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the grossness of material sensation, can only be experienced once, and that once, for the brief space of a transitory moment!
Blushing deeply, as she disengaged herself from his embraces, and, after suffering the martyrdom of an hundred kisses, Rose said,
"What wouldst thou here, Allan? Travel maketh young men over bold. I expected ye not so unceremoniously. How knew ye I was in the castle?"
"Of that, dearest and fairest, anon. Answer me one question—how comes my love to be here, cooped up like a bird in a cage. Where's thy father!"
"These, Allan, are questions which I cannot answer. After years of estrangement, my father and the knight on a sudden became friends, and, on the morrow after the reconciliation, he departed on a mission to the north, on the knight's account, and, until he return, I tarry here."
"Knowest thou aught, dearest Rose, of the purport of thy father's journey?"
"I am in utter ignorance on that head. My father, as thou art aware, is somewhat chary of his confidence, and I cared not to inquire particularly."
"Then, 'tis true, by all the saints, what Eleanor told me," exclaimed Allan, with great emotion. "But they shall find, though all the fiends of hell conspired against my peace, that they will not succeed."
"Hush, hush, for mercy's sake, thy voice will resound through these ancient galleries like a trumpet, thou wilt alarm the household; for the very walls of this building, methinks, have ears."
"Thon'rt right, dear, lovely and unsuspecting one; but, listen to me. I have, on this, the first night of my arrival, detected an infamous conspiracy against my happiness, and consequently against thine. For the present, I forbear saying more: meanwhile, be thou prudent, my love, and take care that thou avoid my sister. She loves thee not, Rose."
"I cry thee, mercy, sweet brother," exclaimed this provoking personage, as she entered the apartment, with a look of great unconcern, and in time to witness a parting salnte, between the lover and his mistress— "I cry thee, mercy. Thou'rt not over civil, methinks, to instil these unkind suspicions into Mistress Rose's ears. The young lady must know that I have now, or soon will have much occasion to love, reverence, and possibly even to fear her. If I have intruded, the object of my mission must be my excuse. Thine absence, brother, has been remarked, and, as Father Hamilton will do domestic service, thou wert well to join the family party. Perhaps mistress will accompany thee."
The concealed sneer, with which these remarks were accompanied, would have provoked Allan to an intemperate reply, had not Rose, whose confusion was drowned in her indignation, sharply answered,
"Madam, so long as I remain here, the invited guest of thine honoured mother, so long do I expect and demand from you, that thou wilt recognise the sanctity of my chamber. Thou hast no warrant to enter here unbidden, and as to the worship, thou mightst have known, ere this, that the prejudices, if thou wilt, of my religious belief, must prevent me from joining thy family circle, even in the sacred ordinance of prayer."
"'Fore heaven, Rose, thou doest me injustice. I did but come to call my brother, which, after so long an absence thou, at least, shouldst feel to be natural enough. As to the right which thou hast to thine own apartment, I call it not in question, but I was not to know, that, in venturing into thy presence, I was about to disturb a gentle passage of love."
"How came ye to seek your brother here, young lady? Thou hadst no warrant for supposing he should be in this apartment; but, if, as it would seem, thou didst suspect it, thou mightst have been superior to the vulgar curiosity of prying into that which no ways concerns thee."
"Pardon me, sweet Rose. An' thou plottest a runaway marriage with the heir of Upper Newton, or an unclerical liaison with the said gentle youth, I know of no one who hath a deeper interest in becoming acquainted with these facts than my poor self. Perchance I may be of more service to you both than ye wot of—that is, always providing that ye deport yourselves with propriety."
"Allan, Allan," cried the unhappy Rose, in an agony of grief, and supporting her tottering and trembling frame, by seizing on his arm, as she writhed under the unfeeling sneers, and unchaste insinuations, of his sister, " for heaven's sake, protect me against the cold vengeance of that unfeeling woman. Thou know'st that I deserve not these taunts, and I trust to thy sense of justice and honour, to see me righted, even in her estimation. But let me go forth even now, alone, my father's cabin will shelter me from the elements; and I would rather trust to the merciless ruffians who invade the dwellings of the poor, than abide in this house one minute longer. For mercy's sake, Allan, dear Allan, lead me forth of the Barbican—thou canst accomplish this—no one will deny thy right of command here, now—and, once on the highway, I will soon reach the Broom. To-morrow, I will send a maid for my valuables."
