'The art temple has also its vegetation. Its walls are covered with varied plants, which wind along its cornices and wreathe its plinths; they blossom round the oriels, brightening or deepening in the light; they twine through the nerves of the vaulted arch; like the liane of the cedars, they embrace the tall minarets of the heaven-seeking spire, mounting into the blue depths of ether; they bind the clustering shafts of the columns in heavy sheaves, and crown their capitals with flowers and foliage. The stone grows more and more animated, puts forth in more luxuriant growth; multitudes of new forms spring up in the bosom of this magnificent creation; when lo! at length man completes and embodies them all—his own noble image stands revealed—the rude, but white and glittering stone glows almost into life under the passion of his forming hand.

'Sculpture is but an immediate development of architecture, proceeding naturally and organically from it. In proof of this, we have only to examine it in its first efforts. Forms, unfinished and embryonic, at first closely attached to the stone, growing by degrees in accordance with their own fixed laws until able to detach themselves from the medium through which they were originated, after having acquired the conditions necessary for their individual life, spring to actual life, to independent life, almost as the organized being springs from the womb of its mother.

'Sculpture, however, represents but imperfectly the marvellous glories of God's creation. It can give but faint ideas of the various effects of light and shade, the constantly shifting play of colors; it cannot offer that full harmony of beauty which nature is ever spreading before us in the complicated scenes of life. To satisfy this want, a new art is created! Closely linked with all those which have preceded it, its development is but their legitimate expansion. The gray and stern arches, the hitherto colorless sky of the art temple, now take the azure hue of the heavens, while hovering cherubs look down from their cerulean depths; the relievos glow, and color defines, as it etherealizes, the works of man. Painting, at first absorbed in the plastic arts, scarcely begins to show symptoms of life until she is fully born, and living in her own distinctive form! As that power which develops the almost infinite variety of forms is to the universe, so is painting with its ever ready and vivid canvas to the temple of art.

'Meanwhile the art temple has not remained wrapped in gloomy silence; and another series of developments, bearing the same relation to sound and hearing as the first did to light and sight, have commenced. As beings ascend in the scale of life, the forms appealing to sight alone, become less capable of expressing their nature. If the universe had been without voice, the highest which it contains had been shrouded in the pall of an eternal silence; but creation has a voice which is specific in every genus, in every species, in every individual. Transport yourself in thought to one of the vast solitudes of the New World—listen to the rustling of the myriad-leafed forests as they forever murmur on the banks of the thousands of nameless and unknown streams which ripple through them; to the clash of the impetuous torrents as they rush down the precipitous sides of the mountains to glide on from their feet through beds of soft moss or sedgy grass; to the booming thunder, driving, scattering, and tearing the flying clouds; to the intermingling sounds arising from the myriads of creatures which are roaring, bellowing, humming, buzzing, hissing, singing, upon the bosom of this primeval world—listen! this is the voice of nature, indistinct and confused, but majestic, solemn, multitudinous, full of mystery and palpitating with vague emotions.

'As the art temple symbolizes the creation, is the plastic image of it, a voice is also heard from its depths, which rides upon the winds, and pierces afar off. The echo of an invisible world, it is solemn, mysterious, and multiform, appealing to the inmost feelings, rousing the sleeping powers, awakening the internal life of the soul, which without it might lie forever benumbed and silent. Corresponding to the voice of nature, it, too, is specifically marked, is individualized in every medium through which it is produced. Developing in unceasing variety, yet ever bound in the closest unity, language syllables air into thought, love. As soon as man mingles his voice, his speech, with that of inferior beings, the whole creation is enlarged, dilates and throbs with new and glowing life. A closer tie unites the two worlds—the world of phenomena and the world of ideas. Rising from the bosom of organic nature, pressing up like a bud closely wrapped in its sheaf of clustering and sheltering leaves, destined to indefinite development, the human word is born; it is named: Oratory, Poetry, Music! The art temple is now complete. Symbol of the universe, it represents all that is contained therein under the glittering veil of art.'

It is strange how, in the middle ages, the temple of art almost grew into one with the temple of faith; to this fact may be traced the elevated and devout character of the chefs-d'oeuvre of those dim centuries. Thus the church became a sublime poem, where the glowing imagination of a tender faith lavished all its glories. That the Christian church then satisfied the heart with its mystic dogmas and symbolic representations, is proved by the fact that the masses did not care how obscure and squalid their own hovels might be, provided the temple was great and magnificent. It was the temple of simple, unreasoning, unquestioning faith, but decorated with the highest marvels of art; it was always thrown open to the people, and in it they passed nearly half their days. Man brought what he held to be his best to the temple in which he came to worship God, and in it was concentrated all the world knew of beauty. Its light but ornate steeples seemed to pierce the very clouds; its columns rivalled the shafts of the forest; its balustrades were exquisitely chiselled; its tapestry inwrought with the finest needle work;—all gave evidence that the hand of love had lingered tenderly over every line in the house dedicated by man to his Maker. The pictured saints and angels seemed to smile upon the kneeling people, while the majestic chants and requiems sounded to them like the very voices of the angels, heard from within the 'jasper gates' of the heavenly city. The white-robed and entoning priests were their joy and pride; they, as well as the cherished artists, were most frequently from their own oppressed ranks. Religion and art were alone then democratic; alone expounded to them the original equality of man. Thus they looked upon these temples, which art beautified for faith, as peculiarly their own, their refuge, their solace, their ark of safety in those times of war and trouble. They earnestly and devoutly believed them to be the sanctuaries of the risen God, in which dwelt his glorified Body. With the first rays of the sun flushing with roseate hues the mystic beauty of the temple, they congregated there to receive, in the glorious unity of a common humanity, Him whom the heavens cannot contain—the Son of God. They did not think, they felt; they could not reason, but they heard the church. Naive, simple, and trusting souls, with the Virgin to smile upon them, and the saints to pray for them.

It cannot surely be denied that art is full of indefinite and instinctive longing for the infinite.

Poetry is full of its pining voice. Chateaubriand says:

'When we are alone with nature, the feeling of the infinite forces itself irresistibly upon us. When the universe with its inexhaustible variety opens before us, when we contemplate the myriads of stars moving in ever-mystic harmony through the limitless immensity of space, when we gaze upon the ocean mingling with the sky in the boundless distance of the far horizon, when the earth and sea are rocked into profound calm, and creation itself seems wrapped in mystic contemplation—an undefinable feeling of melancholy seizes upon us, unknown desires awaken in the soul, they seem to call us into other countries far beyond the limits of the known—must it not then be the vague feeling after, the dim longing for, the infinite, which at such moments we feel strangely stirring in the calm depths of the divining soul?'

We find the same yearning breathing through the following beautiful poem of Mrs. Osgood's:

'As plains the home-sick ocean shell Far from its own remembered sea, Repeating, like a fairy spell, Of love, the charmed melody It learned within that whispering wave, Whose wondrous and mysterious tone Still wildly haunts its winding cave Of pearl, with softest music-moan—

'So asks my home-sick soul below, For something loved, yet undefined; So mourns to mingle with the flow Of music from the Eternal Mind; So murmurs, with its childlike sigh, The melody it learned above, To which no echo may reply Save from thy voice, Eternal Love!'

It is to his fervent and fiery expression of this longing for the infinite, characterizing, whether pure or perverted, almost the whole of Byron's poetry, breaking out sometimes in imprecations and despair, and not to his immorality, that his great popularity is to be attributed. Even in the midst of the most unhappy scepticism, it was the haunting passion of his soul. Alas! that this longing for the food of heaven should have been fed on husks until the lower rungs of the heaven ladder became so covered with the corruption of matter and fiery sparks of evil, that it seemed rather meant for the foul feet of demons, than for the elastic tread of the redeemed human soul to God! We quote from him in proof:

'Blue rolls the water, blue the sky Spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright; Who ever gazed upon them shining Nor turned to earth without repining, Nor wished for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray?'

'Oh, thou beautiful And unimaginable ether! and Ye multiplying masses of increased And still increasing lights! what are ye? What Is this blue wilderness of interminable Air, wherein ye roll along as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden?

Is your course measured for ye? or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion, at which my soul aches to think— Intoxicated with eternity?'

