and their descendants, contribute to the development of their intellectual faculties. All the colonists who possess a spirit of observation agree, that the Creole negroes are, in general, more in telligent than the greater part of the European peasants; and that they are in no respect inferior, in this point of view, to the white Creoles who have not received an education. ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF EMINENT PERSONS. From the New Monthly Magazine, February 1820. SPENCE'S ANECDOTES. whole night to read Selden's "Table WHETHER our taste has been Talk," we seized upon that little vol rendered unreasonably fastidious by the variety of highly-flavoured literary delicacies with which the press, in these modern times, daily and hourly supplies our intellectual banquets; whether we are more nice than wise, or, in fact, are justifiable for the opinions which we entertain-certain it is, that many of the books which we are told were considered sixty or seventy years since as standards both of instruction and amusement, appear to us now, little better than dry, chaotic masses of disjointed materials, awkwardly worded, unskilfully put together, and eminently deficient in taste and interest. ume in a friend's library, and began devouring its contents in the hope of being equally fascinated: but it would not do. Boswell, Mason, and Hayley, in their several Lives of Johnson, Gray, and Cowper, had spoilt us for a production so wanting in order and sequence. At the end of a few pages, we became anxious for the relief of knowing why and to whom such things had been said; we wished to be informed of their à propos. Though excellent in themselves, they came too fast upon us; and so completely bewildered our faculties that we lost all power of discriminating their value, from the very superabundance with which (without any link or intervening detail) they hurried us from one topic to another as abruptly as if they had been passages read at random from so many different authors. We love more correspondence of design; when a bon mot, or a wise apothegm is recorded, we love to see it in its appropriate niche; "priate niche; to find it blended with narrative explanatory of the occasion on which it was uttered :-in short, we love, as in Boswell, and the other biographers we have named, to meet with that concatenation of ideas which accounts for the origin of every remarkable observation, and gives interest to every anecdote by the portrait which accompanies it of the person to whom it relates. In the editor's preface to the volume now before us, we meet with the following paragraph: "the French abound in collections of this nature, which they have distinguished with the title of Ana. England has produced few examples of the kind; but they are eminently excellent. It may be sufficient to name Selden's Table Talk,' Boswell's Life of Johnson,' and the Walpoliana.'" We must be permitted to remark, that nothing can be more distinct than the respective merits of Selden and Boswell. In Selden, though pregnant on the whole with wit, wisdom, and learning, we find a mere assemblage of desultory anecdotes, or abstract reasonings. Their conciseness is of no assistance to the memory, for nothing is easily retained which fails to excite interest. And when we perceive that every article stands alone, bearing no connection with that which precedes or follows it, they become as wearisome in the perusal as a travelling itinerary, or as a geographical gazetteer. We remember with what eagerness, after hearing that Dr. Johnson had sat up a We read Boswell; we can only dip into Selden, whose "Taik," like the maxims of La Bruyere and La Rochefoucault, consisting wholly of detached thoughts, fatigues the "mind's eye" as much as it would fatigue the corporeal eye to gaze too long at the brilliant colours exhibited thro' a prism. It is well known that the original do cuments from which the Memoirs of of Sully were composed, bore the same dry, disunited character we complain of in Selden; but how admirably has their editor woven his rich materials in to a consistent web; and how infinitely does that work now surpass the crude and broken style of arrangement adopted by the compilers of the French Anas!