Even the first word thy lips could frame, Thou leavest me soon--Of hopes fulfilled CONSTANTINE: E. A. S. OR, THE REJECTED THRONE. IN TWELVE CHAPTERS. When, according to appointment, he next morning attended the Princess, on entering the apartment, he recoiled on beholding her surpassing beauty. Arrayed in a fanciful, but most becoming costume, never before were the exquisite proportions or graces of her form so strikingly conspicuous; her face was radiant with tenderness and sensibility-smiles played over her rosy lips, and a soft, but arch expression, shone in her now raised, now downcast eyes. "This is the very witchery of loveliness," thought he, as he gazed on her glowing countenance, her graceful attitudes, and symmetric form. "Is it by investing her image with such captivation, that she will induce her royal lover to reject her?" Amelia watched the perturbed looks of the Count, and answered his almost reproachful glances with a smile of sweet assurance. She seemed to enjoy his disquietude, and never had she displayed more sportive gaiety, or appeared so completely happy. The Countess could not comprehend a change of humor so unaccountable; she was lost in revery, endeavoring to solve the mystery-for a mystery she felt assured it was some secret purpose concealed beneath the semblance of a cheerful acquiescence; she looked By the Author of "Sketches of Private Life and Character of from her pupil to Count Alexius, and from him to William H. Crawford." The resolutions Amelia had formed, were confirmed by the interesting scene which had taken place in the forest, and feeling herself unable to bear the scrutiny of the Countess in a personal communication, on the ensuing day she sent her the following billet: "As a preliminary step to a final decision, and in compliance with the reiterated solicitations of Count Alexius, I consent, my dear cousin, to sit for my portrait-to-morrow if you please-and when that is finished, will, in obedience to my uncle, as soon afterwards as you and he desire, make the proposed journey to St. Petersburgh." Amelia, in the expectation of discovering the covert motive, or the betrayal of some secret intelligence. But nothing of the kind appeared-in fact, far from a mutual understanding, there seemed an absolute opposition in their present dispositions. Never before had she seen the Count so gloomy and agitated, or her cousin so satisfied and gay. At the end of an hour, the artist offered to terminate the sitting; but the Princess declared, that so far from being wearied, she could set the whole morning. As she said this, she caught a most anxious and inquiring glance from her lover, who was standing opposite to her, leaning on the back of the Countess's chair; she returned it with one so full of love and happy security, that his countenance instantly cleared up; he moved nearer to her, and placed himself so as at the same time he could watch the varying expressions of her face, and from time to time observe the progress of the artist. He soon however forgot the work that was going on, so completely lost was he in trying to discover in her eyes a solution of her enigmatical conduct. He was startled from this absorbing study by some ob instantly by her side, examining the same object. "This is miraculous!" he exclaimed. "What an astonishing likeness, and what an equally astonishing progress you have made," for he was unconscious of the time that had elapsed since he had last looked at the work. "It is wonderful!" Astonished, but delighted with this acquiescence, theservation the Countess made on the picture; he was Countess Sophia hastened with the glad tidings to the Elector. A courier was ordered to be in readiness, to bear despatches immediately to St. Petersburgh, and arrangements made for transmitting the portrait, as soon as it was finished. These hasty steps were taken, that Amelia, feeling herself compromitted, might not retract a determination which the Countess knew full well was reluctantly made. The Princess made it her particular request, that no one but her cousin, the Count, and Teresa should be present at the sittings. Every wish she expressed was unhesitatingly complied with, and when possible, every desire was anticipated. Her guardian and kinswoman were emulous in their efforts to gratify and amuse her-while her lover, in silent amazement, watched the progress of events that, apparently, were so opposed to the purpose she had avowed to him. "I feel inspired," replied the gallant Frenchman. It grew late, and the Countess, who had consented to prolong the sitting from hour to hour, in the hope of discovering the secret spring by which Amelia's conduct was actuated, now proposed adjourning it to the next day, and after the separation of the party, returned to her apartment, more confirmed in her suspicions, and more bewildered in her conjectures. In the course of the ensuing evening, the usual company being assembled, the Count, as a matter of course, danced with Amelia, and afterwards attended her to her instrument, where, after playing a variety of pieces, she requested him to accompany her in a duet; "and as the words are new," said she, "Teresa has transcribed them for you; read them over before you at tempt singing them." "Precious, precious words!" whispered he, as he leaned over her chair and read them. They conveyed to him a meaning veiled from the comprehension of others a meaning dear to his heart, cheering to his hopes his spirits revived, the evening closed charmingly, and