'All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, And breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;— All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast, All is concentred in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and Defence.

'Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt, And purify from self: it is a tone The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty; 'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.'

In some of the most forcible lines ever penned, Byron has given us the whole psychological analysis of the effects of human passion, when, in its insane perversion, and misdirected thirst for the infinite, it pours upon the dust that love and worship which is due to God alone. No one who has thus sinned, will refuse to acknowledge their force and truth. Fearful in their Medusa-like beauty, they fascinate the heart, only to turn its warm pulses into ice. They are actually withering in their despair. Poor Byron! did he never, never cry with the repentant but happy St. Augustin: 'Oh, eternal beauty! too late have I known thee!'

'Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps, as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.

'O Love! no habitant of earth thou art— An unseen seraph, we believe in thee; A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquenched soul—parched—wearied—wrung and riven.

'Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation:—where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreached Paradise of our despair, Which o'er informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?

'Who loves, raves—'tis youth's frenzy—but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize—wealthiest when most undone.

'We wither from our youth, we gasp away— Sick—sick; unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first— But all too late, so are we doubly cursed. Love, fame, ambition, avarice—'tis the same, Each idle—and all ill—and none the worst— For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

'Few—none—find what they love or could have loved, Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies—but to recur, ere long, Envenomed with irrevocable wrong; And circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust—the dust we all have trod.

'Our life is a false nature—'tis not in The harmony of things,—this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless Upas, this all blasting tree. Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew— Disease—death—bondage—all the woes we see— And worse—the woes we see not—which throb through The immedicable soul, with heartaches ever new.'

Again:

'What is the worst? Nay, do not ask— In pity from the search forbear: Smile on—nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the hell that's there!'

Merciful God! how men suffer when they fly from Thee. When they refuse to listen to the sublime voice implanted within, which calls them to Thee, forever reminding them that they were made for things infinite, eternal! O ye men of pleasure, it is the very greatness of your nature which torments you: there is nothing save God capable of filling the immeasurable depths of your longing! How different the language of Klopstock, as already quoted: 'What recompense could I ask? I have tasted the cup of angels in singing of my Redeemer!'

One of the most dangerous, yet most brilliant among the novelists of the present day, says:

'Properly speaking, love is not a violent aspiration of every faculty toward a created being; it is rather a holy thirst of the most ethereal part of our being for the unknown. Tormented with intuitions of an eternal love, filled with torturing and insatiate desires for the infinite, we vainly seek their gratification in the dying forms which surround us, and obstinately adorn our perishable idols with that immaterial beauty which haunts our dreams. The emotions of the senses do not suffice us; in the treasure house of the simple joys of nature there is nothing sufficiently exquisite to fill our high demands; we would fain grasp heaven, and it is not within our reach. Then we seek it in a creature fallible as ourselves; we expend upon it all the high energies given us for far nobler ends. We refuse to worship God, and kneel before a worm like ourselves! But when the veil falls, when we see behind the clouds of incense and the halos woven by love, only a miserable and imperfect creature—we blush for our delusion, overturn our idol in our despair, and trample it rudely under foot. But as we must love, and will not give our hearts to God, for whom they were created, we seek another idol—and are again deceived! Through this bitter, bitter school we are purified and enlightened, until, abandoning all hope of finding perfection on earth, we are at last ready to offer God that pure, but now broken-hearted worship, which should never have been given save to Him alone.'—GEORGE SAND.

Thus is it that 'love's best interpreter is still a sigh.'

Let him who would in safety delight his soul with mystic intuitions of the infinite, turn to that most exquisite of all poems, the Apocalypse, for 'blessed is he that readeth and heareth the words of this prophecy, and keepeth those things which are written in it.' St. Jerome says 'it contains as many mysteries as words'—as many truths as mysteries—and these truths are all revelations of the infinite. 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life,' says He who can bring thee into that heavenly city which needeth no temple: 'For the Lord God Almighty is the temple thereof, and the Lamb! And the city hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine in it. For the glory of God hath enlightened it, and the Lamb is the lamp of it.' There shall we feed upon the infinite!

The pantheistic feeling into which the imaginative mind so readily falls, is thus sketched by a poet of our own times:

'I seated myself, after sunset, by the water's side; nothing was to be heard save the dash of the waves as they broke upon the lonely shore; and I gradually fell into that state so well known among solitary travellers:—no distinct remembrance of my own separate being remained to me: I seemed to be but a part of some great whole, to undulate with the lake, to vegetate with the trees, to sigh with the winds, to blossom with the flowers.'

This feeling of the infinite so pervaded antiquity, that man almost lost the consciousness of his own personality in the immensity of the universe, regarding himself but as an element of the absolute unity of the world. His imagination fell into profound reverie, he felt himself but as an integral part of a universal movement drawing all things to a single centre, confounding all beings with one sole substance. We have only to open the Vedas to convince ourselves how deeply this feeling pervaded the early philosophy of the Hindoos. For example:

'Brahma is eternal, the only substantial being, revealing himself in happiness and joy. The universe is his name, his image; this primal existence, containing all in itself, is the only one substantially existing. All phenomena have their cause in Brahma: he is not subjected to the conditions of time and space. He is imperishable; he is the soul of the world; the soul of every individual being. The universe is Brahma—it comes from Brahma—it subsists in Brahma—Bramah, or the sole self-existing being, is the form of all science, the form of systems of worlds, without end forever. The universes of stars are one with him; they have no being but as they exist in the supremacy of his will. This eternal will is the central heart of all that is. It reveals itself in creation, in preservation, in destruction, in motion, in rest, in space, in time.'

Such an absorption of all things in the infinite, with the consequent loss of personality, individuality, and all moral responsibility, had a most depressing effect upon the character of the people who embraced this strange system. This is so manifest that it may be plainly read in the sombre character of their architectural remains.

'In their subterranean, vast, and dim excavations; in the gigantic proportions of their colossal architecture, always impressing us with sadness and with the nothingness of man; in their long, still, damp, dreary cities of sepulchres; in their half-shrouded and mummy-like statues, which, in their corpse-like immobility, seem struck with eternal death, or in slowly detaching themselves in their vast and unfinished forms from primeval and gigantic rocks, grow into a kind of dull, embryonic, and stagnant life, far more abhorrent than death itself—do we not clearly recognize the idea of the infinite absorbing all things into itself, crushing the soaring spirit of man under a blind fatalism, robbing him of all hope and aim in life, of the dignity of personal effort and moral responsibility, presenting as the only aim of all his glowing desires, the utter absorption of his own individuality in the bosom of the limitless whole—thus reducing the vivid action of his varied life to the stillness of the grave, without its repose?'

It is a strange fact, which we will view more closely when we treat of Unity, that the quest for variety which led men into polytheism, or the fractioning of the Deity into false and wicked gods and goddesses, necessarily forced man to the creation of a Fate, to which Jupiter himself was subjected, more blind, more crushing, more appalling to the imagination (because while retaining his entire individuality, man was yet forced to submit to its irrational and pitiless decrees) than was even the hopeless fatalism consequent upon the pantheistic absorption of the East.

What a step from the vague yet crushing, abstract yet deadening dreaming of a fearful and misinterpreted infinite; from the cruel rigors of an unreasoning and implacable fate—to that full revelation that the Infinite is a personal God, cognizant of the human, gifting it with a free will to choose good or evil, and united with it in mercy and love through the mystic life and still more mystic death of the Divine Redeemer!

In sculpture, the thirst for the infinite is manifest in the various statues of the gods which it has given us; in painting, an art more closely related to Christianity, in the numberless figures of angels and heads of cherubs, in the countless pictures upon holy subjects with which it has presented us. The marble speaks, the canvas glows with human aspirations toward the infinite.

It is certainly a very significant fact, too, that there must be a point of escape in every picture, a window to let in the light, a glimpse of the sky: an idea of distance must in some way be given, or the painting will oppress us like a prison. No amount of beauty in a nearer form will make us content to remain with it, so long as we are shut down to it alone, nor is any form so cold but that we may look upon it with kindness, so that it rise against the infinite light of hope beyond. Gaze into Vernet's pictures: always sunrises or sunsets, calms or tempests, nights of moonlight, misty horizons in which it is quite impossible to distinguish the limiting lines—the infinite is always suggested in them: hence their hold upon the popular imagination.

