and the approaching hour of midnight termintaes these plea sures. 27. ASH WEDNESDAY. Thus there is a vanished festival, like a dream, like a tale that is told; and there probably remains less of it in the the mind of a partaker of it, than in the minds of our readers before whose imagination and understanding we have brouught the whole connectedly. Yet the long narrow crowded streets remind us of the ways of this world's life, where every spectator and participator looks on with open countenance, or from under his mask-from balcony or from scaffold, he sees only the circumscribed spot which immediately surrounds him—in coach or on foot he proceeds only step by step; driven or rather going, hindered rather than stopping willingly; seeking only more zealously to attain a spot where things proceed more pleasantly; and then also again he is hard-pushed, and at last is supplanted. Might we venture to proceed, and speak more seriously than the present occasion appears to admit, we should remark, that the highest and most lively pleasures, like as the by-running horses appear before us but for an instant, do move from us, and scarcely leave a trace in our minds; that unbouuded liberty and equality can only be enjoyed in the tumults of madness, and that the greatest enjoyment scarcely reaches its height ere it thrusts itself close to danger. THE PLAYER'S CHAUNT. When first I trod the Thespian stage, Where buskin'd bravoes bellow, I took my part from Shakspeare's page, And ranted in Othello. But Mr. Snooks, a Scythian More rude than Anacharsis, Confined, by managerial ban, 2. I mended rents in pantaloons; I shouted in the chorus; On petticoats I stitch'd festoons, In symphonies I made the crash, 3. Though cushion'd, by the envious spite They'd soon experience want of light, And while they vaunt their Youngs and Keans, G. C. MY FIRST PAPER; IN THE FORM OF A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "THE ORIGINAL." SIR, I have always had a great antipathy to letter-writing. Urgent must be the occasion that would induce me to wield "my grey goose quill" in epistolary exercise; but such a one is the present. My motive in addressing you is one of considerable importance, at least to myself, as involving the fate of a long and cherished hope. What do you think, Mr. Editor? Long have I entertained a particular desire to appear in print. How to accomplish this end I knew not: I awaited an opportunity, but in vain, and I began to despair. The prolific variety of our weekly press confounded me-the aspirings of my ambition soared not so high as the monthly magazines-the pages of the weekly periodicals, chiefly devoted to reviews of books, theatrical critiques, and borrowed matter, checked my rising efforts; and the smaller craft of the innumerable weekly publications, but ill accorded with my views. At length up sprang THE ORIGINAL, destined to fill a very apparent vacuum in our weekly literature-may its continuance among us be lasting, and may it long shed around us a halo of mirth and jollity! To the Editor of THE ORIGINAL I at once resolved to address myself—in the pages of THE ORIGINAL I resolved to seek an opportunity of launching into the troubled seas of authorship; but not without feeling an inward and inexpressible dread of those hidden rocks on which so many have foundered-of those quicksands on which the hopes of so many have been wrecked. Perilous is the voyage, and whether I shall steer clear of the dangerous Scylla, and escape the encircling eddies of the voracious gulph of Charybdis-time alone will prove. It were useless, Sir, to attempt to describe the delight and flattering anxiety of a young writer, cheered by the anticipation of beholding his first manuscript decked in the regular and bright array of typical splendor. The feelings experienced in the event of such an anticipation being realized, I leave to the initiated. "Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute," says the French proverb; but, alas! how sadly was it reversed in the case of a friend of mine, whom, to suit my present purpose, I shall call Septimus. He was a student of the University of Oxford, bad studied hard, and few young men of his own age could have been found with a mind more richly stored with general information, or few who were better acquainted with light literature. He was seized with an intolerable mania for scribbling;-I have seen him write for hours together-commit what he had written to the flames, and begin again. This he continued for a consider. ble time, till at length finishing an "article" to his own satisfaction, he sent it to the editor of one of the monthly magazines, and had the good fortune to see it inserted. With what extacy and delight did he peruse his own article in the bright and brilliant pages of a monthly magaz ne-he was almost intoxicated with joy, and felt amply recompensed for the trouble and pains he had lavished upon it. He finished a second essay, which was attended with the same success; but, alas! the third was destined to cloud his bright visions of literary renown. It was during a long vacation from Oxford that he had written the papers before alluded to, and on his return to the University, he intended to prepare another by