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MEMOIRS OF A RECLUSE.

To the Editor of the European Magazine.

SIR,

Iby the associated Hermits whod poetic Legends have obtained your notice; but as my pretensions are only to "Commonsense," I address you in plain prose. The romantic founders of the Hermitage have long since passed away, and their successors are men of the modern world. We only retain the sep tagon table and seven-branched candelabra which denote the perfect equality established among but I will not designate my companions ;let them speak for themselves.

AM the last new Member admitted

"Friends and Brothers," said I, when first admitted to their synod, "the charter of this community requires that its seven seats should be filled by professors of the seven liberal sciences: but in me you will find only a student in the art of happiness. Another statute requires, that every member on his admission should contribute to the amusement or advantage of this association. As neither my past life nor my subdued fancy afford any supplies, I hope to fulfill this requisition by leading you to consider what happiness is. To know where it exists is half the business of life; and we possess it in some degree while we consider it."

A young man at the lowest corner of the table, with a neglected coat and meagre countenance, replied eagerly, "Can any one doubt what happiness is? It is a quick and constant sense of whatever is graceful, beautiful, and just :Imagination gives us all that is lovely in nature and sublime in morals without alloy; therefore I ascribe our largest share of happiness to imagination.”

"Do you know (interrupted our third Brother, raising his eyes from an immense folio) that you speak tautologically-Whatever is graceful must be beautiful, and whatever is beautiful, is just; for grace is only the result of proportion, which is the true name of beauty and this proportion or fitness of things is what we call justice in morals -ergo-"

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:

Stop, Counsellor !" interposed a lean personage at his left hand—“ this is a confusion of axioms. What you call beauty is only an association of ideas. A large mouth or a small grey eve would be as useful, perhaps more so, than those it is fashionable to admire.

There is no such thing as Beauty, abs stractedly considered. We do not call a thing beautiful merely because it is useful, but because we attach some idea of ease, delicacy, or cheerfulness with it.” "We shall lose ourselves in this labyrinth," said his next neighbour, smiling contemptuously, "let us return to the first point. If by happiness our poet means a succession of keen and ardent sensations, I cannot conceive an exist ence entirely composed of them. It is as impossible as an army of generals or a nation without subjects. 1. know no pleasure which does not result from some deprivation or necessity, and which has not its consequent and inevitable balance of evil, as the strongest lights in a picture are produced by contrasted shades. And therefore I deem that man happiest whose life affords the most equal balance of pain and pleasure."

"Your estimate would be just," replied the poet, "if there were not some pleasures exempt from penalty. Of this class are all that spring from kind and generous affections, and from an imagination employed only on the riches of, nature. Whatever exercises our faculties to a benevolent purpose, excites those pleasing sensations which leave no languor or regret: those sensations, in short, which, without intoxicating the mind, afford it that food and support called happiness."

The only well-dressed man in our circle shook his snuff-box superciliously, and answered, "It remains to be proved whether all useful employments are pleasant; and we cannot always agree what is useful. As for the beauty and grace our poet talks of, the notions of Hottentot, Chinese, and Indian connoisseurs, would make it as hard to discover what Beauty is, as to decide upon grace in a committee of ancient and modern belles. For my part, I have tried all kinds of happiness, and I know none that lasts above seven days. But I call myself happy when I am in fashion, and can find something new.” Different opinions in various times and countries avail nothing," resumed our lawyer: "the Hottentot admires his large-eared and round-nosed consort by the force of custom; and we attach an idea of grace to certain manners and dresses when they are in general use because only the capricious and the arrogant are supposed to resist genera custom, which (saith Bracton) is a lav

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not written. But, I repeat, the ab stract idea of beauty and grace is still the same, and always will be in all times and nations. We shall give the name of beauty in general to the form which excites agreeable sensations, and call that manner graceful which expresses them."

