Le Sage, the merry author of Gil Blas, delights to expatiate in praise of a Spanish soup, denominated, in that language, an Olla Podrida, a dish formed by a motley mixture of many ingredients, of which some one can tickle the most fastidious palate.
Essays should resemble this Olio, if their author wish for readers. When a student sits down to a system, he expects the formality and method of the schools, but how frequent would be the yawn, if periodical writings resembled LOCKE"s Essay on Understanding? Of works intended for amus.e.m.e.nt, the essence is sprightliness and variety. Without these requisites a reader would rise from the literary repast, and, in SHAKESPEARE"s phrase, p.r.o.nounce it but _lenten_ entertainment.
When cookery was young, viands the most simple were sought; and, in an ancient bill of fare, acorns and spring water were the first articles.
Time has created alteration; and the refinement of modern luxury requires _made_ dishes. Plain food daily grows into disrepute, and, for the substantial sirloin we subst.i.tute ragouts and fricacees, replete with spicery. To gratify modern taste, every thing must be _high seasoned_. This irregular appet.i.te affects the library, as well as the table, and extends to the books, which we read, as well as to the dishes, which we taste. Motley miscellany, in all its Proteus forms, aptly christened by the British booksellers "light, summer reading," is the favourite amus.e.m.e.nt of all _gentle students_. On this occasion, one might declaim against modern degeneracy; might compare the tinsel of KELLY with the gold of ADDISON; might sigh for solid books and dishes, and invoke HOOKER and BACON to write, and a turnspit of Queen ELIZABETH to _cook_ for us. But this species of railing is grown so trite that ""tis a custom more honoured in the breach, than in the observance." It is better, with a willing adroitness, to comply, with what we cannot change, and to form the "stuff" of our argument, as a tailor cuts a coat, by the rule of fashion.
A literary adventurer, confident of amusing himself, though almost hopeless of amusing others, prepares to scribble in conformity to the preceding sentiment. Though still juvenile, he has, for a period of some duration, been in the habit of marking the hues of "many-colored life."
The morning he gives to books, and the evening to men; and, from every page that he twirls, and from every character which he sees, he endeavours, like his renowned predecessor, the Spectator, to extract amus.e.m.e.nt or instruction. He is not, however, like him, only an observer in society, but cheerfully converses even with "wayfaring men, though fools," that he may learn some particulars of life"s journey. With all the restlessness of busy indolence, and with all the volatility of a humming bird, he roams from object to object, as caprice inspires. This is the province of a lounger; he is one of "the privileged orders" in society, and to wander is his vocation.
Thus inquisitive from habit, and thus restless from temper, he fancies, perhaps presumptuously, that he may now become the herald of what he has seen and heard. In giving his lucubrations to the world, he confesses that his nerves thrill with the tremors of timidity. Though he thinks, with Dr. YOUNG, that "fondness of fame, is avarice of air," yet, in spite of sober belief, juvenile ambition
"Will sink with spleen, or swell with pride, As the gay palm is granted, or denied."
As he is a _volunteer_ in the literary corps, he hopes that severe discipline will not be exercised. He implores of the critics a dispensation from an observance of the more rigid rules of method, as he never was educated in that "drowsy school." A lover of the desultory style, his effusions shall keep pace with STERNE"s--in digression and eccentricity, though halting far behind him in wit. Such a writer, the logicians must permit to wander at large,
"Nor to a narrow path confin"d, Hedge in, by rules, his roving mind."
If he be suffered to remain enfranchised, though abusing his liberty, he may stray from the high road, yet he hopes never to deviate far from the boundaries of common sense; and if, in the wildness of volatility, he sometimes leap the hedge, he will endeavour to catch a b.u.t.terfly, or crop a flower. All parties in the _State_, may read the moderate sentiments of a writer, who will neither factiously blow the trumpet of democracy, nor proudly stalk in the aristocratical buskin. All sects in the _Church_, may cheerily and charitably unite in the perusal of a work, intended to amuse as a speculation, not dogmatize as a creed.
Though feminine foibles will be smilingly derided, yet, at the apprehension of malignant satire from the author of the _Farrago_, not a heart need palpitate, a fan flutter, nor a tea-table shake. If the ladies will "put away those strange G.o.ds," coquetry, futility and artifice, he will, in, the words of SHAKESPEARE"s weaver, so restrain and aggravate his voice, that he will roar at them, like any sucking dove, he will roar, like any nightingale.--In fine, like every other adventurer, he promises plausibly; and though he cannot hope to instruct by golden precept, like PYTHAGORAS, or divert by humour, like FALSTAFF, yet like SANCHO PANZA, by his very simplicity he may inform and amuse.
