pression, a certain air of mysticism, more consonant | the future in abusing the present; we refer to Sigto the conceits of pagan philosophy than consistent nora Cuzzoni, a lady who, despite a stumpy figure, with the humility of genuine piety. Then, after some instances of what he blames, he says Be not angry with me, Coleridge. I wish not to cavil; 1 know I cannot instruct you; I only wish to remind you of that humility which best becometh the Christian character. God, in the New Testament, our best guide, is represented to us in the kind, condescending, amiable, familiar light of a parent; and, in my poor mind, 'tis best for us so to consider him as our heavenly Father, and our best friend, without indulging too bold conceptions of his character. About a month later, he says— Few but laugh at me for reading my testament. They talk a language I understand not; I conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to them. a repulsive obliquity of vision, and a coarse and style of dress, and silly and fantastical mannerscomplexionless face-to say nothing of a tasteless held all England in thraldom exactly one century since by the powerful truth of her acting, and by the melting pathos and inexpressible beauty of her singing. With such talents she might have become a millionaire, but she neglected opportunity. One evening, in the year 1749, she was visited by two gentlemen, who felt pity at the miserable condition into which the once enchanter and favorite of the public was plunged, and who desired to relieve it. They found her dull, dirty, morose, and almost speechless. She made excuse for herself at length by stating that she was hungry. She had eaten nothing during the previous day, and now, at six o'clock in the evening of the second day, she confessed that she had not a penny in the world. The friends offered her such hospitality as it was usual to offer they proposed that she should go with We see by this last quotation where it was that them to a tavern, where they would treat her with Lamb originally sought for consolation. We per- the best roast fowls and port wine that London could sonally can vouch that, at a maturer period, when produce. "No!" screamed the squalid and famhe was approaching his fiftieth year, no change ished artist; "I will have neither my dinner nor had affected his opinions upon that point; and, on my place of eating it prescribed to me; I need the other hand, that no changes had occurred in never want a repast did I choose to submit to such conditions." The friends apologized, put a guinea his needs for consolation, we see, alas! in the rec-into her hand, and urged her to procure food at ords of his life. Whither, indeed, could he fly for comfort, if not to his Bible? And to whom was the Bible an indispensable resource, if not to Lamb? We do not undertake to say, that in his knowledge of Christianity he was everywhere profound or consistent, but he was always earnest in his aspirations after its spiritualities, and had an apprehen-guinea a bottle, so bid him give you a loaf into the sive sense of its power. once. She muttered her thanks, and dismissed her visitors. They had no sooner departed, than she summoned a "friendly wretch who inhabited the same theatre of misery," and, putting the guinea into his hand, bade him run with the money to a neighboring wine-merchant. "He is the only one," said Cuzzoni, "who keeps good tokay by him; it is a bargain; he'll not refuse."-Church of England Quarterly Review. EXCELLENCIES OF KNOWLEDGE.-There are in knowledge these two excellencies: first, that it offers to every man, the most selfish and the most exalted, his peculiar inducement to good. It says to the former, "Serve mankind, and you serve yourself;" to the latter, "In choosing the best means to secure your own happiness, you will have the sublime inducement of promoting the happiness of mankind." The second excellence of knowledge gun to love virtue from little motives, loses the is, that even the selfish man, when he has once bemotive as he increases the love, and at last worships the Deity, where before he only coveted gold upon its altar.-Bulwer. Charles Lamb is gone; his life was a continued struggle in the service of love the purest, and within a sphere visited by little of contemporary applause. Even his intellectual displays won but a narrow sympathy at any time, and in his earlier period were saluted with positive derision and contumely on the few occasions when they were not oppressed by entire neglect. But slowly all things right themselves. All merit, which is founded in truth, and is strong enough, reaches by sweet exhalations in the end a higher sensory-reaches higher organs of discernment, lodged in a selecter audience. But the original obtuseness or vulgarity of feeling that thwarted Lamb's just estimation in life, will continue to thwart its popular diffusion. There INABILITY OF IGNORANCE.-How many men, rich are even some that continue to regard him with the old hostility. And we, therefore, standing by the because they are poor in knowledge! Tell such a in physical energy, stand with folded and idle hands side of Lamb's grave, seemed to hear, on one side man what he should do, and he is ready and willing (but in abated tones) strains of the ancient malice to act. He stands still because he cannot see his "This man, that thought himself to be somebody, way. He is uncertain because he cannot make out is dead-is buried-is forgotten!" and, on the other which of two plans he should choose. He is negside, seemed to hear ascending, as with the solem-ligent, only because he is ignorant of what he ought nity of an anthem-"This man, that thought himself to be nobody, is dead-is buried; his life has been searched; and his memory is hallowed forever!" AN ACTRESS OF THE LAST CENTURY.