaps, still retrench some faults, and add some beauties....We are, at present, in the midst of the hay harvest the meadows exhale their sweets, and are alive with mowers. I often lie at dusk on a hay-stack, and indulge my fancies, until the silver moon comes forth upon the sky, and agreeably surprises me. On the 10th of October, he writes from Zelle: Write to me by the very first post, whether you will continue at Wandsbeck during this winter, or in what other place you will fix your quarters. I grope about in the dark, and know not where to find you. I am ignorant whether you are already settled in Mecklenburgh, or lingering at Flensburg on the shore of the ocean, or in what corner of the earth you have secreted yourself. If you be still at Wandsbeck, I shall go to you; if you remove into Mecklenburgh, I shall either follow you, occupy your apartment at Wandsbeck, or choose Hanover for my abode. I am thinking of passing the fair month of May somewhere or other in the country, either at Mariensee, or with Brückner. The spring is so delightful in the country, and mortals are destined to enjoy the sweets of so few of them, that I should be sorry to spend any spring within the dismal walls of a town. In the autumn of 1775, Hölty went to Hanover, in order to undergo he expressed it, under the care of a short after-course of medicine, as Zimmermaun, having determined to set out afterwards for Wandsbeck. His hopes rose and fell, but he maintained his cheerfulness, and used to pass jokes upon himself. The following extract is from a letter which he sent to Voss on the 14th of May, 1776, accompanied by some contributions, for the Almanack of the ensuing year: If you still have room, I will communicate to you some longer poems which are still partly in my head, and partly out of it. I have done nothing this long while. They are meagre, unpoetical times here, as meagre as Pharaoh's lean kine, or myself. The forenoon I am obliged to devote to translating; after dinner, I get a head-ache, and flush in the face, and feel disposed to do nothing, until about five o'clock. I seldom quit my chamber, and scarcely see a human being....I have a great wish for the proposed excursion to Lubeck, in order to see rational people once again. I should like it best at Michaelmas: I shall then be rid of my translation, and able to pass some weeks with you in tranquillity. I have an uncommon desire to see you once again. My residence here is extremely disagreeable to me; I must either go elsewhere soon, or else I shall become rusty. Miller has already written several romances. Answer my letter soon. I shall, in future, write frequently to you. These were Hölty's last words to him, who, with anxiety, awaited his coming. Hölty died at Hanover, on the 1st of September, 1776. Such was the life of this youth, whose genius struggled so successfully against the pressure of bodily disease that he shines among the first poets in every department of the art which he cultivated. His poems were not the creations of a mind which centered all in itself, but of one which looked upon nature with the eye of love, and embodied in verse the genuine feelings of the heart. From his desire to investigate the traces of primæval simplicity of manners, in regions where nature is unshackled in her operations, he had, in the winter of 1774, planned to undertake, along with Voss, a pedestrian tour through Italy and Si cily. They intended to omit the known track, and the haunts of the antiquarian and the artist,-and in their stead, to remain for a longer time in peaceful villages, remote from the highway, or to wander about with the shepherds of the Apennines, and Etna. They expected to earn with delight, among the gardens of Hesperia, a sufficiency for their maintenance, by translating from the English and Italian languages, and entered into a contract with a bookseller to that effect. Hölty proposed to himself, as a beginning, an extract from the Connoisseur, with Hurd, Shaftesbury, and Plato's Republic; to his destined companion, he proposed Blackwell, the source from which commentators derived all their Homeric knowledge at that period. To speak of Hölty's piety would be superfluous. His poems evince that he revered religion with the same feelings with which every good man does. From the time that he was able to earn a livelihood, his high spirit prevented him from soliciting any assistance from his family; hence he was sometimes in straitened, although never in actually needy, circumstances. Voss, while at Hamburgh, happened upon one occasion to deplore the necessity Hölty was under, of fatiguing himself with translating, even in the extremity of his disease, upon which a benevolent lady sent him a donation of fifty dollars. He was, however, already dead when the money arrived, and it was therefore presented to his eldest brother. Even in the last year of his life, Hölty, not thinking his end so nigh, occupied himself in forming a collection of his poems. Death surprised him, and his papers were confided to Boie, who undertook to edit them, and to devote a part of the profits of the sale to the erection of a little monument of marble on the grave of the Hanoverian poet. Having been, however, appointed to an official situation in Dithmarschen, he was obliged to delay the execution of this project, and a certain person, who gave out that he was a friend of the deceased, had the audacity to publish a garbled collection of his poems, culled from various periodicals, as well of those that had been condemned, as of those that had been approved by the author himself. This circumstance induced Voss, with the assistance of Count Stollberg, to undertake the first genuine edition of his works, and the profits were sent to Hölty's mother, to enable her to defray the expenses of educating her younger children, as a monument was considered to be no distinction of merit in Hanover, where the grave of a LEIBNITZ remains unknown. X. X. Dublin, August 9, 1821. SONNET,-A DREAM. As Hermes once took to his feathers light, So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved that day; But to that second circle of sad Hell,* Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd,-and fair the form I floated with about that melancholy storm. April, 1819. Dante; Inferno, c. 5, JOHN KEATS. "The stormy blast of hell With restless fury drives the spirits on, Whirl'd round, and dash'd amain with sore annoy." EDWARD HERBERT'S LETTERS TO THE FAMILY OF THE POWELLS. No. II. GREENWICH HOSPITAL. To Russell Powell, Esq. MY DEAR RUSSELL!