CHAPTER I.
THE CORONATION.
Easter-even, in the year of our Lord 1099, was held as a high festival in the fine city of Barcelona: it was the coronation-day of the young Count Raymond Berenger the Third, whose twelvemonth’s mourning for his lamented father and sovereign was to close with his own solemn inauguration. The count had accordingly, by his letters patent, convoked to his good city of Barcelona the bishops, barons, knights, and also the ambassadors from foreign courts, to witness him take his knighthood, and receive from the altar, and place upon his head, the garland of golden roses which formed the coronet of the Counts of Arragon.
At the appointed day, not only the prelates, barons, and chivalry of Spain repaired to the festival, but a great many foreign lords and princes: the Judge and the Archbishop of Albera, from Sardinia; the King of Arragon, from Saragossa; the King of Castile, from Madrid. The Moorish sovereigns of Tlemecen and Granada, not being able to come in person, had sent rich presents to the count, with congratulatory epistles by the hands of their ambassadors. Indeed, so great was the concourse to Barcelona on this day, that thirty thousand stirrups belonging to gentlemen of condition were counted in the city and its environs.
This concourse was too great for the count to receive at his own palace of Aljaferia, which stood a short distance from Barcelona: he was therefore compelled to limit the number of his guests to kings, prelates, princes, ambassadors, and their suites; and there were present in Barcelona at that time four thousand persons who claimed his hospitality as their right.
Throughout the day an immense crowd traversed the streets, visited the churches, or amused themselves with the tricks of the jugglers and mountebanks, passing from devotion to mirth, and from mirth to devotion; but toward evening every one took his way to the palace, for the count was to watch his arms that evening in the church of St. Saviour. The whole road to the palace, two miles from the city, was illuminated by torches, which were kindled before the close of the day, the moment the vesper-bell was rung. This broad avenue of light defined the route to the church of St. Saviour, and as soon as this was effected, the heralds appeared with the banners of the Count of Barcelona, and marshaled the people on each side, that the cortége might have room to pass, unobstructed by the pressure of the crowd. At the last stroke of the vesper-bell, the gates of the palace opened, amidst the joyful shouts of the multitude, who had been awaiting that event since the hour of noon.
The first who appeared in the procession were the noble knights of Catalonia, on horseback, wearing the swords of their forefathers; valiant blades, gapped by hard service in battle or tournament, bearing names like those of Charlemagne, Roland, and Réné.
Behind them came their squires, bearing the arms and naked swords of their masters, which, unlike the ancestral brands the knights had displayed, were bright and unstained; but they knew that in the hands of their owners they would soon lose their virgin brightness and lustre in the turmoil of battle.
Next appeared the sword of the lord count, made in the form of a cross, to recall continually to his mind that he was the soldier of God before he became an earthly prince. Neither emperor, king, nor count had ever before worn a sword better tempered, or more richly embossed with jewels on the handle. It was in the hands of Don Juan Ximenes de la Roca, one of the bravest knights in the world, who held it till the time should arrive when it would pass into those of its master. He was supported on each side by the Baron Gulielmo di Cervallo and Sir Otto de Monçada.
After the sword of the lord count came his equerries, in two chariots, bearing lighted torches, and charged with ten quintals of wax, to be offered as a gift to the church of St. Saviour, because the count had vowed a taper to the altar, to expiate the fault his filial duty had obliged him to commit, since, detained in his own country by the long illness of his father, he had not departed for the Crusade. This wax taper had gone in solemn procession through the city, to prove the penitence of the count, who felt grief as a knight, and remorse as a Christian.
After the chariots came the lord count himself, mounted on a steed magnificently caparisoned. He was a beautiful youth between eighteen and nineteen, wearing long ringlets on his shoulders, waving on either side, but restrained from concealing his open brow by a fillet of gold. He wore his close-fitting coat of war, for during the watch he would have to assume his armor; but this vestment was covered with a large mantle of cloth of gold, which fell even to his stirrups. Behind him followed his arms, carried by two nobles, consisting of a helmet, with the visor closed; a coat of mail of polished steel, inlaid with gold; a buckler, on which was engraved the garland of roses, the well-known sign of sovereignty of the Counts of Barcelona. The nobleman who bore these arms was accompanied by Roger, Count de Pallars, and Alphonse Ferdinando, Lord of Ixer, both with their swords drawn, to defend, if necessary, the royal armor.
