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and Monks; but the fury of civil wars, and the inroads of the English, introduced laxity and disorder. The religieux preserved no pretensions to piety but the name; the sports of the field paved the way to more questionable pursuits; the inhabitants of the Abbey became notorious for the profligacy of their manners; and licentiousness might be said to have reached its utmost limits, at the period when the celebrated De Rance sought retirement there, which was 500 years after the foundation of the Abbey.

Don Ormond Jean le Bouthillier de Rance, was born at Paris, the 9th of January, 1626; of an ancient family. He was a protegé of Mary de Medicis, a god-son of Cardinal Richelieu, and a nephew of De Chavigni, secretary of state, and superintendant of finances. Thus a golden path was opened for him. In his infancy he was created a Knight of Malta, and destined for the profession of arms; but, when ten years old, he entered the church, in order to fill the benefices of his brother, who had just died.

He cultivated the Belles Lettres, and at the age of thirteen, published, (the work observes, "with the assistance of his tutor,") an addition of Anacreon in Greek, with notes. (1639.) As his revenues were considerable, after he had concluded his studies, and entered the world, he entirely abandoned himself to the dissipations of life. When he was scarcely thirty, on returning from a journey, and entering the apartment of a lady of high rank, for whom it was supposed he had contracted a passion, instead of meeting her, all life and gaiety, as he expected, he found her a corpse! The circumstance so depressed his spirits, that it brought on an illness, which nearly proved fatal. On his recovery, his melancholy increased; time, instead of alleviating, increased the agony of his mind, and he retired to an estate at Veret, near Tours. The misfortunes of Cardinal De Retz, a victim to the caprice of fortune, coupled with his own unhappiness, wrought in him so strong a conviction of the emptiness of all hu

man things, that, regarding the world as one vast tomb, he determined to devote the remainder of his life to the strict service of his God, and to a cloister. He sold his estate, and gave the produce to the Hotel Dieu de Paris; resigned the presidency of three abbies, and two priories; and, reserving to himself the abbey of La Trappe, he took the monastic habit, to which he had formerly felt the utmost repugnance. After passing his noviciate at the Abbey of Perseign, he took the vows on the 6th of January, 1664, at the age of thirty-nine, in this celebrated abbey, where he inspired the religieux with a new spirit. Here he established those unnatural severities for the strict observance of which the fraternity have become so distinguished, and in these solitudes his religious melancholy seems to have been perpetuated. He expired on a litter of cinders and straw, surrounded by the community, the 27th of October, 1700, aged 75 years.

The present prior, I think, rather inclines to relax the severity of the order, than otherwise; his counte nance is extremely amiable, and though he never spoke, I experienced several little attentions from him. I could not but give the fraternity credit for suffering their attention to wander but little from their devotional exercises, though they are of so unceasing a nature, when I found, that, though I had attended their chapel twice, the father who conducted me had not observed I was not a catholic. I had told him in the first instance, that I was an Englishman, in order that he might not feel surprized at my not making use of the holy water, or entering into all the mechanical parts of their ceremonies; concluding he would not fail to notice my inattention.

About half-past six, Pere Loquitur came to show me to my chamber. He then told me, I was the first protestant that had ever been present in their chapel during worship. I was not inclined to contradict his assertion, though I know it required some qualification.

I sat down and wrote till I had burnt my candle to the socket; and then slept soundly on my little truckle bed, the mattress and bolster of

which were stuffed with hay. About eight in the morning, Pere Loquitur tapped at my door, conducted me to the parlour, requested me to make a good breakfast, (from the same viands that had been placed before me the preceding evening for supper) and then to depart. It was with difficulty I obtained permission to leave a little donation for the poor, by way of recompence for their kind hospitality. The father mentioned his regret, that he could not again show me the chapel; but he said, they were doing public penance: which I believe they do every morning. The routine of their exercises is wonderful:-they rise daily between one and two in the morning, and are engaged from that time for some hours in the chapel, and indeed, throughout the whole day with but little intermission. They take refreshment but twice in the day, on Wednesdays and Fridays; and then, no doubt, it is of a less inviting description than on the other days, when they eat three times. All their recreation seems to be comprised in a short walk each day (or in manual labour) within the narrow limits of their garden and orchard :—and then they appear to be wrapped up in meditation and prayer. There are certain days, when they exceed these bounds, and walk in a part of the adjacent wood, which is neatly kept, and intersected with several long umbrageous alleys, that diverge from a point near the monastery.

Northward of the present house, are some considerable ruins, but they are not marked by any beauties of architecture. Between the orchard and the ruins were one or two smaller walks of the description before mentioned, but entirely composed of firs and yews. Amongst the latter, stood a dilapidated grotto; indeed, every part of the monastery is marked with ruin. There is a convent of female Trappists some

miles distant; but I did not visit it, as gentlemen are refused admittance. I need scarcely observe, that the rule (vice versa) is observed here,-admittance being strictly denied to the ladies.