It is really wonderful in how many ways this feeling appeals to us; it seems to be the background of our whole finite being. Saint Pierre says:

'The reason of the pleasure we experience in the sight of an immense tree, springs from the feeling of the infinite which is excited in us by its pyramidal form. The decrease in the different tiers of its branches; the infinitesimal gradations in its shades of green, always lighter at the extremity of the tree than in the rest of its foliage—give it an elevation apparently without limit. We experience the same sensations in the horizontal lines of landscapes, where we see row after row of hills unrolling one behind the other, until the last appears to melt into the blue of the distant heavens. Nature seems to love to produce the same effect upon extended plains or rolling prairies through the means of the mists and vapors so frequently rising from the bosoms of lakes and rivers. Sometimes these mists hang like curtains along the skirts of isolated forests, sometimes they rise like armed columns, and move in serried ranks along the beds of rivers; sometimes they are gray, gloomy, and motionless, sometimes moving with startling rapidity; their sombre hues changing into glowing rose, or penetrated and permeated with the glittering and golden light of the sun. Under all these shifting aspects they open for us perspective after perspective of the infinite into the infinite itself.'

Indeed nature seems never wearied in her varied suggestions of the infinite. Ruskin says, Is not the pleasure we receive from the effects of calm and luminous distance at the hour of sunset and sunrise among the most memorable and singular of which we are conscious; and is not all that is dazzling in color, perfect in form, gladdening in expression, of evanescent and shallow appealing when compared with the still small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills, or the scarlet arch of dawn over the dark and troublous edged sea? Almost all poets and painters have depicted sunrises and sunsets; every heart responds—there must then be something in them of a peculiar character, which must be one of the primal and most earnest motives of beauty to human sensation. Do they show us finer characters of form than can be developed by the broader daylight? Not so—for their power is almost independent of the forms they assume or display; it matters little whether the bright clouds be simple or manifold, whether the mountain line be subdued or majestic; the fairer forms of earthly things are by them subdued and disguised, the round and muscular growth of the forest trunks is sunk into skeleton lines of quiet shade, the purple clefts of the hillside are labyrinthed in the darkness, the orbed spring and whirling wave of the torrent have given place to a white, ghastly, interrupted gleaming. Have they more perfection or fulness of color? Not so—for their effect is often deeper when their hues are dim than when they are blazoned with crimson and pale gold; and assuredly in the blue of the rainy sky, in the many tints of morning flowers, in the sunlight on summer foliage and field, there are more sources of mere sensuous color-pleasure than in the single streak of the wan and dying light of sunset. It is not then by nobler form, it is not by positiveness of hue, it is not by intensity of light, that this strange distant apace possesses its attractive power. But there is one thing which it has or suggests, which no other object of sight suggests in an equal degree, and that is—infinity. It is of all visible things the least material, the least finite, the farthest withdrawn from the earth prison-house, the most typical of the nature of God, the most suggestive of the glory of His dwelling place. For the sky of the night, though we may know it is boundless, is dark; it is a studded vault, a roof that shuts us in and down; but the transparent distance of sunrise and sunset has no limit; we feel its infinity as we rejoice in its purity of light. That this has been deeply felt by artists, is evident in their works.

'And can the sun so rise, So bright, so rolling back the clouds into Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, With golden pinnacles and snowy mountains, And billows purpler than the ocean's, making In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, So like, we almost deem it permanent, So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently Scattered along the eternal vault; and yet It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, And blends itself into the soul, until Sunset and sunrise form the haunted epoch Of sorrow and of love; which they who mark not Know not the realm where these twin genii (Who chasten and who purify our hearts, So that we would not change their sweet rebukes For all the boisterous joys that ever shook The air with clamor) build the palaces Where their fond votaries repose and breathe Briefly;—but in that brief cool calm inhale Enough of heaven to enable them to bear The rest of common, heavy, human hours, And dream them through in placid sufferance.'

BYRON.

No work of art in which this expression of infinity is possible, can be very elevated without it; and in proportion to its presence it will exalt and render impressive themes in themselves tame and trivial. If we will but think of it, it is very strange in how many unexpected places we shall find it lurking: for example, the painter of portraits is unhappy without his conventional white stroke under the sleeve or beside the armchair; the painter of interiors feels like a caged bird unless he can throw a window open or set a door ajar; the landscapist dare not lose himself in the forest without a gleam of light under its farthest branches, nor ventures out in the rain unless he may somewhere pierce to a better promise in the distance, or cling to some closing gap of variable blue above—escape from the finite—hope—infinity—by whatever conventionalism sought—the desire is the same in all.

Our ideas of beauty are intuitive, and it is only in a dim way that we read the types, the powers for whose immediate cognition we lost in the fall; but it is certain that a curve of any kind is far more agreeable to us than a right line; may not the reason of this fact be: every curve divides itself infinitely by its changes of direction?

What curvature is to lines, gradation is to shade and color; it is their infinity—dividing them into an infinite number of degrees.

Such examples might be indefinitely multiplied, but having placed the key in the hands of the reader, we leave him to unlock the treasure houses of suggestive thought, which he will find profusely lying in his daily paths. This key will not only open for him many of the rarest caskets in which art stores her gems, but will also unclose some of the ineffable wonders of God's mystically tender creation. 'My son, give me thy heart!' is written in God's own hand on everything He hath made.

'To me, the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.'

The absence of that mental vision which unites the visible to the invisible is not only ruinous to the art of the present age, but also to its faith, and, consequently, to its happiness. Thousands, feeling themselves in a narrow world while they unceasingly long for the infinite, rush into rash and wicked suicide, that they may thus escape from the contradictions and complicated pangs of the finite. The rays of light from the everlasting sun of wisdom and love are indeed forever falling round us, but we no longer bear the prism of faith which would decompose them for us, giving them such direction as they fall upon the symbolic, the relative, that we might read in their three-fold splendor the symbolized, the Absolute. The human soul was created for the enjoyment of God, and, consequently, touches the infinite at every point, and the health and well being of the spirit are far more concerned in its exploration than in any of the vaunted discoveries which it is at present making for the comfort of the body in the material world.

As the limits of the horizon are constantly enlarging before the eyes of one who ascends a mountain, so does the moral world, of which the physical is but the symbol, unroll its immense perspectives of light and love before the gaze of the rapt seeker of truth.

'Deep love lieth under These secrets of time; They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime.'

The infinite is the vast background from which all life projects; upon whose unity the immense variety of the world is sketched. As understood or sought by the finite, it is the central fire, the burning heart of art; it is the last line in all our horizons; the last shade in all our colors; the last note in all our concerts; the alpha and omega of all true genius. It aspires in the last sigh of the mortal as he lingeringly leaves its dim manifestations upon earth: it lightens in the first smile of the immortal as its full fruition greets him in the presence of his God!

'I am alpha and omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. To him that thirsteth, I will give of the water of life freely.'



MRS. RABOTHEM'S PARTY.

AN EPISODE FROM FASHIONABLE LIFE.

There dwelleth in sumptuous state and in Gotham A merchant of character surnamed Rabothem. His wife, once a letterless rustic in Needham, Now leadeth the circles of great Upper-Threedom.[12]

There's nothing surprising in such a transition; For many a creature, of humbler position In the scale of creation, can shift its condition. For instance, the wriggling, despised pollywog In time may become a respectable frog; Then, perched on a stump, he may croak his disdain At former companions, who never can gain His present distinguished, sublime elevation, So greatly above their inferior station. And so, too, a worm, though the meanest of things, Becomes a most beautiful creature with wings, That bear it for many a sunshiny hour Through redolent meadows, from flower to flower. And surely if changes like these may occur, Ye men who have reason, how could ye demur At change in superior orders of nature? And least in a species so sure to create your Felicity (if it is not the reverse: In such an event she is rather a curse). No one, that possesses a spark of the human, Would think of opposing the progress of woman; But all would be happy when one of her kind A sphere more refined and exalted should find— Should gracefully 'merge from a chrysalis state, To bask in the light of a loftier fate. But (those hateful digressions, I heartily loathe 'em) I was telling you something of Mrs. Rabothem. She's a mouthpiece of Fashion. Whatever she wears, The closest and carefullest scrutiny bears; And, backed by her husband's munificent pile, Whatever she does is accomplished in style.