After the armor of the lord count came, in pairs, the nobles upon whom he was to confer the honor of knighthood. They were twelve in number; and these, in their turn, were each to arm ten knights as soon as they had received the order; and these hundred and twenty came also in pairs, their fine horses magnificently caparisoned, and covered with cloth of gold.
Last of all, four abreast, came, first, the prelates; then the kings and the ambassadors from foreign courts, who represented the persons of their sovereigns; then the dukes, counts, and knights; each degree separated by the musicians, who rent the air with their trumpets, timbrels, and flutes. The last rank in the pageant was followed by the jongleurs, or jugglers, in the costume of savages, running on foot, or mounted on little horses without bridle or saddle, on whose backs they exhibited a variety of tricks.
Thus, by the aid of the flambeau, which changed night into day, and darkness into light, and with the mighty sound of drums, tymbals, trumpets, and other musical instruments, aided by the shouts of the jongleurs, and the proclamations of the heralds, who called out—“Barcelona! Barcelona!” the count was conducted to the church, having been seen by every one, on account of the slow progress of the procession, and the length of way between the palace and the sacred edifice. The hour of midnight, indeed, struck the moment the count alighted at the porch, where he was met by the Archbishop of Barcelona, and all the clergy.
The lord count, followed by all the nobles who were to receive their arms, entered the church, and watched them together, according to old custom on such occasions, reciting prayers and singing psalms in honor of their Saviour. They passed the night very happily in these devotional services, and attended matins, which service was performed by the archbishops, bishops, priors, and abbots.
When the day broke, the church was opened to the congregation of the faithful, who filled it in such a fashion, that it was wonderful how so many men and women could be so closely crowded together without injury to themselves or their neighbors. The archbishop then made himself ready to say mass, and the lord count put on a surplice, as if he intended to assist him; but over the surplice he wore a richer Dalmatica than emperor or king had ever appeared in, clasped at the throat with a diamond star, set round with pearls of inestimable value. Then he assumed the manipule, or girdle, which was also very splendid; and every time he was invested with a new garment, the archbishop repeated a prayer. This ceremony being finished, the archbishop said mass; but when the epistle was ended he paused—when the two godfathers of the count, Don Juan Ximenes de la Roca, and Don Alphonse Ferdinando, Lord of Ixer, approached the count, and one affixed the spur to his right heel, the other to his left—the solemn notes of the organ accompanying this part of the ceremonial. Then the count, approaching the altar, knelt before the shrine, and repeated to himself a whispered prayer, while the archbishop, standing by his aide, prayed aloud.
When this prayer was ended, the count took the sword from the altar, kissed meekly the cross that formed its handle, girded it to his loins, and then, drawing it from its scabbard, brandished the knightly weapon three times. At the first flourish, he defied all the enemies of the holy Catholic faith; at the second, he vowed to succor all widows, orphans and minors; and at the third, he promised to render justice all his life to high and low, rich and poor, to his own subjects, and to foreigners who might require redress at his hands. At this last oath, a deep sonorous voice replied “Amen.” Every body turned round to see the person from whom this response proceeded; it came, however, from a Provençal jongleur, who had crowded into the church, not-withstanding the opposition made by those who did not consider him fit to be in such good company; but the count, having heard the quality of his respondent, would not allow him to be turned out, declaring—“that it would ill become him at such a moment to refuse the prayer of any one, be he lord or vassal, rich or poor, provided it came from a pure and contrite heart.” The jongleur, in virtue of this declaration on the part of the lord count, was permitted to keep his place.
