draw back; but when I saw that this formidable || lying, of love, and of anger; and may they not phalanx remained at its post, and appeared to be more disposed to defend itself than to attack us, I rode round it, in order to view its order of battle, which faced the enemy from every side. I then sought, as I had done with regard to the ant-hills, what could be the design of this monstrous assemblage; and I concluded that this species of serpents dreaded, like the ants, some colossean enemy, which might be the great ser pent, or the cayman, and that they reunite themselves after having seen this enemy, in order to attack or resist him in mass. also have those requisite to combine their chaces, to distribute the posts of attack and defence, the different labours for their common constructions, as well as for supplying their common habitations with necessaries? Can we conceive that beavers cut down great trees, drag them to the river, form and plant piles, beat mortar, build their lodge without speaking to, and understanding each other? Wherever there are different parts, and a common or general direction, there is police and government. We are not yet acquainted with the legislative power of bees and wasps, although we are so with their executive power; and who knows but what their humming and buzzing, monotonous to our gross organs, have not the variety of accent necessary for the promulgation and the execution of their laws? As to those species which are, or appear to be dumb, like ants, it was enough for me to have seen their vast capital to be convinced that their population (which must be twice as considerable as that of Pekin) understands itself, and is governed "On this occasion, I shall hazard an opinion which I found on several other observations; it is, that the animals in the new world are more advanced than the men in developing their instinct, and in the social combinations of which they are susceptible; the silence and the solitude of the woods, leaving the greatest liberty to all their motions, the individuals of the same species easily meet; and those species which are the best organized feel, without doubt, that impulsion of a common interest which announces and pro-infinitely better than the empire of China.. vokes to the same end, the concurrence of all their means; but after having acknowledged in animals different degrees of intelligence, such as memory, deliberation, will, we are reduced to mere conjecture as to their means of communication. It is certain, that those which possess the organs of voice, have their cries of alarm, of ral "It is difficult that the spectacle of so many wonders should not inspire us with a religious sentiment for their Divine Author, who has willed that, in the midst of all animated beings, there should be one superior to all the others, and marked with a celestial seal, that of conscience." ON THE IMAGINATION. +"Some of these serpents are from thirty to forty feet in length, and four or five in circumference. I brought the stuffed skin of one of the species back to France, and gave it to the Museum-it was twenty-one feet long, and thirteen inches in diameter. "The cayman is of the oviparous species of crocodiles, the egg from which it proceeds is no larger than that of a goose, the animal grows to the same enormous length as the above mentioned serpents." that the faculty places us above animals, and ap proximates us to the Deity; but I am almost tempted to ascribe these attributes to imagination. Instinct, more sure than reason, guides beasts after an infallible manner, and preserves them from error; and reason, which inspires us with so much pride, very often makes us commit gross faults. Less reason and more instinct might perhaps be to our advantage. Upon what foundation would our ostentation rest, if, as some persons pretend, reason is no more than instinct perfected; and if, in the state of nature, man had only the instinct of animals? Thus, the barrier between us and animals, which they can never surmount, is the imagination; that brilliant faculty which at will disposes of events, of times, of places, of space, and which by a kind of creative power forms other * According to Sir George Staunton, Pekin contained, in 1793, three millions of iulla bitants. worlds, peoples them, and causes us to consider all objects as it were through a prism which embellishes them. When imagination creates, it is called genius. Genius evidently consists in strength of imagination and extent of mind. There are those who pretend that a man born blind must necessarily be without imagination; however, the remembrance which he retains of the other sensations which he receives, being the more lively, the pleasures of imagination are perhaps not entirely lost to him; and if he wanders not in ideal landscapes, he may transport himself into the land of harmony, and of perfumes, and enjoy his fancies. He who loses his sigh, but not the remembrance of the places he has seen, and the persons he has known, can still rove in delightful countries, in cool groves, along shady valiies: but his dream is too soon dissipated; it terminates in the sad certainty that he no longer possesses what constitutes the charm of life-that his eyes never more will behold a woman, a wife, beloved children, a friend, the sun rising, and all the grand spectacle of nature, with which we are never satiated! It has been remarked, that from the manner in which we receive perceptions, depends likewise that of our recalling them to mind This observation is founded on experience: nevertheless, at the long run, the disagreeable impression effaces itself; and as it is connected with others of a pleasant nature, it augments their value and loses its bitterness. commence. Many persons have such an active and powerful imagination, that it poisons reality, and their enjoyment ceases at the moment it ought to That of Rousseau is an example: || it transported him so far into the land of fancy, that all the objects, which might otherwise have contented him, were afterwards of no value.His rich and fertile imagination, anticipating the|| future, painted the morrow, or the day selected