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the next, Coutloumoussi, the wallet opened and closed on several rich morsels-especially a matchless folio of St. Chrysostom-"who seems to have been the principal instructor of the monks of Mount Athos, that is, in the days when they were in the habit of reading; a tedious custom which they have long since given up by general consent." (p. 430.)

In leaving this singular peninsula, still so rich in monuments of the piety and munificence of the Byzantine Cæsars, we must lay our hands on one paragraph more from Mr. Curzon's introduction :

"The bodies of the Byzantine emperors were enclosed in sarcophagi of precious marbles, which were usually deposited in chapels erected for the purpose-a custom which has been imitated by the sultans of Turkey. Of all these magnificent sarcophagi and chapels or mausoleums where the remains of the imperial families were deposited, only one remains intact; every one but this has been violated, destroyed, or carried away; the ashes of the Cæsars have been scattered to the winds. This is now known by the name of the chapel of St. Nazario e Celso, at Ravenna; it was built by Galla Placidia, the daughter of Theodosius; she died at Rome in 440, but her body was removed to Ravenna and deposited in a sarcophagus in this chapel; in the same place are two other sarcophagi, one containing the remains of Constantius, the second husband of Galla Placidia, and the other holding the body of her son, Valentinian III. These tombs have never been disturbed, and are the only ones which remain intact of the entire line of the Cæsars, either of the Eastern or Western empires."p. xxviii.

does a command over the resources of French diction that astonishes French people, what an example he sets of stern and rigid rejection of all outlandish embroidery when he unfolds his plain strong web of the vernacular! Lord Mahon too is rather of older standing than the class we alluded to; but in him they see a master of French style, who is so severely native in his English that he has sometimes been sneered at, by such critics as such an author may accept placidly, as a Purist. We were delighted to see Mr. Curzon following these worthy examples. Few of his years have been greater travellers, and there is not one foreign word used in his volume when an English one was at his service.

A new book of another kind, which also from internal evidence must have been written by a person constantly mingling in the highest English society, reaches us when this sheet is in the press, and the rest of our pages are all bespoken; otherwise, on many accounts, but especially because it is another instance of manly unpolluted English, we should have much wished to make it the subject of a separate article in this number. That is now impossible, but we beg to call

our readers' attention, in case the novel has not come in their way, to "Rockingham, or the Younger Brother." We think the writer has made two serious mistakes-first, in selecting for his main subject the very painwhat is moreover very bad in an artistical ful one of fraternal rivalry in love; secondly, point of view, in having introduced about the middle certain "Fragments" of a second Our readers will hardly quarrel with the tragedy on exactly the same unhappy theme. extent of our quotations, but we may as well But the work abounds in interest—and inconfess that one main temptation was the deed we should be at a loss to name another pure unaffected English of the book. In recent novel that shows anything like the same many respects the largely foreign training of power of painting strong passion-or rather the young men of rank in these our later we should say the strong passion of gentle days has produced serious evil. We ascribe natures, and this too under all the habitual to this cause, in no trivial measure, the restraints of education, principle, and self-conmelancholy aspect of our domestic politics. trol. It was, however, the beautifully pure The old national spirit was essentially blend- English that we especially desired to dwell ed with the old national taste. The results upon, and that is the more noticeable because in our literature have been equally marked, the episode above condemned is wholly in and in their place and degree are equally to French; and, as we may say on far higher be regretted. It is very much to the credit authority than our own, such French as was of our younger aristocracy that so many never before published by an Englishman. of them have aspired to distinction by the In Lord Brougham's French writings, in Lord use of the pen; but how few of these have Mahon's, and also in Mr. Beckford's, it was, escaped the foreign tinge--how few feel it we believe, the judgment of Paris, that, exas their peculiar duty to guard uncontami-traordinary as their correctness was, a native nated the proud inheritance of the native speech! Lord Brougham does not fall within our category; but, exercising as he

eye could not fail to detect some mixture of the French of different epochs. How could it be otherwise, we may well ask. But so much more

the wonder if, as we are assured, it is the, fact that the miniature romance framed into "Rockingham" is as completely in the best French of the present time as the bulk of the work is in its best English.

