CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF 'CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c. No. 205. NEW SERIES. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1847. PENCILLED THOUGHTS. It is said of Coleridge that he was a great borrower of books, and that he always returned them to their owner with the pencilled remarks he had made while engaged in perusing them. I cannot approve of the writing upon other people's books at all, even where it may be thought that the commentator surpasses the author. One may, however, do as he likes with his own; or, if the practice be objected to as one tending to deface and injure the fair body of a book, then he may indulge his humour much to the same purpose on a fly-leaf, or with a detached slip of paper. It is certainly pleasant to talk in this way with one's author, whether or not we agree with him in opinion; nay, for that matter, I am not sure if the pleasure is not a little heightened by somewhat of opposition in sentiment; inasmuch as it affords the mind an opportunity-which, if it be of a superior order, it will not fail to enjoy-of trying its strength, and feeling its resources: a noble exercise, and one for which it will have had but little scope should its process of training have been that too common one which consists in specific directions to think like Mr A- or Mr B. We are obviously intended, by the constitution of our being, to have something of our own to rest upon; and as little children are taught at a proper age to feel their feet, in order to prepare them for going alone, so should the youthful mind be led to ascertain its powers, that it may not move in a go-cart all its days, equally afraid and unable to stir a step by itself. For this purpose, the practice of pencilling down the passing impressions which are suggested by a thoughtful book is eminently instructive. PRICE 1d. which you kindly lent me, but not so much as with the comments you have scattered through it here and there. Allow me the pleasant privilege of attempting to teach you to think; which you will perceive that I have made some advance towards doing, by venturing to differ from you in opinion respecting some of the poems in this volume. Please to compare our pencilled criticisms, and rub out those which, after due consideration, you believe to be erroneous.' Greatly surprised was my friend, then fervent in the enthusiasm of nineteen or so, to suppose there could be two opinions as to the quality of the poems which she had lauded with the terms 'exquisite,' 'enchanting,' and so forth, but which the more experienced pencil of her friend had in most instances lowered down to 'poor,' insipid,' 'not original, and good for nothing if it were;' but, the dissatisfaction of the moment overcome, she set herself to the occupation which had been recommended to her, of comparing her thoughts with those of her friend, and gradually began to discern how much of her admiration had been the result of those mistakes which unaided and inexperienced youth can seldom do otherwise than make. It was the first thing that taught me to pause and reflect,' said she, 'before I gave forth an opinion upon what I was reading; and it has thus been the means of training me to habits of study, which become more and more precious with every advancing year.' It cannot indeed be too much remembered, that it is one thing to read a book, and another to study it. And what is the life of an intellectual being worth without some object of study? In point of fact, no intellectual being does, or can live devoid of such an object, though it may not, and in most cases certainly does not, exist in the regions of literature. But what can we call those incitements which demand so much expense of time and thought, as to how we shall best enjoy ourselves, and appear the best in the eyes of others, but objects of study? And what are they who are engrossed by them but students, and laborious students too, though in another sort of learning than that of books? But this by the way-Revenons à nos moutons. But are not the remarks of young readers likely to be crude and profitless? Crude enough, no doubt they may be, but not profitless, supposing them to be prompted by genuine feeling, and recorded with simplicity of purpose. Nothing is profitless that comes from the heart; no, not even a mistake. We can do little else than mistake in the first steps which we take in learning anything; but these mistakes have their use, by serving as beacons to warn us against The habit of noting down our impressions as we read, steering towards the coast where we have already by introducing us into the inner world of thought and suffered loss. I am intimately acquainted with a lady, feeling, prepares us to understand what we really do now advanced in life, who traces much of her pre- believe and comprehend, and consequently establishes sent capability of appreciating and enjoying thought- a capacity