-Mr. Spence has, to our regret, followed their irregular-plan we cannot call it—rather let us say, course. If, in answer to our objections to this course, we should be told that he never meant to do more than to glean a number of Pope's original observations, with a view to their being inserted in some Life of him to be written by a nother hand, all we can say is-tant pis:—the gleanings were worthy of a better fate. They now appear like so many single features, many of them good, indeed, but all separated from the face to which they once belonged, scattered, mutilated, and thrown pell-mell before us: here a nose, and there an eye; this way a chin, and yonder a lip and we see no possibility, for want of ligaments and muscles, to unite them into one complete physiognomy, or to judge what sort of countenance they would form, if put symmetrically together. From this book we acquire not the smallest insight into Pope's general manner of conversation. We can never suppose that it was his custom to sit stringing axioms together, to which nothing had previously led, and to which nothing was ever replied. The sentiments which are here expressed, may, indeed, be Pope's; but, isolated as they are, we cannot always discover to what they apply. They are neither questions nor answers; and not possessing (invariably) sufficient weight and character to stand by themselves as unquestionable monuments of oracular wisdom, they occasionally sink into mere truisms, without either spirit, originality, or any kind of point. The pages in the volume before us, which, after having once awakened, continued most successfully to keep alive our attention, were those dedicated at the beginning to giving a brief sketch of the Life of Mr. Spence. The reason is obvious; we are going on with one subject, or gradually diverging from it; and no sudden transitions, like unprepared cords in music, grate harshly upon the feelings; we are not every instant changing our key, but have the fortune of finding that what we are reading bears a relation to what we have read, and will probably assimilate with what is to follow. We should in fairness, however, state, that the complaints which we are making on account of the want of continuity in this production, will by no means occur in so forcible a manner to the public at large. We are compelled to read the whole of a work, and to read it with as little loss of time and as few interruptions as possible.—We honestly confess, that we rise from it under such a sense of repletion, and with an "appetite so cloyed by what it fed on," that had there been a second volume, we must have died of a surfeit ! In justice to ourselves, at least as a pleasure to ourselves, we shall insert the very agreeable details given in Section VIth, respecting the universally and deservedly popular AUTHOR OF GIL BLAS. Speaking of his Gil Blas, and Diable Boiteux, he said: Ay, those were the two first works that ever I risked into the world.' (Ces sont mes enfans perdus.')-'It was in this room that I wrote most of Gil Blas.'-M. Le S. And an extreme pretty place to write in it was.-His house is at Paris in the Fauxbourg St. Jaques; and so, open to the country air the garden laid out in the prettiest manner that ever I saw, for a town garden. It was as pretty as it was small, and when he was in the study-part of it, he was quite retired from the noise of the street, or any interruptions from his own family. The garden was only of the breadth of the house, from which you stept out into a raised square parterre, planted with a variety of the choicest flowers. From this, you went down, by a flight of steps on each side, into a Berceau; which led to two rooms or summerhouses quite at the end of the garden. These were joined by an open portico, the roof of which was supported with columns; so that he could walk from the one to the other all under cover, in the intervals of writing. The berceaux were covered with vines and honeysuckles, and the space between them was grove-work. It was in the righthand room as you go down that he wrote Gil Blas.-Spence. GEORGE 1. Dr. Lockier in the former part of his life was chaplain to the factory at Hamburgh, from whence he went every year to visit the court of Hanover; whereby he became well known to the king, George the First, who knew how to temper the cares of royalty with the pleasures of private life; and commonly invited six or eight of his friends to to pass the evening with him. His majesty seeing Dr. Lockier one day at court, spoke to the Duchess of Ancaster, who was almost always of the party, that she should ask Dr. Lockier to come that evening.-When the company met in the evening, Dr. Lockier was not there; and the king asked the duchess if she had spoken to him, as he desired. Yes,' she said, but the doctor presents his humble duty to your majesty, and hopes your majesty will have the goodness to excuse him at present: he is soliciting some preferment from your majesty's ministers; and fears it might be some obstacle to to him, if it should be known that he had the honour of keeping such good company.' The king laughed very heartily, and said, he believed he was in the right. Not many weeks afterwards, Dr. Lockier kissed the king's hand for the Deanery of Peterborough; and as he was raising himself from kneeling, the king inclined forwards, and with great good humour whispered in his ear, Well, now doctor, you will not be afraid to come in an evening; I would have you come this evening.' FIRST IDEA OF PARADISE LOST. As an example of the epistolary matter contained in