Now * * * * easy lived the Fisherman, At every Rio's side; Soft sped his hours, and Venice gold And every eve the mariners Gathered the sire around, And still, each time his tale was told, Some vaster marvel found. And monks and nobles thronged the street- With banners cast abroad to heaven, In proud and long display Led by the Prince, they swept along, To pay thanksgivings meet, To the Three Saints of the Hundred isles- And as they passed the streets along, Crowds gathered on their way "Saint Mark! Saint Nicholas! Saint George! Hosanna!" thus cried they; And the loud populace replied, "Hosanna!" on that day. CONSTANTINE: T. H. E. OR, THE REJECTED THRONE. IN TWELVE CHAPTERS. rise in the heart, and are independent of external circumstances. Pain and pleasure are not the inherent qualities of any object whatever, but arise from the disposition or the sensibility of the individuals on whom these objects act; as material substances derive their form and color from the medium through which they are seen, so do the circumstances of life derive their power of inflicting grief or joy from our natural temperament. Thus, to a woman of Elizabeth's retiring, gentle, and affectionate disposition, the splendors of royalty had few charms, and afforded no compensation for the absence of domestic happiness. She lived very retired, and found in literature and the duties of benevolence, the best alleviation for unavoidable misfortune. The empress-mother had passed through a severe, and a much longer course of trials. Continual prosperity hardens the heart, as continual sunshine hardens the soil; it is from dark clouds that those showers descend, which fertilize the earth-it is from sorrow and suffering those tears flow, which, by softening the human heart, call into exercise all its kindest sympathies and purest virtues. Like that tree which yields not its balsam to heal the wounds of others, until itself is wounded, we cannot suffer for others, until we ourselves have suffered. Taught in the school of adversity, Mary had learned the divine art of relieving the distressed and comforting the afflicted. The activity and extent of her benevolence were almost incredible. Large institutions were founded for the relief of poverty and its concomitant evils, over which she watched with the assiduity of a mother. Every week she visited these hospitals, tasting the food of the sick-standing by the bed-side of those who had contagious diseases, although she admitted none of her attendants to approach; careful for their health, though fearlessly ex By the Author of "Sketches of Private Life and Character of posing her own-soothing the disquieted, and encoura William H. Crawford." The empress and empress-mother were such women as are seldom met with in their exalted rank. In the school of adversity they both had learned those lessons of humanity which dissipate the splendid illusions of grandeur, and by their own experience, had proved its insufficiency for happiness. Fondly and devotedly attached to the Emperor, the gentle and virtuous Elizabeth was exposed to the most severe of all sufferings for a heart of sensibility—the estranged affections of her husband; and to this affliction, was added the mortification of being obliged to receive at court the object by whom those affections had been estranged, and perhaps, the still greater mortification of seeing her a mother, while she herself remained without the joy and pride of maternity. Incidents like these are perhaps too common in the higher orders of society, to be classed by wordly minds among the misfortunes of life; but it should be remembered, that joy and sorrow take their ging the dejected, by her cheering presence and tender sympathy. To these asylums for suffering humanity, were added institutions for the education of females. These seminaries were munificiently endowed, and exclusively under her own direction, and it was one of her chief delights to visit them. Here she was received by the pupils, who thronged round her, with the fondness and gladness with which a beloved parent is received by her children. Her every hour had its allotted task of generous duty; and often, after a day of activity and fatigue, in order to promote the innocent enjoyment of the young persons of her court, she would give a ball, or join in the pastimes suited to their age and condition. What a contrast did this pious and virtuous princess exhibit, to the voluptuous and luxurious Catherine! We must admire the genius and greatness of one, but we love and venerate the goodness of the other. The Emperor was likewise distinguished for his general benevolence, and rendered himself popular and beloved by his affable and conciliating manners. Dispensing with the former servile homage of the subjects of the Czars, and the ostentatious parade of past reigns, he habitually walked the streets without guards or even attendants, and might have passed for a private gentleman, had it not been for the voluntary respect and uncovered heads of all who met him. He was an accomplished and good prince, though not a great man. The court of St. Petersburgh was no longer the most brilliant of Europe; but without dispute, the imperial family was the most virtuous and most happy of any other sovereign. Constantine might be considered as an exception: his conduct had been such as to afflict one of the best of mothers; but she looked on the past with pity, as well as reprehension, and hoped, in making