for judging of the value of a book, which, in ful literature, to the circumstance of her having made point of fact, is possessed by comparatively but few persome pencilled remarks in a volume of poetry, which, sons; the greater number of readers contenting themwhen she was very young, an accomplished gentleman, selves with swimming with the stream, and approving old enough to be her father, and an intimate friend of of everything that has the stamp of popularity upon it, the family, happened to see, and borrowed of her; and let its intrinsic worth or worthlessness be what it may. which, when he returned, he accompanied by the follow- This is not as it should be; neither is it as it would be, ing note:if reading for improvement were made more a matter 'DEAR MISS-I have been interested in the book of conscience, and something more were sought and desired from the pages of works professing to be of a didactic character, than one-sided views, which the reader takes upon trust, because he is too indolent to think for himself. Were there more thinkers, there would be more earnest writers; and we should not have to complain with the celebrated essayist, John Foster, that there is so great a deficiency of what may be called conclusive writing. How seldom,' says he, 'do we feel at the end of the paragraph or discourse that something is settled and done. It lets our habit of thinking and feeling just be as it was.... We are not compelled to say with ourselves emphatically, "Yes, it is so; it must be so that is decided to all eternity!" I want,' he goes on to say, 'the speaker or writer to settle some point irrevocably, with a vigorous knock of persuasive decision, like an auctioneer, who, with a rap of his hammer, says, "There-that's yours; I've done with it: now for the next." These are the kind of writers to do us good; but in default of them, it is not altogether unprofitable to take the position of the auctioneer ourselves, and knock down with our pencil the sentiment with which we cannot agree. I have sometimes seen a curious fight of this kind in an interleaved book, wherein the poor author put me much in mind of the policeman in the puppet-show, who, being sent to apprehend Punch for various misdemeanours, is knocked down himself and fearfully mauled by that personage. But lively as this combativeness may be, more edifying, and, on the whole, more agreeable is it that something of the character of sympathising friendship should subsist between the writer and reader. It seems as if it ought to be so. Yes, it seems as though one ought to love and esteem the fellow-creature who comes into such close contact with our spirits, and who, if he does his work aright, will awaken a response from every interior chord on which he lays his hand. And doubtless this kind of affectionate interest is excited in our minds towards the author who, by the power of his eloquence and his sense, constrains us every now and then to lay down his book, and pause upon the truth which he sets before We begin to wish that we knew more of this present, speaking, but invisible friend. We think we could lay open to him some of those secret springs of thought and feeling which he has so skilfully, though unconsciously, touched. We wonder whether he will ever come in our way. Perhaps not; but we should like to know a little about him. And then we remember some Mr or Mrs or Miss so and so, who either knows him, or knows somebody else that knows him; and through this channel we resolve to take an opportunity of hearing if he talks, and lives, and looks just as we expect and desire that the person should do whom we are so greatly disposed to love and esteem. us. There is something in this kind of homage totally different from the adulation which always travels in the wake of the popular author. That is of a character which makes no pencilled notes; for it cares no more about books, or those that write them, than as it respects the wealth and fame they may obtain. It is not of this species of approval that I am speaking, but rather of that of which it may be said that it exalts those who pay it as much, or more, than those to whom it is paid; for those who deserve to be the objects of this generous enthusiasm, are usually as much distinguished by humility as by talent. There is a striking and touching passage in the life of the Danish *Foster's Life and Correspondence, vol. i. p. 396. poet Hans Christian Andersen which bears upon this point. I was invited,' he says, by some students of Lund to visit their ancient town. Here a public dinner was given to me; and as I was in the evening in a family circle, I was informed that the students meant to honour me with a serenade. I felt myself actually overcome by this intelligence: my heart throbbed feverishly as I descried the thronging troop, with their blue caps, and arm in arm, approaching the house. I experienced a feeling of humiliation, a most lively consciousness of my