+The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+ An Interesting Spanish Tale.
(Concluded from page 342.)
No sooner had she come to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived Don Alphonso. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against the wall, her head sunk on her shoulder, and the tears bedewed her cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and, endeavouring to speak with firmness, approached the prisoner.
"Stranger," said she, disguising her voice, "you have killed your companion. What could induce you to commit such a horrid crime?"
"Alcaid," answered Don Alphonso, "I have committed no crime; it was an act of justice; but I am desirous to die. Death alone can end the miseries, of which the wretch I have sacrificed was the first cause.
Condemn me. I wish not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it delightful; since I can no longer hope ever to find"----
He was scarce able to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name of Marina.
Marina trembled on hearing him p.r.o.nounce her name. She could scarcely conceal her transports, but was ready to throw herself into the arms of her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses restrained her.
She, therefore, turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left alone with the prisoner. She was obeyed.
Giving a free course to her tears she advanced towards Don Alphonso, and offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, "Do you then still love her who lives for you alone?"
At these words, at this voice, Alphonso lifts his head, unable to believe his eyes. "Oh Heavens! Is it--is it my Marina! Or is it some angelic being a.s.suming her form? Yes, it is my Marina herself, I can no longer doubt it," cried he, clamping her in his arms, and bathing her with his tears. "It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended."
"No," said Marina, as soon as she could recover speech, "you are guilty of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair to-morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my birth, relate to him our misfortunes, and, if he refuses me your liberty, will return and end my days with you in this prison."
Marcello immediately gave orders for the removal of Alphonso from the dungeon into a less hideous place of security. He took care that he should want for nothing, and returned home to prepare for his journey, the next day, when a most alarming event prevented his departure, and hastened the delivery of Don Alphonso.
Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on board which Don Alphonso was, had arrived on the coast, some time after the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had taken, had determined to land, during the night. Two renegadoes, who knew the country, undertook to conduct the barbarians to the village of Gadara, and fulfilled their promise but too well.
About one in the morning, when labour enjoys repose, and villainy wakes to remorse, the dreadful cry _to arms! to arms!_ was heard.
The Corsairs had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before them. The darkness of the night, the groans of the dying, and the shrieks of the inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames, the light of which discovered the gory scymitars and white turbans of the Moors.
Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand, and the hatchet in the other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; making their way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, and returning covered with blood, and loaded with booty.
Here they rush into the chamber, to which two lovers, the bride and bridegroom of the day, had been conducted by their mother. Each on their knees, side by side, was pouring forth thanks to heaven, for having crowned their faithful wishes. An unfeeling wretch, remorseless, seizes the terrified bride; loads her unhappy lover, whom in cruelty he spares, with chains; and s.n.a.t.c.hes before his face, in spite of his distraction, his tears, prayers, and exclamations, that prize which was due to him alone.
There they take the sleeping infant from its cradle. The mother, frantic, defends it, singly, against an host. Nothing can repel, nothing can terrify her. Death she braves and provokes. For her child she supplicates, threatens, and combats; while the tender infant, already seized by these tigers, starts, wakes, stares, with the wild agony of terror, on the grim visage of its murderer, and sinks into convulsive horror and sleep, from which it wakes no more.
Nothing is held sacred by these monsters. They force their way into the temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! of what avail to the priests is their sacred character? to the aged their grey hairs? to youth its graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and death are every where, and compa.s.sion is fled.
On the first alarm the Alcaid made all haste to the prison to inform Don Alphonso of the danger. The brave Alphonso demanded a sword for himself and a buckler for the Alcaid. He takes Marina by the hand, and making his way to the market-place, thus accosts the fugitives: "My friends, are ye Spaniards, and do ye abandon your wives and children to the fury of the infidels?"
He stops, he rallies them, inspires them with his own valor, and, more than human, (for he is a lover, and a hero) rushes, sabre in hand, on a party of the Moors, whom he instantly disperses. The inhabitants recover their recollection and their courage; enraged, behold their slaughtered friends; and hasten in crowds to join their leader.
Alphonso, without quitting Marina, and ever solicitous to expose his life in her defence, attacks the barbarians at the head of his brave Spaniards, and dealing destruction to all who make resistance, drives the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and only quits the pursuit of the enemy to return and extinguish the flames.