-Hogarth has immortalized the ugliest, most extraordinary, and most unprincipled of artists who ever neglected CCXLIII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XX. 5 to do, or of how it may best be done. Or if, in his fails to reach his aim, because he is deficient in the physical impatience, such a man rushes forward, he materials for successful action. How often do we see the energy of one man ill or wrongly directed because he knows too little of what he engages in, while, under the guidance of knowledge, every step, impelled by the energy of another, is observed to be a sure stride in advance!-Professor Johnston. From Sharpe's Magazine. ON Tuesday, the 23d of May, 1763, died, at his lodgings in Ironmonger Row, Old street, St. Luke's, the eccentric individual who had for many years been known in England by the assumed name of George Psalmanazar. His real name and nation have never transpired. The secret he kept so religiously in his life-time was buried with him. A sense of shame, according to his own confession, had sealed his lips upon the subject he deserved, he said, no other name than that of the impostor. Psalmanazar is now only remembered as the author of a strange fabrication, called "A Description of the Island of Formosa,' ," of which place he professed to be a native. Without having even travelled out of Europe, he invented an account of an Asiatic island, and preserved sufficient consistency in his narrative to obtain for it, for a time, almost universal credence. Long after the imposture was discovered and confessed, the book was quoted as genuine, and it is admitted to carry with it an air of fact and reality, which does credit, at any rate, to the ingenuity of the author. costing none but clergymen and persons of condi But little interest, perhaps, now attaches to a fabrication once so famous. There was, however, (if we may use the word,) a completeness about the imposture which renders it remarkable. Psalmanazar's great difficulty was to support the character he had assumed. There was nothing of the Asiatic in his appearance; he was surrounded by sceptical inquirers, and frequently puzzled with questions and objections; but his hardihood and ingenuity enabled him to maintain his ground, and baffle his most pertinacious opponents. In the narrative of his life, which, in a spirit of peni-language in a peculiar character, which he wrote tence, he drew up in after years, he has given an with ease, from right to left, after the manner of interesting account of the strange adventures of the orientals; a new division of the year into his youth, from which we will extract a few par- twenty months; and an original system of myticulars. thology. In order to gain still greater credit for He was born, he says, in "the southern part his story, he would eat nothing but raw meat and of Europe"-most probably, it has been suggest-vegetables, and he soon became fully reconciled to ed, "beneath the bright sky of Languedoc." His this disgusting diet. At the request of Bishop mother was a good and pious woman, whom he Compton, he translated the Church Catechism inseems to have truly loved. At the age of six he to the Formosan language, which was examined was sent to a free-school taught by two Francis- by many learned individuals, and pronounced can monks, where his remarkable quickness made" regular and grammatical." Having been so him a favorite with his masters, and laid the foun- far successful, and curiosity having now attracted dation for his future ruin. He was afterwards re- to him a numerous circle of friends, he commoved to a Jesuit college, the course of study in menced writing in Latin his famous Description which he minutely describes. Upon leaving col- of Formosa, which was translated for him as it lege, he was engaged as a tutor in what he calls went through the press. The composition of this a middling family." His pupil was an over-work occupied him two months, and he was at grown youth, and taller by a head and shoulders the time scarcely twenty years of age. Although than himself." Here he gave way to idle habits: much of it was pure invention, he derived a great instead of graver studies, he and his pupil occu- part of his materials from a genuine account of pied themselves in learning the flute and violin; the island written by Candidus, a Dutch minister, and, as a natural consequence of his thoughtless- and from Varenius' Description of Japan. ness and indolence, he became dissatisfied and un- order to avoid any variance from the statements settled. At length he resolved to return home, he had made from time to time in conversation, and commence a new course of life. Having no he was compelled to insert many improbabilities money, he begged his way, in fluent Latin, ac-in his narrative that he would gladly have omitted In A or altered. "Thus," he says, "having once in- | regularities, and to have displayed, as might be advertently in conversation made the yearly num- expected, a total want of principle. From the ber of male infants sacrificed in Formosa to amount 20th to the 32d year of his age he describes as to 18,000, I could never be persuaded to lessen it, a sad blank." though I had often been made sensible of the impossibility of so small an island losing so many males every year, without becoming at length quite depopulated." The immolation of children he makes a characteristic feature in the religion of the islanders, and