deficiencies; so that I seemed bowed to the earth at the moment others were elevating me. As they all uncovered their heads while I stepped forth, I had need of all my thoughts to avoid bursting into tears. In the feeling that I was unworthy of all this, I glanced round to see whether a smile did not pass over the face of some one, but I could discover nothing of the kind.' After relating a few more particulars of what passed, he thus concludes the subject. When I returned to my chamber, I went aside in order to weep out this excitement, this overwhelming sensation. “Think no more of it; be joyous with us," said some of my lively Swedish friends; but a deep earnestness had entered my soul. Often has the memory of this time come back to me; and no noble-minded man who reads these pages will discover a vanity in the fact, that I have lingered so long over this moment of life, which scorched the roots of pride rather than nourished them.'* But once more to glance at our subject, of which I have again a little lost sight. By accustoming ourselves to pencil down our thoughts, as we travel through the pages of a book, we are likely to acquire a most invaluable art, which is that of coming to the point, and putting our remarks in the shortest possible compass; for the circumstances under which we make these passing comments are usually of a kind to prompt us to be simple and concise in our observations-and to learn to be simple and concise, both in speaking and writing, is to learn a valuable and rare accomplishment, and one which can only be acquired by exertion and experience. We do not easily, nor, whilst we are young, very willingly, perceive that those are commonly the best and most useful of truths which are presented to us with the least ornament of rhetoric; for of truth it may assuredly be said, as of beauty, that it is, when unadorned, adorned the most.' To believe this is a work of time, and the result of much sifting and casting away of that chaffy wordiness in which young sentimentalists are so prone to indulge, and which probably occasioned the counsel of Dr Johnson to a young author, that whenever he had written anything which he thought particularly fine, to be sure to strike it out." It is worth being at some pains, however, to obtain s capability of judging rightly, and the possession of a quick and clear apprehension of the true and beautiful in thought and feeling. It is having something of our own; and, as I have before remarked, we are obviously intended to have something of our own in the shape of opinion and feeling. In fact we can neither know nor receive anything as a truth, however we may try to persuade ourselves that we do, that is not sealed and witnessed to us ar truth by the conviction and response of something within our own minds. We may endeavour, indeed, to approve of, and to acquiesce in, particular sentiments and feel *True Story of my Life. By Hans Christian Andersen, Trane lated by Mary Howitt, pp. 141-143. ings, because we are told that we ought to do so; but love and approbation are spontaneous emotions, and can no more be imparted in a way of dictation and instruction, than the fragrance of a bed of flowers can be gathered and handed about. There exists, in short, in most persons, a latent capability of discerning and delighting in what is good and beautiful; and whenever the hand of genius sweeps over this dormant capacity, it awakes, and joyfully responds to the touch. To place ourselves, therefore, in circumstances fitted to be thus aroused in our interior nature-whether it be by thoughtful reading or observation, or any other way to which we may be guided is not only to do our duty, but also to aim at securing to ourselves one of the purest and most enduring of earthly gratifications. THE YOUNG BOYARD. tarily, with a gesture of contempt; for th As we have said, at the fatal name of zingaro, Hassan Corati, our young huntsman, recoiled with aversion. Nevertheless, educated at the university of Padua, as were most of the opulent youth of his country, he had cast off the prejudices of his native land to adopt those of a foreign soil; and thus his Wallachian horror for the sons of Egypt yielded to his Italian love of the marvellous. He recollected also, that even among his persecutors Kaboul enjoyed the reputation of learning and honesty, though a vagabond. So he promised the poor wretch not only his forbearance, but protection; and recurring to his former idea, he said to the zingaro, You overheard the complaints I was making upon the unequal duration of life allotted to man and certain of the brute race?' THE sun was beginning to gild the tops of the lofty towers of Bucharest, the capital of Wallachia, when a young man, whom, by his short mantle and Asiatic head-dress, surmounted by a rich plume, it was easy to recognise as the heir of an illustrious family of Boyards, set out alone from his habitation, situated upon the banks of the Dumbrowitz, and took