We looked for the casting vote to our seventh Brother, on whom, in deference • to his age and clerical functions, we bestow the title of Abbot. He smiled, and said, "Our poet places happiness in a contemplation of beautiful objects; but our philosopher tells us, that beauty is mere matter of opinion; our logician confines it to whatever is useful, and our physician considers the beauty of nature only the balance of some defect. Let us try to reconcile their systems by one which may amend them all. Since whatever is beautiful in outward things is thus liable to the wa verings of opinion, we must build our happiness on moral beauty, in which there is no change or dependence on human caprice, Our religious system of moral justice combines whatever is beautiful in imagination or useful in philosophy: and if real beauty exists in that which is best fitted to a noble pur pose, a man acting on this system is himself the most beautiful object in crea tion."

A short pause followed this decision, which enabled me to say, "Since we have all different ideas of happiness, we have proved 'at least that it is of a various and general kind. Instead of detecting the deficiencies in its growth, let us take the paths allotted to our several professions, and glean whatever we may find in them which tends to cherish and enrich it. Our pupils of fashion and philosophy shall shew us the progress of science and social refinement: our poet may endeavour to represent the happiest attitude of things, and the rules by which poetry excites agreeable sensations ;-while our physician, lawyer, and divine, collect those facts and evidences which ***vindicate the ways of God to man.'' My proposal was received with applause but the spirit of disputation had gained force, especially as the twelfth bottle began to traverse the table. "I maintain (cried the philosopher, filling his seventeenth glass) that there is no evil in existence ! What we call corruption in nature only regeneration. Political or moEurop. Mag. Vol. LXX. July, 1816.

ral corruption may be as useful in the system of society as the storms which attend the equinox, or the attraction which balances the universe. Gentlemen, there is nothing without its use, therefore there is no evil-the pains of the mind are all of our own creation, and may be all avoided; those of the body, as they conduce to its pleasures, are not evils."

"What say you (said Dr. Beauclerc) to a fit of the gout, a shrewish wife, or an empty purse?"

Counsellor Lumiere laughed aloud, while our Professor declaimed against evil with a countenance strongly ex pressive of its effects.—" I say," added he, piqued by the comment made by our risible muscles" I am so well assured what we term misfortune is only a remote and disguised benefit, that no change or deprivation gives me concern. No not even a divorce from the greatest possible good-a friend who in pain and death (I mean if pain and death were evils)—would have been my comfort and support."

His voice now absolutely failed, notwithstanding a severe struggle to regain it. Our physician smiled at the frail covering of the stoic seer, and archly slid a bottle of champagne towards him" If there is no positive evil, we know, at least, this is a positive good! The world cannot be like an Arabian manuscript, all flowers and gold; our friendships and our projects may fall into ruins, but the ruins of a noble structure are still beautiful. Life' alone is a miracle and a blessing;and the most unfortunate man has faculties and enjoyments far, very far, superior to the noblest animal. A stupid pedant once said, he saw 15,000 proofs of Providence in one cabalistic word, but I see as many in every part of existence!"

Counsellor Lumiere cast a shrewd glance at the rueful philosopher, and added, "It is very difficult to agree about happiness, of which we may say as St. Austin said of time, I know what it is till I am asked to explain it ;' but it will be easy to decide which is the greatest evil!"

"Ah!" said our poet, "that is easily answered-the greatest evil is to love nothing, or to have nothing to love."

St. Alme, our Abbot, replied gravely, "Can that ever occur to a rational man: Can he ever dare to say nothing

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concerns him, while the world is his home and his family?"

Our youngest Brother, who had fallen asleep at the beginning of this debate, and was roused by the last speaker's exalted voice, now suddenly spoke "You may call evil by what name you please, but I can tell you there is one!"-We urged him to give us the fruits of his experience; and after much hesitation and arch grimace, he answered, “It is a subject not to be named in this community, else I should say-a learned woman !"

Our Abbot looked grave, and the philosopher closed his book. "Come," said I, "the fruits of experience exceed those of debate. Let us compare the portion of evil we have each suffered, and determine which is the heaviest kind. We shall at least enjoy the benefit of complaint, and the pleasure of consoling each other."

Not a dissenting voice was heard. As a signal of adjournment, our Abbot folded up a silver chain (his badge of office), and deposited it, according to his favourite custom, in a basket of flowers. On the following evening our youngest Brother began his narrative. (To be continued.)