"Not to-night, Rose, not to-night, that were unseemly at this late hour," answered her tormentor, as she surveyed the scene with a look of calm and stern contempt. But, an' thou wilt go, take care of that pretty ornament which hangs from thy neck. It might prove a temptation to a needy knight of St. Nicholas, who might have more sympathy with its actual value, as a piece of curious workmanship, than with thy sorrow at losing it."
But the poor girl to whom this speech was addressed, heard it not. Intelligence and voluntary motion had both suffered a temporary suspension; and she lay in the arms of her lover, totally unconscious of what was passing around her. Distracted with fear, as he gazed on the beautiful and inanimate form which he supported, and maddened beyond toleration, at the cold and infeminine insolence of his sister, Allan lost all self-command, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder,
"By the eternal God, who lives above us, sister, an' thou departest not from my presence, I will fling thee from the castle walls, and make food of thee for the fowls of the air, thou imp of cruelty and malice."
Startled by the loudness of his voice, and a little discomposed by the sternness of his look, Eleanor stepped a pace or two back, but, instantly recovering her courage, she rejoined—
*' Truly, brother, that were no great feat of manhood. Methinks thou mightest commence thy knightly career with a more dignified act than an offer of violence against thy sister. But I have done mine office, young man, and will leave thee to thy folly."
Such restoratives as his imperfect knowledge suggested were, instantly, on his sister's departure, used by Allan for Rose's recovery. He laid her gently on the couch, sprinkled water over her pale face, and, kneeling by her bed side, with both her hands clasped in his, he anxiously watched the sign of returning animation. By degrees her breathing became audible, her eyes were opened, and her hands withdrawn from the embrace of her lover.
Starting from the couch, she gazed wildly around, with a look which indicated a partial disturbance of reason, and a solemnity of visage which seemed to proclaim the existence of some deep and overwhelming emotion. Her dishevelled hair, streaming in disorderly folds around her person, and her eyes glistening with unwonted and unnatural fire, which contrast ed fearfully with the alabaster paleness of her countenance, she stood before her astonished and terrified lover, the picture of unearthly passion.
"Sir knight," said she, "this folly must have an end: Silence, Sir, not a word. I will listen to no remonstrances—my resolution is taken—this folly must have an end. Your hand, Sir; I will right the matters myself.''
Allan extended his hand. She seized it with a firm gripe, and, dragging the astonished youth after her, she threaded'the dark and narrow passage with certainty and speed, and, ere he had time to conjecture whither she was leading him, they were in the presence of Lady Lyll, Father Hamilton, and Eleanor, all of whom stared in amazement as she approached,
M Gracious Heaven, Rose," exclaimed the Lady, * what be this, Rose?"
"Patience, Madam, and thou shalt hear. Approach, Sir. Take that hand, Lady, and receive the homage of thy son. Thou art justly entitled to it—mine is unworthy of being profferred. It seems, Madam, that I have waylaid the affections of the youth, at least so saith thy proud, stern daughter. If it be so, I renounce them from this time henceforward; for, I would rather sleep in the bosom of the poorest peasant in the land as the partner of his heart, than have it thought by any being, great or small, that I was capable of being the lcman of the proudest man in it. Madam, I cry thee silence. I owe thee much, but I will not be interrupted. Receive thy son at my hands, and with him this (holding out the miniature) which thou wert once pleased to call a bauble. I thought it something better, and wore it, for many years, next my heart. Keep it, Lady, for my sake, and when I die, an' thou wilt, lay it in the tomb by my side. From this house I go forth to-night, say, to-night; and oh! dearest, dearest Lady, when some fairer and better-born dame is bound to thy son by the holy chains of matrimony, may God grant, for thy sake and for her, that he gets a heart as loyal to virtue, and as true to love, as that which, in the pride of family, is now torn to pieces in cruel mockery and scorn."
