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BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No XIII.

APRIL 1818.

VOL. III.

TIME'S MAGIC LANTHERN. No II.

Galileo in the Inquisition.

Galileo. So you are come to close the shutters of my window before nightfall. Surely these bars are strong enough. I would fain have the consolation of viewing the heavens after it is dark. My sleep is unquiet and short, for want of exercise; and when I lie awake, the roof of my prison presents nothing but a sable blank. Do not, I beseech you, conceal from me the blue vault, and those hosts of light, upon which I still love to gaze in spite of all my troubles.

Monk. You must not see the stars. It is the stars which have put you wrong. Poor man! to think the earth was turning round.

Galileo. Alas! alas! Is it for this that I have studied?

Monk. Do you suppose, that if the earth had been turning all this while, the sea would not have drowned every living soul? I put this to you, as a simple question, and level with the most ordinary capacity.

Galileo. My good friend, you know that I have recanted these things, and therefore it is needless for me to dispute farther upon the subject.

Monk. Your books were burnt at Rome, which, in my opinion, was an idle business. In a few years they would have turned to smoke of their own accord. 'Tis the way with all new discoveries, for I am an old Christian, and have seen the fashion of the world before now.

Galileo. Do you suppose that glass windows were used in the time of Adam?

Monk. No; for the Scripture mentions no such thing. But what then? Galileo. Why then, you must admit that time teaches things which were unknown before.

Monk. That is possible enough. But now things are different; for my head is gray, and I have no faith in new discoveries.

Galileo. We know not what time may bring about. Perhaps the earth may yet be weighed.

Monk. Go on-you shall receive no interruption from me. You perceive that I only smile gently and goodnaturedly when you talk in this manner.

Galileo. What is the matter? what makes you look so wise?

Monk. Never mind. Go on.

Galileo. What is the meaning of this extraordinary look of tenderness and benignity, which you are attempting to throw into your features.

Monk, When I consider what is your real condition, it moves my pity. For my part, when the Cardinals made so much ado about your writings, I always thought they were trifling with their office.

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Galileo. I am well acquainted with the Scriptures; but as I do not suppose they were meant to instruct mankind in astronomy, I think there is no sacrilege in attempting to discover more of the nature of the universe than what is revealed in them.

Monk. So you believe yourself capable of succeeding in the attempt? Galileo. Perhaps I do.

Monk. Would not your time be better employed, my son, in perusing some rational book of devotion? Do not allow yourself to be led away by the idle suggestions of self-conceit. What is there to be seen about you, which should enable you to penetrate farther into the secrets of the universe than me or the rest of mankind? I do not ask this question with a view to wound your pride, but with a sincere wish for your good.

Galileo. Upon my word, you are too kind to me. Pray, father, is there any book of devotion which you would recommend in particular?

Monk. Recommend in particular!There is a book which it would not become me to but no- -recommend in particular !-Hum-I know

not.

Galileo. Something trembles at your tongue's end. Have you yourself written any book of devotion?

Monk. Far be it from me to speak of my own writings. Of all books of devotion, my own was the remotest from my thoughts. But since you desire to see it

Galileo. What are the subjects treated of in it?

Monk. Life, death, and immortality. There is also a treatise upon the habitations of good men after death, and the delights to be found there.

Galileo. Your notions concerning these subjects must be in a great measure fanciful.

Monk. By no means. Good reasons are given for every tittle that is advanced.

Galileo. And where do you suppose the habitations of good men to be? Monk. Why, in heaven, to be sure. Galileo. Is it not possible that their abode may be situated in some of the constellations? When gazing, as I was wont to do, at midnight, upon Arcturus, or the brilliant orbs of Orion, I have sometimes thought, that in the blue depths there might exist worlds

suitable for the habitation of an immortal spirit.

Monk. My son, my son, beware of futile conjectures! You know not upon what ground you are treading.

Galileo. Does not the galaxy shed forth a glorious light? How gorgeous is its throng of constellations!—To me it seems like a procession of innumerable worlds, passing in review before their Creator.

Monk. If the galaxy moves, why may not the sun?

Galileo. My judgment is, that they may both move, for aught I know, although at a very slow pace. I

Monk. Now you speak sense. knew I should bring you round; for, to say the truth (and I say it between you and me), if it had not been for my enemies, whom Heaven pardon, I should have been wearing a red hat before now. Good night and I shall immediately bring the book, which will help to put your thoughts in a proper train again.

No III.

Rembrandt's Work-shop.