the appendix to this volume, we insert the following entertaining letter from Mr. Spence to his mother when travelling. TO MRS. SPENCE. Turin, Dec. 2, 1739. Dear Mother, Soon after I came to this place, as I was walking one Evening under the Porticos of the Street of the Po, I saw an Inscription over a great Gate; which, as I am a very curious Traveller, you may be sure I did not miss reading. I found by it, that the House belong'd to a sett of strollers, and that the Inscription was a bill of the play that they were to act that Evening. You may imagine how surpris'd I was to find it conceiv'd in the following words : "Here under the Portico's of the Char itable Hospital for such as have the Venereal Disease, will be represented this Evening, The Damned Soul: with proper Decorations." As this seem'd to be one of the greatest Curiosities I coul'd possibly meet with in my Travels, I immediately paid my threepence; was shew'd in with great civility and took my seat among a number of people, who seem'd to expect the Tragedy of the Night with great Seriousness. At length the Curtain drew up; and discover'd the Damn'd Soul, all alone, with a melancholy-Aspect. She was (for what reason I don't know) drest like a fine Lady; in a gown of Flamecolour'd Satin. She held a white Handkerchief in her hand, which she apply'd often to her eyes; and in this attitude, with a Lamentable Voice, began a prayer (to the Holy and ever Blessed Trinity) to enable her to speak her part well: afterwards she address'd herself to all the good Christians in the Room; beg'd them to attend carefully to what she had to say: and heartily. wish'd they wou'd be the better for it: She then gave an account of her Life and, by her own confession, appear'd to have been a very naughty woman in her time. This was the First Scene. At the Second, a back curtain was drawn ; and gave us a sight of our Saviour and and the Blessed Virgin: amidst the Clouds, The poor Soul address'd herself to our Saviour first, who rattled her extreamly and was indeed all the while very severe. All she desired was to be sent to Purgatory, instead of going to Hell and she at last beg'd very hard to be sent into the Fire of the former, for as many years as there are drops of water in the sea. As no favour was shown her on that side, she turn'd to the Virgin and beg'd her to intercede for her. The Virgin was a very decent Woman: and answer'd her gravely, but steadily; That she had anger'd her Son so much, that she cou'd do nothing for her :" and on this, they both went away together. The Third Scene consisted of three little Angels, and the Damn'd Soul. She had no better luck with them: nor with St. John the Baptist, and all the Saints in the Fourth so, in the Fifth, she was left to two Devils; seemingly to do what they wou'd with her. One of these Devils was very ill-natur'd and fierce to her; the other, was of the droll kind; and for a Devil, I can't say but what he was good-natur'd enough: tho' he delighted in vexing the poor Lady rather too much. In the Sixth Scene, matters began to mend a little. St. John the Baptist (who had been with our Saviour I believe behind the Scenes) told her, if she wou'd continue her Entreaties, there was yet some Hope for her. She on this again besought our Saviour and the Virgin to have compassion on her The Virgin was melted with her Tears, and desir'd her Son to have pity on her; on which it was granted, that she shou'd go into the Fire, only for sixteen or seventeen hundred Thousand years; and she was very thankful for the inildness of the Sentence. The Seventh (and last) Scene, was a Contest between the two Infernal Devils above mentioned, and her Guardian Angel. They came in again; one grinning, and the other openmouth'd to devour her. The Angel told them, that they shou'd get about their business. He, with some difficulty, at last drove them off the Stage; and banded off the good Lady; in assuring her that all would be very well, after some hundreds of thousands of years, with her. All this while, in spite of the excel lence of the Actors, the greatest part of the Entertainment to me was the countenances of the people in the Pitt and Boxes. When the Devils were like to carry her off, every body was in the utmost consternation; and when St. John spoke so obligingly to her, they were ready to cry out for Joy. When the Virgin appear'd on the Stage, every body looked respectfull; and on several words spoke by the Actors, they pull'd off their Hats, and cross'd themselves. What can you think of a People, where their very farces are Religious, and where they are so Religiously receiv'd? May you be the better for reading of it, as I was for seeing it! There was but one thing that offended me. All the Actors, except the Devils, were women; and the person who represented the most venerable character in the whole Play, just after the Representation, came into the Pitt; and