the road towards the mountains. You might have thought, by the striped carbine, inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, which he carried by a belt, and the indented poniard in his girdle, that the hope of surprising a chamois, or a wild deer, or of slaughtering a bear, the terror of the country, had called him thus early from his bed. You "Your weapon lies peacefully on the grass, and you would have been deceived. He was twenty-five years provoke discussion,' replied Kaboul. I shall have pleaold, and in love; and his age at this moment occupied sure in gratifying your wishes, and hope to show you his thoughts more than his passion. Twenty-five that a miserable outcast such as I am may possess the years,' he said half aloud; a quarter of a century: gift of reason equally with a wealthy Boyard.' Thus doubtless the best part of my existence! and what real saying, the ragged philosopher, ascending from the use have I made of all this time? I have a thousand ravine, and shaking the dust and gravel from his tatprojects of happiness, without knowing how to execute tered garments, made a sign to the young huntsman them. I should be happy, nevertheless, if I had but to be seated upon the bank, taking at the same moment time; but the moment of enjoyment always recoils from an opposite place, but not forgetting, even in this desert my grasp! My marriage with Anna is deferred for a solitude, the respectful distance that should separate a year by order of the vaivod, her father. What a miser-rich Boyard from an outcast zingaro. Let us see, my able time to wait! Marry at twenty-six! Why, I shall noble huntsman,' said he, if I understand you rightly: hardly have time to play the part of husband and father, you complain of the brevity of life. If you can bear and bring up a family, ere old age comes upon me! the truth, hear it for once from me, a beggar proscribed How fearfully short is life! Truly it appears to me a and despised-the cry that has escaped your lips is the revolting contradiction to allot to man, the lord of cry of ingratitude against Divine Providence. Actions the creation, so brief a space to reign, while different are epochs, and the periods of life are not measurable species of animals are allowed a life of centuries. Yon- by the dial. Why should you be envious of the der stag, for instance, browsing on the edge of the crag longevity of certain animals, while you possess intel(and he mechanically presented his carbine), may live lect and imagination-powers which give importance perhaps five times as long as I.' to moments, and can transform an hour into an age?' 'Yes, if you are a bad shot,' replied a voice which seemed to rise from underground. The young Wallachian started with surprise; then suddenly perceiving at his feet a man in tattered garments, crouching in the soil of a dried ravine, Who and what are you?' cried he, directing towards the apparition his instrument of death. 'Alas! merciful sir, though you should kill me, you will live no longer, and the stag will live just as long.' 'Who are you then?' 'A man who, to preserve his life, is compelled to trust it to the fury of the wild bull and the hunger of the bear.' "Who seeks to take it?' ་ 'Sixty minutes, employ them as you will, make but an hour of life,' replied Hassan with an air of disdain. 'Passed in a sleep without dreams, or in idleness without meditation, they form, it is true, but a lengthened series of monotonous periods, all similar to those which, once gone, leave but an imperceptible trace, soon mingled, confused, and forgotten with a thousand others that compose the void of existence; but arouse the faculties, occupy each instant with projects, with action, weigh every moment, and waste none, nor look upon aught with indifference, then are you happy in the present, the past leaves you pleasant memories, and the future is open to your hopes. In a word, you have lived.' 'Yes, for one hour!' sighed the young man. Then folding his arms, turning towards his companion, and fixing upon him an earnest look, half of supplication, half of command-You, honest Kaboul, whom the country deems learned in magic science, do you not possess the secret of prolonging life?' Kaboul replied not immediately, but burying his face in his hands, seemed to reflect profoundly; then rising from a reverie which appeared of weary length to the impatient Hassan 'I am in possession of this secret,' said he smiling; 'would you make a trial of it?' Willingly. I will endow you this instant, if you wish it, with two centuries of existence.' form a wish, and he found himself alone with his beloved, free from the trammels of etiquette. True, these were so much time blotted out of life; but who can be said to live in moments of ennui? Time passed on: hours enjoyed and hours destroyed brought Hassan to the eve of parentage. He learned that he was about to become a father, and could not sleep that night for joy. Just at this