the close of the term. In the intermission from his severer studies he finished one-one on which he had bestowed even more pains than on either of the former. He returned to town full of joyous expectation, his imagination revelling in visions of literary fame. He sent his manuscript to the publishers, as usual, and at the end of the month had the unspeakable mortification, in the notice to correspondents, to see against the initials he had adopted, the awful sentence "will not suit us." Nothing daunted, he set about another article; but, alas! the same fate awaited it. This astounded him, and completely checked the ardour of his literary career, his hopes were blightedhe railed at the stupidity-he cursed the want of taste of the editor, in rejecting his essays. Chagrined at the last failure, he renounced magazine writing, and resolved to complete his studies, uninterrupted by the plague and turmoil of authorship! Less humble my ambition; and though less triumphant, if successful, still may it have a happier issue. Though young, Septimus had made me the confidant of his literary proceedings, and in speaking of the varied feelings that alternately pervade the mind of an author, which he delighted to describe, he had often repeated his assurance that I should one day figure in the republic of letters. Ah! little did I then think that that period would arrive-that I should figure in the pages. "Whither are you wandering" cries my protecting genius. "Stay thy inconsiderate hand," whispers the voice of discretion; “know you not the dangerous ground on which you are treading? Know you not the sandy foundations of aerial castles?" 66 I trust, Sir, that a first attempt may be regarded with a lenient eye, and that the harshness of criticism may not stifle the energies of an aspiring mind. However, should I be so fortunate as to obtain a place in the columns of your miscellany, "Sublimi feriam sidera vertice," it will at present be the height of my wishes- the summit o my ambition. Should I be so fortunate, you may hear from me anon, but not again in the epistolary style. "I am, Sir, Your obedient Servant, A YOUNG ASPIRANT IN LITERATURE. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG, WHICH LEAPT FROM A ROCK IN PURSUIT OF A MOUNTAIN FOX. They weep who lose a valued friend, And wear the mourning garb of wo; And troops of hirelings attend, To lay the dead where all must go. For thee I shed no borrow'd tear; We are alone-to part for ever! I could have better spared than thee Some cold associate-prosing fool, Who boasts himself a man, and he A slave of slaves-a courtier's tool. [Professing, as we do, to be non-contagionists in the matter of Cholera, and expressing our firm persuasion that the worst case in our remotest attic has not reached the Asiatic character, we shall not incur the suspicion of intending to favour the spread of alarm, if we extract the following account from Mr. Crawfurd's very interesting Journal of his Embassy to the Courts of Siam and Cochin-China.] May 15.-The epidemic cholera morbus which, two years ago, committed dreadful ravages in Siam and the neighbouring countries, broke out afresh at Bankok, with considerable activity about this period. About twelve o'clock last night I was awakened by a message from the Palace, informing me that one of the princesses, sister to the king, was attacked by the epidemic, and requesting that Mr. Finlayson might prescribe for her. Although at the time suffering severely from the effects of the malady, which afterwards proved fatal to him, Mr. Finlayson went without hesitation. He was not, however, permitted to see his patient, but kept waiting in the palace of the prince Krom-chiat for upwards of three hours, with the view of obtaining an opinion upon the symptoms and progress of her complaint, as they were reported by her attendants. The Prince kept him company all the time. His conversation was chiefly upon medical questions; and according to Mr. Finlayson's account, he put many extraordinary ones. The Princess died a few hours after Mr. Finlayson left the Palace. She was a young woman of about sixteen years of age, and unmarried. The event seemed to create much affliction among her relatives. The more joyous parts of the festivities now going on at the Prah-klang's house, were in consequence, for a time, interrupted. Not knowing of her death, and thinking it an act of civility, I sent a messenger to inquire after her health. The person to whom it was delivered, the brother of the Prah-klang, returned for answer, that the subject was one which he dared not even speak of. All the other Siamese to whom I introduced the subject, spoke of it in the same mysterious manner: as if persons of the royal blood were exempted from the common law of mortality, or that at least it did not belong to the vulgar to imagine otherwise. INVITATION TO CONTRIBUTORS; OR, A PROLOGUE FOR EVERY ALBUM. Friend, fair or brown, tall, middling, or short- Be thou a love-sick damsel, straight inscribe And pen a sonnet to thy lady's brow. Be thou a warrior, praise the god of war; Be thou a traveller coming from afar, Tell us some "traveller's tale" of what thou'st seen. Be thou a wit, an epigram insert; A painter, let thy pencil tell