fell kissing a barberof her Acquaintance, before she had chang'd her Dress. She did me the honor to speak to me too; but I wou'd have nothing to say to her. It was from such a Play as this, (call'd Adam and Eve) that Milton, when he was in Italy, is said to have taken the First Hint for his Divine Poem of Paradise Lost. What small beginnings are there sometimes to the greatest things! I am ever (with all Services to all Friends,) 66 That Your Dutiful and Affectionate, J. SPENCE. What a singular book is "The business of the Saints in Heaven," by Father Lewis Henriquez; printed at Salamanca in 1631. He attempts to prove, in the twenty-second chapter, every saint shall have his particulac house in heaven; and Christ a most magnificent palace! That there shall be large streets, and great piazzas, &c." He says in the twenty-fourth chapter, that there shall be a sovereign pleasure in kissing and embracing the bodies of the blest; that they shall bathe themselves in each others' sight. That they shall swim like fishes; and sing as melodiously as nightingales, &c-He affirms, in the forty-seventh chapter, "That the men and women shall delight themselves in masquerades, feasts, and ballads ;"—and in the fifty-eighth, That the angels shall put on women's THE 66 habits, and appear to the saints in the dress of ladies, with curls and locks, waistcoats and fardingales, &c." From La Belle Assemblee, Jan. 1820. CHRISTMAS EVE: OR, THE CONVERSION. FROM THE GERMAN. HE evening was dark, and a profound silence reigned through the small apartment where Gottfried was seated at the foot of his mother's bed, to which she had been some time confined, the prey of lingering illness: the child himself was scarce recovered from the effects of a malignant fever. At length he whispered to his mother Are you asleep? my dear mother." No, my dear child," replied she; "I am employed in thanking the Almighty that it has pleased him to restore my Gottfried to health."-So saying, she took his two little emaciated hands and joined them together; and when he had finished his short prayer, be listened attentively to the difficult and unequal respiration of his mother, which, at times, seemed almost totally stopped, and then again exhaled itself in deep-drawn sighs. A few minutes afterwards he said to her-" Are you now praying, or are you asleep?"— "Neither, my child; what do you want with me?"" O nothing; I only wished to know why such a strong light comes in at our windows all on a sudden as if the sun shone; but yet it does not appear like the light of the sun, and there is no moon now; look, mamma, do not you see it? I can see your face quite plain by it; it is very strange." "Not strange at all," replied Eliza beth; "this is Christmas eve,* every family assembles all its members together and fathers and mothers are surrounded by their children; they light up a number of wax lights, which they suspend to the branches of a small fir * The reader must take notice that this tale is of the fourteenth century: before the reformation in Germany, and consequently the Catholic worship was in all its splendour and attended with every outward and imposing ceremony. tree, which are also hung round with the presents they mean to make them. All the shops in the streets are illuminated, filled with images, wreaths of flowers, and toys of every kind, and this light, as well as that from the neighbouring houses, reflects upon our windows."- "Ah! how beautiful all that must be," replied the child, with his sweet and tender accent; "how I should love to see it! do let me go, my dear mamma." The pillow of Elizabeth was wet with her tears, and it was with difficulty she suppressed her rising sobs. The little boy continued." But I was thinking of one thing; I am a child myself, and you are my mother; you love me very dearly, and yet you never lighted up a little tree for me on Christmas eve.' "Dear boy," said she," come bither and embrace me."—He knelt beside the pillow of his mother, and she continued.-" This day you are eight years of age, my dear Gottfried; the day of your birth was the same as that of your blessed Saviour: God in his infinite grace bestowed this favour upon you, and you ought to be more proud of it, and more delighted than with the richest present that could be given you; for you will possess it as long as you live. When you were younger, I often made you a trifling present, but for these four years that I have been confined by sickness, I have only beheld this festival with sorrow. This year I have had the additional misfortune of seeing you suffer from severe illness, and I am myself still in a very languid state; but that is one reason why I ought to explain to you the holiday that is this day celebrated, and which calls on you with twofold force to lift up your heart to God; pray to him, my dear child, thank him for all his goodness, and you will feel content." |