ples. He was, indeed, no very promising lecturer on the nature and essence of wit; and as for the simple ludicrous, no one who could contemplate the astrologer's odd figure without laughter, was like to be moved to the exercise by any thing he could utter. The baroness, having made other additions to her family, took little heed of her first born. She heard from his master and her gossips, that he was to make a great judge; and she hoped it might be so. Meantime Tristan was by no means easy in mind, at finding out that he wanted one of the common properties of his species. He was vexed at always hearing himself called Tristan the Grave, and at discovering in repeated instances, that his company was by no means considered an acquisition in jovial society. A face all rosy and radiant with unquenchable laughter,' though like those of Homer's divinities, was to him like that of a baboon; and the roar of convivial mirth from his father's hall or cellar, fell on his ear as if in tones of derision and mockery of one who could not sympathise in its meaning. He learnt from his master the four simple rules of arithmetic, the names of the planets, and, what was more valuable, his letters, by means of which he taught himself to read. In an old closet in the castle were a few books, which the baron neglected, as he said reading hurt his eyes; but it is believed he was never sufficiently versed in the belles lettres to have claimed the benefit of clergy. All these, however, his son and heir perused with deep interest. They consisted of legends of fabulous history, and lives of saints. Unfortunately there was one on the nature of devils, their powers and feats; but whether it was written by Paracelsus or Alexander ab Alexandro or Cardan, or by some body else, I am unable to state. In all these works, Tristan found nothing about the risible faculties or their use. Mr. Hazlitt had not then published his lectures; and if they had been then extant, it may reasonably be doubted if they would have assisted the inquirer in his search. He once asked Marascallerus, whether he supposed any of the heroes, knights and kings, recorded in ancient chronicles, ever wrinkled their faces and made hysterical noises, in the manner of those who were said to be laughing? The astronomer scratched his head, and cogitated much; after which double labour he came to the conclusion, that the worthies in question, after winning their spurs, could have no occasion for such levity. This was some consolation, though not altogether satisfactory to the pupil. He had several times practised before a mirror the detested corrugations which he had noted on the countenances of others; but on such occasions he succeeded in producing no other expression, than that which a Dutch toy for cracking nuts would wear, without any paint; while his eyes seemed looking out above, in wonder and scorn at the performance of his lower features; and he turned with disgust from the image of himself. Time who travels on at his jog-trot pace, whether men turn the corners of their months upwards or downwards, had now carried Tristan along with him, into the twenty-first year of his serious existence; when his excellency the baron received a letter from one of his old friends at Stade, a brother Freiherr, as nobly decended and accomplished as himself. The messenger was treated with as much Rhenish as he thought proper to consume; and Tristan was called to interpret the despatch; the baron complaining of the crabbed hand which his friend wrote in his old age. Much to his astonishment, and not a little to his satisfaction, for ennui was beginning to prey upon his youth, Tristan found that he was himself the person principally interested in the contents of this communication. The noble writer stated that he was waxing old, and that the dearest object of his heart was to establish bis only child, the fair Cunegunda, comfortably and according to her rank, in the world, before he went out of it. He had heard much of the wisdom and good qualities of his old friend's son; and if other matters could be arranged to their mutual accommodation, nothing would give him greater satisfaction than the union of their two illustrious houses. Tristan professed himself ready to set forward on such a mission forthwith. After driving round among his vassals for a few days, the baron presented him with a purse but slenderly filled, and lent him the least carrion-like looking steed his stables could furnish. Provided with a suitable answer to the dignified epistle which had summoned him. dictated by the baron and written by the bearer himself, the latter, after tenderly embracing the baroness, and receiving her blessing, mounted his Rosiuante; the baron advising him, if he meant to