he gives rather a strange account of his own es We now approach the second period of Psalmanazar's life. The first, it must be confessed, was sufficiently infamous; but in the latter part of his life he endeavored by sincere and bitter penitence to atone for his youthful errors and disreputable impostures. Dr. Johnson, who at this period knew him well, often stated that he was the best man he had ever known. "I have heard John been considerable. In his Life of Johnson-that Psalmanazar's powers of conversation must have rich storehouse of literary gossip-Boswell has preserved this little dialogue My father had three sons by his first wife, of son," said Mrs. Piozzi, "frequently say, that which I was the youngest: my eldest brother was George Psalmanazar's piety, penitence, and virfree from being sacrificed, as the law directs; the tue, exceeded almost what we read as wonderful second was but one year and a half old when his in the lives of the saints;" and when the great heart was broiled, and before the turn came to me lexicographer was asked, whether he ever contraI was near eight years of age. my father was ex-dicted Psalmanazar, "I should as soon," he said, tremely concerned for me, especially because my have thought of contradicting a bishop." brother was almost eat up with a cancer. My father then, considering the short life of my brother, and that he should have no heir or successor if I was sacrificed, he went to the high priest, and used all the arguments he could invent to induce him to spare me. The high priest replied, he was sorry it happened so, but the laws of He (Johnson) praised Mr. Duncombe of Canter"He used to come to God were to be preferred to the good of a family, bury as a pleasing man. and even of the whole country. *** At last, my me; I did not seek much after him. Indeed, I Boswell: father, seeing nothing would do but money, offered never sought much after anybody." him a large sum to accept of my brother. This "Lord Orrery, I suppose?" Johnson: "No sir; argument prevailed: so my father sent the I never went to him, but when he sent for me.' money Boswell: "Richardson ?" Johnson: "Yes, sir; and my brother. but I sought after George Psalmanazar the most. Many persons naturally wondered that a strip- I used to go and sit with him at an alehouse in the ling of twenty could give such an account of him-city." self. According to his own story, he could not During the latter portion of his life, Psalmanahave been much more than sixteen when he left the island, and it was not thought likely that a He wrote several articles for the Universal Hiszar supported himself entirely by literary pursuits. youth of that age could have made the minute and shrewd observations recorded in the volume, tory, and, amongst other compilations, a genuine account of the island of Formosa, to serve as a Dr. Halley, again, puzzled him by inquiring about the duration of the twilight in Formosa, and how There can be no question about the sincerity of counterpart to the description he had forged. long every year the sun shone down the chimneys. his repentance; he would speak of himself, on all As a further example of some of the improbabili-occasions, as a despised, dishonored, and degraded ties and monstrosities contained in the work, we quote the commencement of one chapter, which is and respect of society; and he commences his being, who had forfeited all claim to the regard entitled "Of our manner of eating," narrative by avowing "his steady resolution pubAll who can live without working eat their break-licly to disclaim all the lies and forgeries he had fasts about seven of the clock in the morning; first formerly published in that monstrous romance, (the they smoke a pipe of tobacco, then they drink Bo- Description of Formosa,) and at any rate or risk hea, green, or sage tea; afterwards they cut off the to take the shame to himself, and make a free head of a viper, and suck the blood out of the body confession of the whole imposture." this in my opinion is the most wholesome breakfast a man can make, &c. " &c. : The first edition of this remarkable romance was soon exhausted, and another called for. In spite of its improbabilities, the book was devoutly believed in. Psalmanazar was sent to Oxford, and maintained there by the Bishop of London. He seems at college to have indulged in many ir In a former chapter we are expressly told that neither clocks nor watches are known in Formosa, and that their mode of measuring time is altogether different from the European method. Psalmanazar's Will is a singular document, and bears out all we have said respecting his penitence and humility. It is entitled "The last Will and Testament of me a poor sinful and worthless creature, commonly known by the assumed name of George Psalmanazar." One clause is worded as follows: "And it is my earnest request, that my body be not inclosed in any kind of coffin, but only decently laid in what is called a shell, of the lowest value, and without lid or other covering which may hinder the natural earth from covering it all around." CHAPTER XI.-MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. consequences as so many injuries to herself; she was at least as pitiable as faulty, and the misery which she made for herself, if it had been accepted as discipline, would have seemed sufficient to cure every fault under heaven. No kind word was ever spoken in her presence without causing her to feel a secret and bitter pain that it had not been addressed to herself, yet she passed over with a hurried half-consciousness and an immediate forgetfulness the scanty portion of good-will that was really testified towards her by anybody, and took a strange pleasure in denying herself such comfort as she might fairly have received. She had baffled even aunt Ellenor, whom it was a hard thing refused the privilege of loving. She could not be fond of Agnes; she was not suffered to be intimate with her, she was repulsed at every turn; so she had taken refuge in the habit, very unpleasant to her warm nature, of scarcely ever speaking to her niece, though the deprecating gentleness of her manner when she did address her, showed how fearful she was of giving pain, how anxious to give pleasure, yet how utterly ignorant of the means by which the one might be avoided and the other achieved. Poor Agnes! there is no saying what this chill and stunted plant might have become in a kindlier atmosphere. Now there seemed little hope, for the food which nourishes health only embitters disease. Yet the very perfection of her disagreeableness was in some sense a hopeful sign; it was such a genuine article, so unmitigated, undisguised, and unconquerable. There she was, a most bitter morsel, neither gilded nor sweetened; you could make no mistake about her, you must needs receive her as a trial, and if any IDA speedily found herself the centre of a circle whose admiration was so unequivocally expressed, that even her simplicity could not be blind to it. She took it all for affection, and thought she could never be grateful enough for the kindness of her relations. Aunt Ellenor won her heart at a glance, and so did the gentle and cheerful Frederickthere was instant sympathy among them, and the separation of fourteen years was annihilated at once. Uncle Alexander treated her with that mixture of gallantry and patronage which elderly gentlemen frequently exhibit towards young ladies, which is particularly pleasing to some, and par-not to love, and to whom it was still harder to be ticularly embarrassing to others. Cousin Alexander took advantage of his cousinly privilege to be open and familiar in his devotion, and, if the truth must be told, to worry her to death. Had Ida been trained according to common young lady training, it is probable that this might not have been the case. She might have indulged in a harmless flirtation with her cousin, and found him perfectly endurable; but this she could not do. His armory of petits soins oppressed her, for each of them was a claim upon her gratitude, and she did not know how to pay the debt; his compliments put her out of countenance, his wit was too satirical to please her, his sentiment utterly confused and repelled her. She was accustomed never to speak about her feelings except where she gave and received full sympathy; here she had no sympathy at all, and yet she was not allowed the privilege of silence. She did not at all comprehend that artificial upper current with which society busies itself without ever exploring the real depths; she had no shallow half-thoughts, no pol-good whatsoever eventually came out of her, it was ished shells of sentiment in her heart, all was a surprise to you, and you were thankful for it. genuine and profound; she was like a person try- And Godfrey He was as impenetrable as ing to converse in a foreign language, of which he Agnes, though in a very different manner. does not know the grammar, and cannot catch the was so capricious that Ida's opinion of him varied accent; but she was young and light-hearted, and every day, and she was left equally in doubt as to so when she felt puzzled, her ordinary resource his opinion of her. At their first introduction, and was to laugh, which did not please her cousin in during the whole birthday evening, he was polite the least. He would have been still less pleased and gentlemanly, but cold; he seemed not to desire could he have heard the tone in which she was to remember or renew their childish intimacy; he apt to say to Mrs. Chester, "Poor Alexander! he behaved to her as any gentleman might have beis so kind!" so expressive was it, that I may ven-haved to any young lady whom he met for the ture to say, that it would have pretty effectually checked his kindness for some time to come. But he could not believe that he was really repulsive to her, and so he persevered, sometimes finding her very piquante, oftener in his heart thinking it "slow work." Agnes was quite impenetrable; she was one of those unfortunate persons who, born destitute of attractions either external or mental, seem to consider it a kind of revenge upon nature to make life as disagreeable as they can, both to themselves and to all who approach them. No charm of manner atoned in her for repulsiveness of face, no glow and generosity of affection made ample amends for all other deficiencies; for, ever brooding over her own defects, she yet resented their 2 He first time in society, except that Ida's singular beauty and gracefulness would assuredly have commanded more admiring attention from an ordinary acquaintance; yet he varied, and she could not but observe and be puzzled by these variations. She did not think he was happy; his habitual expression was certainly one of gloom and preöccupation, he was silent and inanimate, yet when speaking to his brother, to whom his attention was most devoted, his eye kindled, his voice softened, his whole aspect was for the moment transformed. He took no part in the general conversation, and was the only person who did not thank Ida when she rose from the piano; yet from time to time she was aware that he was observing her with an expression that could not be mistaken for disap proval, and though his manner