thy fame; An author, then thy fancy pray exert; And if thou 'rt none of these-inscribe thy name. ANECDOTES OF TRIBOULET. (Continued from p. 64.) Some nobleman who felt hurt at a joke which Triboulet had played off against him, threatened to cudgel him to death; this so alarmed the jester that he ran to the king and told him of the danger. "Never mind," said Francis, " if he dare to kill you, he shall be hanged himself a quarter of an hour afterwards." "Ah! please your majesty!" said Triboulet, "if you would but have the goodness to hang him a quarter of an hour before !" Triboulet was once crossing over a bridge which had no balustrades. in company with some nobleman of the court, who asked him tauntingly, why the bridge had not got balustrades (in French garde fou, fool preserver) "Oh!" said Triboulet," the man who built it had no idea that you and I should ever cross it." Previous to Francis I. entering on the unfortunate campaign of 1525, in which he was taken prisoner at Pavia, he held a council of war, at which Triboulet was present, in which was discussed the best mode of making an entry into Italy; when the council was over, Tribou'et accosted the members of it with "I dare say you all think you have given the king a wonderful deal of good advice, and yet all this time you have forgotten the most important part of the business." Ah, what is that?" said they. "Why," said Triboulet, you don't, I suppose, mean to stay in Italy; and, yet have never considered how you are to get back again." The unfortunate issue of this expedition proves the propriety of the jester's remarks. The year of Triboulet's death is unknown, but the following epitaph is inserted in the Latin poems of Jean Bouté, which were printed in 1538: Vixi Morio, regibusque gratus Solo hoc nomine; viso num futurus, Regum morio sim Jovi supremo. At Triboulet's time there were two other jesters wellknown at the French court. The first of these Caillette was, however, rather to be classed among idiots, yet his naive sallies of wit oftentimes created abundance of mirth. The other Polite was attached to the Abbot de Bourgeuille. THE LEGENDARY. No. 4. [The following curious Arabian tradition, remarkable for its resemblance to a well-known incident in Don Quixote, and for the peculiar test of veracity which it describes, was related to a gentleman, when travelling in Arabia, by a native of the country.] MAHOMET, at his departure from the earth, being well aware of the fallibility of human judgment, and of the difficulty which the wisest mortals had in getting at the truth on many important occasions, adopted the expedient of letting down from Heaven a chain, which possessed the peculiar property of being always within reach of the individual who asserted the truth, but beyond the grasp of him who uttered that which was false. This chain hung down for ages, and was always resorted to in cases of uncertainty, and with never-failing success; but at length the following case of difficulty occurred :—A dispute arose between two men-one, who had lent money, and the other, who had borrowed it: the lender declaring he had never been paid, and the borrower as vehemently asserting that he had paid it long ago. The affair was brought under the notice of the Cadi, but both parties swore so strongly to the truth of their respective assertions, that the Cadi was forced to decree that the ordeal of the chain should be applied to. To the chain, accordingly, the parties betook themselves, attended by the Cadi and the necessary witnesses. The plaintiff then stept forward, and exclaiming, "I lent this man so much money, and have never been paid it!" laid hold of the chain without the slightest difficulty. The by-standers were convinced that he had asserted the truth, and the Cadi was much of the same opinion. The plaintiff, in the mean time, called upon the defendant to touch the chain. "Yes, to be sure I will," said he, "just hold my cane while I do so;" at the same time handing to him his walking-stick. Then stretching forth his hand, he said, "I did borrow so much money of this man, but I have already returned it to him;" and when he had said these words, behold-the chain was within his grasp. Now were the spectators amazed, and the Cadi confused; while Mahomet, considerably vexed at finding himself no match for the cunning and artifice of man-(for the money was enclosed in the cane which the debtor had given his creditor to hold)drew up the chain to Heaven, and left the Arabians from thenceforth to lie or tell truth without troubling his head any more upon the subject. A gentleman who a fine orchard possess'd, In vain would he say, "I'll nocturnal watch keep, To guard from this blackguard my fruits' poor remains"The rogue from his hiding-place watch'd him to sleep: So his trees became fruitless, as well as his pains. For a tart or a pie scarce enough now is left Of his apples thus pared down and fritter'd away; Till at length, of his fruit and his patience bereft, He resolved, bold as Pepin, the ravage to stay. To be equally guarded from sleep and alarms, So when, in the dead of the night, " for the nonce," He lifted his voice and his weapon at once, But ere in his flight he had got to the wall, A stone struck his toe-so his footing was gone. 