V.

A CONVERSAZIONE. (Continued from Vol. LXIX. page 494.)

VERY one listened with attention

E to the vindication which the Edi

tor's Wife thus prefaced, and the passage which she was about to bring in testimony of its justice was expected with a deep silence throughout the room. This silence was interrupted by the prompt accommodation of the Lady of the House, who taking from a small set of book shelves that was suspended in a recess, the play of Bertram, presented it to the lady who had volunteered her advocacy: "here, dear madam," said she, "is the play itself; we must not tax your memory so far as to expect an accurate repetition of the passage; and accuracy, you know, is in this case absolutely indispensable to your cause."-"Thank you, madam," replied the Editor's Wife" perhaps it will be better for me to read than quote-O, here is the passage to which I was about to alludeIt is in the fifth scene of the first act, which I confess is the first in which any thing like authorship is shewn-for the previous scenes certainly partake more

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Yea, mothers have with desperate hands wrought harm

To little lives from their own bosoms lent. But woman still hath loved-If that indeed Woman e'er loved like me.

"Now, indeed, I do humbly conceive that in this passage there is much impassioned thought, very poetically expressed."-With this remark the lady was proceeding to select another example-when the Poet begged he might be allowed to dissent from this conclusion, as he thought there was not a more faulty part in the whole composition than that which had just been read-" It is certainly," said he, " as completely confused, with respect to poetical purity, as the mind of the speaker seemed to be in its notions of moral propriety-" The limner's art may trace the absent feature"-This is a most glaring violation of figure

and a pretty dashing application of the prosopopia.-If I mistake not, the lady herself was tracing that feature which was present to the limner's art, but which now she laments as absent-but how any limmer can trace an absent feature by his art, it would puzzle the best portrait-painter of the

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Academy to determine."-" O pardon me," cried the artist, "this we do very often by memory."-" At all events, Sir," rejoined the Poet," the memory of Imogine was most employed in this instance.-The eye of distant weeping Faith is a pretty phrase, but really not very intelligible--perhaps, had the author transposed the word distant to the following line-To view the form of its idolatry-the passage would then have read much more lucidly thus,

And give the eye of weeping Faith, to

view

The distant form of its idolatry. In the succeeding part of this incoherent apostrophe, the author trips again,

"If thou couldst speak, Dumb witness of the secret soul of Imogine, Thou mightst acquit the faith of womankind."

Now really this is most ludicrous personification. The picture is witness to her secret soul-then surely to her secret soul, this dumb witness had sufficient power to acquit her-without the faculty of speech. I admit that apostrophe and prosopopia are two of the most elegant figures which the author could call to his aid, but certainly there ought to be consistency in the imagery, and here there is none.-The line, Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved, is a pleonasm which, if it means any thing, must mean, that when lovers love they have Elysian dreams - but if lovers, as we know they do, more frequently dream than think, we are apt to conclude that they were not lovers until they loved-so that the precise date of their dreams is an unnecessary redundancy of recollection.-The metre too is most unmercifully disjointed throughout the whole of this apostrophe-and what the reflections about the brotherly lie being lightly loosed -by the by this word lightly is very ambiguous)-the cold meeting of the perted-mothers having with desperate hands wrought harm to title lives from their own bosoms lent (a very silly line indeed) What all these circumstances had to do with the consequence which Imogine draws, I defy any stretch of conception to discover when she adds, "Batwoman still hath loved-If that indeed

Woman e'er lov'd like me."

I suppose we must put the morality of this passage out of the question,

when we are speaking of its poetical claim to our consideration, otherwise I might be tempted to say, that it is but an unfavorable lesson for the daughters of our land, who expect of course to become wives-to fall in love at seventeen with some unworthy object-marry perchance at twenty three or four some more eligible character-and then retain the portrait of the former for the companion of their pillow, and, forgetting their duty to the lawful partner of their bed, talk to this portrait as the object of their idolatry-of their weeping faith tooand call up to their fancy the Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved."