him happy, she should make him virtuous. her evening's appearance. Her cousin, solicitious to adorn her to the greatest advantage, desired to preside at her toilette—but Amelia absolutely declined her proffered services, and insisted on Teresa's being her sole assistant. Filled with alarm and apprehension by the strange and wayward temper the unhappy girl had for some time exhibited, the Countess feared, by opposition, to excite an irritation of nerves which would incapaci Had the Elector been aware of these changes in the tate her for the duties of the evening, and therefore manners and dispositions of the court and reigning yielded, though most unwillingly, to her requisition. family of Russia, he would have been spared the cruel In compliment to the occasion, it had been determined apprehensions he felt on the score of his misfortunes, | that Amelia should be arrayed in the Russian costuine. as he would have enjoyed the consciousness that intrin-A close velvet cap, covered with diamonds, and a robe sic merit, and not the adventitious advantages of for- of materials equally rich and splendid, had accordingly tune, obtained, in the court of Alexander, the distinc-been prepared. The fashion of this national dress was tions for which he sighed. He and his family were recieved in a manner that could not fail to dissipate his anxiety and gratify his warmest wishes. extremely unbecoming, as it concealed the neck, arms and hair; but the Countess, by some slight variations, had improved its general effect, and hoped by its splendor to counteract its disadvantages. When the Princess descended from her dressing The plea of extreme fatigue and consequent indisposition, saved Amelia from the necessity of accompa-room, which was not until the latest possible minute, nying the Countess Sophia on her first interview with when the carriage had been several times announced, the royal family; but she promised to make her appear- and her uncle and cousin long and impatiently waited ance the next evening at the public reception that was for her, she was enveloped in a cloak and veil, which, then to take place. She felt it impossible longer to on the plea of indisposition, she refused to part with trespass on the indulgence of her guardian, or the em- until she reached the room opening into the grand spress-mother, who had reluctantly acquiesced in her loon. Here, as the doors were flung open, she threw desired absence from the first presentation. The im-off her envelope, took the arm of the Elector and hurpatience of Constantine could scarcely be restrained, ried forward ;-the Countess followed-but what was and had he not been overruled, he would have forced her dismay, to behold Amelia, as the flood of light himself into her presence in her own apartment. He poured on her, dressed indeed in the Russian habit, but had persuaded himself, that in regard to the picture, one of the most unbecoming form and color, and dithe painter only had been to blame; and confiding invested of all ornament whatever. A close black velvet the eloquent descriptions of Count Alexius, hoped to find in the Princess all his fancy had pictured-all his heart desired. His impetuous temper was still further chafed by the absence of the Count, who, although he had preceded the Elector on his journey, had not yet arrived. The circumstance was as inexplicable as vexatious. Little accustomed to disappointment or opposition, he could with difficulty control his irritated feelings, or yield to circumstances opposed to his wishes. The evening, as impatiently desired by him, and as equally dreaded by Amelia, arrived. Count Alexius, too, had come, and had satisfactorily explained his delay to his master, by showing his wounded arm, still supported in a sling; he had been thrown from his horse, and by this accident, detained some days on the road: but Constantine would not allow the state of his arm to be a sufficient excuse for his absence on this important evening, though Alexius had eagerly pleaded for permission to remain in his own apartment. cap was drawn low down on her forehead, entirely concealing its fine proportions and alabaster whiteness. Her robe of dark velvet buttoned tight up to her throat, and the sleeves down to her wrists. She advanced in the most awkward manner-stooping, looking down, and faltering, and on bending to kiss the hand of the empress, she stumbled, and would have fallen, had not the empress-mother, with her characteristic benevolence, caught her in her arms, and changed the intended salutation, into a cordial embrace. The whole imperial family were present, and Constantine, one of the foremost to receive the bride elect. As she was released from the arms of his mother, to receive the salutations of the rest of the family, she stood motionless as a statue-looking as stupid as an idiot; made no return to the civilities offered her, and without the slightest return of courtesy, sat down in the seat nearest her. She had withdrawn her soul, as it were, from her face, and left it as void of expression or intelligence as if He was anxious to avoid a scene in which he took she was bereft of life. The attention of the Emperor too deep an interest, lest an irrepressible agitation and Empress was for a while diverted from her, by might betray his secret sentiments. Having relin- their reception of the Elector and the Countess Sophia, quished the fond hopes the Princess had encouraged, who with inimitable grace and