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you know-and then to see how the creature walks, one can tell that he fancies all the world admire him." It was to no purpose changing my walk; if I walked upright, it was pride-if negligently, it was affectation. I cut my chin unfortunately with a razor, and then -the criticisms that were showered on the unfortunate bit of court plaister, it was necessary to strip off the plaister twenty times a day to satisfy every aunt and cousin and female friend, that it was a real wound, and not intended as a beauty spot. Not a coat could I wear, but it was said to have employed half a dozen men in making, and as many more in altering-a report was spread abroad that a tailor was one whole night and day locked up in my room, and myself with him, altering a coat in which I was to appear at a ball that evening. Then the observations" It really was ridiculous for a good-looking young man to be so puppyish; it would be excusable in an ugly Any thing to please. I changed my plan and appeared a sloven,-hat unbrushed, clothes awkwardly arranged, neckcloth vilely tied-worse and worse The battery changed its fire, but was as murderous as ever-" cleanliness and attention to dress are the bounden duty of all young persons, no personal graces can excuse inattention to these essentials,"—that was my old aunt. "Well now really, Harry, this is too bad, we, you know, have admired your face long enough, and are not so afraid of its powerful influence as to desire you to disguise yourself in that horrid dress-it is really shocking," -that was my young cousin. "Have you seen that piece of vanity, Mr -9 lately? He imagines because he has the handsomest face of any person we know, he is entitled to be the most vilely dressed -the brute!"-that was every body.


I grew up to man's estate, the plot against me thickened; the world seemed one great critic, who had nothing to do but to write articles upon beauty and vanity, and garde-a-vous young maidens. Mothers now began to gather together their daughters behind the folds of their gigot sleeves, whenever I made my appearance. The society of the young, I was debarred from, and none but the old and ugly were left me. Then the scandalous reports that were circulated about my habits. One said, he or she (I forget which), had heard that I slept with my whiskers in curl papers, another that I was three hours and twenty-five minutes tying my cravat, and that I spoiled several dozen during the operation; another that I had been heard to say that I would make love to any ten women in one day, and make them promise to marry me the next; "he must be immoral, he is so handsome, and then the women do spoil those mer creatures so, when they are at all good-looking; for my part, I detest men:" that was Miss Juliana Scraggneck; and she certainly ought to have had good reason for her detestation, for no one ever looked

at me more than herself. The worst of all this was, that the pretty creatures themselves believed all that was told them-"this was the unkindest cut of all." I could have borne all the criticisms and espionage of the antiquated Hecates, and gloried in the idea of revenging myself, by making a conquest of some blooming young creature but this was denied me; I was the object of universal fear. Elder sisters would tell their younger sisters to "keep close," to them, when I entered a room, and would acquire a reputation for courage by venturing to answer my questions. I was peeped at over fans, and viewed through door chinks. I was treated, in fact, as a monster. I verily believe, to have been seen alone with me, would have ruined a girl's reputation; however, they gave me but little chance.

I grew melancholy, misanthropic; I likened myself to the wandering jew, to the last man-life is a burthen to them, beauty to me. I lost my spirits and forsook society,-more libels. "Ah, I knew it would come to this; I said he would repent of his sins at last; well, let him be miserable, it may be some consolation to the many whose hearts he has broken." This was said of me-of me, who never would have dreamed that women had any hearts at all, or if they had, I might have supposed them made of adamant, so little were they ever softened by words or deeds of mine. Have they any hearts? the tigresses. But it was plain that whatever plan I might choose to adopt, I should be subject to the like attacks. It was the fable of the miller and his donkey; nothing would please: but, alas! the likeness reaches no farther, the miller sold his donkey, my beauty could not be sold.

My friend George Singleton married. Now, thought I, there is a retreat for me, in his domestic circle, there I may be happy; my friend will make one woman reasonable; she will admit me, perhaps even she will induce others of her sex to take pity on me. Vain hopes, foolish anticipations! The very first visit I paid them, George looked uneasy, shifted his chair, made signs to his wife (I saw it all, miserable wretch that I am, suffering has made my senses acute), till at last his wife quitted the presence, under the plea of a violent head-ache (I never saw a woman look better in my life), while he was so confoundedly civil, that I made my retreat, as soon as possible. I saw it all, but it was too good a chance to be given up. I called again the dose was repeated, and the eternal head-ache again sent her off. I reproached him with want of confidence, and he replied with the most provoking candour, "why, my dear fellow, I really am as proud of your acquaintance as ever, but you see I am married, and you are aware that you-you-" he began to stammer, but I cut him short, what was the good of listening to what I knew beforehand; he was afraid to trust me with his wife.

One trial more. I softened down all my obnoxious beauties, combed my hair straight, clipped my mustachios, muffled the face as much as possible, corrected every thing that I thought was prominent in my manners, exercised myself in all awkward attitudes; in short, defaced and vulgarized myself as much as possible, to make myself as much like ordinary humanity as lay in my power, and then tried if society would look upon me in my altered shape. The trial partially succeeded, and I was permitted to pay my addresses to a beautiful girl. But here my pen fails me never shall I have the courage to describe-how I was obliged to hold my handkerchief before my face when her confounded relations were about (she herself was not so particular)—how I was obliged to vary my position, so as to show myself in the worst light in their presence; how it was at last discovered in spite of my attempts at concealment; how my beauty clung to me inspite of all the abominably libellous insinuations from all quarters, that a handsome man admires nothing but himself; how the difficulties were at last got over-ring bought, house furnished, when every thing was overturned by myself. I unfortunately was discovered by my beauty gazing in a looking-glass; and here I solemnly declare, that I was not admiring myself, but merely endeavouring to discover the cause of a violent titillation at the extremity of my nose. I was perceived, I say, by her, and there the affair end"She never would marry a man who looked at a looking-glass while she was in the room; her friends had told her it would come to that."


Think of that!-So now it is all over with me. I see that I am a marked man, and nothing that I can do will ever alter the current of my fate. I have had serious thoughts lately of disfiguring my face with a razor, or some such device, to bring myself.down to the standard of ordinary perfection which these despots have established; bút after all it might be of little avail; fate is against me. I have calmed myself down to something like content, and am waiting for the period when time will have whitened my hair, pulled out my teeth, bent my body, and made me fit to be seen.


HER giant-form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm, would go

'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow;

But gently now the small waves glide,

Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.

So stately her bearing, so proud her array,

The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast:

Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine

Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flash

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,

To the coral rocks are hurrying down

To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleepers' long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;

And his wife, by turns she wept and smiled,

As she looked on the father of her child

Returned to her at last,

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;

The ship hath melted quite away,

Like a struggling dream at break of day.

No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky.

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull

Bedims the waves so beautiful!

While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

"The Isle of Palms."



THERE WAS once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who kept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and beheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous-looking priest.

"Hark ye, honest friend!" said the stranger; "I have observed that you are a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job this very night?"

"With all my heart, Senor Padre, on conditions that I am paid accordingly."

"That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded."

To this the mason made no objection; so, being hoodwinked, he was led by the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages, until they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was conducted through an echoing corridor, and a spacious hall, to an interior part of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in a patio, or court, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In the centre was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the priest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without finishing the job. Just before day-break, the priest put a piece of gold into his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to his dwelling.

"Are you willing," said he, " to return and complete your work?" "Gladly, Senor Padre, provided I am so well paid.". "Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again." He did so, and the vault was completed. "Now," said the priest, " you must help me to bring forth the bodies that are to be buried in this vault."

The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the priest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion, expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved on perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They were evidently full of money, and it was with

From "The Alhambra. By Geoffery Crayon." [Washington Irving.] London 1832.

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