period the vaivod besought him to under'Two hundred years!' cried the joyful and credulous take a journey in his behalf to the Sublime Porte. An || Hassan, while he pressed the beggar to his bosom. Oh, important affair was to be transacted with the reismy friend! my second father! Yes, my second father, effendi. He could not refuse this service to the father for I shall owe you more than the first; for rarely do of his Anna; but how could he abandon the mother of men, by the ordinary laws of nature, though favoured his unborn child? This once the sacrifice of three by Heaven, live a hundred miserable years, and you months, the duration of his commission, appeared to assure me of twice that space! Speak, what do you him as dictated by reason. require of my gratitude?' Nothing. In matters of bargain and sale the price should equal the value of the object sold. What could you offer me in exchange for what I give you? Therefore the two centuries of existence shall be a gratuitous gift. But mark what I say, and never lose sight of the prerogative attached to your new life: the future will be at your own disposal, and you will grow old as fast as you desire it.' I shall make but little use of that.' Kaboul parted suddenly from Hassan, and the latter saw him climb rocks, dive down precipices, and leap over torrents, all the while chanting wild songs in an unknown language. At length he returned, bearing in his hand a bundle of various herbs. This place is not propitious to prepare them,' said he. 'Deign to follow me into my palace,' replied Hassan; 'everything there shall be at your disposal; you shall repose and refresh yourself after your fatigue and abstinence; and in spite of your refusal, you shall not depart without a princely reward.' Kaboul smiled. To prolong your life, ought I to risk my own?' You need fear nothing in my company. Wrap this mantle around you. Let us go by way of the river: I reside at the entrance of the city.' Kaboul followed him. A repast was prepared for the master of the house; and after Kaboul had composed his philter, he presented it to his host, who swallowed it with confidence, and sat down to eat, in spite of his quality, with the zingaro. Let us do justice to Hassan. Assured of living two centuries, his Anna became the first object of his thoughts; but this long year of expectation tormented him perpetually, solely through the impatience he felt to be happy, and not, as before, from the fear of not having time to bring up his family. He remembered the prerogative attached by Kaboul to his wonderful gift. Having two hundred years at his command, he could well afford to sacrifice one to his mistress. Further, he longed for an assurance that the gift of the zingaro was a reality, and not a deception; and this would be a certain test. So he wished that the year of expectation should be effaced from his life, and that the day of his marriage with Anna should dawn upon him at once. Hardly was the wish formed, when he experienced a rapid and dazzling vision, during which the events of the entire year passed suddenly before his eyes, just as when the lightning cleaves the midnight sky, a thousand confused objects are presented to our view, and disappear in an instant. Anna was already at his side in the habiliments of a bride. The whole city resounded with cries of joy, and the beating of drums, in honour of the daughter of the Prince of Wallachia; and the bells of the Greek church, suspended, according to custom, between two cypresses, announced to the assembled spectators the approach of the happy pair. Happy Hassan and Anna! Their days of Hymen glided away amidst the enchantments of pleasure and of love. If any untimely ceremonial interrupted at intervals their moments of delight, Hassan had but to The wish formed, the dazzling vision was repeated; the three months were effaced, and our hero, proud of his sacrifice to reason and to nature, could again devote himself to his son. He resolved to deserve the honours of parentage by fulfilling its duties. Then he would cali the child Hassan: his wife would love him the more. He was sure he would be a charming infant. But then || his dear Anna would suffer; and could he witness her affliction? Never! It was beyond his power. would abridge the time of trial: this time it was the voice of pity, of humanity, that spoke, and he longed to embrace his son. Again he availed himself of his prerogative, and his Anna brought forth-a daughter. | He All his projects fell to the ground: he must have a son, however-a little Hassan. Again he soothed his impatience by the exercise of his prerogative, till the period of a second paternity saw his wishes accomplished. Hassan the second saw the light. But a good father cares for everything, and never was there a better father than Hassan the first. What should he do with his son when grown up? Should hel send him to the university of Padua, where he was himself educated? No; he could not