The lord count then, returning his sword to the scabbard, offered his person and his blade, by a solemn act of dedication, to God; praying him to take him into his holy keeping, and to give him the victory over all his enemies. The archbishop, after the lord count had uttered this prayer, anointed him with the holy chrisme on the right shoulder and arm; then he took the crown of golden roses from the altar and set it on his head, the godfathers of the lord count supporting the diadem on each side. At the same instant, the archbishops, bishops, abbots, kings, princes, and the two godfathers of the lord count chaunted in chorus, with loud voices, Te Deum Laudamus, during which the lord count took the golden sceptre in his left, and the globe in his right hand, and held them while the Te Deum was chanted and the gospel read. He then replaced them on the altar, and seated himself in his chair of state, before which twelve nobles led up twelve knights, whom they armed one after the other; these, in their turn, retired to one of the twelve chapels belonging to the church, and armed, in like manner, ten knights.
The coronation being concluded, the lord count, with his crown on his head, bearing the golden sceptre and globe in his hands, and wearing the dalmatica, star, and belt, came out of the church, and mounted his horse; but as he could not guide his steed, encumbered as he was with these insignia of his high power and dignity, two pairs of reins were attached to the bridle, that on the left being held by his godfathers; the others, which were of white silk, and forty feet in length, were held by the barons, the knights, and the most eminent citizens of Catalonia; and after these came six deputies from Valencia, six from Saragossa, and four from Tortosa; those who held the reins to the right or left marched on foot, to denote their subjection to the count, their lord paramount, who, in this stately manner, and with this magnificent cortége, toward noon returned to his palace of Aljaferia, amidst loud hurrahs and flourishes of trumpets. As soon as he alighted, he entered the dining-room, where a high throne had been prepared for him between two golden stools, on which he deposited the sceptre, the globe, and the crown. Then his two godfathers seated themselves near their sovereign, and the Kings of Arragon and Castile, the Archbishops of Saragossa and Arboise placed themselves by their side. At another table, the bishops, dukes, and all the new-made knights took their places; after them, the barons, envoys of the provinces, and the most eminent citizens of Barcelona, all marshaled according to their degree, were seated in due order, the whole assembly being waited upon by the junior nobility and knights.
The lord count himself was served by twelve nobles. His major domo, the Baron Gulielmo di Cervallo, brought in the first dish, singing a roundel; he was followed by twelve noblemen, each carrying a dish, and joining in full chorus. As soon as the roundel was concluded, he placed the dish before the lord count, and cut a portion, with which he served him; then he divested himself of his mantle and vest of cloth of gold, trimmed with ermine, and ornamented with pearls, and gave them to a jongleur. As soon as he had arrayed himself in vestments of the same rich material, the major domo brought, in like manner, and followed by the same nobles, the first dish of the second course, singing a roundel as before, and concluding the ceremony by the gift of his magnificent costume. He conducted, after this fashion, ten courses, with songs, and concluded with the usual rich largess, to the great admiration and astonishment of the whole assembly.
The lord count sat three hours at table, after which he rose, took up the globe and sceptre, and entering the next chamber, placed himself on a chair raised on a platform, with steps. The two kings were seated on each side the throne, and round them, on the steps, all the barons, knights, and eminent citizens. Then a jongleur approached, and sang a new sirvente, which he had composed for this august occasion, entitled—“The Crown, the Sceptre, and the Globe—”
“The crown being quite round, and this circle having neither beginning nor end, signifies the great power of God, which he has placed, not on the middle of the body, nor yet on the feet, but on your head, as the symbol of intelligence; and because he has placed it on your head, you ought always to remember this omnipotent God; may you, with this earthly and perishable crown, win the celestial crown of glory in the eternal kingdom.
“The sceptre signifies justice, which you ought to maintain and extend to all ranks; and as this sceptre is a long rod with a curve, fit to strike and chastise, thus justice should, in like manner, punish, that the wicked may leave off their bad ways, and the good may become better and better.
“The globe signifies, that as you hold the globe in your hand you also hold your country and your power; and since God has confided them to you, it is necessary that you should govern with truth, justice and clemency, that none of your subjects may sustain injury from yourself or any other person.”