A wonderful party was given one season By this excellent dame, for the excellent reason That wonderful parties were greatly in vogue, And a man was accounted as worse than a rogue Whose wife did not follow the prevalent fashion, And make what is commonly known as 'a dash' in The choicest society found in the city. (That the choice is not better is more than a pity.)

The writer, who happened to be a relation To Mrs. Rabothem, though lower in station, Was blest in receiving a kind invitation— A delicate note, with a delicate scent on, Whose accurate, well-chosen sentences went on, In gentlest of terms, to 'solicit the favor,' Et cetera, and so on. She couldn't, to save her, Have been any more condescending; and so I gratefully reached the decision to go. And yet my decision was quite a concession, As I'll have to explain by another digression, In which, at the cost of some time and chirography, I'll give you a taste of an autobiography.

And in its beginning, 'tis proper to state That, somehow, it chanced to be part of my fate To be born far remote from the populous town, And therefore, perhaps, I've a spice of the clown. Be this as it may, I acquired a taste For joys which, though simple, are equally chaste. In rural employments expended, my years Knew not the unnatural pleasures, nor fears, Which fall to the fortune of one who is bred Where men on unwholesome excitements are fed, And horrible vices their poisons distil; Where Peace, from her home on the verdure-crowned hill, The whispering grove, or the tapestried mead, With the bright troop of blessings that follow her lead, Comes seldom to gladden the wearisome hours, And raise to new vigor the languishing powers, But when I arrived at the age of discretion (I find I must hasten my rambling digression), With the popular error my mind was deluded That life is not life from the city excluded; So I followed the bent of my new inclination, With the liveliest hopes of improving my station. 'Twas easy deciding, and easy to do it; 'Tis easy, when thinking it over, to rue it. To Gotham the writer with joy was transported, Where people in lots, either mixed or assorted, Are found in abundance, 'kept always on hand,' Of every conceivable texture and brand; Exposed at the mart and awaiting their sale, Like the cotton that lies in the corpulent bale. A thousand of such may be bought in a trice— Some dearly, and some at a moderate price. I mingled among them; I met them on 'Change, And elsewhere, and surely it isn't so strange If sometimes, contracting to buy or to sell, I should be contracting their habits as well. But, though the temptations about me were rife, I kept from the perils of 'fash'nable life,' So that, at the time when my story begins, I never had placed in the list of my sins (Though often invited, declining each call) The crime of attending a party or ball. For, early in life, I was taught to believe That pleasures are pitfalls prepared to deceive By wily old Satan (who constantly tries To catch you by throwing his dust in your eyes, Thus, blinding his victim, securing his prize); That the dance is a maelstrom, where sinners are whirled Around a few times, and then suddenly hurled From daylight to darkness, from pleasure to woe, From terrestrial regions, to regions—below: But now was afforded a fine opportunity For taking some pleasure with perfect impunity;— Ostensibly pleasing a worthy relation, But really seeking a gratification.

I went, and, arriving at nine of the clock, I found that the guests were beginning to flock. I could but conclude—though 'twas early, they said— That when folks go to parties they should go—to bed.

Ere long the magnificent parlors were thronged By radiant beauties and gents, who belonged To the circles composed of the lofty elite, Whose presumption or pride 'twere not easy to beat. 'Twas a splendid, a gorgeous, a 'glorious' sight To be viewed in that parlor on that winter night. There were beaux, who the finest of broadcloth were dressed in— Invested in vestments they always invest in— And belles, who assisted to fill up the scene With roods upon roods of their huge crinoline. Such flounces! they seemed to my wondering eyes Like Alps upon Alps that in majesty rise. The costliest jewels and handsomest laces Imparted their charms to embellish their graces. And the men seemed to float through the mazes of girls, Like sharks in an ocean of mermaids and pearls.

But soon, as the evening began to advance, A movement was made to engage in a dance; And, being invited to join in a set, With a young demoiselle whom I never had met, I took a position to dance with the rest, And soon I was doing the thing with a zest.

For an hour the divinest sensations were mine; But then my enjoyment commenced to decline. In halting to rest, I but wearied the more, So I finally 'vowed that the dance was a bore. Exhausted at length, I collapsed in a chair, And studied the various characters there. Together they formed a remarkable show; For further particulars vide below.

There was Trickster, a merchant of physical leanness, Distinguished alike for his means and his meanness; And Sharper, a lawyer, with manners as courtly, And practice as large, as his person was portly. There was Aderman Michaels, the head of his faction, Who had learned, it was whispered, the rule of subtraction, And practised it often in 'grinding his axes,' Which helped to account for the rise in the taxes. And there was a man with a rubicund nose, As bright as the bud of an opening rose, Disclosing a liking to 'live and be merry,' With a strong fellow feeling for brandy and sherry. And then there was one with elongated face, Who seemed to have made a mistake in the place. Not a jest, nor a pleasure, was known to beguile His lugubrious countenance into a smile; But he moved through the dance, from beginning to end, Like a man on his way to the grave of a friend.

Again, there was Simpkins, a clerk and a fop, Who sported a very luxuriant crop Of whiskers, cut clearly for 'cutting a dash,' And flanked by a stylishly twisted mustache, Adorning the uppermost part of the gash In his meaningless face, like a regular hedge Of russety foliage skirting the edge Of a cavern, containing a prominent ledge Of rocky projections, above and below (Though the charge was not 'cast in his teeth,' as I know). Arrayed, with intent to astonish the vision, In garments whose 'set' was the pink of precision;— His chain was of workmanship costly and cunning, And the stone on his bosom was really stunning. The taste of which no one could doubt his possession, Had found in his waistcoat a fitting expression; Nor less in his neck tie, 'a neat institution,' And collar, which threatened to do execution. A marvel, indeed—from the soles of his boots To the hair, that was scented and greased to its roots— A something for silly young damsels to scan, And sighingly say—'What a love of a man!' And then there was one sentimental young man, Got up on a rather irregular plan Of features and form, with a wandering air, A collar Byronic, and very long hair. 'Twas whispered about—'He's a genius and poet; And as for myself, I was happy to know it, For a package of genuine mental precocity Is certainly always a great curiosity, And worthy the cost and the toil of a visit— Like Barnum's astonishing creature—'What is it?' (A good advertisement for Phineas, that is, And kind of the author to put it in gratis: I hope he'll observe my benign disposition, And send for the season a card of admission.)

Of course there was that unavoidable myth, Who is everywhere known by the nomen of Smith— For there never was aught in the way of sensation, From a horrible crime to a great celebration, But that somehow, before they had time to get through with it Mr. Smith has had something or other to do with it. Now Smith was a sensible sort of a fellow, With a beard that in color was nearest a yellow, And a visage denoting his faith in the creed That man is a creature intended to feed.

Another one still we must certainly mention— 'Tis Mr. McFudgins, who claims our attention. In mould of plebeian he never was cast (His caste was of gentlemen, wealthy and 'fast'). Not noted for morals, nor even sobriety, He always had moved in the 'highest society.' I had seen him so 'high' as to hiccough and stutter, And once I had noticed him low in the gutter; Yet he was a 'very respectable' man; And into whatever excesses he ran, His riches and impudence safely would carry him, And plenty of ladies were dying to marry him.

The ladies assembled were wondrously fine (Young Sentimentality called them 'divine'). So graceful and pleasing, I could but confess Not one of the galaxy wanted address (For dress was abundant, nor lacking in taste, Though the waist was reduced, there was plenty of waste).

My attention was called to a dashing young widow, Whose husband, when living, knew not what he did owe; For he helped her attempt to keep up with the fashion, Which hurried him on to a terrible crash in His business, which tended to shorten his life And the means that were left to his sorrowing wife. She, taken in charge by a wealthy relation, Still lived in the style that befitted her station; Displaying her charms with astonishing care, In hopes of enticing a man to her snare, Who, struck by her beauty, might hasten to court her, Then marry, and afterward finely support her.