"Well, sir," resumed the Lady, "I would hope that the poetry is not the more questionable, because the moral be the case, what becomes of the principle is not more apparent-if this Giaour, the Corsair, and the Bride of Abydos."-" I do not assert, madam," said the Poet," that it is necessary to be moral to be poetical-but I do insist upon it, that poetry forfeits all its best pretensions when it loses sight of those moral obligations of the soul which ought to constitute the very spring of all its energies.-What can be more poetical, and yet what more divinely chastened with the purest sympathies of our nature, than Cowper's Address to his Mother's Picture !-And the reproaches with which Hamlet assails his mother's conscience, while gazing on his father's picture, might serve for a just representation mutatis mulandis of Imogine's unconjugal dreams. But, madam, I entreat you would have the goodness to point out the next beauty of this nondescript play, this dramatic compound of questionable character." This I can readily do, Sir-Imogine's description of Bertram, in the same scene, is generally allowed to be an indisputable proof of the author's talent-here it is,

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An exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject,

He fled for life, and scarce by flight did save it

No hoary beadsman bid his parting step GOD speed-No faithful vassal followed him,

For fear had withered every heart but her's Who amid shame and ruin loved him better."

In this description," replied Mr. T-, "I grant your praise is just -the author's talent has been evidently assisted by a master's guidance -but how inferior is even this creditable effort, to our immortal Bard's narrative of the rejected Richard!however, it is not fair to compare the small things of modern playwrights with the powerful greatness of Shakspeare's genius-but when imitation provokes comparison, this cannot be avoided.""Thank you, good Sir, even for this slight assent to my commendationAnd now, Sir, let me secure it by another most brilliant image, in which poetry, genuine poetry, has fixed its print and form.

In the lone hour of tempest and of terror, Her soul was on the dark hill's side with

Bertram:

Yea, when the launched bolt did sear her

sense,

Her soul's deep orisons were breathed for

him."

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But Grief did lay his icy finger on it,
And chilled it to a cold and joyless statue,
Methought she carolled blithely in her
youth,

As the couched nestling trills his vesper lay;

But song and smile, beauty and melody, And youth and happiness, are gone from her."

"Indeed, indeed Mr. T,” exclaimed Miss Julia, "here is no room for the icy finger of your criticismit is so sweetly natural-poor Imogine, my heart bleeds for her."-"Pray, Miss Julia," asked the Poet, "did your heart ever bleed for Viola, in Shakspeare's Twelfth Night, when she thus describes the hectic waste of love-sick despondency?

-She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought;

And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like Patience on a monument Smiling at grief-Was not this love, in.

deed?

"Common-place as this quotation may appear, it sets the copy at a great distance from its original excellence; the author of Bertram has indeed managed the idea with considerable adroitness-and has transplanted a rose out of Shakspeare's garden into his own parterre with much good arrangement, yet it loses by the change much of its native bloom and fragrance-for the author has planted under its odorife branches a flower of a most rank odour :

Thou would'st not deem her wretchedoutward eyes Would hail her happyThey've decked her form in purple and in pall.

-"Certainly, Madam, you have hit upon a point that is sufficiently vindicatory of the command of language,rous which the author doubtless possessesit is, however, but a point in a long and unequal line of desultory descant-or, rather, it is a beam of day-light piercing the clouds of a tempest of terror through which he is continually launching his bolts of boisterous rant that sear the very soul of common sense."-" Yet," pursued the Lady, "hear the following beautiful description of a hopeless love

Here is no shaft of such tremendous force hurled with that boisterous impetuosity of which you unjustly complain -the secret undermining influence of an insinuating malady, marks its way by more imperceptible yet equally sure destruction with the lightning's

bolt.

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When she goes forth, the thronging vassals kneel,

And bending pages bear her footcloth wellNo eye beholds that lady in her bower, That is her hour of joy, for there she weeps,

Nor does her husband hear.

What a lesson is this for our unmarried females to learn-or even for mato hear-What a criminal romance of trons in the early years of conjugal life forbidden sympathy does this speech inculcate is love then so pestilential in its power, so seductive in its sway, as to destroy the nobler energies of the soul -and reduce the wedded heart to a mass of faithless falsehood and corrupt deceit.-Is that divine flame which was

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