The day begin to break, when a body of troops, who had received information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neighbouring town. The governor had put himself at their head and found Don Alphonso surrounded by women, children, and old men; who, weeping, kissed his hands, with unfeigned grat.i.tude, for having preserved their husbands, their fathers, or their sons.
The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Alphonso, loaded him with praises and caresses; but Marina, requesting to be heard, declared to the governor in presence of the whole village, her s.e.x; giving, at the same time, a relation of her adventures, the death of the bravo by Don Alphonso, and the circ.u.mstances which rendered him excusable.
All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, fell at the feet of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were indebted for their preservation. Their request was granted, and the happy Alphonso, thus restored to his dear Marina, embraced the governor, and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced: "Brave stranger," said he, "you are our deliverer, but you take from us our Alcaid; this loss perhaps outweighs your benefit. Double our blessings; instead of depriving us of our greatest, remain in this village; condescend to become our Alcaid, our master, our friend. Honour us so far, as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great city, the cowardly and the wicked, who maintain the same rank with yourself, will think themselves your equals; while, here, every virtuous inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself, you will receive, from us, the highest honour; and, while life remains, on the anniversary of this day, the fathers of our families will present their children before you, saying, "behold the man who preserved the lives of your mothers."
Alphonso was enchanted while he listened to the old man. "Yes," cried he, "my children, yes, my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be devoted to Marina and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions in Granada. Our excellent governor will add his interest to ours that we may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which the Infidels have burnt. On this condition alone, will I accept the office of Alcaid; and though I should expend in your service, both my riches and my life, I should still be your debtor; for it is you who have restored to me my Marina!"
Imagine the transports of the villagers while Alphonso spoke. The governor was a person of power, and undertook to arrange every thing to his wish; and, two days afterwards, the marriage was celebrated between Marina and her lover.
Notwithstanding their late misfortunes, nothing could exceed the joy of the inhabitants. The two lovers long lived in unexampled felicity; and made the whole district as virtuous and happy as themselves.
HISTORICAL EXAMPLES OF HUMANITY.
On the day of the battle of Dettingen, a musketeer, named Girardeau, dangerously wounded, was carried near the Duke of c.u.mberland"s tent.
They could find no surgeon, all of them being sufficiently employed elsewhere. They were going to dress the duke, the calf of whose leg had been pierced by a ball: "Begin," said that generous prince, "with relieving that French officer, he is more wounded than I; he may fail of succour, and I shall not."
Alphonso V. king of Sicily and Arragon, was besieging the city of Gayette. That place beginning to fail of provisions, the inhabitants were obliged to turn out the women, children, and old men, who were so many useless mouths.--These poor people found themselves reduced to the most direful extremity. If they approached the city, the besieged fired on them; if they advanced towards the enemy"s camp they there met the same danger. In this sad condition, those wretches implored sometimes the compa.s.sion of their countrymen, not to suffer them to die with hunger. Alphonso was moved with pity at this spectacle, and forbid his soldiers to use them ill. He then a.s.sembled his council, and asked the advice of the princ.i.p.al officers, respecting the manner he ought to act with these unfortunate people. They all gave their opinion that they ought not to receive them, and said, that if they perished by hunger, or by the sword, none could be blamed but the inhabitants, who had driven them out of the city. Alphonso was offended at their hardness of heart: he protested he would rather renounce the taking of Gayette than resolve to let so many wretches die of hunger. He also added, that a victory purchased at that price would be less worthy of a magnanimous king than a barbarian and a tyrant. "I am not come," said he, "to make war on women, children, and feeble old men, but on enemies capable of defending themselves." He immediately gave orders that they should receive all those unfortunate people into the camp, and caused provisions, and whatever was necessary, to be distributed amongst them.
A violent tempest, which Alphonso V. king of Arragon, was exposed to at sea, obliged him to put up into an island. Being there in perfect security, he perceived one of his gallies on the point of being swallowed up in the waves, with the equipage and troops that were on board.----The spectacle excited his compa.s.sion, and he immediately gave orders that they should go and succour those unhappy people. Hereupon his people terrified at the danger, represented to him, that it was better to let one ship perish, than expose all the rest to the danger of ship-wreck. Alphonso did not listen to this advice: but, without deliberating, embarked on board the admiral"s ship, and immediately departed to give them timely succour; the rest, seeing the king expose himself with so much resolution, were animated by his example, and every one hastened to follow him. The enterprize at length succeeded; but he likewise ran great risk of perishing, it being so very dangerous. The generous Alphonso said, "I would have preferred being buried in the sea with all my fleet, rather than have seen those wretches perish full in my view without helping them."
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._