The fraternity are Capuchins of the Cistercian order of St. Benoit. "Sedebit solitarius, et tacebit," is their rule; and even (as in the case of De Rance) in the agonies of death, the fathers have resisted a breach of it, by expiring rather than communicate those wants, the relief of which might have lengthened their existence.

La Trappe, unlike many of its contemporaries, invited not the indolent to slumber within its walls; but it opened an asylum to those who had plunged in all the disorders and dissipations of life; whose minds were racked with the retrospect of a dark line of sins; and who indulged the idea (sanctioned by the Romish ritual,) that vehemence of humiliation might atone for past crimes. Though we may condemn a system which would lead us to suppose, that the severities of one period of life, would of themselves expiate the offences of a former, yet we cannot but respect the piety of many of these recluses. The great point of regret is, that any body of men should withdraw themselves so completely from the ability of practising the charities of life-should deny themselves those comforts which Providence has bountifully scattered around, and debar themselves from the use of speech, the noblest characteristic of mankind.

It was with feelings of regard for its inhabitants, as well as with those of regret at viewing men grovelling under such mistaken notions, that I look my leave of La Trappe, and entered again those busy scenes of life, which, though marked by disorder, form the allotted sphere of man.

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A LEGEND OF ISCHIA.

THERE is a dreamy softness, as day fades,
Gathering along the ether; it pervades
The sea and earth, and o'er the wakeful soul
A deepening hue of meditation flings,
Whilst the advancing shadows thinly roll
O'er the bright waters; from their obscure wings
Shedding oblivion on all mundane things.
In the pale clearness of the delicate sky
Yon mountain rears its ever-during head,
O'er which the ocean's habitant once sped,
Now echoing to the sea-gull's wailing cry;
Lonely it stands, lifting to heaven its brow,
Scath'd with the levin-flash, where clouds repose
Their dreary forms, when the sirocco blows
Its baleful breath on withering man; but now
Its rugged lineaments are pictured fair
On evening's wan expanse; and on the height
The convent tenants breathe a taintless air,
On whose pellucid wings their vesper prayer,
Unmix'd with aught of earth, springs in its upward flight.
The breezes, winnowing round each fairy hill,
So mildly blow, that scarce the clustering vine
Waves with their gentle fanning, as they still
Among its odours playfully entwine.

And now the moon brightens her crescent pale,
With one sole star, streaming celestial light;
And, from the dusky hill and shadowy vale,
With her fair beam scatters the gloom of night.
See! Meteor-like, beneath the tendril bower,
The wheeling fire-fly shoots his flame serene,
Kindling with living flash the twilight hour,
And glancing on the vine-leaf's tender green;
Whilst the last bird of even, which all night long
Pours to the listening wood his plaintive note,
In fitful sweetness tunes his liquid song,
Anon, in melody's full tide to float,

On the enraptur'd ear:-no other sound
Breaks the deep seeming thoughtfulness around.

It was in such a night, when storms were o'er,
When the rent cloud had sail'd in blackness by,
Leaving in lovelier blue the vernal sky;

When the bright wave soft rippled to the shore,
And winds were hush'd :-it was in such a night,
Upon the silent swelling of the tide,

A boat was seen, in solitary plight,

Drifting to Ischia's coast, with none to guide
Its reckless course; but on the risings sheen
Of that calm sea, near ever, and more near,
It came, as if a spirit's hand unseen

Ischia is a small romantic island, of volcanic origin, in the vicinity of the Bay of Naples. A church is erected in the Vale of Lacco, in honour of Santa Restituta, the patroness of the island, whose festival annually attracts, not only the islanders, attired in their best garb, but also the more devout Catholics from Naples, to worship at her shrine, and indulge in the revelries of a species of hely fair which is held for several days to grace the occasion.

VOL. III.

N

Had led it gently from the realm of fear.
"Some boat, perchance, torn by the sweeping gale
And bounding surge, from a neglectful bark;
Or the sole relic of some hapless sail,