Of many, whose fortunes were said to be ample, Miss Lily De Lusian may serve as a sample: She'd a smatter of French, and a languishing air, While of sense she possessed but a limited share. She played the piano remarkably well, And by all of her friends was considered a belle. And perhaps it was so, for she certainly 'told,' In the set where she moved, on account of her gold.

And then there was old Mr. Spriggins's daughter, Who wondered that no one in marriage had sought her (A trivial bait would have easily caught her); And now she had reached the mysterious age When maidens are far less attractive than sage. By staying so long, she had come to be staid, And appeared to be doomed to be always a maid.

The generous hostess was all in her glory— A fact it is fair to infer a priori— The costly apparel in which she paraded Was the best to be found in the store where she traded (The splendid establishment kept by a peer And the ninth of a man, as is ever so clear, If you only will notice the names on their palace— A fact that is stated with nothing of malice; For a Lord and a Taylor no doubt you will find A match for two men of the average kind).

She moved through the rooms with a beautiful dignity, Conversing with all with the greatest benignity; Convincing her guests of a flow of geniality, As great as the stream of her large hospitality. Her dutiful husband was close at her side; And, though in his house, it could scarce be denied, He wasn't 'at home,' in the splutter and jargon, As much as in driving an excellent bargain. He suited his wife pretty well, for, at times, She found he was useful to furnish 'the dimes.' The most of his value she found in his pocket, And now he was playing the Stick to the Rocket.

But while I was noting the forms and the faces Of those who were present—their faults and their graces— Reposing my arm on a volume of Tupper, I was startled to hear the announcement of 'SUPPER.' Rejoiced at the news of a change in the bill, I sprang from my seat with an excellent will, Presented my arm to a feminine guest, And marched to a neighboring room with the rest.

O Ceres and Bacchus! would I were but able To picture e'en faintly the scene on the table! There was every conceivable thing, beyond question, That could tickle the palate and ruin digestion. Of course there were oysters in various styles, And sandwiches ranged in appropriate piles; And turkey was present in lavish abundance, And of lobster there seemed to be quite a redundance. The cakes on the board were amazingly nice— The largest encased in their saccharine ice, While some, that with nuts or with fruit were embellished, Expectant appeared to be tasted and relished. The light was reflected in many a gleam From mountains of jelly and towers of cream, With castles of Russes (I'd scorn to enlarge) Which, like Yorktown, were taken without any charge. And then there were several baskets of fruit— Of such as were held in the highest repute— With nuts, that in reckless profusion were stacked, And (like most of the jokes) had already been cracked. The liquors were all of the costliest brands (They had all been obtained at 'respectable stands'); And as quickly were bottles deprived of champagne, As ever were clouds of their treasures of rain. Some lauded the Heidsick, while others concurred In the settled opinion that 'Mumm' was the word. The sires and the matrons, the lads and the lasses, Were pledging each other and clicking their glasses; And several gentlemen present were fain Their goblets of stronger potations to drain: On trifles they certainly never could bandy, So great was their liking for excellent brandy. For those who might happen to be in the throng Whose nerves should be weak, or their principles strong, A due preparation was graciously made In the shape of a bowl of the best lemonade. They ate and they drank, and they laughed and they chattered, They simpered, and bantered, and lavishly flattered, Till, finally, weary of such an employment, They left for the scene of their former enjoyment.

And now, I had hoped there would be a variety, For dancing, I thought, had been done to satiety; But, as soon as the party reentered the room, My hopes were consigned to a terrible doom; For I saw, to my horror, a body of dancers, Who were clearly intent on performing 'The Lancers.'

Terpsichore ruled with unlimited sway, While, moment by moment, the night wore away. To me, 'twas an agony sadly prolonged, To stay in that parlor, so heated and thronged, And witness the sickening, senseless parade, Which people, who claimed to be sensible, made. I stood it as long as I could, and as well, And struggled my rising emotions to quell, But hotter my blood momentarily grew, Till objects about me were changing their hue, And, just as my brain was beginning to totter, I rushed from the room for some air and some water. Returning refreshed, my composure resumed, I awaited the end, like a criminal doomed. With one demoiselle I essayed to converse, Whose sense I discovered was not worth a—purse. Disgusted with one so insipidly brainless, I turned from a task that was tedious and gainless, Adapted myself to my strange situation, And buried my mind in profound cogitation.

O Fashion, thou tyrant! adored as a god, By such as obey thy imperious nod— How mortals their 'sweet independence' resign, When all that is precious they bring to thy shrine! Thy altar they grace with the fruit of their lives, Themselves and their fortunes, till nothing survives To prove to the world that they ever were free;— Their souls and their bodies they offer to thee. And thou! how unworthy thou art of their trust! Thou givest them nought but a damnable lust Of silly, deceitful, contemptible show— A lust that is stronger as older they grow. For this they surrender their faith and their truth, The artless, ingenuous goodness of youth, The strength that belongs to maturity's years: Exchanging their peace for the paltriest fears, Lest something, they happen to do or to say, Should not be considered exactly au fait; Or lest their attempts should be wholly surpassed By others who claim to belong to their caste. Thy fiat, O Fashion, their questions decides; Thy wisdom all needed direction provides For spending their time in genteel dissipations, For cutting their garments, and—poorer relations. Controlled by thy will, they select their society; Thou art their instructor in manners and piety. And thus they obey the decrees of a power, To which, in a servile allegiance, they cower— A power that binds them in thraldom, and then Makes puppets of women and puppies of men.

Reflections like these were absorbing my mind, As I sat on the sofa, or partly reclined, While promiscuous edibles recently 'bolted,' In assiduous dancing were carelessly jolted.

The people about me my senses would strike, In spite of the facts, as extremely alike;— In physical aspect dyspeptic or bilious, In manners affected, or quite supercilious, In mind, rather flippant—of false education— In heart, scarcely worthy of recommendation. There was clearly a lack of the highest ability, With a splendid array of the 'purest gentility.' Of course I was not in condition to judge, And some would pronounce an emphatical 'fudge' At such an opinion as mine, and would scout it, Insisting that I 'could know nothing about it.' To which the narrator would humbly submit— He has written what seemed to his mind as a fit And truthful recountment of all that he saw, Without a regard for the general law For stuccoing statements, to give them, forsooth, A pleasanter face than is worn by the truth.

The end came at last. I was glad, I avow;— As glad—well, as glad as the reader is now, When he knows that I'll shortly be making my bow. The company left, and I marched in the van, A wiser, though hardly a happier, man.

Of course there are 'morals' attached to my poem, Though it may be a difficult matter to show 'em. Well, first (let me see, now), the foolishest passion Of mortals is that for obeying the fashion. It has been, and now is, a curse to humanity, A sinful, ridiculous species of vanity, The very quintessence of perfect inanity, And is likely to lead to a 'moral insanity.'

A second we'll have, and I think that will do— (You will probably not recollect more than two): If you have any taste for the honest and hearty, Don't go to a GRAND METROPOLITAN PARTY.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: See account of the 'Prince's Ball,' given in New York, some time during the last century.]



DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;

OR, LIFE IN POLAND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

PREFACE.

The following work is from the pen of Clementina Tauska, probably the most celebrated among the female writers of Poland. Her talents and judgment were so highly appreciated by her native country, that she was appointed to the superintendence of all the Polish schools for young ladies, as also to that of the large establishment at Warsaw devoted to the education of governesses.

The Diary of Frances Krasinska paints in the most lively manner the usages, manners, and customs of Poland during the eighteenth century, and possesses the charm of childlike naivete, united to acute observation and deep feeling. The authoress has seized upon all that is peculiar and picturesque surrounding the heroine, and has laid bare before us a woman's heart in all its strength and weakness, its love and ambition, its joys and sorrows.

Frances Krasinska, the daughter of a noble house, was allied in various ways during her life to many distinguished personages, whose names fill a considerable space in the contemporaneous annals of Poland. Remarkable for her beauty and intellect, she excited a passionate admiration in the bosom of Charles, duke of Courland, prince royal, and son of the king of Poland, Augustus III, elector of Saxony. This attachment, with its consequences, awakened a lively interest, not only among the Poles, but also in the various foreign courts.