—The kind interest which all your family took in the letter which I addressed to your sister, descriptive of the Coronation, has rendered the task of writing to any one of you the most delightful amusement of my evening hours; and I have now a double pleasure in witnessing the various scenes which make up the great drama of life in this metropolis, from a knowledge of the gratification I shall have in describing them, and the interest you will feel in hearing them described. You well know my restless and unappeasable hunger of mind, after all that is either curious or instructive in this world,-not regarding personal comfort, or even personal safety, in the attainment of any interesting object, and ever disciplining my temper and my mind to meet and mingle with all descriptions of persons, in order to the observing of their habits, their pleasures, or their peculiarities. I love to visit the great national buildings, which commemorate either the country's taste, or the country's charities and wealth; -I love to behold the revelries, the glories, the pastimes, of the rich and the great;-I take a deep interest in the amusements, the rude sports, the noisy vivacity of the poor. You know that my knowledge of London had previously arisen principally from the books which I had read, and that my actual experience of life had been gained chiefly from the small life of market towns and country revels. How often, Russell, have we ejaculated wishes to each other, when standing at a wrestling match, or looking upon the lads of single stick, or, when walking over the most celebrated houses for miles round,"that we could see and admire those higher and more exciting struggles and combats of the great city,-those theatres, temples, and palaces, of which we had so often read, even to dreaming-that we could watch and wonder at the workings of that tre mendous hive, into which,--rash drone as I am!-I have at length ventured to creep. I am now, my dear Russell, seeing all that can be seen,-insinuating myself into scenes and amongst characters which half of London even know only by hearsay,-wandering amongst the noblest buildings around me,-harvesting, in truth, within the granary of my mind, food enough to last your hungry spirits through the winter. Russell! strange and opposite have been my researches of late.—I have been to the green-room of a principal theatre, and witnessed all the craft, hate, and envy, "found only on the stage," as my Lord Byron well expresses it in his sweet nuisance, Don Juan;-and I have penetrated into all the heartless eagerness, guileful ferocity, and desperate spirit of the cock-pit. Greenwich Hospital has opened to my eyes its majestic, enormous, and beautiful charities; and the bear-garden has made me familiar with its strange, antique, and brutal mysteries. I have beheld the costly state and fineries of a court, the strife, the terrors, the appalling fierceness of a bull-fight, the pictorial wealth and stately formalities of Hampton palace, the beautiful and exciting conflict of two great pugilists. Have not my pursuits been various, and my curiosity unwearied and determined?-My letters will now, if my health and leisure permit, give to you, my dear Russell, or to your sisters, if the subject should beseem them, faithful accounts of my travels, --accounts which will be novel at least; for I do not remember to have read any description of several of the scenes which I have enumerated. -The buildings, the theatres, the court, will have gaiety and beauty enough to interest the ladies' minds; for what female heart is proof against pointed lace, or can contemplate ruffles without emotion?-while the rougher diamonds of the cock pit, the bear-garden, and such rude mines, will be rich jewels in the cap of your curiosity. I have, indeed, a scene in store which will be brighter and costlier than all the rest; but I dare not hint at it yet, lest I ruin my chance of being taken to it at all, or rashly endanger my safety while there:-rest, rest, perturbed Russell! until I shall in my wisdom see fit to exhibit this brilliant and matchless gem to your wondering, your delighted eyes. I should not omit to inform you, that Mrs. Mallinson's letter of introduction to the Mortons has been to me most serviceable and successful, for they have taken me by the hand with the utmost friendship and liberality, and have obtained for me the sight of many London lions:indeed, they appear to me to have access to all the chief cages of the city, and the Hectors and Fannys of this marvellous metropolis are familiar to them as household words. To render my letters the more intelligible to you, as the Mortons will make the principal dramatis persone of my epistolary drama, I will attempt as clear a description of them as I can accomplish; relying upon your ingenuity for colouring my sketch with the lively and gallant tints of your own imagination. I shall merely offer you the family in outline, after the style of Retsch's Faust, being convinced that none but a masterly hand can safely venture upon a minute finishing. Mr. Morton, the father, is one of those gentle and silent characters, which are rather spirits of the household, than active and common mortal portions of it:-never mingling in the petty strifes and light joys of the moment, but softening and quieting the former with a bland and pleasant placidity, and heightening the latter by a cheerful and generous regard. His age I should guess to be about fifty-six; you may perceive that Time is beginning to write a few faint lines upon his forehead, and that his eye begins to show that patient wisdom which only comes of the light of many years. His hair (which Mrs. Morton tells me was a raven black" when they were married," and of which she has one precious lock, neatly folded in fra grant paper, and kept in the innermost recess of her pocket book) is just dashed with a glossy white, which seems to light upon him more like the