She now advanced towards Eleanor Lyll, who would have retired on her approach, but she seized her firmly by the arm, and dragged the terrified girl into the middle of the apartment.
"I must have speech with thee, young lady," said she. "Dost thou see what thou hast done? But, listen to me; the true and honourable spirit of woman —that which may be compared to nothing else on this earth—dwells not with thee. Thy stony and cold heart is a stranger to the softer and purer aspirations *>f thy sex. Nature erred when she made thee what *thou art; but, mark me, young lady; ere many suns revolve over thy head, thou mayest reap the reward of this night's work. In silence and in sadness, and in the land of strangers, remember Rose Allison, the broken-hearted companion of thy youth. May God forgive thee, for I never can.''
Really alarmed, and trembling under the gaze of that eye which, but a short while before, she could have averted with a look of proud defiance, Eleanor Lyll replied—
"Dear Rose, forgive me. I did but jest."
"Jest, didst thou say!" cried Rose, her voice screeching with passion, and her whole frame agitated with the most vehement emotion, "jest, didst thou say, thou traitress to the best feelings of womanhood! Jest with the pure and holy love of a maiden—that never-dying passion of a true woman's soul—then, I loath and scorn thee as the vicious and infamous votary of art, not of nature—of that which is impure and worthless, not of that which is pure and lovely!" and, so saying, she flung Eleanor from her, and, approaching Lady Lyll, who had looked upon the whole scene with stupifying amazement, she had just begun to address her Ladyship, when her hitherto pale face became flashed and distorted, and the burst of temporary madness with which she had been seized, and the effects of which they had just witnessed, issued in a violent convulsion, which left her disfigured and senseless where she fell.
THE COLOSSEUM AT ROME.
Von der Vorwelt Machtfoloss!
Thut es weg diess beil'ge Zeichen!
Thou, Colosseum! Giant power!
Colossal shade of mighty Eld.
Of death-appronching pangs beheld.
Thou'st won, indeed, a martyr's death;
On which thou spend'st thy dying breath!
The world is thine—and there appear—
But stand not—Badge of Mercy—here !*
What a strange combination of incongruous ideas strikes the mind of the astonished traveller, when, after wandering through the now deserted Forum, he sees before him the most wonderful monument of human art. The mouldering hand of invidious time seems to have made little impression on that part of its walls which is seen from the Temple of Venus and Rome.f
As he gazes on the splendid ruin with eyes which seem incredulous that ever such a work could emanate from mortal hands—it seems to invite the mind to serious contemplation on its eventful history—reared at first by the oppressed Israelites; it heard many a mourning captive's sigh, as their hard and barbarous task-masters, to lighten the tedious hours of labour, day after day, aggravated their load of agony, saying " Sing us a Song of Zion."
Nor were these the only mournful sounds that were heard within its massy walls—for when assembled Rome, with anxious expectation, watched the furious gladiators braving death to gain a wreath of withering laurels; the piercing shriek of death, struck with chilly horror the breasts of those whose loud applause made mighty Home resound the victor's praise. Still the time-worn walls appear to echo forth the warrior's dying sigh, at the gentle breeze floats through the winding corridors.
But these barbarous sounds have long been unheard within this venerable pile—that arena which oft drank in the blood of the hapless victim, who gasping in death's cold embrace, has now become, if we may trust the well-told tale of many an aged monk —the quiet resting place of saints who met their death triumphant in the Cause Divine.
Such thoughts "crowd fast into the mind's creative eye" when the wanderer first visits the Colosseum, which Popish bigotry has now consecrated by the erection of a penitential cross in its centre, and of a small chapel, where a greasy Cappucino is stationed to receive from the truly faithful, "Elimosine per gli aniini nel purgatorio." No dense crowd comes pouring through its now deserted portals, but, now and then, is heard the hum of prayer, as some toil-worn pilgrim tells his beads o'er a martyr's grave— or the montonous tone of some zealous monk, who, ignorant as those he addresses, enforces fasting and penance as the only means of obtaining a happy exit from the tortures of purgatory.