Rembrandt solus. Too much light here still. I must deepen the shadows even more, until the figures begin to shine out as they ought. And now for Pharoah's Baker, whose dream is not yet interpreted; so that he looks up earnestly in the face of Joseph, and receives a strong gleam through the iron bars. So-and again-so. Now for the shadows again. To talk to me of Guido, with his shallow, gray, and trivial open-lights! Ah ha! 'tis I who am Rembrandt-and there is no other. (a knock at the door.) Heaven send a purchaser! Come in.

Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. I wish to have a picture of yours to leave to my wife, before I go to sail the salt seas again.

Rem. Would you have your own face painted?

Trader. My face has seen both fair and foul, in its time, and belike it may not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh water pippin-cheek.

Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face is of the kind I like. There is no room for tricks of the pencil upon too smooth a skin.

Trader. By this hand, I know nc

thing of these things; but my wife shall have a picture.

Rem. A large hat would serve to shadow your eyes; and there should be no light till we come down to the point of your nose, which would be the only sharp in the picture. Nothing but brownness and darkness every where else. Pray you, sit down here, and try on this great hat.

Trader. Nay, by your leave, I will look at these pictures on the wall first. What is this?

Rem. It is a Turk whom I have seen in the streets of Amsterdam. I like to paint a good beard; and you see how angrily this man's beard is twisted.

Trader. A stout Pagan, and a good fighter, I warrant you. I feel as if I could fetch him a cut over the crown; for my ship was once near being run down by an Algerine.

Rem. Look at the next. 'Tis the inside of a farmer's kitchen.

Trader. Nay, 1 could have told you that myself; for these pails of milk might be drunk; and there is an old grandam twirling her spindle. When next I go to live at my brother Lucas's farm, I shall persuade him to buy this picture. It shews the fat and plenteous life which he lives, when I am sailing the salt seas.

Rem. Here is a sea-piece. Trader. Why, that is good also; but this sail should have been lashed to the binnacle; for, d'ye see, when a vessel is spooning against a swell, she pitches, and it is necessary to

Rem. You are right; I must have it altered. How does this landscape please you?

Trader. Why, it is a good flat country; but exhibits none of those great rocks which I have seen in foreign parts. I have seen burning mountains, which would have made the brush drop from your hand. I have sailed round the world, and seen the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to.

Rem. Well-and which of the pictures will you have? you shall have your choice of them for forty ducats.

Trader. Nay, now you are joking. Who will give you forty ducats? When at dinner with the burgo-master lately, I heard a collector putting prices on your works. He said, if we would wait, your market would cer

tainly fall, for you had too many on hand.

Rem. My market shall not fall. I will see this collector at the bottom of the ocean first. But come now, let us be reasonable together. I will paint your portrait for thirty. Take your seat.

Trader. Not so fast. My wife must be conferred with, and, if she approves, perhaps I may come back. Meanwhile, good morning. (Exit.)

Rem. A curse on these picturedealing babblers. How shall I be revenged on them? My pictures are as good as the oldest extant, and, if I were dead, every piece would sell for as much gold as would cover it. But I see what must be done. Come hither, wife, and receive a commission. Go straight to the joiners, and order him to prepare for my funeral.

Rembrandt's Wife. What is the meaning of this? Are your wits turned?

Rem. My wits are turned towards money-making. I must counterfeit myself dead, to raise the price of my works, which will be valued as jewels, when there is no expectation of any more.

Wife. Now I perceive your drift. Was there ever such a contrivance! You mean to conceal yourself, and have a mock funeral?*

Rem. Yes; and when my walls are unloaded I shall appear again. So that after the picture dealers have been brought to canonize me for a dead painter, and when they have fairly ventured out their praise and their money, they shall see me come and lay my hands upon both.

Wife. How will it be possible for me to cry sufficiently, when there is no real death?

Rem. Make good use of the present occasion to perfect yourself in your part, for you may one day have to repeat it.

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6.

Now hath one moment darkened future years,
And changed the track of ages yet to be !-
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears,
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree!
Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light,
Wisdom should then have tempered hopes

excess;

And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, We might have trembled at its loveliness! Joy is no earthly flower-nor framed to bear, In its exotic bloom, life's cold ungenial air.

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Yet there is one who loved thee-and whose soul,

With mild affections nature formed to melt; His mind hath bowed beneath the stern control Of many a grief-but this shall be unfelt! Years have gone by-and given his honoured head

A diadem of snow-his eye is dim-
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath
spread-

The past, the future, are a dream to him!
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone
He dwells on earth, while Thou, in life's
full pride, art gone!

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