glory than the waste of age, and brightens, if possible, the serene sweetness of his forehead. He speaks very little, but he looks as if his thoughts ran on with the radiant solemnity of a river. His observations, indeed, when they do come forth, are remarkable only for their simplicity and humane gentleness ;— and you feel convinced that they are, as the old play hath it, killed with kindness. His thoughts remain with him, but his feelings come forth and speak, and you may ever perceive that his mind discourses silently and with itself, while his heart is the active and eloquent minister to his tongue. I wish, Russell, you could see him sitting at his table, or at his fireside, and lighting the conversation with his pleasant looks. All customs, all pleasures, all regulations, take their exactness from his presence, and I never saw order wear so attractive a garb as that in which Mr. Morton clothes her. He has the most precise and quiet mode of taking his seat, or reading the newspaper (and quiet as he naturally is, he is yet deeply interested in the political agitations which ever disturb the heart of his country), or stirring the fire, or putting on his spectacles. He goes to an office somewhere in the city daily, but I do not see that his merchant-life distracts his home comforts, or molests his morning thoughts; whether it be that his peculiar temperament places all commercial fluctuation in a mild and softening atmosphere, or that he meets not with those temporary difficulties and perplexities which call daily at the most obscure and dusty dens of business, and afflict the nerves of the oldest and most staid merchant, I know not; but the rise and fall of stocks-the intricacies of the markets-the uncertainties and dangers of the shipping-the more polished difficulties, and changes, and higher mysteries of the court, abide not with Mr. Morton. He hears the din of the nation, and it stuns him not:he sees the great game of the world played, and heeds not its rogueries, its ruin, or its fascinations. His heart is in his home, and in his family, and he does not ever look to the winners and the losers elsewhere. Such is Mr. Morton. To me he is unusually loquacious, which is a sure mark of his regarding me kindly ;and the other evening he took particular joy, during our rubber, in always having a king for my queen, and laughed outright in detecting a revoke which I committed; which was the most gratifying sign.-He, in general, pities the objects of his triumphs, and silently pines over his own success, which he ever thinks "runs too much on one side." Mrs. Morton is a woman of the most superior mind and admirable manners; and I never hear her mentioned, even by friends, without expressions of the most untainted endearment. The silence and worldly inaptitude of her life-partner have called forth the powers of her mind, and given a constant exercise to her fine judgment. She has the most pleasing way of insinuating plain advice that I ever beheld; and I believe it is impossible to disregard the sweet persuasion and delicate earnestness of her voice and expression. She is younger than Mr. Morton by some years, and has a face still eloquent with beauty. The dark eye, --the happy forehead,--the pale cheek, -the mouth, made ever pleasant by a thousand amiable smiles, seem still to retain the sweeter virtues of youth, and enforce the wisdom of experience by giving it a charm which experience seldom possesses. Mrs. Morton is admirably well read in all the sound authors of our language, and can converse on subjects which seldom come under the consideration of women. She is mistress of the learned enthusiasm, holy poesy, and breathing piety of Bishop Taylor, and can lead you through the quaint periods of Sir Thomas Browne's rich and antique philosophy. Shakspeare and Spenser are familiar to her, in their deepest fancies, and most curious excellencies; and she is skilful in her knowledge of the works of the most eminent painters. She enlightens common walks, the idlest evening rambles, with talk, all breathing information, and pleasure, and truth. The distant gloomy landscape reminds her of this or that picture; and she points out the disposition of the lights and shades which frames the resemblance. She never delivers her opinions authoritatively, or with a consciousness of power, but suggests wisdom for the adoption of others;--and often so expresses an ingenious thought, that her husband, by a word or two, seems to originate rather than confirm it. It is her chief desire to make Mr. Morton appear superior to herself, and to that end, her voice and her manner are gentle and subdued in his presence, as though she took all her feelings, thoughts, and wishes, from his heart and mind:though to those whose observation is acute, it is evident that her knowledge is far more profound than she chuses to lay open. By an ease of manner peculiar to herself she accommodates her mind to that of every person with whom she converses, and never offends an inferior capacity with the least sign of superiority. With all these higher qualifications of mind, she is at heart a very woman, and has all the delicate tenderness, and unfailing love, of her sex. The lock of hair which she preserves with the youthful mystery of a girl, awakens early pride and young joy within her, and sets her dreaming over Mr. Morton's marriage dress and manly person, and calls up the mode of his hair, and the astounding colour of his coat. "Your uncle was dressed in bright blue, and had ruffles of this breadth (measuring a width upon her sleeve, that never fails to exalt all the female eyebrows in the room), I think he was certainly the handsomest man of his time!-I wore that dress which you now and then contemplate in my drawer, and I cannot say I think the brides of the present age dress so becomingly as those of my own day." Such womanly reminiscences as these are always said with a mellowed tone of voice, and with a glisten of the eye, which show how much the devoted nature of the sex triumphs over the acquired formalities and tastes of life. Mrs. Morton sits at her table like a queen, in the true dignity of and I am happy to say, Russell, that grace, I stand well at her drawing-rooms and domestic court. |