as he took his leave, the Princess whispered-" confide!" Preparations were now hurried on for the long antici. pated journey. The Elector declared he would himself accompany his niece, and all the courtiers contended for the honor of attending her on this grand occasion. The destined bride was besieged with applications and importunities; wholly indifferent to these appointments, she only stipulated for the attendance of Teresa, and having secured that, left every other arrangement to the Countess. The day for the commencement of their journey was fixed, and the interval was full of bustle and preparation by the eager expectants. Amelia alone, was listless and indifferent. As the day drew near and nearer, an obvious anxiety took the place of that listlessness-the gaiety she had so lately displayed vanished, and was succeeded by a thoughtfulness almost amounting to sadness. Count Alexius, who was more and more bewildered, as he learned the preparations so seriously making for a journey to St. Petersburgh, began to lose all confidence in the hopes Amelia had raised. The consent she had given to have her portrait sent to Constantine, he believed to be designed, in some way, as a blind to her real intentions-a subterfuge-a means of delaying an ultimate decision. But now, the event was publicly announced-the whole court were in various ways pre Another and another morning was given to the artist; distrust no longer marred the pleasure of the Count's attendance. His countenance beamed with satisfactionhis conversation, replete with vivacity and intelligence, seemed to wing the hours, and the rapidity with which they flew, made the progress of the work seem miraculous. They wished the artist less diligent, that these delightful meetings might be again and again renewed. What an ineffable charm does happy love diffuse over the face. Its warm glow tinging the cheek, its spirit sparkling in the eye, its tenderness and sensibility animating the countenance, can make even a homely face look beautiful. What then must have been its effect on beauty itself? The Countess looked with wonder on Amelia's heightened charms. The Count's own con-paring for it. sciousness made him sensible of the cause; yet while he gazed in rapture, he trembled with apprehension for it was, he thought, an impossible thing for Constantine, after seeing this portrait, to reject the original, Yet Amelia smiled in triumph, and he tried to enjoy the present, without fearing the future. Had they observed the significant looks of the painter, as he occasionally glanced from one to the other, on remarking the blushes that mantled Amelia's cheek, and the varying expressions of her face, they would have perceived that their secret sentiments were discovered by one, whose art made him well acquainted with every mutation of the human face. "Pray," said the Count to Teresa, one afternoon, when he met her alone in the gardens, "what does your lady do with herself in the interval between the sittings and her appearance in the evening? Her promenades, of which she was so fond, are absolutely abandoned: she is no longer to be found in the gallery, saloon or garden." Teresa smiled significantly, and replied, "that is part of the enigma of which you were the other day complaining to my mistress; but I am sure my lord will not expect its solution from me." Solicitous, nay, anxious as the Count was, for an explanation of the strangeness and mystery of Amelia's conduct, he was too honorable to tamper with one whom he knew to be in her confidence, and he left Teresa without farther questioning, though had he persisted, he would not have succeeded in drawing from her any communication unwarranted by her lady. After going so far, he could perceive no possible mode of delaying the journey, or of escaping from its consequences. Had Amelia deceived him? No-of this he felt assured; but had she not deceived herself? Had she not dreamt of possibilities which she could not realize? Inexperienced and young as she was, the schemes on which she founded her hopes might have been found falacious and chimerical. Still, while she looked gay and happy, he hoped for all he wished-but with her smiles, his hopes likewise fled. Gloomy and silent, he sat apart from the object of his secret love; he avoided her presence; and when in her company his eyes sought her's, too often did he perceive them filled with tears. Had the courtiers been less engaged with their own interests, this change in these young persons would have given rise to strange surmises. The Countess was not so careless an observer-but suspecting, as she did, a mutual attachment, the sadness of Amelia surprised her much less than her late gaiety. Believing, however, that ambition had triumphed over love, in the mind of her pupil, she felt little uneasiness about her present distress, from a full assurance that eventually she would rejoice in the sacrifice she had made. The Count she sincerely pitied; for him there was no remuneration. Meanwhile, the lovers were equally filled with sad forebodings. "I have gone too far to retreat," thought the hitherto sanguine and enthusiastic girl. "But oh! should my plan fail!