The history of the patch we conjecture to have been this. The author originally designed a French novel on the full scaleperhaps he finished it. He by-and-by saw reason to think that he could bring out his general conception better with the use of English manners—and, dominus utriusque lingua, penned Rockingham, interweaving much matter from the discarded Royaulmont.

When he had done, he found he had been forced to omit some of the best scenes of the French piece. No skill could amalgamate those plums with the new pudding-so he served up as a side-dish a few slices of the old one. And we sympathize with his reluctance to throw away altogether such passages as Marie Antoinette's ball at Versailles, and the execution of the too tender Marquis de Royaulmont-in truth, we think them even better than the best in the loves of his English "younger brother," and his (of course quite correct) English Marchioness.

THE SWORD AND THE PEN.

BY G. L. BANKS.

HANG up the sword! let it rust and decay,

Through all changes of time, 'mid the lumber of years,

The glory it had is now passing away,

Supplanted by one without bloodshed and tears.

A new creed is rife in this planet of ours,

And strongly it sways in the bosoms of men, Who summon the might of their holiest powers

To make a good weapon, and sure, of the pen.

Hang up the sword! give its fame to the wind,
And the deeds it has done to the annals of lust;
The scales are removed from the eyes of the blind,
Who shudder to see how they've fattened the dust.
Peace! peace! is the cry, spreading everywhere fast,
And kindling proud hopes in the spirits of men;
The reign of the sword was earth's midnight, now past-
The brightness of morning begins with the pen.

Hang up the sword! hang it up out of sight;

"Tis useless, 'tis powerless, 'tis crimsoned with shame; It may glare for a while in the blaze of earth's light, Till the stain on its blade is transferred to our fame. But the blade shall be shivered, the stain be rubbed out, And the "glory of old" light our frail world again, When, instead of the warrior's carnage and shout, Mind alone shall be might, and its weapon the pen.

From the New Monthly Magazine.

GORE HOUSE.

BY AN AMERICAN TRAVELLER.

AMONGST the many things to fix the attention of an inhabitant of the United States of America when he travels in Europe, there is, perhaps, nothing which strikes him more than the decay or break-up of old institutions, political or social, moral or material. We are so much accustomed to progress in the New World, that almost the only change we look for is that caused by a wider expansion of views, a continual enlargement of means. Our course is so directly onward, that we never pause to think of those who fall behind in the race; or if we occasionally witness the ruin of an ample fortune, we ascribe it, in all probability to the right cause-an incautious speculation; consoling the sufferer, if we offer consolation at all, with the assurance that in a new country there is always plenty of opportunity for a man to begin again. The displacement even. of the Indian tribes, one of the few facts that speak of the history of the past in America, goes for nothing in our account; the scanty mementoes which they have left exciting our sympathy in an infinitely smaller degree than the void which they have made for new enterprise affects our desire for advancement. But on this side of the Atlantic the case is quite different. We are spectators of the play, not actors in it. We come here to observe upon men and manners-to examine with an equal eye both the past and the present, reserving the future for ourselves in our own land, in the hope of creating that which one day may become a glorious past. It has personally been my fortune, during previous visits to Europe, to witness some remarkable mutations. I shall say nothing of political occurrences or altered opinions, as I have no desire at this moment to enter upon a grave disquisition on such subjects. I prefer rather to speak of changes that have interested me more nearly than the general events which belong to history. I will not, therefore, like King Richard,

"Make dust my paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,"

but tell what I have to say in a less uncheerful spirit.

When last I was in England, the subject which chiefly engrossed conversation, as a question of society, was the great sale at Strawberry Hill; the dispersion of the countless objects of art and virtù which the taste and antiquarian zeal of Horace Walpole had for half a century been occupied in collecting. Like many more of my countrymen, I wandered through the pasteboard Gothic galleries of the reviver of medieval art, criticising the man while I admired the result of his exertions; but not without respect for his opinions as well as his talents; for Walpole was one of the few who had the wisdom to see and the frankness to denounce the unjust policy of his government towards the colony which, happily for all parties, became so soon an independent nation. But beyond this feeling, I sympathized little with the family of the then possessors of Strawberry Hill; and had I even been that way disposed, I heard enough from the persons I met there to give my thoughts an opposite direction. One amongst these was a very singular man, whom I had often heard of, and now accidentally encountered-the celebrated author of Vathèk, but more celebrated still as the owner of Fonthill, his own creation, and the victim of his own caprice.