'Tis thus for an apple man suffers a fall; And the rascal lay sprawling, but frighten'd alone. The spoil'd now proceeded the spoiler to cuff, (That 'twas no sleeveless errand he'd come on, this shows,) Till at length the rogue's back or his arms had enough, And the double knocks changed to a wring at his nose. The gentleman's passion by action thus eased, So, deeming it better to treat with the thief, Says he, "Steal no more, and some apples I'll give. Come, tell me how many you'll take to leave off: BRITISH REVIEW. D. Tour in Germany, Holland, and England, in the years 1826, 1827, and 1828. By a German Prince. Vol 3. The epistolary lucubrations of Prince Puckler Muskau, for such is the cognomen in which the writer of these amusing letters rejoices, were in part submitted to the public previously to our entering upon our critical career. But we do not hold that as a sufficient reason for not laying before our readers such passages from the recently published division of his work, as may afford them amusement. Luckily for us, the volume before us abounds with numerous extractable passages, and with such accordingly we shall fill the space which we can afford to his Princeship, in lieu of employing it with our disquisitions upon the genuineness of the work itself. The Prince was, in England, introduced into good society, and though the book may be in some measure made up, there is, we think, sufficient vraisemblance in it to satisfy the most scrupulous-that the greater part of the narrative is founded in fact. The existence of the prince himself has been doubted-yet the members of a certain club, to which he was admitted, could satisfy the world upon that point. But to our extracts, the first of which shall be of Goethe, Scott, and Byron. "In the course of conversation we came to Sir Walter Scott. Goethe was not very enthusiastic about the Great Unknown. He said that he doubted not that he wrote his novels in the same sort of partnership as existed between the old painters and their scholars; that he furnished the plot, the leading thoughts, the incidents, and the skeletons of the scenes; that he then let his pupils fill them up, and retouched them at the last. It seemed almost to be his opinion, that it was not worth the while of a man of Sir Walter Scott's eminence to give himself up to such a number of minute details. 'Had I,' added he,' been able to lend myself to the idea of mere gain, I could formerly have sent such things into the world, with the aid of Leny and others-nay, I could still-as would astonish people not a little, and make them puzzle their brains not a little to find out the author; but after all they would be but manufac tured wares." I afterwards observed, that it was gratifying to Germans to see what victories our literature was achie ving in other countries; 'and,' added I, our Napoleon has no Waterloo to dread.' "Certainly,' replied he, disregarding my fade' compliment, setting aside all our original productions, we now stand on a very high step of culture, by the adoption and appropriation of those of foreign growth. Other nations will soon learn German, from the conviction that they may thus, to a certain extent, dispense with the learning of all other languages. The ancient classics, the master works of modern Europe, the literature of India and other eastern lands-have not the richness and many-sidedness of the German tongue, -the sincere, faithful, German industry, and the deep-searching German genius, reproduced them all more perfectly than is the case in any other language.' "France,' continued he, owed much of her former preponderance in literature, to the circumstance of her being the first to give to the world tolerable versions from the Greek and Latin; but how entirely has Germany surpassed her!' "On the field of politics, he did not appear to me to give into the favorite constitutional theories very heartily. I defended my own opinions with some warmth. He reverted to his darling idea, which he several times repeated-that every man should trouble himself only thus far-in his own peculiar sphere, be it great or small, to labour on faithfully, honestly, and lovingly; and that thus under no form of government would universal well-being and felicity long be wanting; that for his own part, he had followed no other course; and that I also had adopted it in M―(as he kindly added), untroubled as to what other interests might demand. I replied frankly, and with all humility, that however true and noble this principle were, I must yet think that a constitutional form of government was first necessary to call it fully into life, since it afforded to every individual the conviction of greater security for his person and property, and consequently gave rise to the most cheerful energy, and the most steady, trustworthy patriotism, and that a far more solid universal basis would thus be laid for the quiet activity of each individual in his own circle. I concluded by adducing-perhaps unwisely-England, in support of my argument. He immediately replied that the choice of the example was not happy, for that in no country was selfishness more omnipotent; that no people were perhaps essentially less humane in