The lord count appeared to hear this sirvente with pleasure, like a prince who laid the good counsel it contained to heart, and intended to put it in practice. The sirvente was followed by a song in twelve parts, and the song by a poem in three cantos; and when all was said and done, the lord count, who was much fatigued, took up the globe and sceptre, and went into his chamber to get a few minutes’ sleep, of which, indeed, he was much in need. His attendants had scarcely unclasped his mantle of state, before he was informed that a jongleur must speak with him, having affairs of interest to communicate, which would not bear delay. The lord count ordered him to be admitted.
The jongleur advanced two steps, and bent his knee to the ground.
“Speak!” said the count.
“May it please your lordship to order that you should be in private with your servant?”
Raymond Beranger made a sign to his people that he wished to be alone with the jongleur.
“Who are you?” asked he, as soon as the door was shut.
“I am,” said the jongleur, “the person who answered ‘Amen,’ in the church of St. Saviour, when your lordship vowed, sword in hand, to render justice to the high and low, the rich and poor, to foreigners as well as your own subjects.”
“In whose name do you ask justice?”
“In the name of the Empress Praxida of Germany, unjustly accused of adultery by Guthram de Falkemberg and Walter de Than, and condemned by her husband, the Emperor Henry the Fourth, to die, unless a champion, within a twelvemonth and a day, successfully defend her innocence against her accusers.”
“Why has she chosen such a singular messenger for this important mission?”
“Because none but the poor jongleur dared expose himself to the anger of a powerful prince, and the vengeance of two renowned knights like Guthram de Falkemberg and Walter de Than; and certainly I should not have ventured to do so myself, if my young mistress, Douce, Marchioness of Provence, who has such fine eyes and such a touching voice that no one can refuse what she asks, had not required it of me. I went, therefore, by her command, in search of a knight sufficiently brave to defend, and sufficiently powerful to dare to vindicate, the fame of an injured and innocent lady. I have traversed, in obedience to my mistress, France and Italy in vain, and even Spain, the very holy land of chivalry, and found no one disposed to championize the Empress of Germany. On the way to Barcelona I heard you named as a generous and courageous gentlemen. I entered the church at the moment you vowed, sword in hand, to defend the oppressed against the oppressor; and it appeared to me that the hand of God had led me there. I raised my voice, and cried ‘Amen, so be it!’”
“So let it be, then,” chivalrously replied the count; “for the honor of my name, and the increase of my renown, in the name of the Lord, I will hold myself ready to undertake this enterprise.”
“Thanks, my lord, for this grace; but, saving your good pleasure, you have no time to lose, for ten months have already elapsed, and you will have little left for your journey to Cologne.”
“Well; these festivals will be ended by Thursday night; on Friday we shall offer up our public thanks to God; and on Saturday we will put ourselves en route for Cologne.”
“Let it be so, according to your lordship’s pleasure,” replied the jongleur, making his farewell devoir to the Count of Barcelona. Before he could withdraw from his presence, the count detached from his neck a magnificent gold chain of great value, and threw it round that of the jongleur; for the lord count was as generous as he was brave, and the union of these qualities acquired for him the surname of Great, an appellation which the judgment of posterity has confirmed to the sovereign of Barcelona. He was pious, too; for these festival-days were designed to do honor to Easter, the day of the resurrection of the Redeemer; and the gracious rain that, after a long period of drought, descended on Catalonia, Arragon, and the kingdoms of Valencia and Murcia, the evening on which these religious fètes concluded, gave to his people the presage of a long and happy reign, of which, indeed, Barcelona still preserves the memory.
| [3] | This tale of chivalry is a free translation from one entitled Praxède, by Alexandre Dumas, and presents a complete description of the ancient trial, or appeal by battle, as formerly practiced in the middle ages. The champion was supposed to depend upon God for making the cause he had undertaken good, provided the party he represented were clear of the crime of which he or she was accused. This law remained on the statute book of Great Britain unrepealed until a few years since, when it was finally abolished. To those who love ancient customs, this translation from an eminent living author, deeply versed in such lore, may not prove either unacceptable or uninteresting.—Jane Strickland. |
BREVIA.
———
BY JAMES W. WALL.