But, if you would see the Colosseum in all its grandeur —free from those appalling spectacles of blinded superstition, which must distress every thinking heart,
"Go, visit it by pale moonlight." There no obtrusive sound nor spectacle can break the trains of thought which rush unforbidden on the mind. It appears double the size by night, that it does by day, and as the cold moon-beam streaming through the arches, rests on some broken mass of ruin, the imagination conjures up the spirits of the unlamented dead, or hears the Jew's groan of anguish, when he thinks his captive hours were spent in raising a Mausoleum for Christian heretics.
At that still hour, the only sounds that meet his ears are still congenial to his thoughts—the nightingale from the garden of the neighbouring convent, sings a sweet lullaby o'er the shades of the just, while the soldier, as he treads his rounds, impatient for the blast of war which now never sounds within his ears, hums the well-known chorus, , Roma, Roma, Roma, Roma, uou e piu ch era prima.
* The above is extracted from an Ode on the Ruins of Rome, by the famous poet GrUlparzir, who, on account of its publication, was banished from the Eternal City. It has not as yet appeared in an English garb, and the small portion of it which we have translated is all that is yet made known, to the English reader, of that sarcastic and powerful poetical diatribe.
f II Templo di Venere e Roma is situated at the top of the Forum, and exactly opposite the Colosseum.
Bug Well, Mr. Scar, have you seen The Day.
Scug—Yes—I see it every day—It's a very cheap paper. Rug.—It is indeed, but I daresay I read it cheaper than you for all that.
Seng.—I know you're a bit of a saveall, but I will beat you a trifle I have the start of you there.
Rug Done— ■" ,'. ,
Scug For what.
Rug—A timothy at the Club to-night.
Scug—Done then—so tell me how you manage.
Rug. — I'll show you that—there are three lodgers in the house besides myself, and we just order the landlady to take in The Day, and charge each of us with his proportion in our weekly bill, so the reading only stands me one farthing per day. What do you think of that, Mr. Scug?
Scug Why I think you are an extravagant fool to throw
away your money in such a manner. I thought you were a more knowing hand at a bargain than that Mr. Rug.
Rug.—(piqued) Well, how the devil do you manage then.
Scug.—I'll tell you that—I have three lounging shops in town —:I go to them, alternately, and ask a sight of The Day, and, after reading it over, I either sneak away, or If I see the bookseller looking queer, I lay it down with a pshaw! trash, and observe, that as soon as it shews a little more talent I will put down my name, but it has not yet as the Editor says, "come up to my standard." \ So you see, Mr. Rug, The Day does not cost me one farthing.
Rug -Well, Mr. Seng, that's one way of doing it.
Scug.—And a very good way too, Mr. Rug. I read the other papers on the same terms.
Rug The devil you do! You must surely take something from
the booksellers occasionally when you are so favoured.
Scug. — O yes, I take a wafer from them now and then.
Rug A wafer! They cannot charge you for that.
Scug I know it, and that's my very reason for asking it.
Rug Well, Scug, your booksellers must be a very obliging set
of folks, indeed, when they allow people to lounge about their shops, read their new publications, and borrow their wafers without re. ceiving a farthing's worth of benefit, in the way of their business.
Scug So long as they don't complain, why should I trouble
my head about it.
Rug Well, Scug, if they don't give you a broad hint now and
then, I must say, that I am at a loss to know whether there is more of the simpleton than the gentleman in the composition of your booksellers: as for you, you seem equally removed from either.
Scug.—You are severe, Mr. Rug; but you'll acknowledge you have lost the bet.
Rug I'm not sure about that Mr. Scug. I rather think your
system of reading is dearer to you than you are aware of—and before I pay I shall submit it to the Club.
Scug Well, I've no objections to a reference.
[Last night the question was laid before a full meeting in the Coal Hole, and it was unanimously decided that Scug had lost.]
The OPERA Box, containing sketches in Prose and Verse, of the most celebrated characters who have performed on the stage of the Italian Opera, embellished with full-length portraits, will speedily "be published.