by him to enjoy some particular pleasure, and painted it to his fancy in so seducing a manner, that when the day came it had no charm. He himself asserted, that the land of chimeras was the best. This great writer was fortunate in possessing a faculty which alleviated his misfortunes, and plunged him in pleasing reveries. Much good, as well as much evil, may be said about imagination. It effectively assumes the different forms which it borrows from the dif feren qualities of the soul. It is prejudicial to a suspicious and susceptible mind, which it terrifies with innumerable phantoms, at the same time nourishing and increasing its morosity. To such a mind it is a fatal gift. Certain passions, different circumstances, a wrong bias of the mind, give a peculiar turn to the imagination. Pascal, Nicole, Rousseau, are sad examples. The first fancied he was always on the edge of a precipice; the second, perpetually dreading the fall of a tile, generally remained shut up in his room, and when obliged to go out, instead of walking, ran, to avoid the imaginary danger; and the third, more unfortunate than the other two, discovered in every face the mask of an enemy, and the expression of hatred. The deranged fancy of the two first appears puerile: the unjust persecutions which the last suffered, ought to justify him, and raise our pity. A man of a brilliant and active imagination passes many happy hours. His time flies swiftly; he complains only of its rapidity. From an apart ment in an obscure house, in a dirty street in the midst of the city, he hears alternately the singing of birds, the murmurs of the brook, the noise of the torrent, the whistling of the winds, the claps of thunder, the song of the shepherd, the bleating of the flocks; he beholds the enamel of the fields, flowery groves, verdant hills and fruitful dales; he follows the windings of the valley, the prolongation of the shadows, and the degra dation of objects when the sun is on his decline. A man never writes better on the spectacle of nature, than when he is deprived of it: the delightful impressions he received crowd on his imagination, which combines them and renders them still more delightful.* What pleasure does not imagination give to the man who lives in the midst of his beloved family? Other men are in his eyes divested of all their imperfections; they are all loving and sensible, good and virtuous; their language and their intentions are in harmony, their actions accord with their words, and the earth is an Eden, inhabited by brothers, who seek every opportunity of being reciprocally serviceable. The mother traces out a track for her daughter of duties to fulfil, of virtues to practise, and of good to be done. The father marks each day with some honourable act; and they all reap a rich harvest from their benevolent actions. Let us penetrate into that obscure dungeon wherein a good man, the victim of injustice, languishes. He has no other companion than his imagination. As his character is mild and peaceable, his soul is not soured by misfortune. From the serenity of his looks, and the smile which appears on his lips, I perceive his mind has bounded far beyond the limits of his loathsome prison-he is free and walks without fet * It is said, that Thompson wrote his Summer in bed, at noon day, in the month of July, in London. ters or chains: he talks to his iniquitous judges, | he makes the voice of truth heard, he confounds his accusers, and returns triumphantly to his home to wipe away the tears of tenderness and friendship. A loud noise resounds through these vaults, the bolts are drawn back, the door creaks on its rusty hinges; the illusion is dissipated! A harsh and brutal jailer brings the daily loaf; the unhappy prisoner takes it and sighs. Silence returns; he anew gives way to the delusions of imagination, which calm his sorrows and lend wings to time. To that consolatory power he owes his courage, his hopes, and that kind of ideal happiness which makes some amends for the sad reality. As I was returning home iast night after dark,|| I slackened my pace, and at last stopped, to listen to delicious music, it was the tune which I shall always love, of which the words express that we cannot be in a better situation than in the bosom of our family. I immediately think of my own, my imagination in a moment over leaps the fifty miles which part us; I fancy my relations have assembled a band of musicians to celebrate my arrival. I remain immovable; I hear without listening, without seeing any thing, or rather without looking. I am afraid by taking another step, of removing from the concert. V. with his violin, C. causing the strings of his harp to vibrate under his fingers, and B. who suspends all respiration with the ravishing tones of her voice, would not have epchanted me more. I behold at my side my mother tenderly affected; my good old father likewise moved. The concert ends abruptly. A little Savoyard ragamuffin who appeared to rise out of the earth, cried with a shrill voice: "The magic lantern!" And that medley of instruments was an organized hurdygurdy. Thus our imagination becomes as it were, the magical comfort of our lives; unhappy those in whom it is paralysed; I pity them, I do not envy their frigid and gloomy reason; their enjoyments bear no comparison with mine. TRUE HISTORY OF A RUSSIAN YOUNG LADY. "The canker galls the infants of the spring, "Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd; "And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, 66 Contagious blastments are most imminent." Hamlet, act i. s. 3. MARY FEDEROUNA, was the only daughter of a Russian nobleman, of high tank and great fortune. Just at the time when the charms of youth were beginning to show themselves in her person, she had the misfortune to lose an excellent mother. Her father immediately retired with her to one of his distant estates, situated in the midst of the deserts of Russia. Thus she was suddenly obliged to quit the pleasures of the capital; the amiable societies which her mother had formed; and what was most regretted, that of the young Count Markof, who had offered her his respectful