repelled her, she felt excessively anxious that he should like her as well as his mother and brother did, and not quite in despair about it. He was not handsome but distinguished looking, with eyes and forehead full of intellect. Whether he was agreeable or not it was impossible to discover, because, as has been already said, he scarcely spoke at all, and never on any subject of interest. The change from the boisterous mischief, impetuous glee, superabundant life of his childhood, was so complete that it was impossible for Ida not to be curious as to the They are for Frederick," said he; "it is his favorite flower, and there is no specimen in the greenhouse; I have brought them from Claxton." This was a country-town about ten miles from Evelyn Manor. "What a walk!" exclaimed Ida, "and how pleased Frederick will be! Oh! Godfrey, may I have one flower? I want it for the bouquet I am painting for aunt Melissa's screen; it would finish the group so beautifully.' His hand was immediately on the plant, and, though he winced a little at the name of aunt Melissa, between whom and himself there was a perpetual quiet feud of a somewhat aggravated description, he severed one of the finest blossoms, and presented it to her. "Introduce me to Mrs. Chester," whispered he. Ida complied, and the three were speedily engaged in easy conversation. Whether the exercise had particularly agreed with Godfrey, or whether, in general, he was under the influence of some spell which did not begin to act till the day was a certain number of hours old, we will not pretend to say, but he seemed to have thrown aside his melancholy, and was so vivacious that Ida scarcely recognized him. Her doubts of his cousinly disposition to like her vanished in a minute, and her old predilection revived with double force. They talked of all things beneath the stars, and a few beyond them; for the most part sportively, but with an occasional touch of deeper thought, indicating many a vein to be explored in future. Oh, those delicious first conversations! when you see dimly a hundred halfclosed doors, and calculate beforehand on the pleasure of watching their gradual opening. Pity, that the chambers within so often disappoint you when you enter! Some two or three days after her eighteenth birth-day, Ida had gone out, as was her custom, accompanied only by Madeline, for a morning ramble in the grounds, long before aunt Melissa and most of her guests had forsaken their pillows. Her early rising was the result of habit and training, not the voluntary adoption of her own taste or resolution, and, therefore, there was nothing self-gratulatory about it, which, let the reader be assured, is a rare merit in early rising. In many cases it is a charter for contradictiousness during the whole of the following day, and may be said to effect more towards pampering the vanity of those who practise it, and destroying the domestic comfort of those who do not, than any other apparently harmless custom in this civilized country of England. Just think of the officious vigor, the insulting triumph, the outrageous animation of the man who has dressed by candlelight in the month of December. Only imagine his cheerfulness. Is it not enough to set your teeth on edge when you remember what he has gone through? He ought to be in the state of a mild convalescent who has just weathered a sharp attack of ague, and there he is snapping his fingers and laughing in defiance of nature and probability! Very likely, too, he has done it from no sufficient motive -in fact, from no motive at all, except that he inay read his newspaper or write his letters some three hours before ten, instead of some three hours after that rational breakfast-hour. Yet he is insanely pleased with himself for this; he They parted at the house-door, the best friends shakes hands with himself mentally, and thinks possible, and as Ida took off her bonnet, she menhe has done a great thing, in thus actively wasting tally ran over the various topics which they had the time which might have been devoted to whole-been discussing, and thought how she would ask some and profitable sleep. He takes quite a bird's eye view of the student, whose midnight lamp has guided him through some labyrinth of thought, the clue whereof shall hereafter be presented to the world, and condescendingly pities the aching brow which seeks a few hours late repose after many of labor and tension. Two hours at night are no merit at all-two in the morning are the height of virtue, and quite virtue enough to last you for the whole day, my friend, says Conscience; you have done your self-denial, and may fearlessly indulge yourself for the future. But we are forgetting Ida and her early walk; she and Madeline had just left the chapel, where they were in the habit of repairing for their devotions, and were proceeding towards the open part this question, and suggest that remark, and how there was a passage she must look for which was exactly applicable to one part, and how she would ask Godfrey to write down for her the pretty verse which he had quoted from some old Spanish ballad. She went down to the breakfast-room, ready, with her characteristic eagerness, to resume at once where they had left off; and there sat Godfrey with his ordinary sombre look, and spoke neither to her nor to any one else during the whole meal, except to take care that Freder ick had all he wanted! She had not courage to address him, and she almost began to feel as though their past conversation must have arisen out of some forwardness on her part; she was ashamed of having ventured to feel so intimate |