"Leaves Of Laurel," being a selection from Mr. Bayley'a Lyrical Poems, with a few originals, illustrated with steel engravings, is in the press ,
Revolutions—Good men are never concerned in revolutions, because they will not go the lengths. Sunderland caused the revolution of 108S, while Devonshire stood aloof—the latter was the angel, the former the storm. Bad men, and poisonous plants, are sometimes of superlative use in skilful hands.
Fontenei.le.—Kontenelle, in his old age, was very deaf, and was always attended in company by a nephew, a talkative, vain young man. When anything remarkable had escaped Fontenelle's auditory nerve, he used to apply to his nephew, " What was said?" This coxcomb would often answer, " Uncle, I said—" Bah! was the constant retort of the philosopher.
Authors In Flower.—Mr. Walpole remarks that, at a certain time of their lives, meu of genius seemed to be in flower. Gray was in flower three years, when he wrote his odes, &c. This starting the idea of the American aloe, some kinds of which are said to flower only once in a century, he observed, laughing, that had Gray lived a hundred years longer, perhaps he would have been in flower again. Sir Charles Hanbury Williams bore only one blossom; he was in flower only for one ode.
Impositions.—Acute 'and sensible people are often the easily deceived. A deceit, of which it may be said, "it is 1 ble for any one to dare it" always succeeds.
Coals To Newcastle.:—The chief apprehension of the Duke of Newcastle, (the minister), was that of' catching cold. Often in the heat of summer the debates, in the House of Lords, would stand still, till some window was shut, in consequence of the Duke's orders. The Peers would all be melting in sweat, that the Duke might not catch cold. When Sir Joseph Yorke was ambassador at the Hague, a curious instance happened of this idle apprehension. The late King goiug to Hanover, the Duke must go with him, that his foes might not injure him in his absence. The day they were to pass the sea, a messenger came, at five o'clock in the morning, and drew Sir Joseph's bed curtains. Sir Joseph starting, asked what was the matter. The man said he came from the Duke of Newcastle. "For God's sake,", exclaimed Sir Joseph, "what is it? is the King ill?" No. After several fruitless questions, the messenger at length said, 11 the Duke sent me to see you in bed, for in this bed he means to sleep." , Two Ministers.—Mr. Pitt's plan, when he had the gout, was to have no tire in his room, but to load himself with bed-clothes. At his house at Hayes he sleeped in a long room; at one end of which was his bed, and his lady's at the other. His way was, when he thought the Duke of Newcastle had fallen into any mistake, to send for him, and read him a lecture. The Duke was sent for once, and came, when Mr. Pitt was confined to bed by the gout. There was, as usual no fire in the room; the day was very chilly, and the Duke, as usual, afraid of catching cold. The Duke first flat down on Mrs. Pitt's bed, as the warmest place; then drew up his legs into it, as he got colder. The lecture unluckily continuing a considerable time, the Duke at length fairly lodged himself under Mrs. Pitt's bed-clothes. A person, from whom I had the story, suddenly going in, saw the two ministers in bed, at the two ends of the room, while Pitt's long nose, and black beard unshaved for some days, added to the grotesque of the scene.. —- Walpole.
Quin Quin sometimes said things at once witty and .wise.
Disputing concerning the execution of Charles I. "But by what ■laws," said his opponent, "was he put to death?" Quin replied, "By all the laws be had left them."
NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.
"W. L." of Greenock will find a place as soon as we have room.
11 L.'s" paper on the Power of Religion shall be submitted to the sombre Signor who caters for our Saturday's Number.
"Maria S V Stanzas have been received, along with as
■ many others as would fill an octavo volume. Really our poetical friends put themselves and us to much unnecessary trouble. We must say, once for all, that we can never consent to open our Poet's Corner to mere rhymsters.
"A. B.'s" Communication will be taken into immediate consideration.
"M. S. C.V Lines "On a Dead Child" would, we fear, if put in type, fall still-born from the press.
"Lines on Crookston Castle" have been consigned to our Balaam-box.
Our Greek friend on the Cholera will not suit our pages.