-Well, I can die—or I can seek a refuge from the anger and persecution of my kinsman, in the living death of a monastery." The circumstance of having been the foster-sister of "I have been perfidious," thought the Count. "I the Princess, seemed a stronger tie than that of consan- have betrayed the most sacred trust-the most generous guinity. Teresa felt herself so identified with her bene- confidence-alas! I have done still worse-I have been factress and friend, that she considered her interest, cruel: after kindling a flame in the ardent bosom of her joys, her sorrows, as her own, and in the present my Prince, I leave it to consume him. Were it a mere emergency, was the sole confidant of her orphan mis-political alliance he desired, the loss of this lovely crea tress. ture might be repaired-but it is happiness he seeks, and gentleness and goodness such as my Amelia's, alone | pale, insiped face, and a form devoid of grace and symcan make him happy: she is the very being to accom-metry, he burst forth into imprecations on what he callplish this purpose, and I have robbed him, basely robbed him, of this inappreciable treasure. Justly will he banish me from his presence, tear me from his kind regards, and spurn me from his feet, should I there prostrate myself to obtain his pardon. Amelia! Amelia! you have cost me not only the esteem of my generous master, but my own. Even could he forgive me, never could I forgive myself. And then, his mother-what fond hopes did she indulge! The good old Elector, too, who has treated me with such confidence and kindness-and the excellent Countess Sophia, how will they-how will every honest mind despise me! But it is not too late to retrieve my error. No decisive step is yet taken-no suspicion of my treachery exists; it is only with love I have to combat,—and this shall-yes, it shall yield to truth and honor." Fearful of trusting himself with time for consideration, he snatched up a pen, and hastily wrote the following lines to the Princess: "Restore to me, loveliest and most beloved,-restore to me the faith I pledged you. I restore to you, your freedom, though my misery may be the consequence. Wretchedness I can endure-a consciousness of guilt I ed your perfidy-accused you of playing into the hands of his mother, who, anxious for his marriage, cared only for character and disposition, and nothing for personal charms, and that to gain her favor, you had been regardless of his desires-that the cause of your so long delaying the portrait was now evident; you deferred sending it, until the affair was carried too far to be broken off. But it is impossible, my dear Count, to describe his fury. The empress has soothed him with the idea that the fault lies in the artist, and he has at last consented to take no rash step until he sees the original-then, should the likeness prove correct, he swears he will never ratify the engagements you have so perfidiously drawn him into." This letter overpowered and baffled the comprehension of Count Alexius. "That portrait," exclaimed he, “cold, pale, insipid! the artist's fault? Why, it was the very triumph of art-it was intelligence and sensibility, transfused into the pictured perfection of beauty, What is the meaning of this?" the various accidents to which a work of art was liable; In vain he sought for a solution of his perplexity in but though an accident might injure and deface, it could not possibly change this lovely picture to the degree decannot. I clearly perceive your own hopes are fading--scribed. Could any mistake have occurred? That he you find your scheme to be impracticable; leave me, thought impossible, as the Countess had superintended then, to my fate. Bless and be blest in the destiny de- its package by the artist himself, so anxious was she signed you by heaven. that it should escape any possible injury, in which desire the vanity of the artist was equally interested. Again he read over his friend's letter; he could find no clue to the mystery, and his first astonishment abated; his reperusal made him more sensible to the reproaches of Constantine. ALEXIUS." The state of mind discovered by this hasty billet, convinced Amelia that love, though crowned with success, would not suffice for the felicity of her lover; that remorse would embitter his future life, unless it was with the full consent of Constantine that she became his. Her scheme did indeed seem almost impractica- "Play into his mothers hands!" he exclaimed—” and ble, or rather impossible--but the alternative was horri- could my Prince suspect me of sacrificing his happible to her imagination, and she became resolute to make ness to the authority even of his mother? Could he the attempt. Yet, dismayed by the evils which its fail-believe any reward from her could alienate me from his ure would entail-apprehensive of danger to Alexius, even more, than of suffering for herself-her mind became perturbed and gloomy--her appetite, her rest forsook her. A secret fever preyed on her delicate frame, and tarnished her brilliant beauty. The looks of the Count, so far from supporting her spirits, increased her distress. She felt sick-the journey was necessarily delayed. interest? I too, who have ever been so devoted to his every wish!" This communication from his friend completed the wretchedness of the Count, who, at the time of its arrival, was laboring under the most cruel anxiety about the Princess, whose illness he had just heard of. "Too tender woman!" thought he, "must you, lovely and excellent as you are, be the victim either of ambition or sensibility? Alas! there is no alternative—a victim to one or the other you must be." No longer harassed by the crowds, ceremonies, or tiresome amusements in which she had lately been engaged, and which had cruelly warred with her secret feelings, Amelia regained a degree of