dignity, performed her he resolved, if possible, to avoid again seeing her whom part, replying with grace and spirit to the inquiries of he now felt certain could never realize the promise she their majesties about her journey and health. had made; for now that she was in St. Petersburgh, But Constantine-what were his feelings on beholdhe looked upon her destiny as fixed, and determineding her to whom he had erected a shrine in his heartimmediately to obtain permission to join his regiment, and thus to escape the sight of this interesting victim to policy and ambition. Meanwhile the dreaded hour approached. Anxious and perturbed, Amelia commenced the preparations for who had been the bright object of his visions by day, and his dreams by night. Even the portrait, which he had persuaded himself belied the original-even that was pleasing, compared to the form he now beheld. The rayless eye-the pale lips-the colorless cheeks the raised shoulders, and rigid form, devoid of all grace the awkward and idiot-like stupidity of her whole appearance and manners, altogether, presented an object so revolting, that he turned away in disgust, and hurried from the apartment in a paroxysm of rage no words can describe. Count Alexius beheld this metamorphosis with an astonishment equalled only by his transports of love and joy-for in one moment he unravelled the mystery-he solved the enigma that had so long puzzled him. tion; and others, pretending to think he had no such design, rallied him on his exquisite taste in beauty. He could only assure them, that they could not be more surprised at the appearance of the Princess than himself-that he had practised no deceit—that her ill-looks were occasioned solely by sickness and fatigue, and her awkwardness by a delicacy and sensibility which he considered her greatest attractions. They laughed incredulously at these assertions, and continued to banter him on his taste for female charms, until growing impatient under their raillery, and incapable of concealing his irritation, he took the first opportunity that offered, to escape unperceived from the company, and retreated to "Oh, most rare and excellent creature!" he exclaimed to himself, "how fervent must be that love that could | have prompted such an artifice--and is it for me you sacrifice the triumph your beauty would have gained? his own apartment. a greater sacrifice for a woman to make than the rejection of an offered throne!" He withdrew to a corner of the saloon, where, unobserved by the courtiers, who were intent on the scene before them, he watched with intense anxiety what would next ensue. After conversing a few minutes with the Elector and the Countess Sophia, the empress-mother took a seat beside the Princess, and tried, by her kind attentions, to re-assure her young guest, attributing her manners at least to excessive timidity; but vain were her efforts. She might as well have addressed herself to an automaton. Not a word passed the compressed lips of Amelia-not a ray of intelligence beamed from her eyesnot an expression of any kind varied her countenance; she leaned back in her chair, and with her looks fixed on vacancy, seemed neither to see nor hear. The Countess approached, and in low tones expostulated with her-but in vain; the same immobility of form and face remained. She then turned to the empress-mother, and addressing her, accounted for the situation of her kinswoman, by attributing it to the effect of long indisposition, extreme fatigue of the journey, but expecially an excessive timidity, originating in the seclusion from society in which she had been brought up. Her majesty was too kind, as well as too polite, to shew any doubt of the causes assigned by the Countess, and after another ineffectual attempt to animate the statue-like Princess, turned her attention exclusively to the Countess, who endeavored, by her own conversational powers, to divert observation from her obstinate and inexplicable cousin. The Elector, on his part, was making the same efforts to persuade the Emperor and Emperess, that the appearance and manners of the Princess were entirely owing to her late illness and her excessive diffidence and modesty; taking on himself the blame of having kept her too long in seclusion from public society. His explanations were graciously received, and while regret for her present embarrassment was kindly expressed, hopes were added that a few days of rest would restore her looks; and familiarity with the new situation in which she was placed render her easy and happy. Meanwhile, whispered remarks of astonishment and disappointment circulated through the circle, mingled with ironical observations and cutting sarcasms, on the artifice practised by the Elector, who had thus sought to palm his half-deformed, half-idiot niece on the presumptive heir of the crown. Some young men plied Count Alexius with inquiries into the motives that could have induced him to lend himself to such a decep TO LEILA. FROM THE ARABIC. Leila, thou fly'st me, like a dove, Whene'er thou meet'st me, in thy cheeks Deep in the fountain, clad in grace, JAMES M. COX. TO MEMORY. Oh! Memory, register of feelings, thoughts, words deeds; thou magician with mighty power, who maketh the past present, who conjureth up the images of things long buried, and cheateth the mind with seeming forms of reality, imparting joy or woe, but even joy mingled with grief,-how shall I call thee-friend or foe to manangel or