"Haut Ton" in the course of a day or two.
"Roadster" has been received, and will meet with attention. His beautiful caligraphy indicates he might favour us with something more suitable for our columns than any thing connected with the Statute Labour Trust.
"Omega's" Warrior Boy will be put into the hands of our Poetical Critic.
*»* In order to insure this Publication being on the Breakfast Table every morning, it is requested that intending Subscribers will leave their names and addresses at the Publisher's.
A MORNING JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, FINE ARTS, FASHION, &c.
GLASGOW, TUESDAY, JANUARY 31, 1832.
THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE.
We remember to have read, no matter how many years ago, a book called Roderick Random; and we also remember to have been much struck with the iircuunt which the facetious author of the said book gave of the devotion of the French people to every thing which was national. It signified not what the thing was—a periwig or a king—a soup or a marshal —a pair of boots or a duke—a pinch of snuff or a beautiful woman—were alike interesting in the eyes of a good Frenchman of those days; for it was his delight to glory in all that belonged to la grande Nation. We were much struck, we say, with all this; for, to tell the truth, in the simplicity of boyhood, we did not understand it. We were not aware that this giddy peoplo had but one common feeling upon every thing which belonged to themselves, and we were too ignorant of history to know that this, otherwise very pardonable and praise-worthy propensity, might be, and had been, abused by them. By-and-bye, however, the spirit of change came upon them, and, with the characteristic impetuosity of the Gallic temper, it produced, not a reform, as that word is commonly used, but a total and radical revolution. The philosophy of Sans Sovci, and of Ferney, might have had their shares in this great change; but it cannot be doubted that an oppressed peasantry, B despotic throne, a monopolizing aristocracy aud priesthood, and an ignorant and bigotted people, were the true elements out of which the mighty conflagration was fed. The history of England was open to them, and so was that of Rome ; but, in the wantonness of absolute power, and with the tyranny of vulgar minds, they spurned both. They desired a Republic on American principles, and they obtained—what? The grinding autocracy of Napoleon—thirteen years of the conscription—military renown—Lodi—Marengo—Leipsic— Moscow—ruined commerce—colonial loss—naval decrepitude—Waterloo, and the Bourbons! What they have done since is not properly before us; but we may be permitted, we hope, (for we are old-fashioned sort of folks,) to say, that, in the time of the Israelites, the conduct of this unaccountable people would have been held to be a teaming unto all the nations. We are aware that it is most unfashionable to speak of the Jews in these times, or of anything that belongs to them, except the dark eyes and beautiful hair of their women; but, as we said, we are antiquated in our tastes, and we cannot help thinking, that these same Israelites were in the right on points of this kind. The French have been blundering on for more than half a century, often to the terror, and not unfrequently to the amusement of all Europe, and, after all, what have they made of it? When the poor Jews worshipped a golden calf, they were only a little more genteel than their neighbours, who, it will be remembered, worshipped stocks and stones; but these modern changelings (dare we so use the word?) have alternately bowed the knee to Baal—to Nobody—to Reason—to the Pope—to the Emperor—to the Devil—to Talleyrand—to the King of France—to the People—to the King of the French —and they are now worshipping the moon. And yet these are the people whom we would imitate! Will any man have the goodness to tell us what
we ever got, which was really estimable, from the French? Saving silks and kid gloves, which, through Mr. Huskisson's poliey, at first threw out of employment some thousands of poor people in this country, we know of nothing which we ever obtained, that was worth having, except—and the word is important —the spirit of change, the cupido novanun rerwn. Let us apply ourselves to this.
Gentle reader! you have heard of Rome—of the Romans—of their Empire—their Legions—their Power—of Sy 11a—Marius—Caesar —Pompey — Augustus, and even of Tiberius, who was it consummate scoundrel, but a clever man, and a profound politician; now, we, the erudite and philanthropic conductors of " The Day," (we despise Pha?ton, who was a bungler, and came bump against the sun, the jackass,) beg of you to understand, that this wise people diss liked change, more especially in two things, namely, in religion, and in state government. It is quite a clear case, that they were originally robbers and outcasts, and that, in order to give themselves any decent standing in society, they were forced to claim a connexion with the Gods, though, after all, it was but a bastard one: still, their own opinion of their own superiority led to great things. They beat the world, the Parthians excepted, and their free government lasted longer than any similar government of the ancient world. What was the cause of this?