composure, if Meanwhile, a courier had arrived with despatches for the young envoy; reproaching him with want of energy or skill, and attributing to his neglect or deficiency the procrastination of an event on which the empress mother had set her heart, no less than her son, the Grand Duke. But a private letter from the secretary of the Prince, filled Alexius with alarm, as well as anx-not cheerfulness, in the quiet and seclusion of her own iety. apartment, and in the sympathy of her dear Teresa. With her health, her resolution returned-hope again impatient to have that fate decided, after some days, she announced her ability to commence her journey. "Why, my dear Count," it said, "have you so cruelly sported with the fancy, or feelings, rather, of our mas-gleamed through the clouds that involved her fate, and ter? Why describe the young Princess as possessed of exquisite beauty, when, if her portrait is a correct likeness, she is almost homely." Could you have witnessed his disappointment and indignation, when he eagerly ran to contemplate the image of her whom he had enshrined in his heart-or fancy, if you will, as an object to be worshipped, and when instead of all that was animated, youthful and glowing, he beheld a cold, When the Countess looked on her pale, spiritless countenance, she herself proposed a further delay, until health should restore the brilliancy of her pupil's beauty. But Amelia assured her cousin it would never be restored, while she continued a prey to such conflicting feelings as she now endured. The Countess, aware of VOL. III.-74 her secret inclinations, easily conceived how this might be the case, and that she was eager to terminate this state of agitation and suspense, and therefore yielded to the wishes of her still invalid cousin, trusting that the journey would improve her health, and consequently her looks. throne, and during her long and prosperous reign, had been a frequent and favored visitor at her gay and splendid court; but in these visits had not seen the present sovereigns, or the empress mother. Elizabeth had not become the wife of Alexander, and Mary lived with Paul in his gloomy retreat, or rather, exile from the court. Thus he should find himself in the midst of strangers, without friends or favor, excepting such as the proposed connection between the Grand Duke and his niece might procure him. Feeble characters, who derive their consequence from external advantages, sink under the pressure of misfortune. The nearer he approached his journey's end, the heavier did these recol THE VILLAGE BELLS. Its echoes swelling forth upon the ear, Now dying off-anon distinctly clear;- Which many love at even tide to hear, But at this advanced season of the year, when the weather was boisterous and inclement, and through a country which had so long been the seat of war, little advantage to health or amusement for the mind was to be found in travelling. The travellers could not look from their carriage, without beholding the ravages committed by contending armies, whose passage through this disputed territory was marked with ruin and deso-lected misfortunes press on the Elector's mind. lation-where conflagration ruined the hopes of those Under such circumstances, it is not to be wondered whom the sword had spared; the horrors of this dreary at that neither the health or spirits of Amelia were imscene were increased by a lowering and tempestuous proved; on the contrary, to the great mortification of sky. Count Alexius had preceded them on their jour- the Countess, she found, by the time they arrived at ney; had he been of the company, his presence might St. Petersburgh, that the beauty of the Princess was have banished the dulness and dissipated the gloom sadly faded, and her spirits exceedingly depressed. that now settled on the whole party. Amelia, languid But it was too late to retreat-their journey was from recent indisposition, was oppressed with a thou- terminated, and they were installed in the apartments sand fears; the Countess Sophia suspected she knew prepared for them. not what a vague apprehension of evil possessed her mind-she perceived that her young kinswoman was unhappy, and feared she concealed, under her cold reserve, some design inimical to the avowed purpose of their journey--some design in which the honor of her uncle might be implicated, and his already embarrassed affairs still further involved. Nor was she satisfied with the part she herself had acted. Had she not, in promoting this alliance, been prompted by political considerations relative to her own and the Elector's interests: in fine, to family aggrandizement, regardless of the happiness of the interesting orphan committed to her care. In so doing, she had violated not only the dictates of humanity, but the rights of friendship. With such thoughts pressing on her mind, how could she impart cheerfulness to others? The Elector, on his part, was a prey to painful reminiscences. In regard to his orphan niece, he felt no compunction, being fully persuaded he was promoting her best interests, and that her present reluctance, proceeding solely from ignorance and inexperience, would be followed by entire satisfaction, when acquainted with all the advantages of her brilliant destiny. Having no suspicion of her secret sentiments, he had no drawback to the bright hopes he indulged for her; but his own peculiar circumstances were mortifying in the extreme. When he had last visited St. Petersburgh, it was as a sovereign and independant