succeed, to put on a pleasanter visage, and not look as if he were going to a funeral. He also offered him a stirrup-cup, which Tristan refused. Marascallerus stood by, wiping away his tears with the end of a dirty apron, which he wore at his more servile occupations, and beseeching his pupil not to go for three days longer, as the planetary influence was just then most malign to all about commencing a journey. Tristan put spurs to his wind-galled charger, and in a short time reached the boundary of his father's domains. Here the beast came to a sudden stand, and exhibited violent symptons of oppugnancy to the goadings and buffets he received, by way of encouraging him to proceed. Thrice did he wheel round, quivering in all his ill assorted members, as if under the influence of powerful terror; and thrice did Tristan compel him to put his nose in the direction he wished to take. Then uttering a shrill and melancholy neigh, he started forward at his wonted miscellaneous gait. An angle of the wood hid from the rider the ivygrown towers of his native castle, and a sickening presentiment fell upon his heart, that he had parted from them like Ajut, never to return.' Not that he had ever heard of Ajut, any more than of Ajax ; but he felt very sorrowful, and his heart was heavy within him. All along the road, the people at the inns treated him with great respect, taking him fora messenger entrusted with important secrets and despatches, fro the sobriety of his looks and seriousness of his demeanour After three days journey he reached the town of Stade, and after making a disbursement to the improvement of his outward man, repaired to the residence of Baron Ehrenfriedersdorf, his father-in-law elect. The Baron's dwelling stood in an old part of the town, and looked a little the worse for wear. Tristan felt a little queerish, as he lifted the knocker, at the antiquated and half ruined gateway. What sort of a young lady was Cunegunda Ehrenfriedersdorf? Did she squint? and if so, was the obliquity single, double, or manifold? Had she a hump? and if so, where located? On her shoulder, or her back,―or how was its topography? was she subject to nervous spasms? If so, how did the twitchings exhibit themselves? All down one side of her face, or all over? Intermittently, or all the time? Had she had the small pox? if so, were the cicatrices deep or shallow? was her countenance rivelled by it, into longitudinal or latitudinal seams, or promiscuously? was she anatural, or a virago? All these doubts passed over the mind of the suitor as the iron fell from his fingers. A hollow sound reverberated from the ruinous establishment, and the portal was opened by a decayed looking serving man, faded alike in years and in his livery. At sight of the grave looking young man, he bowed respectfully, taking him for a candidate for holy orders, if not a licentiate, and marshalled him across the court. As Tristan followed, his heart beating quick with the importance of the crisis, a peal of laughter came from an upper story, in which the shriller notes of female organs were distinctly audible. Was it Cunegunda who helped to make the noise, at this moment so peculiarly disagreeable and revolting to the feelings of her suitor? Detesting, as we do, all continuations, we are compelled to defer the remainder of this narrative to our next number. ED. DIALOGUE. Scene-A summer appartment—Amelia at a table, drawing—Anna, seated at a window in deep thought. Anna. Dear sister, what is love? Amel. (looking up surprised.) Why wouldst thou know? Yet dwells upon thy lip, and wouldst thou seek Anna. Ills, sister? Surely love is not an ill! Amel. Anna. Thou knowest nought of it; therefore thou dost say Nay, but all things seem Yes, if we were Amel. Anna. Governed by instinct only. Instinct, sister, Leads us to pleasure only, but the heart Can guide to happiness. Amel. Alas! Alas! 'Tis a false guide. Anna. Amel. I have not found it so. Amel. Anna. That is not strange, Dost thou forget To-morrow I shall be fifteen, dear sister? Amel. Why dost thou blush?-Nay, Anna, thoughts that bring Find entrance in thy bosom-why is this? Anna. Turn then thine eyes away, if thou wouldst know, Amel. Anna. Sister, whene'er I look on him, methinks He seems reserved and changed. I do not dare Of absence to be filled with thousand thoughts Anna. Ah! sister, then I love; for when I see Dear Henry coming, though I've wished for him, I turn away mine eyes that I may see Amel. (not heeding her) To feel our whole existence wrapt in ha Till we have lost all consciousness of self, All sympathy, save of his joys and sorrows, All sense of suffering, save when he doth suffer To have no use of being, but to give Our every thought to him-and then to feel Vol. II. No. I. |