In the first place, like the French of Louis the Fourteenth's time, they despised all the world beside, which was as dross to them. Their laws were cruel, domestically considered, and only moderately just, politically considered; yet they were better than those of many other nations. Their religion, pi issime loquatur, was nonsense, still they respected it. Their prejudices, regarding themselves and their own superiority, were, as all prejudices are, very absurd, yet they tended to good; and, as they were not oppressed by any scruples of conscience touching nice points, they never quarrelled with their neighbours on theology. This they carefully avoided, and the consequence was, that they waxed great, and became the masters of the world. The philosophy of the whole matter, however, lies in this, that they possessed, in the highest possible state of perfection, the secret of National Concord. Whatever disputes they might have amongst themselves, they never allowed these to interfere with their external interests. They knew well, that to be formidable, they must be united, and, acting on the principle that Rome was the Imperial City, wherein was kept the balance of justice, and that the world was made for the Roman people, not the Roman people for the world, they succeeded, in the course of a few centuries, in converting the arrogant fictions with which they commenced their career, into positive realities. When they conquered, their principle was to incorporate, not to destroy. The Gods of the vanquished were allotted places in the national calendar, and though, to the eyes of profane posterity, no resemblance can be traced between the deities of Rome and those of other nations, neighbouring or remote, except such as may proceed from the equivocal principle of luctts a non lucendo, the arrangement pleased all parties, and, we have no reason to doubt, was productive of advantage. In the same way their system of colonization was one of accommodation. If they abolished the liberties of a nation, they haughtily offered the freedom of Rome and the privilege* of Roman citizenship, in. exchange; and, strange though it may appear to us, who have been educated in principles so unlike theirs, this insolent mode of doing justice was often attended with real advantage to the parties to whom it was extended. If a weak Prince happened to be an ally, or dependent of the Roman people, these bold Republicans made common cause with him, and, by the terror of their name, and the force of their arms, prevented aggression on the part of a powerful or ambitious neighbour. It was thus, that, while their own city was rent by factions, turbulent and truculent, they kept the rest of the world chained at their feet, until their vast empire had no other limits than such as the boundaries of the known world afforded. We do not mean to offer any commentary, on the system of international law as it was understood by the Romans, but we desire, particularly, to impress on the minds of such of our readers as may happen to be smitten with the spirit of change, that the career of victory which characterised their history, only lasted so long as the people were united in support of their ancient and original institutions. When these came to be despised, or when attempts were made to improve upon them, the ponderous and unwieldy structure fell to the ground, B magnificent ruin, but still only a ruin. We learn from an historian, remarkable for his power as a writer, and his profligacy as a man, and who spent one half of his long life in Republican, and the other in Imperial Rome, that, before the eruption of the formidable conspiracy which threatened the destruction of the city, the manners and habits of the citizens had undergone a great and decisive change. Money, the reward of conquests and of robbery, bad engendered luxury and avarice—the temples were neglected, and cruelty and pride substituted for probity and good behaviour. Ambition introduced double-dealing and falsehood, and reduced the system of life to a condition closely resembling our own at present; for friendships and enmities were entertained, not upon the principle of reciprocal esteem, or honest dislike, (for there is such a thing) but upon the principle of convenience, and political expediency—non ex re, sed ex commotio, as he expresses it. In a city so depraved, this historian concludes, that an association of villains might easily accomplish their ends; and they very nearly did so. What we have to contemplate in the narrative, however, is this, that the same circumstances may always, in the progress of events, lead to the same consequences. Let the moral elements of social life be disturbed by any series of causes, real or imaginary, and the dissolution of society will speedily follow. A wise man would not choose to trifle with the prejudices even of a people, much less would he hold them up to scorn and derision. Cicero and Caesar had their own opinions, as to the belief of their countrymen; but they did not seek to give unnecessary offence, by openly declaring their sentiments. Had they done so, no good