The castle of Maleszow, where Frances was born, was situated in the ancient palatinate of Sandomir, now that of Cracow. It is said to have been a very splendid mansion, and may still be remembered by a few aged persons, the actual building being no longer in existence. The journal commences at Maleszow, and continues through the most eventful period of the heroine's life, principally in and near Warsaw.

TRANSLATOR.

[We are happy to be able to offer to the readers of THE CONTINENTAL, an excellent translation of this characteristic work, especially noteworthy at the present time, when Poland is once more engaged in a struggle for independence, and occupies so important a position in the political adjustment of the civilized world.—EDS. CONTINENTAL.]

DIARY

CASTLE OF MALESZOW, Monday, January 1st, 1759.

Last Christmas day, only a week ago, my father commanded a large volume to be brought him, in which he inscribed with his own hand various public and private acts; the book is a medley of speeches, public documents, letters, poetry, bonmots, etc., all arranged in order according to their dates. This custom prevails among nearly all the Polish nobility. My father showed us these records, and even read some of them aloud to us. I can write quite well in both French and Polish, and as I am not at all averse to the use of my pen, I think I might keep a journal; I have been told that many of the women in France do so, and why should I not follow their example?

I have bound together quite a large volume of blank sheets, which I will fill with my thoughts as they arise, with minute accounts of all that concerns me or my family, without omitting public matters. My father, a grave and serious man, regards little else than the latter; but I, a very ignorant young girl, may be permitted to follow the dictates of my fancy, and the capricious guidance of my imagination; at least there shall be neither pretension nor affectation.

To-day brings a new year, and is truly an excellent time for commencing my journal. In this castle there will be no want of leisure. We have already said our morning prayers, and I will finish my spiritual reading during vespers. It has just struck ten, and I am dressed for the day, including the arrangement of my hair. I have consequently two spare hours before dinner. I will note down to-day my reflections upon myself: I will speak of my family, of our house, of the republic, and will in future detail all that may happen to any or all of us.

I was born in 1743, and am consequently sixteen years old; I received at my baptism the name of Frances. I am quite tall; I have often been told that I am handsome, and in truth my mirror reveals the fact that I am by no means ill looking. My mother says, however, that 'one must give thanks to God for such a gift, and beware of pride; for it is His goodness, and not our merit.' My eyes and hair are black, my complexion fair and well colored; but still I am not satisfied: I would like to be much taller. It is true that my figure is slight and well formed, but I have seen women of a loftier stature than myself, and I must envy them a little, as all tell me I have attained my full height.

I belong to a very noble and ancient family, the Corvini Krasinski. God grant that I may never sully so glorious a name by any unworthy action; my desire is to render it still more illustrious, and I am sometimes sorry that I am not a man, for I should then have been capable of performing great and brilliant deeds.

My father and mother are so fully persuaded of the excellence of their origin, that our neighbors, as well as ourselves, all know the genealogy of our ancestors by heart. I confess, to my shame, that I am much more conversant with it than with the succession of our kings.

But what will be the final fate of my journal? Will it live or die? Why should it not survive through many ages, as so many letters and memoirs written in France have done? Oh, I must pay great attention to my studies! What a pity I have not the talent of Madame de Sevigne, or of Madame de Motteville! Perhaps I could write my journal better in French ... But no—that would be unworthy of a Polish girl; a native of Poland, I must write in my national tongue. It is true that French is generally used among all our nobility, but then that is a fashion, which, like all other fashions, may soon pass away, and I should not like to leave such a blot upon my memory.

If these pages should escape the rats and the rage for curl papers, and fall into the hands of any one willing to read them through, I hope the reader will pardon my ignorance, and kindly remember that I write without method, and am totally uninstructed in all the rules prescribed for the keeping of a journal. I am but just sixteen, and the great little matters now occupying so much of my attention, may in the future seem futile and unworthy of having excited so much interest. What will a sensible, sober-minded reader think of all the strange fancies passing through my brain, and the wild dreams of my imagination? But let us now return to the genealogy of my family.

[Here follows the chronological enumeration of the Krasinski family, which we omit, as its interest is purely local, and can hence be neither amusing nor instructive to readers not of Polish origin. The Diary thus continues:]

Stanislaus Krasinski, starost of Nowemiasto, of Prasnysz, and of Uyscie, is my father; and Angelica Humiecka, daughter of the celebrated palatine of Podolia, my mother: but this branch of the Krasinskis will be extinct at their death, for to my great sorrow I have no brother. We are four, and all girls, Barbara, myself, Sophia, and Mary. The members of our little court often tell me I am the prettiest, but that I do not believe. We have received the education befitting our position as young and noble ladies, in short, as starostines.

We are all well grown, and have been taught to hold ourselves as straight as reeds; we are in excellent health, fair, fresh, and rosy. We have a governess, who is charged with the care of us; we call her madame; and when she has laced us, our waists might be spanned, as the saying is, between one's four fingers.

Madame has taught us to courtesy easily and gracefully, and to behave ourselves properly in the saloon; we seat ourselves on the edge of our chairs, with our eyes fixed upon the ground, and our arms modestly crossed.

Every one believes that we are quite ignorant, and cannot count beyond three; they fancy, too, that we do not know how to walk, and are always as quiet as mummies. What would they say could they see us running and jumping in the fine summer mornings? Ah! then we make up for all this tedious restraint; we are so joyful when our parents permit us to walk in the woods: then we leave our frizzed hair, stays, and our high-heeled shoes all behind us, and run about in our morning dresses like crazy girls; we climb the mountains, and poor madame, who thinks it her duty to follow us, soon loses her breath, halts with weary limbs, and can neither run after us, nor call us back.

My two younger sisters and myself have never been far from our own castle. Our longest journeys have been a visit to our aunt, the palatiness Malachowska, who lives at Konskie, and to the village of Piotrkowice, which belongs to us.

When my father returned from Italy, he founded a pretty chapel in that village in imitation of the church of Our Lady of Loretto. He has also founded another chapel at Lissow, our parish, depending upon Maleszow. My knowledge of the world is hence very limited. But my elder sister has been more favored; she has journeyed to the ends of the earth; she has been twice to Opole, visiting an aunt, the princess Lubomirska, palatiness of Lublin; my father is most tenderly attached to his sister, and respects her as if she were his mother.

Barbara passed a year in Warsaw at the seminary of the ladies of the Holy Sacrament, and she is consequently much more learned than we. She can courtesy to perfection, and holds herself so straight that it is a real pleasure to see her; her carriage is admirable. I know that my parents intend placing me at some seminary, and I expect every day to see the carriage which is to bear me to Warsaw or Cracow drive up to the door. I shall be sorry to leave the castle, I am so happy here; but my sister Barbara found her sojourn in the convent very pleasant, and so doubtless would I. Meanwhile I must perfect myself in French. It is indispensable for a lady of quality, and I must also complete my knowledge of the minuet and of music. I should at least see a great city, and have something to remember.

As I have never had an opportunity of judging by comparison, it is impossible for me to decide whether our castle of Maleszow be really handsome or not; I know that it pleases me very much, but many persons say it has a melancholy air. It is certainly large and commodious, being four stories high, and having four towers. A ditch filled with running water surrounds it, which ditch is crossed by a drawbridge. The neighboring country is mountainous and well wooded.

My parents complain that their dwelling is not large enough, but then our household is so very numerous. I said that our castle had four floors, and each floor is thus divided: first a hall, then six rooms, and four cabinets in the four towers. We do not all live upon the same floor; on the first we dine, on the second we play and amuse ourselves with the other young ladies belonging to our household, and on the third, we have our own apartments. My parents, being no longer young, find it irksome to go up and down stairs, but to me it is delightful, especially before I have my stays on. I mount the balustrades, begin to slide, and in a moment reach the bottom, without having touched a single step.

We always have a great many visitors, and I believe that if the castle of Maleszow were three times its present size, it would still be crowded; even now it is so gay, animated, and lively, that our neighbors call it the little Paris. During the winter our guests are still more numerous; our cavalry captain does not then think it worth the trouble to lift the drawbridge: the new arrivals pour in from morning until night—visitors are continually coming and going. The orchestra belonging to our castle chapel plays unceasingly, and we dance as much as we can; it is a real pleasure to see us.