Wreck'd on Italia's shore, when tempests dark

Scowl'd in the sounding heavens,-whose luckless crew,
With unclosed eyes, fix'd in eternal sleep,
Cold and unshrowded in the weltering deep,
To home, to light, and life, have bid adieu.”.
Within yon little bay, whose gentle wave,
Claspt by those arms, feels no disturbing gale,
Whose playful ripplings idly love to lave
The yellow sands that skirt the sloping vale,-
There, where the glimmering air its doubtful gleam
Sheds soft upon the waters, like the play
Of wilder'd fancy in a matin dream,
The alien boat in peaceful haven lay.
And other boats around the stranger press,
And with experienced looks the seaman eyes
The shapely contour of his easy prize,
Whilst vaguely circulates the erring guess
Of port and destiny. Why do they stand
With one consent in still and silent gaze,
As if the touch of an enchanter's wand
Had frozen them to shapes of mute amaze?
What is't they look on ?-Wrapt in slumber deep,
And shadowed by the evening's falling gloom,
A female form reclin'd; quiet her sleep;
Her face dropp'd on an arm, polish'd and fair;
The fluttering wind had strewn her silken hair
Of black o'er a pale cheek; most calm and holy
Was her repose; yet trace of melancholy
Had sunken there, of meek distress to tell.
Her breathing was as still as the odorous smell
Exhal'd from pulseless flowers; nor could be seen
Motion of lips, or the fair bosom's swell-
So hush'd she lay, so fearfully serene!

The dark and silken lashes overshade

An eye half open, glaz'd, and strangely still

And then her touch-ah heavens!-how deathly chill!— Alas! the young, the beauteous maid is dead!

Oh! bear her gently in your manly arms,

And sing a requiem to her parted soul,
Even as ye gaze on her dissolving charms,
Nipp'd by the frost of an untimely doom,

Let the slow strain to heaven's bright portals roll:
And when the stranger asks in future time,

Who rests the inmate of her sainted tomb?

Tell him, a virgin of a foreign clime,

Who, faithful to her creed, ne'er bent the knee
To any god of mortal mould; that He
Who kens the latent impulse of the heart,
Amidst ordeals of infernal birth,

Did, in her hour of need, his strength impart,
And turn to marvelling fear the demon mirth
Of Painims' frenzy, as they saw the flame,
Prepared to desolate that beauteous clay,
Round her soft limbs innocuously play,
And frustrate thus their ineffectual aim:
That, harden'd still in heart, in a lone boat

At length they plac'd her unresisting form,
With things deflagrable, thus left to float
And perish on the tide by fire or storm.
But neither fire nor flood had power to harm
One precious limb; the fire hath shot in air,
And the strong surge hath curl'd in vain alarm,
And hath not hurt one solitary hair:

But God, who saw the sorrows of the maid,
Lull'd her in peaceful sleep; and as the breath
Of dreams most holy on her faint lips play'd,

He took her to himself:-thus gentle was her death !—

ON THE SONGS OF THE PEOPLE OF GOTHIC, OR TEUTONIC RACE.

THE character of a people is faithfully expressed in their popular songs. It has been truly observed of such compositions, that, like the pulsation and breathing, they are the sign and measure of the inward life. That the lyrical productions of which we are about to treat, constitute an excellent index to the character of that particular race of men to which they belong, may, we think, be made very apparent; but, before entering on these productions, it must be permitted to us to offer a few words on those peculiarities of disposition and habit which constitute and distinguish the character in question.

A number of circumstances concur in forming the character of a people. The nature of the government, the nature of the country, their occupation, their religion, and a variety of other particulars, have necessarily more or less influence on their habits and modes of thinking and feeling. Much, however, also must be conceded to depend on the natural and original temperament of a people. It is this which disposes them more to the reception of one set of impressions than another; and thus accounts for the habits which grow up amongst them in their social infancy. The sanguine temperament of the African Negro, and the cold and phlegmatic temperament of the American Indian, will always, under all circumstances, so long as these two races of men shall remain unmixed, ensure an essential diversity in their character.-The races of Europe do not, indeed, afford such a marked contrast; and the intercourse of nations, every day becoming more intimate, has a tendency to wear

down and soften original distinctions: still, however, we perceive tribes, or families of people, in Europe, which the common observer feels convinced at a first glance, must have proceeded from essentially different stocks. For instance, the nations of the Gothic, or Teutonic race-namely, the Scandinavians, and the people of their dependent islands,-the Upper and Lower Germans (including Swiss, Alsatians, Flemings, and Dutch,)-the English and Lowland Scots, not merely speak branches of one common language, but have a strong family likeness, both in features, complexion, and figure, and in character and disposition:—while the Celtic race again, differs strongly from the former, not merely in language, but in all the other particulars just enumerated.

Switzerland displays this marked distinction very strikingly. So far back as its authentic modern history extends, it has consisted of two leading divisions-the German country, and the Roman country-(pays Romain). Now, though religious tenets have great influence on a people's temper-and it has been generally observed on the Continent, that Catholics (whether from the number of holidays, processions, and shows they have, or the hostility of their religion to thinking,) are, upon the whole, much more gay and volatile than Protestants-yet the people of the Pays de Vaud, and of the other Roman districts, who are not only Protestants, but Calvinists,--the most austere of all Protestants,-are infinitely more brisk and cheerful than the Catholics of the German country.-Again, the Gauls in the time

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