could have followed, but much mischief might have ensued, and this they knew. Whatever their impressions might have been of the institutions of other nations, they never forgot that their own glory was bound up in that of their own country; and that, when they addressed an audience, that audience was Roman in feeling, thought and action. Not so, however, a modern orator. It is his principle to forget, who and what the parties are, whom he addresses—to adopt some favourite word—liberality, for example—and to ring on it a thousand changes— to assume an air of superior wisdom—and to laugh at every thing venerable, as antiquated and irrational —to preach cosmopolitism, and to swagger before a vulgar rabble, as a citizen of the world. But what is this liberality, which can lead to such consequences? It was a maxim of the ancient philosophers, that ex ni
hilita, niJtilJit, but, with humility be it spoken, ex malo, nihil bonum, would have been better. That which leads to absurd consequences, can never be true. A man who professes to have a deeper interest in the affairs of another, than in his own, may justly be suspected of false pretensions; and he who proclaims his preference of the habits and institutions of all other nations to his own must be in one of two predicaments—either he can have little to lose by change, which is most commonly the case—or he is the dupe of his own vanity. One of the most irrepressible instincts of man is, to love the land of his birth, with a sort of idolatrous love; and, of all the weaknesses which attach to him, this, if it can be so called, is the most amiable: but, if any faith can be placed in the dogmas of liberalism, it is a contemptible prejudice, which should be hunted down wherever it is met with. We think differently, and in a future Number, we shall endeavour to prove that it lies at the bottom, not only of brotherhood, but of good government. •
CELEBS NOT IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.
We have received the following letter, and, as it contains charges which require the grave consideration of " Mothers and laughters," we give it without the slightest alteration. We are confident, however, that, though the amiable and accomplished portion of society, for whose fair eye it appears to have been written, may have failed in matching the fastidious and aM-captiuating Mr. Crelebs with a wife, they will have no difficulty in matching him with an answer. We may also mention, that no reply to the following will be inserted unless written by a female hand, and, in order to give every opportunity to our fair friends, their commu- ■ nications will be submitted to a full meeting of the "Council of Teu," who will exercise their acumen in selecting the most meritorious and suitable production. For our own part, we are quite shocked at the insolent insinuations thrown out. What would we not give for the dear and tender advances which he affects to undervalue. We have, really, no patience with such people. Communications will be received on the subject till Tuesday next, on which night the Council will decide.
To the Editor of Tim Dav. Sra,—As I understand your paper, like that of your great progenitors, the Spectator, Lounger, &c, to be for the correction of private as well as public abuses, I have thought of stating my case to you, in the hope of exciting some sympathy towards me, and also, of giving a hint, through the medium of your paper, to those respecting whom, as you shall see, I have some just reason to complain.
I am a middle-aged man, of sober and retired habits, and with a moderately sufficient competency to subsist upon, but have not yet made up my mind to marry, and this, in the eye of certain persons in the world, constitutes my only fault. I we very little company either at home or abroad, but when I do indulge in having a few friends at my fireside, they are of my own disposition, and of course Bachelors. One cannot however live always in the world without visiting, and, being sometimes invited to a comfortable party, but, what to the generality of people is a circumstance of joy and interest, is to me turned into gall and wormwood from an almost unheard-of species of annoyance, which my friends infallibly fix upon me, namely, that of continually tormenting and pestering me, about why and how I do not get married. They seem to have taken it into tbeir heads, that a man can have no enjoyment out of that state; that he can neither be clothed, fed, warmed, nor comforted, without a wife, and, proceeding upon this hypothesis, they batter away at an inoffensive individual. I can partly excuse this system of drilling one into matrimony, from that intrinsic goodness and benevolence, that "humanity to man," which dwells and reigns in the female heart; but, so far as regards myself, I should like to see it exhibited a little less ostentatiously; and, partly may it be justified from the anxiety of the dear, young creatures themselves, never to get into the list of old maids. I, however, can find no palliation for what, at the same time, I have often observed—that intense interest, taken by mo