self ever possessed. Though he ever speaks of himself still he is never tedious nor uninteresting, "Je suis moy même la matière de mon livre," is nearly the first sentence you meet with in perusing his excellent essays. He died in 1592, aged 64, having lived during the reign of five kings of France; Francis I., Henry II., Charles IX., Henry III., and Henry IV. : Charron, the contemporary and disciple of Montaigne, ranks second amongst the philosophers of the sixteenth century. His treatise on wisdom stands very high amidst the productions of that age in it he discourses on political economy, government, the nature of social society, &c. His style is more bold and serious, more precise, and bespeaks more research than that of his model and master. So highly gratified was the vanity of Montaigne in having so learned a man for his imitator and even copyist, that dying without male heirs, he left to Charron the privilege of bearing his arms. The French historians, who wrote during this age, are neither famed for the impartiality of their narrative, nor the beauty of their style; the party, they espoused, were it guilty of the most atrocious deeds, was lauded to the skies; whilst, on the contrary, the one they opposed, however upright their proceedings might be, was covered with the foulest aspersions. De Thou, whom we can scarce call a French historian, must, however, be excepted from this accusation; he ever adhered to that rule which every faithful historian ought implicitly to obey, "ne quid veri dicere historicus timeat, ne quid falsi audeat," an historian must not be afraid to declare the truth, nor dare to spread a falsehood. Amyot, the historiographer of Francis, may also be placed in opposition to those false historians, who gave such a partial account of the events they had witnessed; neither is his style of that harsh inelegant character in which the acts of that day were recorded; on the contrary, to designate a remarkably energetic and perspicuous style, the French "It is the style of Amyot." His translation of Plutarch will be ever looked upon as a chef d'oeuvre in the literary world, so closely has he adhered to the expressive and antique grace of the original. Racine in his tragedy of Mithridates, painting the sorrows and sentiments of Monima, transcribes nearly verbatim from the above named translation of Plutarch. De Sully and De Retz may be looked upon more in the light of biographers than historians; a perusal of their works is strongly recommended by Lord Chesterfield, in his letters to his son. PIERRE. THE ROASTING APPLE. A certain madman once threw himself out of a window of his house, expecting thereby to break his neck at the least. But as it is not some men's luck to be drowned, so it was not the luck of our maniac to have his neck broken by this fall. Accordingly he escaped with a few bruises. On being interrogated as to the cause of this act, the madman replied, that "being doubtful in his mind, whether it were necessary, or not, that he should leap out of the window, he had placed a piece of paper at the open sash, determining, if the wind blew the paper back into the room, to refrain from his meditated leap; but, if his test were wafted outwards, to follow it. At length, finding the paper kept its station on the window, he had concluded he might do as he pleased, and, therefore, precipitated himself to the earth." This is but one out of an infinite number of instances, that might be adduced, to show how little will embolden a man to do what he has a great inclination to: and I have chosen it for a preface, that I may show myself not singular in the impertinances I contemplate. It will be remembered by those who read the fourth number of the Leodiensian, that MR. JAQUES mentions his having lighted his candle with "Mr. Martask's brilliant contribution, yclept Woodhouse Feast.'" I could not but feel that this was intended as a slur upon my production, and was, consequently, considerably chagrined. A hundred times I thought of writing a warm expostulation to Mr. Jaques himself: a thousand times I determined to expose him in the Leodiensian, if only Mr. Basil York, would spare me a page in it; and as often I rejected both plans, thinking the former useless, and the latter as evincing an angry feeling. Still ideas of revenge would recur, and my mind was equally poised between retaliation, which inclination suggested, and silence, which my better judgment pleaded for. The former, at length, carried the day, owing to the following circumstance. The other day, without either filching or orchard breaking, I obtained undisputed possession of a most glorious baking apple, which I immediately determined upon roasting; and for that purpose attached a string to its stalk, and sticking my penknife into the chimney-piece, (by the way, I broke the blade in the operation, which may account for the bad pen I am writing with) appended the apple thereto; and as I sat watching the operation of the fire upon it, I almost wished and even fancied the round fruit were Mr. Jaques, whom I was roasting. Full of this conceit, I exclaimed, "There Mr. Nicholas, I'll melt your hard heart now! Having a breast of metal yourself, you attempted to steel the hearts of others.' Hereupon the steam, speaking through a hole in the skin of my apple, seemed to reply "What heart would I steal but Eliza's!" And thus went on the conversation: Martask.-Prevaricating dolt! did you not attempt to steel the hearts of the readers of the Leodiensian against my disasters at Woodhouse Feast, by throwing in a piece of irony on my description? Jaques. Indeed Sir, my heart is neither steel nor irony! Witness the arrows of those eyes which have pierced it! Martask-I tell you, Sir, you have made me a laughing-stock, instead of an object of pity. Added to this, you fill up the pages of the Leodiensian, to the exclusion of more sober persons, and make that publication, and yourself, the town's jester; and, sin upon sin! your long piece entitled " Were a' a noddin," is lengthened out by leaving gaps in the lines, and putting in dashes to the exact amount (for I measured them) of one page! Pray, Sir, what do these gaps and dashes mean? Jaques. To show that the piece is broken and disjointed. Martask.-Ah, ah, ah! The thing shows itself to be disjointed, without any other index. It would be as wise to plant a post and board on the top of a precipice to warn men of broken necks. Had you not much better have dotted your i's, than made a useless dash. Jaques. You are intruding, Sir, upon the license of an author. Martask. Talk not of intrusion! You who could intrude yourself on to the types in the printing-office, and then strut off with an ode on your breeches. Tell me truly, Nicholas, were not the lines you addressed to Eliza, those you found imprinted on your smallclothes? Jaques. Upon my honour Martask. Yes, yes! Jaques (Very indignantly) By the girdle of Venus! I could Martask. Break your last new fiddle strings, you would say. But, my enraged musician! don't tell us any more of the green tea you buy, to make the world believe you sit late at your studies-(my imaginary Mr. Jaques began sputtering and hissing at all pores)-but beware, Mr. Jaques, how you again engross more than half the pages of the Leodiensian, as you did on the first of January. Hereupon I gave the roasting apple a kind of monitory fillip, whereby it was released from its suspension, and precipitated among the cinders, dispelling my waking dream, and spoiling my repast. But the affair gave me encouragement (slight enough I grant) to lay my complaint before Mr. B. York. EPHRAIM MARTASK. "YE TWINKLING STARS." IN IMITATION OF SIR HENRY WOTTON'S " YOU MEANER BEAUTIES." I. Ye twinkling stars, obscurely bright, That fain would seem our earth to cheer, And spread around a feeble light; What are ye, if the moon appear? Ye snowdrops, gems of early spring, That best are lov'd, and first are known, Sweet is the fragrance that ye fling— IV. Fair forms, that fill'd my youthful mind, Whose tongues could charm and smiles could bless, Your power is vanish'd-when I find My Fanny's passing loveliness. DON. |