No man's career had been more uniformly cast in high places than Mr. Beckford's; none had possessed more, few so many, opportunities of seeing life, and there was probably no one in England who could say so much of what he had seen and known, or say it so well as himself. I have heard that he cared less for his own countrymen than for any other people on earth, and I am inclined to think so from the mauvaise langue with which he spoke of so many whom I

named to him as celebrities, who had been | berlain: Il bleut tans ma pouche!'

his contemporaries in youth and middle

age.

He soon discovered, perhaps from the freespoken manner with which I questioned him on various points, that I was an American; and whether he was on that account more communicative than he otherwise would have been, or was willing to entertain me because I was a stranger, I cannot say, but he certainly put no restraint on his words, nor troubled himself much about the effect which might be caused by his anecdotes.

Towards Horace Walpole he seemed to entertain a feeling of animosity, which nearly half a century of the shrouded stillness of the grave had been unable to remove.

"I wrote a book," said he, "when I was only eighteen-not to ridicule Horace Walpole, though he thought so, and cherished a spite against me as long as he lived--but to mystify an old housekeeper of mine, who believed every word that was set down in it, and learnt it all by heart to retail it to the people who came to see my house. She was firmly persuaded, because I had told her so, that Michael Angelo was a baker whom I had set up in business in Bath, where he took to painting, and produced the work on which she used to descant to the astonished visitors. The title of the book offended Walpole, but there was nothing in it against him; it was thought amusing; a bookseller gave me a hundred and sixty guineas for it, and it had its day. But besides that," continued Mr. Beckford, "he disliked me as a younger and rival collector. If "-and the old man churned his words spitefully, a light foam settling from time to time on his lips as he rapidly went on-"if he could see me now, fixing on the things I mean to buy, he would even wish himself back again. Horace Walpole's taste," he added with vehemence, "was bad. He was an offalist."

He told a good story of the Emperor Charles VI. of Germany, which he had had from the famous Prince de Ligne, with whom he had been intimate at Brussels some sixty years before.

The

functionary received the intimation as gravely as if it had been the profoundest state secret; the vast resources of his mind, however, suggested a remedy. Approaching the afflicted emperor with a low bow at every step as he drew nearer, he paused at length, and looking respectfully in the vacant face, said with the utmost gravity: Qu'il blaise à sa machesté imbériale te pien fouloir fermer sa pouche ?'"'

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The look of imbecile gratitude which Mr. Beckford put on to express the monarch's thanks, could not have been surpassed by the emperor himself, or by his witty reporter.

Of a great predecessor of the Lorraine prince--the Emperor Charles V.-Mr. Beckford spoke with more respect. We were examining a portfolio of rare prints together, and came to a portrait of the recluse of St. Just, engraved, however, from a picture when he still wore the diadems of Germany and Spain. After commenting on his character in terms of praise, perhaps on account of his having exhausted his ambition, or for his contempt of the nothingness of fame, he suddenly said

"This is a very good likeness. I can say so, for I have seen him."

"I know, sir, you have seen a great deal more than most people," I replied, smiling; but Charles V. has been dead nearly three hundred years.'

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Very true," returned Mr. Beckford, "but for all that I have seen him."

He said this so positively, that I stared with astonishment, beginning to ask myself if I had got into company with the Wandering Jew.

"When I was first in Spain," pursued he, "although my visit was ostensibly for my own amusement, I had been charged by the Queen of Portugal with certain matters of importance to the Court of Spain, and more facilities were given me for seeing whatever I pleased than any foreigner had enjoyed before. I had only to express a wish, and it was immediately gratified. When I went to the "The emperor," said Mr. Beckford, "had Escurial, I said that I should like to see the fewer brains than kings, quand rième ils body of Charles V. as he lay embalmed in his fussent Allemands, generally have. His Lor- coffin. The tomb was consequently opened, raine-French was exquisite, and the Prince and I saw his face as distinctly as I see yours de Ligne could imitate him to the life. He now, as plainly as this engraving shows it. was one day out walking with the great There's only one difference--the mouth had chamberlain and some other officers of his slightly fallen in, but the rest of the features court, when it came on to rain. The emperor as prominent as in his lifetime. I shall were turned round in a state of helpless distress, never forget them." and-gueule béante-exclaimed to the cham

Mr. Beckford's acquaintance with the royal

family of Portugal provoked his cynical, or perhaps scandal-loving propensities. "Few of that race, said he, "are legitimate. Dom Miguel, for instance; his father was the Marquis of Marialva, not Dom Joao; and the proof of it is that he is web-footed. The Marialvas all have that mark, like the Reine Pédauque."