be separated from his son. He would confide him to the care of the sage Asgleton, the greatest philosopher of Asia, now resident at Bucharest, who in six years' time would terminate his engagements with the court, and be ready to undertake the education of his son. Philip of Macedon had rejoiced that the gods had given him Aristotle as a tutor for Alexander, and Asgleton was a second Aristotle. His impatience and anxiety became intolerable: he longed to secure the presence of the sage, and confide to him his precious charge. At length he could bear no longer delay. I sacrifice these years for my son,' said he; let him be seven years of age!' His family increased: a larger palace became necessary, and more spacious gardens; and he could not tolerate the slow leisure of the artificers, or the tardiness of vegetation. Thus, master of his destiny, did Hassan sacrifice the present to the hopes of the future. We need not follow him through all the variations of his changeable desires. Through the frequent gratification of his insatiable wishes, he perceived at length that his hair was turning gray, and his wife growing What had he done with his youth? He had squandered it away, a sacrifice to his impatience of suspense. However, a vast career was still open to him; and with matured age other passions took possession of his heart, and these in their turn entail new sacrifices of his time. In the mad career of ambition, fresh drafts were made upon his life and his fortune, and, unhappily for him, both were at his heedless disposal. old. Already all that he loved upon earth had ceased to exist: his son had fallen a victim to old age; alone Hassan pursued his way, sustained by the ambitious hope of being appointed vaivod, as his father-in-law had been. He obtained at length this enviable title; but with his nomination he received an order to levy troops, and to march in person, with the chief of Moldavia, against the Tartars of Boudziac, who had refused to pay the tribute to which they were subjected. The new vaivod, forced, according to custom, to present the Grand Seignior with five hundred thousand Turkish piastres on his arriving at the regency of Wallachia, found himself ruined; it became necessary, in order to undertake this fatal war, at once to oppress his subjects with taxes, and to enrol them under his standards. These painful and novel occupations did not occupy his time so agreeably as to dispense with his abridging it. His prerogative came to his aid, and he saw himself immediately at the head of a superb army, one half of which deserted the next day. Relying upon his courage and the favour of Providence, he gave battle nevertheless, and was defeated; and being cited before the divan to justify his conduct, Hassan repaired to Constantinople, where he was cast into a dungeon, and forgotten. The unfortunate man, surrounded with gloomy objects and savage guardians, had ample time to reflect upon his misery. I am approaching the terrible period when I must terminate my life,' said he; and yet how little have I lived after all! Perhaps I have sacrificed too thoughtlessly, to my desire of enjoyment, periods that would not have been without a charm; for even in the rapid visions which have passed before me, I have discerned objects worthy of regret. Let experience render me wise in future: time becomes precious to me. Once returned to my province, I will employ it for the good of my people and my own: every hour shall have its employment, its trials perhaps, but also its pleasures. I will do good; I will But alas!' added he, 'I am a prisoner, suffering under the weight of a false suspicion; it is folly to make such resolutions at the present moment: the few happy days that I hope to enjoy cannot be mine in this horrible dungeon! Ah! I will confound my vile accusers in the presence of the sultan! Let the hour arrive when justice shall be accorded me!' He spoke, and found himself upon his deathbed. A shadowy form, veiled in the drapery of wo, and forehead wreathed with the fatal blossoms, appeared before him; in one hand he held a two-edged sword, with the other he proffered tablets to the dying man. 'Hassan Corati, thy two centuries are accomplished: thou didst complain of the brevity of life, and when two hundred years were granted thee, thou didst squander them madly in the pursuit of illusory pleasures, which vanished at thine approach. Double centenarian, see upon these tablets the actual amount of thy existence. From thine encounter with the chief of the zingari, thou hast lived barely five years. Thine hour is come.' Already!' cried the miserable vaivod in a lamentable voice; already! when I was forming such noble projects for the glory and happiness of Wallachia. Vile Kaboul, it is thou who wert the cause of my disasters! What need had I of thine abominable philtres? Why did you not leave me to follow the common destiny of my race? I should have lived longer and happier-in spite of