their political or in their private relations; that salvation came not from without, by means of forms of government, but from within, by the wise moderation and humble activity of each man in his private circle; that this must ever be the main thing for human felicity, while it was the easiest and simplest to attain. "He afterwards spoke of Lord Byron with great affectionalmost as a father would of a son-which was extremely grateful to my enthusiastic feelings for this great poet. He contradicted the assertion that Manfred was only an echo of Faust. He confessed, however, that it was interesting to him to see * "Sir Walter's official declaration, that all the works here alluded to were by him alone, was not then made public."Note by Translator. "I cannot help almost suspecting that my departed friend has here put his own opinions into the mouth of Goethe."Translator's Note. that Byron had unconsciously employed the same mask of Mephistophiles as he himself had used, although, indeed, Byron had produced a totally different effect with it. He extremely regretted that he had never become personally acquainted with Lord Byron, and severely and justly reproached the English nation, for having judged their illustrious countryman so pettily, and understood him so ill. But on this subject, Goethe has spoken so satisfactorily and so beautifully in print, that I can add nothing to it. I mentioned the representation of Faust in a private theatre at Berlin, with music by Prince Radzivil, and spoke with admiration of the powerful effect of some parts of the performance. "Well," said Goethe gravely, "it is a strange undertaking; but all endeavours and experiments are to be honoured."-Vol. III. p. 15-19. Perhaps our readers might like a better acquaintance with Rothschild; we will introduce them to him as he is to be found in the pages of our traveller. "I found him too, in a poor obscure looking place, (his residence is in another part of the town) and making my way with some difficulty through the little court-yard, blocked up by a waggon laden with bars of silver, I was introduced into the presence of this grand ally of the Holy Alliance. I found the Russian Consul in the act of paying his court. He is an acute, clever man, perfect in the part he has to play, and uniting the due respect with a becoming air of dignity. This was the more difficult, because the very original aristocrat of the city did not stand much on ceremony. On my presenting my letter of credit, he said ironically, that we were lucky people who could travel about so, and take our pleasure, while he, poor man, had such a heavy burthen to bear. He then broke out into bitter complaints that every poor devil who came to England had something or other to ask of him. "Yesterday," said he, "here was a Russian begging of me (an episode which threw a bitter-sweet expression over the consul's face) -and,' added he, the Germans here don't give me a moment's peace.' Now it was my turn to put a good face upon the matter. After this the conversation took a political turn, and we both of course agreed that Europe could not subsist without him; he modestly declined our compliment, and said, smilingly, 'Oh no, you are only jesting,-I am but a servant whom people are pleased with, because he manages their affairs well, and to whom they let some crumbs fall as an acknowledgment.' "All this was said in a language peculiar to himself-half English, half German-the English part with a broad German accent, but with the imposing confidence of a man who feels such trifles to be beneath his attention. This truly original language struck me as very characteristic of a man who is unquestionably a person of genius, and of a certain sort of greatness of character."-page 62-4. It is quite "selon les regles," as the Prince would say, that every foreigner of distinction should pay his homage to the genius of Shakspeare, by visiting his birth-place-the traveller does so and the following extract refers to that event: "It is profoundly affecting to see the familiar trifles which centuries ago stood in immediate and domestic contact with so great and beloved a man; then to visit the place where his bones have long been mouldering; and thus in a few moments to traverse the long way from his cradle to his grave. The house in which he was born, and the very room hallowed by this great event, still stand almost unchanged. The latter is perfectly like a humble tradesman's room, such as we commonly find them in our small towns; quite suited to the time when England stood on the same step of civilization which the lower classes still occupy with us. The walls are completely covered with the names of men of every country and rank; and although I do not particularly like these parasitical appendages on foreign greatness-like insects clinging to marble palaces-yet I could not resist the impulse of gratitude and veneration, which led me to add my name to the others. "The church on the Avon (the same river which washes the noble walls of Warwick), where Shakspeare lies buried, is a beautiful remnant of antiquity, adorned with numerous remarkable monuments; amongst which that of the, chief of poets is, of course, the most conspicuous. It was formerly |