In summer we have other pastimes; we take long walks, and play various games in the vestibule of the castle, which is very lofty, reaching to the roof of the house, and lighted from above. It is delightfully cool during the warmest days.

I do not believe there are many mansions in Poland surpassing ours in magnificence. Our little court is composed of courtiers (dworzanin) and of the household suite (platny); in other words, of many persons having various employments in the castle: the first (the courtiers) are the most esteemed, because they serve for the honor alone, while the others (the suite) receive salaries; but as they are all gentlemen, they all wear a sabre at their sides. Some few, however, are of very low extraction, but my father says that 'a noble on his own territory (and remember that this territory sometimes consists of but a very few square feet) is the equal of a palatine.'

No one objects to this, however, as the suites of the great lords are thus nobly augmented, and they can control so many additional votes in the dietines; a circumstance of no little importance. The chief duty of the courtiers consists in awaiting their lord's appearance in his public apartments, where, suitably attired, they stand ready to serve him and execute any orders he may choose to give them; but if the lord have no command for them, they are expected to maintain the conversation as wittily and agreeably as they can, or to play cards. They must also accompany him in his walks, rides, drives, and visits, defend him on all difficult occasions, always give him their votes at the dietines, and finally, entertain him and all who belong to him whenever an opportunity may offer.

Our little Matthias performs this last duty to perfection; he is indeed a singular person! I have been told that all courts had formerly an attendant of this description, and that they could not do without one. Matthias is supposed to be stupid and devoid of reason, but he judges of everything with an accuracy and precision that is truly wonderful; his bonmots are inimitable. None of the courtiers have so many privileges as he has, for he alone may speak the truth without adornment or softening. The courtiers call him the fool, but we call him our little Matthias; he certainly does not deserve the nickname he has received.

We have, besides, six young ladies of noble families, who live in the castle, and are under madame's charge. Then there are two dwarfs; one is at least forty years old, and is about the size of a child of four: he is dressed in the Turkish fashion. The other is eighteen, and has a charming figure: he wears the costume of a Cossack. My father often permits him to mount upon the dining table during dinner, and he walks among the plates and dishes as if he were in a garden.

I think I mentioned that the courtiers had no salaries; nearly all of them belong to rich, or at least to independent families. They acquire fine manners at our court, and their training serves as a passport to all civil and military employments. They receive food for their horses, and two florins a week for their grooms. They have also a servant to wait upon them; this domestic is usually dressed in the Hungarian or Cossack costume. Nothing amuses me more than to watch their faces while they stand behind their masters' chairs; their eyes are fixed upon the plates during the whole of the dinner hour; surely not an unnatural proceeding, as their sole nourishment consists in what is left upon their masters' plates. Our little Matthias is never tired of ridiculing them, and makes us nearly die with laughter.

The major part of our household, however, receive salaries, and do not sit at the table with us, except the chaplain, the physician, and the secretary. The steward and butler are on their feet all the time we are dining; they walk about and watch if the table be properly served; they pour out the wine for the master of the castle and for the visitors. The courtiers are served with wine only on Sundays and festival days. The purveyor, the treasurer, the master of the horse, and the arm offerer (renkodajny), whose business it is to offer his arm to the master or mistress of the castle every time either one desires to go out, all dine at the steward's table. The courtiers who dine at our table certainly enjoy much honor, but little profit; they are served from the same dishes as we, but do not eat the same things. The cook arranges the roast meat in the form of a pyramid; at the top he places the game and the poultry, while below are the pork and the beef, the coarse food of the courtiers, to whom the dishes are not carried until after we have been served, and thus the end of the table where they sit is called the gray end.

When the dishes are first served, they are so enormous that one would think there must be a large portion for every one; but they disappear so rapidly that some poor courtiers have scarcely enough to give a flavor to their bread. There are some who eat in the most incredible fashion, and who devour all before the others have had a chance to help themselves. On ordinary occasions, our dinner consists of four dishes; but on Sundays and holidays, when we have visitors, from seven to twelve dishes are placed upon the table. The young ladies, our companions, dine with us.

The salaried courtiers are very well paid; they receive from three to four hundred florins every year; but then my father requires that they shall be well dressed, especially when there is a reception at the castle. He rewards them largely when he is pleased with their services. If one among them distinguishes himself by his zeal or his strict attention to his duties, my father recompenses him on his name day, either in money or in stuffs taken from his own wardrobe.

The salaried dependents are subject to the jurisdiction of the steward, who has the right of reprimanding and punishing them. The chamberlains are also under his command; they are gentlemen, and serve during three years. Their term of service begins between the ages of fifteen and twenty. When they have been guilty of any fault, the steward awards them so many lashes with a leathern strap. A carpet is first stretched over the floor, for the bare ground is only suitable for servants who are not noble, and the culprit is then chastised. The steward is very severe, and says that were he more lenient, it would be impossible to maintain discipline or pursue a proper and efficient method of education; severity being necessary to restrain youth within the bounds of reason. My father has told us that there is not a single room in the castle at Maleszow in which he has not received correction. This is doubtless the cause of his being so very good now....

We have a dozen chamberlains in our service; one of them, Michael Chronowski, will have finished his novitiate on Twelfth day, and the occasion will be celebrated by certain ceremonies. It is the chamberlains' duty to be always suitably dressed; they can enter our apartments; they accompany us on foot or on horseback when we ride out, and are always ready to carry our letters of invitation or our presents, whenever we have any to send.

As for the other servants in the castle, I cannot even enumerate them; I do not know the number of musicians, cooks, guards, Cossacks, and waiting men and women. I can only say that five tables are spread every day, and that two distributors (szafarz) are occupied from morning until night in giving out all that is necessary for the kitchen. My mother is often present at the distribution of the eatables; she carries with her the keys of the closets in which are the spices, cordials, and sweetmeats. Every morning the steward presents the bill of fare to my parents, who approve or change it as they find it well or ill.

Our every-day life is regulated as follows: We rise in summer at six o'clock, and in winter at seven. My three sisters and myself sleep in the third story, in a large room with madame. Each of us has an iron bed with curtains. Barbara, as the eldest, has two pillows and an eiderdown coverlet; the rest of us have only one pillow and a woollen counterpane. After having made a hurried toilet, we say our prayers in French, and then begin our lessons. Our tutor formerly taught us to read, write, and count in Polish, and the chaplain taught us our catechism; but Barbara and I are now entirely under madame's direction; our two younger sisters, however, still receive lessons from the tutor.

At eight we visit our parents, to wish them good morning, and take our breakfast. In winter we eat soup made with beer, and in summer we drink milk; on fast days we have a very good panada. After breakfast we all go and hear mass in the chapel. Our chapel is very pretty. When the service is ended, the chaplain says the morning prayers aloud in Latin; the whole court repeat them; but to tell the truth, I have as yet neglected to ask the meaning of them, and some day I must do it.

We then return to our apartment and recommence our studies. Madame makes us write, under her dictation, lines from Malherbe, the French poet.

We have a pianoforte, and a German, who directs our orchestra, gives us lessons; he receives three hundred florins every year. Barbara plays quite well. After the music lesson, the hair dresser comes to arrange our hair; he always begins with the eldest. When he has unfortunately heard of some new fashion, we rarely escape without shedding some blood. My hair is longer and thicker than that of my sisters, and when I sit on the stool it sweeps the floor; the barber consequently tries all his experiments upon my head. The present fashion pleases me exceedingly: it is a kind of very elegant neglige, one portion of the hair is gathered upon the top of the head and falls down in rich curls; the rest is in plaits, which hang about the neck and over the shoulders. The barber uses a half pound of powder every time he dresses my hair.

We employ two hours in making our toilette; but in order that the time may not be entirely lost, we learn French proverbs by rote, or madame reads aloud a new work, which is very moral and quite amusing: 'The Child's Magazine,' by Madame de Beaumont. I cannot express how charming I find these tales, narrated by a governess to her pupils. At noon the Angelus is rung, and we go down to dinner, which usually lasts about two hours; then, the weather permitting, we take a walk. When we return, we employ ourselves with our needle, and are now engaged on a piece of embroidery for the church at Piotrowice. When the daylight fails us, wax tapers are lighted, and our work is pursued without intermission. We sup at seven in all seasons, and after supper we have leisure to do as we please. We converse or play cards. Our little Matthias makes such comical faces when he fails in getting the card he wishes! He certainly has the gift of always making me laugh.