fiend, or both? Thou lovest to torture the mind with cruel torments. Grief, regret, and melancholy, anguish, remorse, and despair, in thy train attendant, consume with savage joy, the miserable victims marked out by thee for woe. Neither childhood, nor youth, nor age; no rank, no sex, no place, nor time escape thee. In the midst of revelry, thou art there-grinning with malignant joy, at hearts sinking, quailing, trembling under the hellish glare of thine eye, whose deadly beams poison the cup of mirth, while thy frown terrific turns gladness into sorrow, pleasure into misery. LEGISLATIVE EPIGRAM. Ask the pale virgin, why she pines with grief-why To the Editor of the Messenger. th reose of her cheek, the brightness of her eye, the lightness of her heart, have all disappeared? Memory haunts her, sleeping or awake-the memory of her love, and her lover, whose voice can never again be heard, whose manly countenance never again be seen. Why stops the youth in the full career of pleasure? The memory of past sorrow appears, and appals him. The parent weeps incessant tears for some departed child, and cannot be comforted. The child mourns through life the loss of that parent, whose place can never be filled, whose friendly aid, whose kind advice, whose love, inextinguishable but by death, can never, never again be experienced. Age is bent down under the accumulated sorrows of years, which memory still preserves in all their freshness. The proud, the ambitious, the great-these perhaps, escape thy chilling presence, oh Memory! No-these are thy chosen victims. Thou delightest to torture them, with thy most refined torments-the recollection of bright prospects blasted, of glory obscured, of deeds of guilt-treachery, oppression, injustice, and crime. Remorse kindles a hell around them. Ah! how they writhe, and curse thee, Memory, and pray for some Lethean stream to wash away the impressions thou hast made. Will no kind hand present a draught of that dark stream, which brings on the sweet sleep of oblivion? Remorse, anguish and despair, never leave their victim until death. Death is his only refuge. But it is not always thus. Thou art sometimes kind. Who does not bless thee, Memory, for the remembrance of the golden days of childhood and youth? when the morning was fair, without a spot, without a cloud,— when the beams of joy and innocence illumined every object around us-when music was more sweet, beauty more lovely, nature more attractive, the world far better than they ever will be again. Who does not turn oft, oft to the scenes of his first and dearest love? Years have swept on, in their course, but I still see, in vivid freshness ('in my mind's eye, Horatio,') the dark flowing tresses, the bright black eye, the ruby cheek, the pearly teeth, the winning smile, the graceful motion, and faultless form of her I met, and loved in childhood. Though sadly pleasing, I love to cherish that image in my memory. Friends! shall I forget thee, dearer than life, and the moments of rapturous delight I have spent with thee? Shall I forget the jest, the laugh, the sparkling bowl, the song, the flow of soul, and transport of delight, when all borne on the purple wings of wine, sailed aloft to heaven, and mingled with the stars? But above all, thy best gift is the recollection of home, of a father's fireside-where even the cheerful blaze seems to partake of the joy of the little circle around it. That little circle whose law is love, whose interest the happiness of each, who think, feel, speak, and act as one. Fit emblem of Heaven! the only image of Heaven upon earth. But even these scenes of happiness sorrow invades. When enjoying them, we feel a keen pang of regret, that they must have an end, and when enjoyed, that they can never return. SIR,-It is the privilege of the occupants of the gal|leries, during the session, to wander at will over the floor, sit at the members' desks, in the speaker's chair, or any where else they please, after or before the sessions, of a certain distinguished parliamentary body. Availing myself of that privilege, I, a few days ago, was sauntering along the hall in which those sessions are held, admiring the splendor of its arrangements and the magnificent proportions of its structure, when my eye happened to fall upon a bit of paper, lying on the floor, upon which seemed to be written something in the way of poetry. Having a penchant for rhyming and rhymes, I took up the paper, and found its contents far too clever to be lost among the rubbish of a reporter's desk: and, disclaiming all knowledge of their object, while I would cordially recommend to the notice of your readers their epigrammatic point and keen wit, I have transcribed them for the pages of the Messenger. It would seem that some member of the body had been attacking the reporters for doing him some injus tice in reporting his speech for the press, and thereupon the epigram, (which I really think worthy of Swift or Pope,) was thrown off, and then-thrown away. Yours, sir, truly, October 1, 1837. PHILOSTENO. THE REPORTER TO THE MEMBER: DEDICATED TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT. We "don't report you!" Pray, what mortal can Whose feeble rhetoric eternal steals In polish'd sentences, like twisted eels: A French Journalist translated Johnson's "Rambler" by "Le Chevalier Errant," and when it was corrected to L'Errant, a foreigner drank Johnson's health very innocently under the title of Monsieur Vagabond. |