homage, and whom she had thought not unworthy of her affections. It was even said that the young nobleman was the chief cause of the Baron's abrupt resolution to retire into the country. The Count, as much distinguished by his knowledge, his talents, and his amiability, as by his birth, had risen rapidly at court, and was possessed of such places, and such credit, as the Baron, notwithstanding his age and long services had never been able to obtain, although he fancied they were his due. Jealousy is implacable, above all when it believes justice to be on its side. So that his daughter || was not only forced to abandon all hopes of uniting herself to the man whom she thought most worthy of her, but even the consolation of talking about him, or pronouncing his name, was forbidden in her new and sorrow ful dwelling. The Baron loved his daughter, but it was after his own way, and he never had an idea that the love of a young woman, ought to cause the least alteration in his arrangements or his prejudices. Mary lived in continual anguish; obliged to hear every day expressions of aversion and contempt for Markof and his family, she passed her solitary moments in making him amends for such injuries, by cherishing the most tender thoughts, and by the tears with which she moistened her silent couch. The freshness of her complexion faded; instead of her former sprightliness and the amiable carelessness of youth, a melancholy smile was sometimes seen. In vain she united to a beautiful person, and natural wit, the treasures of an excellent education, and even the noble sentiments with which she had been inspired by her virtuous mother. She had no communica tion with any persons except her father, the servants, and a few peasants, who in those countries are coarse and vile slaves. In the mean time the love of Markof, far from being enfeebled by the remoteness of its object, acquired by its very means a new force. He quitted Moscow; and although Mary at their last interview had given him to understand, with tears in her eyes, that they ought to resolve on an eternal separation; he came incognito in the environs of the Baron's castle, and having bribed one of the servants, he informed his beloved of his secret arrival. At the first moment Mary was exceedingly concerned. She forgot that her father and her governess were in the castle; she wrapt herself up in her cloak, and notwithstanding the intense cold of the season she went out, and directed her steps towards the place where she expected to meet her friend. All at once the idea of her father struck her, and froze all her members, she fell senseless on the road. She was found and brought home without any one's guessing the reason of her fainting; but next morning she wrote to Markof by the person he had himself employed. The certainty that they should never see the accomplishment of their vows, the order she was going to send him to cease all pursuit, inflamed her imagination. The heart guided the pen, the expression of her love appeared to burn on the paper; but, little able to write with any order, in that letter, which was hardly legible, and wherein she recounted her impotent efforts to meet him, she added in a scrawl which could scarce be decyphered, her commands that he should leave the place without delay; she told him that the whole province was subject to her father, and the hatred he manifested for him was more outrageous since he resided in the country; and, lastly, that it would endanger his life as well as that of his love, if he remained any longer. She concluded with saying, in a postscript on the other side of the page, that a secret foresight warned her that the moment of their interview would be very soon followed by cruel misfortunes. As soon as she had sent away her letter, she repented having written it. She reproached herself with having destroyed all Markof's hopes. She had never longed so much to see him, as just after she had forbidden his coming. Her agitation was extreme; whilst moving about her apartment, she loudly exclaimed, "Can he love me, and obey? Will he go without making at least some sign to me; without waving his handkerchief?" Then she approached the window, and casting her eyes round the country which the last rays of the sun continued to enlighten, she sighed, and retiring precipitately: "Imprudent! what dare I desire? what dare I wait for? My ruin and his-Ah! may he not come!" At that instant she hears a timid voice from without, calling her by name. She listens, runs to the window, opens it, and in the dress of a peasant she discovers Markof. He had read Mary's letter with transport, he had covered it with ardent kisses; but in his delirium he had entirely neglected to observe the postscript, in which he was informed of the dangers of the least attempt. He had placed himself under the windows of the chamber inhabited by his mistress. "My dear Federouna!" said he, in a supplicating voice; "my dearest Mary!" and by the aid of some branches of trees, nailed against the wall he clambered up to the window and entered the room. The young Baroness was so terrified that she could neither speak nor act. He assured her he would depart directly, that he only wished to fold her once in his arms and to touch her mouth with his lips. He supported her, and placed her on a chair. In this vast castle, the apartment of Mary was very distant from that of the Baron. That of the governess was nearer, but the melancholy of Mary had long kept that governess at a distance, and she was accustomed to the solitude in which Mary chose to remain for hours. Nothing was attended to; the moments flew, till at last the Baron surprised to find that his daughter did not as usual come to wish him a good night, came to know the reason. The two lovers heard him; they trembled. Mary, in terror, opened an empty chest which happened to be in a corner of the room; al hough rather strait, Markof jumped in, laid close, and Mary shut it. The Baron entering his daughter's room, sat down, enquired tenderly after her health, her melancholy state, and having for some time conversed with her, he retired without any suspicion. As soon as he was