The chamberlain is sent to Warsaw once every week, and brings the letters and papers; the chaplain reads them aloud to us, and to certain news I pay the most particular attention. My father often reads to us out of the old chronicles, but I must confess I am much more entertained by the books written in French. Madame, who does not know a word of Polish, always reads to us in French, and we thus become accustomed to the sound of the language. My father only reads to us one evening in the week. When the carnival comes, farewell to all reading; all then think of nothing but of playing, dancing, and amusement. The festivals in Warsaw must be much more splendid than those at our castle. Oh! how I long to see the magnificent array of a great court!...

But I hear the midday bell, and must say my Angelus, smooth my hair, and go down to dinner. I will write to-morrow all that I had no time to say to-day.

Tuesday, January 2d.

I was too much occupied yesterday with merely private affairs, and now I must dilate a little upon public matters. I should be unworthy of the Polish name, if the interests of our dear country did not occupy my thoughts in preference to all other subjects. I hear much conversation upon politics, and I am very attentive to all that is said; since I have commenced to write my journal, I find my desire to follow closely the course of events much increased.

Augustus III, elector of Saxony, reigns at the present time over Poland and Lithuania. He was crowned by the archbishop of Cracow on the seventeenth of this month, twenty-five years ago. The party opposed to his election wished to raise Stanislaus Leszczynski to the throne, but Augustus was so powerfully supported that he triumphed over his competitor. The virtuous Leszczynski, possessing neither money nor soldiers, was forced to return to his good people in Lorraine, who are very happy under his beneficent rule. It is said that the queen, who had so strongly encouraged the king in the struggles through which he won his throne, was truly worthy of being queen of the Poles, for she really loved them. Mary Josephine always hated intrigue; she was mild, charitable, and pious; she was indulgent toward her husband and children, but most severely stern toward herself in all matters of morals. She was in truth a model of all feminine virtues. She died in Dresden, about two years ago. She had had fourteen children, eleven of whom are still living, seven daughters, and four sons. I remember well the sorrow which her death caused the Poles. Funeral services were celebrated for her in every church in the kingdom. In our church at Piotrowice there was a mass at which all the poor assisted, and they wept bitter tears while praying for their queen.

It is said that the king is of an easy temper, and leaves all to his minister Bruhl, the minister really ruling both Poland and Saxony. The last-mentioned country is at the present moment exposed to great miseries. Prussia, which is in fact but a new-born state, makes the whole of Europe tremble. A great man rules her fate. The elector of Brandenburg raised himself to the throne in 1701 by the power of his own will. Our republic has not yet recognized his new title as king, and now the elector's successor is able to confer crowns upon the heads of other states. He resists Austria, Saxony, Muscovy, and by means of forces raised within his little kingdom, daily extends his possessions. All say that his political capacity and knowledge of the military art are extraordinary; besides which, he is quite learned, a philosopher, and a great character. Many think that Poland should be ruled by a man of the stamp of Frederic the Great, but as we are not his subjects, and as his present position is contrary to our interests, strong fears are entertained that he may in the future become the cause of our ruin. God grant that Prussia, which is really but a fraction of Poland, do not one day swallow her up!...

The men occupied in public affairs scarcely venture to speak above their breath when they bewail the critical position of their beloved country. One circumstance especially seems to deprive us of all hope for the future, and that is, the apparent gradual extinction of those lofty virtues of the olden time which formerly contributed so much to the glory and prosperity of our country. Selfish interests seem now to have destroyed them nearly all; the wants of the common mother are entirely forgotten, no one thinks now except of his own personal benefit—the general cause is nothing. The diets assemble and disperse without having accomplished anything. The voice of Konarski and of his honorable friends is heard in vain; they preach in a desert; the vile passions of the wicked weigh heavily in the balance of our destinies. However, all means of safety are not yet lost: the throne of Poland is elective; the reigning monarch is aged; if his successor should be endowed with a great character, if his virtues accord with the elevation of his station, he may yet save the republic and restore it to its ancient preponderance among nations. Our frontiers are still unbroken, and I place all my hope in the mercy of God.

All good men and true patriots desire a king capable of commanding the Poles. Several candidates have already been proposed, but the two who seem to have the fairest prospects of success are Stanislaus Poniatowski, son of the castellan of Cracow, and Charles, prince royal, son of the reigning king. Poniatowski's father was the favorite of Charles XII, and was much beloved by the princess Czartoryska. I cannot tell though why my heart leans so strongly toward prince Charles. Poniatowski is a Pole, but the other is said to possess many noble qualities. I will here add all that I have heard and thought upon the subject of these two candidates.

Stanislaus Poniatowski is young and very handsome, affable, and fascinating; he has travelled much, his manners have all the elegance of the French, and he is generally pleasing to women. He loves science and learned men; he was more than four years in St. Petersburg in the capacity of secretary to the embassy. Some time has elapsed since his recall, and he is in high favor at court; hence the probability of his future elevation.

Charles, the prince royal, is twenty-six years of age; he is the king's third son, and is beloved by all who approach him. His figure is said to be noble, and his face most pleasing in expression; his manners are mild, and he is very accessible; he wins all hearts to love him. He has lived in Poland since his infancy, and hence loves the people, and speaks their language wonderfully well. Educated at the court of our republic, he is neither proud nor humble, but maintains a happy medium with every one. The king, recognizing all these qualities in his son, sent him to many foreign courts, beginning with that of St. Petersburg. Relying upon the aid of Muscovy, he desired that his son should make his first essay in arms under that power; besides which, he had other ends in view. He hoped that Charles would be made duke of Courland, a duchy tributary to Poland. In 1737 the czarina Anna appointed the count de Biren governor of Courland, but some years later he fell into disgrace, and was sent to Siberia with his family. The dukedom was consequently vacant during several years.

Our king, who had the right so to do, conferred the dignity upon his son, but the sanction of the court of St. Petersburg was required, and no one could have been more likely to obtain what he desired than the prince royal himself, for the fascination of his manners had become proverbial. He accordingly went to St. Petersburg, remaining on his way some time at Mittau, the capital of Courland, where he succeeded in winning the esteem and affection of the inhabitants of the duchy. The czarina soon after confirmed the nomination of the prince royal. Her consent was formally announced to the king of Poland during the past year, at the time of the session of the diet. But according to the fatal custom which so often rends our councils, that assemblage was dissolved by a nuncio from Wolhynia named Podhorski, and the affair in which Courland was so deeply interested was not discussed.

It then became necessary to refer it to the senate, where it occasioned many fierce debates. The prince Czartoryski especially endeavored to embroil the question by maintaining that the king had no right to dispose of the duchy without the consent of the diet; that Biren could not be degraded from the dignity conferred upon him without having been properly tried, judged, and condemned; and finally, that the nomination of the prince royal could only be provisional, or valid during the lifetime of the czarina. These foolish clamors were rendered powerless by an imposing majority; one hundred and twenty-eight white balls, against five black ones, decided in favor of Prince Charles. The diploma has already been presented to him by the grand chancellor of the crown, and the ceremony of investiture takes place to-day. The rejoicings in Warsaw must be truly magnificent, and I am quite sure that all are delighted.

It is said that the king has grown ten years younger since the happy termination of this affair. I cannot judge of the importance of these events to the general welfare of the republic, but I am enchanted with the good fortune of Prince Charles. I ask myself continually why this matter interests me so deeply. The destiny of my country may soon depend upon the prince, and I believe him called to avert the storm which seems ready to burst upon Poland. I believe that he will give us better laws and a good government. The dukedom of Courland will serve him as a stepping stone to the throne. I am truly grieved from the bottom of my heart that I cannot now be in Warsaw, where I should see such brilliant fetes, a splendid court, and Prince Charles. ... But since that is impossible, I must content myself with drinking his health to-day at our table.