How true this assertion may be, it is impossible for me to say, but Mr Beckford asserted it as a fact which admitted of no dispute. His tone, indeed, was so confident, that had he declared Dom Miguel to be a human ornithoryncus, I should scarcely have raised a doubt upon the subject. After all, nature indulges in so many freaks, that I see no reason why, amongst other blemishes, a few extra membranes may not become hereditary. I could repeat many more curious things which fell from this strange old man, who, at the age of eighty-two, spoke with all the fervor and energy of youth; but they would lead me too far from my subject--though the allusion to him is not altogether disconnected with the theme which more particularly occupies me, for in the same gallery where I saw Mr. Beckford, I renewed my acquaintance with the Countess of Blessington.

Thirteen years before-time has since lengthened the period to twenty-I had been presented to her ladyship in Paris by my countryman Fenimore Cooper. She then struck me as one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen; and that opinion was scarcely shaken when I met her again, standing beneath Sir Joshua's portrait of the lovely Lady Waldegrave, a test of some severity. More fullness had been added to her figure, and the oval form of her face was less apparent, but the grace of the one and the sweetness of the other were still conspicuous. There are some faces in which the light of beauty is never extinguished, and Lady Blessington's was of that order. He who has only seen Lawrence's exquisite portrait of her will have carried away this impression; we, who have known the original, many years after that picture was painted, can confirm the truth of this creed by our own experience.

There was more of change in the appearance of Count D'Orsay, on whose arm Lady Blessington was leaning. The wear and tear of a man's life, and such a life as I have heard he led, sufficiently account for this. But there was nothing altered in his manner-nor in that of either. The faculty which all clever people possess, in common

with many who are notoriously deficient in other respects-that of remembering facesrecalled me at once to their recollection.

"You must come and see me at Gore House," said her ladyship; "my rooms are not quite so large as the salons in the Faubourg St. Honoré, but I manage to fill them as well, if not better. J'ai laché la parole, mon cher Alfred," added she, turning with a smile to her companion, "j'espère que tu ne m'en veux pas ?"

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'Je n'ai rien à dire," was the count's reply; "on gagne toujours quand on trouve de nouveaux amis sans en perdre de vieux." Surtout," continued the countess, giving me her hand, "quand ils arrivent de si loin."

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I need scarcely say, that after this welcome, I did not bend unwilling feet in the direction of Gore House during the remainder of my stay in London that summer.

The first time I dined there I shall not

easily forget. It was a beautiful evening in the beginning of June, and though the day had been spent in a round of sight-seeing, I experienced none of the fatigue which I might have felt at another moment, with so much pleasure had I looked forward to the party I expected to me In the month of June, if the season be at all propitious, the environs of London, especially to the west, are charming. An hour or two before, Hyde Park had been filled with the beauty and fashion of the town; but now, as I drove to my appointment, only a few stray horsemen were still enjoying the freshness of the turf and the coolness of the evening. They were diners at clubs, I fancied, who had no such attraction before them as that which beckoned me on. I was fearful, indeed, of being rather behind time myself, having been delayed by a slight accident at my lodgings, but-like my countryman, N. P. Willis, who had been similarly graced a few years before-I had gained upon the clock, or perhaps I should rather say, had been too literal an interpreter of its meaning in London society, for when I was shown into the library, where Lady Blessington generally received her guests, no one had yet arrived. I had leisure, therefore, to examine the locality; and as this hospitable mansion is now, alas! dismantled, some description of it, even though it trench upon the auctioneer's privilege, may not out of place.

The rooms on the ground-floor consisted of a small study on the left of the vestibule, separated by a wide old-fashioned staircase from the dining-room, which looked out upon the

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