gone, Mary ran to the fatal trunk, she opened it-She thought Markof slept. He was indeed asleep, but never to wake! He was smothered. He might, without doubt, as soon as he found the danger of his situation, have made some motion which would have delivered him; but the dread of exposing to the Baron's resentment a woman whom he loved more than life, had resigned him to death. We can form no adequate idea of the terrible condition of Mary at such a sight. She at first thought the Count affected to sleep; she even reproached him for so doing; after which lifting him up with some effort, the body fell again. She uttered piercing cries. Alas, had it pleased God the Baron had heard those cries! Mary's situation was dreadful, and the idea of her father's anger, even of the excesses which his fury might make him commit on the body of his enemy, filled her soul with terror. In those delirious moments, she pressed her dead lover's head to her bosom; in calmer instants, she tried all the means she could think of to restore him to life. The whole night was passed in this manner; the break of day added to her anguish; she thought on the scenes which that day would enlighten. In Russia every considerable house keeps a man, whose business is to watch all night. He is commonly one of the meanest slaves; in the day-time he is employed in the vilest offices, and his lodging is little better than a dog-kennel. Mary, in her distress, applied to this wretch. He enters her chamber, prostrates himself, and begs her protection. She raises him, promises it, and likewise promises him a sum of money, if he will do her a piece of service, and faithfully keep the secret. She then discovers her misery, and intreats him to take the body of her lover and bury it in the wood. The man sullenly listened to her; he immediately perceived the importance of the service which was required, and from that moment affected the insolence of a clown who finds himself necessary. Mary gave him some money, which he received with indifference, and gave her to understand that the Baron would give him more to betray her. This rascal, who a few minutes before dared not lift his eyes to the daughter of his master, and who was accustomed to look on them both as divinities on whom his fate, his life depended, who thought himself happy to sleep it. the corner of a stable, and to escape the chastisement which the meanest servant might daily inflict on him for his negligence; this monster dared to wish to possess the person of Mary. He explained himself sufficiently, and begin to behave himself with impudent audacity. The young Baroness, although overwhelmed with grief, found strength to repel him, and with becoming dignity ordered him to get out. But the villain knew his own advantages too well to obey; he was in possession of her secret and threatened to go to the Baron. Mary cast herself at his feet; promised him his freedom, offered her fortune; all her efforts were in vain; he still persisted in his execrable design. Then Mary pretended she would consent to his desires; she conjured him only to do what she required, and swore she would wait for him in her chamber. The slave did as she wished. Nobody was yet stirring in the castle. As soon as she saw him beyond the walls, she went and knocked at the door of her governess, commanding her to go to the Baron, and to intreat him to come that instant to his daughter, whose life was concerned. She then returned to her apartment and fastened herself in. Her father arrives, finds the door shut, speaks to his daughter, and asks her the reason of this proceeding. She raises her faint voice as much as she is able after what she has suffered, and without opening the door, she tells her father the whole story; she reproaches him with having contemned her love, and the irresistible passion she had felt; then, in a more affectionate tone, she swears he has forgiven him all, but that she could no longer live after such horrors. The terrified father calls his servants, they break open the door; but it was too late; she had stabbed herself, and was no longer living. The Baron was then sensible how dearly his inveterate cruelty cost him, and the vile slave received the just punishment of his villany; he was on the same day empaled alive. "THE ROYAL ECLIPSE; OR, DELICATE FACTS." BY DIOGENES. THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY READING THE ABOVE PUBLICATION. WHEN a publication of any description is sent into the world, it is the privilege of each individual to examine its contents, and state his opinion of the degree of merit or demerit that ought to be attached to it; and in proportion as he avails himself of this privilege with a view to promote the true interests of society, the task he performs becomes interesting, useful, and acceptable. In a community celebrated for refined taste, for polished manners, for the endearing felicities of domestic intercourse, and for all the engaging accomplishments and fascinating elegancies of social life, any attempt, consistent with truth and propriety, that can be made to rescue characters of acknowledged eminence from the destructive effects of calumny and detraction, must be highly gratifying to every person who possesses a mind influenced by those solid principles of genuine No. XXIII. Vol. III. virtue, which alone give honour to rationality, and dignity to humanity. The leading feature which is observable in every publication, is always the most illustrative of its true character and real tendency and design. When therefore we find ourselves disposed to compare a few publications of a peculiar description, and of a recent date, with each other, we cannot but observe something so much like a systematic design to destroy, in the estimation of the people, that due respect for those who move in the very first circles of life, that we cannot reflect on the tendency of those publications without experiencing sensations of terror arising from a consideration of the consequences to which such diabolical libert es, if countenanced and encouraged, must eventually lead. It is our interest to respect virtue above all things; and it A a |