my wishes, it is true-but then I should have died in the arms of my Anna, and before my beloved son. Savage Kaboul! remorseless chief of’ 'Holla! my good host, wake up,' cried the zingaro, shaking him violently by the arm: is it a custom with you Wallachian Boyards to sleep over your meals? Awake, arouse, Hassan Corati! Your soup is exquisite, but it is growing cold.' And Hassan opened his large eyes with an air of terror, and looking around him in utter astonishment, found himself in his palace of Bucharest, situated on the banks of the Dumbrowitz, tête-à-tête at a repast with the chief of the zingari, to whom he related at length the astounding visions of his brief repose. One thing,' said he, 'I regret-I am not vaivod.' No; but you may become so, if you are not afraid of the dungeons of Constantinople. But you have the consolations that are common to us all-you will not survive your offspring; and you may die in the arms of your Anna, though your marriage is yet deferred for a year. But tell me, what think you now of my asser tion, that thought and imagination can transform an hour into an age? Your dream has not lasted a quarter of an hour, and yet you have accomplished during its course an entire existence.' Ah,' said Hassan, but by what sorcery?' 'By none,' replied Kaboul. I know nothing of sorcery, and discredit its professors. The potion you drank was distilled simply from narcotic herbs, the property of which is to excite the imagination during the slumber of the body. I had but occasion to rouse those ideas to activity which already filled your brain, and of which I was informed by our previous conversation. The few words that escaped your lips at intervals convinced me of my success. You may learn from the lesson you have received, that it is sensation which constitutes and prolongs life. Noble occupations and wholesome pleasures amplify the existence-not the pretended powers of necromancy. Enjoy the present, of which alone you are certain, with wisdom, and in so doing, you provide honour and tranquillity for the future. Despise not the period of youth, nor cast the best gift of Heaven disdainfully from you: consider the end of all your designs: prize your time, and use it sparingly, for it is the stuff that life is made of. Never forget that the future is a gulf which the present is greedily devouring. Man complains of the brevity of life, and yet exercises all his powers to accelerate its rapidity. Well for him that his destiny is in better hands.' The Egyptian rose and departed. Alas!' said Hassan, ‘I must bear as I may the delay of this lingering year.' GARDEN WHIMSIES. THERE must be something, we are inclined to imagine, intoxicating in having much to do with flowers and gardens. Possibly a sort of hortifloral love may have to be reckoned by the psychologist among the passions of the human breast; if so, we would set down as one of its first general laws, that this sentiment has a great tendency to attain an extravagant height, and to pass all the common boundaries of common sense. Of the flower-love, we have the familiar instance of the Tulipomania as an illustration; and we may learn, in addition, that sober Dutchmen, head-over-ears in this passion, have been known to half starve themselves, that they might feed their anemones-to lose entire days in lovesick gazing upon a hyacinthine beauty-and to tremble for the consequences of a careless stranger breathing over a fair auricula. We happen to have known a person in the outskirts of London who carried his passion for tulips to such a pitch of frenzy that he ruined his family, and almost broke the heart of his wife. Finally, his household was reduced to a single bedstead; but this he one day took and placed over a group of tulips, tent-wise, to keep off the too ardent glare of the sun; having performed this droll feat, he sat down, pipe in hand, and for hours gazed with delight on the resplendent tints of his favourites. Cases of this nature supply us with a strong presumption that a love for flowers is liable to run into monomania. The extravagances of garden-makers are at all events curious, and worthy of notice. It was according to rule that the excitable people of Italy would be among the greatest sufferers by the attacks of this disorder. A modern writer on Italy is lost in admiration of the garden doings of some of the cardinals of former days. Their riches, their taste, their learning, their leisure, their frugality, all conspired in this one object. The eminent founder would expend thousands upon his garden, but allot only a crown for his own dinner!' The garden of the Borghese villa, of all others, was costly, luxurious, and whimsical. We read that from a distance this garden appeared like a great town, the wall being interrupted here and there with castles, turrets, and banqueting-houses. Within,' exclaims enthusiastic Evelyn, it was an elysium of delight.' It abounded with all kinds of delicious fruits; |