prince, deriving from his political position great weight in public affairs, and consequently, invested with a dignity and importance gratifying to his ambitious spirit. Stripped of these distinctions, his revenues diminished, his territory dismembered, would not his reception at the Russian court be as different as his circumstances? He had no strength of character to support him under these reverses, and feeling degraded in his own estimation, thought he would be much more so in that of society. He had eagerly embraced, and now anxiously clung to the proposed alliance with the imperial house, from the hope of regaining a portion of the consideration he had lost, and in proportion to his regret for the past was his solicitude for the future. He had known Catherine before she ascended the The swain who long hath till'd the fertile earth, Whose heart's a stranger to ambition's spells-- From purer sources than the rich possess- The joys of which should not delight the less, For which in vain we Fashion's minions sigh, Whose sports are welcome to a parent's eye, And as the hours wend onwards in their race, Bask in the sunshine of enjoyment's glance, Such scenes arise to fascinate and spell ;-- Their hopes are born and die within their dell, And as the seasons in their progress roll, They love the music of their village bell, Who that has seen them in that playful hour, The sons of toil, and unpretending birth, The sons of earth, whose heritage is pain, READINGS WITH MY PENCIL. 41. "Melmoth, or the Wanderer:"--by Maturin. Full of most eloquent descriptions of passion, tremendous exhibitions of vice, and intensely horrible throughout. There are incidents borrowed from the "Monk,” or resemblances to it; but the language and eloquence could not be borrowed; for our literature has none like it to lend. It is the most miraculous effort of the wildest fiction of any age; and sustained, from begining to end, with equal beauty and force. 42. "Man of Feeling :"-by McKenzie. A soothing work of considerable genius. I think I was the better,-I know I was the wiser for reading it : and I am equally sure that I was made happier, by its perusal. The style is graceful and simple, but not always correct and perspicuous. 43. "Marino Faliero :"-by Byron. A most dull, prosaic thing,-unworthy of its author's genius. 44. "Travels of Lemuel Gulliver :"-by Dean Swift. These are monuments of great invention, but of greater judgment and art. Swift is the only successful writer, among those I have read, who attempt to narrate impossibilities in the language, and to gain the credit, of truth. Nothing but an impossibility of the facts narrated, (in every place, and purposely and absolutely called before the mind,) could prevent the highest degree of credibility from being attached to a narrative, with every other character of excellence consistent throughout. If the story were this side of impossibility, the style would gain them credence. The humor consists in this admirably sustained contrast; and into the plan of the story the most ludicrous circumstances are woven with the greatest adroitness. It was surely no small effort of genius to transfer one's self, and to become so domesticated, into worlds of such propor tions, hiding all feeling of the ludicrousness of the circumstances; or, at least, affecting the downright nonchalant manner of conscientious writing, which is never thrown off its guard. In Lilliput, I cannot think that Swift aimed chiefly at satire. Amusement is most plainly the end, and to have completely effected it by such an effort, is no small praise. I do not mean by this, that amusement which it gave me as a child, but that afforded by applying a telescope inverted to manners as well as figures, and keeping the proportions with that wonderful exactness. The same is true of Brobdingnag, the satirical part of which, to my view, is but secondary. But in Laputa are the finest caricaI read this book of horrors out of curiosity. It ex- tures of speculative wisdom in opposition to plain cited much remark when it appeared. It discovers sense, which the language can boast. And in the Hougreat perversion of considerable fancy; but the thick- hynmhns, the severity and truth (although the someening plots, loathsome, ghastly, supernatural appear-what disgusting indecency) of the satire-the wise views ances, and an interest resting entirely on those who are of governments, customs and professions-the developdistinguished for vices, at least the flimsiness, German ment of all that acts behind all human scenes-and of affectation, and slovenliness of the style, make it a book the sources and effects of all sorts of human weakness which few could read with safety, and none without and vice, present Swift to my mind, as the very Juvedisgust. Lady Macbeth's single midnight walk is nal of our language, to whom the poetical brethren, worth a thousand mawkish tales like this. Yet I do who followed him, cannot, in a single point be honoranot pretend that there are no traces of genius in Am- bly compared. It is in vain to attempt reducing Swift brosio himself. Indeed, that conception of character is to the level of ordinary writers. He is occasionally laworth a more favorable notice. And the plot is curi-mentably gross, it is true, but he unites more strik ously interwoven, without being intolerably perplexed. excellencies of art and genius, than any writer of NO. VII. "Legere sine calamo est dormire.”— Quintilian. - 40. "Ambrosio, or the Monk :"-by M. G. Lewis. |