———
Whatever original thoughts people may think fit to boast of, there is scarcely any idea which must not before have passed through the minds of many. Let it be sufficient then to the good-natured reader, if some of the present thoughts may not happen to have occurred to him, or if they are not all remembered to have done so.
In preparing these Brevia, I have not knowingly adopted any one thought or expression of other writers. At the same time, I do not affect originality. Lucian, Cervantes and Rabelais have forestalled humor; Horace, Juvenal, and Perseus have exhausted satire; and upon the subject of love, Ovid and Tibullus have left us nothing new to say. The letter of Rousseau, so much admired for its exquisite tenderness and sensibility, beginning—“Mourons, ma douce amie,” is but an imitation of Chærea’s speech in one of Terence’s comedies, who expresses his raptures in the same ideas and expressions. “Nunc est projectò tempu cum perpeti me possum interjici;” and of Phædria’s speech in Phermio—“Ut mihi liceat tam dice quod amo, frui, jam depacisci mortem cupio.” Even the best writers, therefore, may be accused of plagiarism; but merely to have the same ideas, many of which are common to all mankind, is no proof of it.
BREVIA.
Friendship divided amongst many, is like a mirror broken into separate small pieces, wherein each can partly see himself, but less of himself as the pieces are divided into more parts.
Our public boarding-schools are said to bring all boys forward; which is only true in part. Great liberty and numbers elevate boys of bold and daring dispositions, and give opportunities of tyrannising over meek and modest minds; thus, those spirits which ought to be restrained are ruined by indulgence, and those which ought to be cherished and encouraged are depressed.
Obstinacy and contradiction are like a paper kite; they are only kept up while you pull against them.
The best wives have been brought up in a family where there has been a subordination to men. Forsaken widows and disappointed aunts set up a hostile warfare against the other sex, and inculcate early prejudices in young women’s minds, which generally take too strong root to be eradicated.
People are generally in the end obliged to make an apology for those very virtues which alone dignify human nature. Friendship, good-nature, and generosity have often conducted a man to jail, where he has been obliged, before he could obtain assistance, to confess himself a fool, and to promise to divest himself of all such companions for the future; or, to adopt the most effectual method, totally to disavow the acquaintance of those virtues altogether, and pretend that they assumed the more worthy form and disguise of discretion and worldly wisdom, which authorised him to act as he did for the sake of his own interest.
Love often turns to the greatest hatred, as the sharpest vinegar is made from the sweetest sugar.
Economy is often tempted into expense, merely from the cheapness of it.
Books are quiet, amiable friends; their information is pleasing, because communicated without petulance, or affected superiority. You must even take some trouble to find out the knowledge you wish to acquire from them, notwithstanding your implicit respect and avowed ignorance. They are generally, too, at home, and their access requires little court.
How disappointed your acquaintances are, if you bear your misfortunes with calmness and cheerfulness! Some, indeed, derive consolation in thinking their assistance will not be asked; but most are mortified in not being able to insult you by their compassion, while they find arguments to heighten your distress.
How seldom utility is considered in our system of modern education! Personal accomplishments can not be of any use in this country, at least, to either men or women, above ten or twelve years; after which they are rather hid, or render the possession ridiculous. Ought the father of a family be able to distort his body in the fashionable polka, or the mother to sing a fine song.
A man gives entertainments only for criticism; and people, on their return home, revenge themselves for the obligation of the invitation, by laughing at his vanity for pretending to live at so much expense.
The Egyptians offered to their god Isis an herb—Persica—whose fruit was like a heart, and the leaf like a tongue. Modern professions and love offerings have a different fruit and a different leaf; the profession is all heart, and the fruit all tongue.
Doctor Johnson says, “that allowances are seldom made for ill success;” and it may be truly said, that reasons are seldom narrowly investigated for good success. Public men generally meet with more praise and blame, in both, than they deserve; and at the end of their lives the balance is probably even.
The easy, good-natured man is like one of the feræ naturæ: every body hunts him as their prey; and, instead of being cherished by every one, he is claimed as their property: if he is caressed, it is only to draw him into a snare.
A politician, like the Cyprian, seldom grants favors but to those who can amply repay them. Virtue, for them, may be its own reward: they only lavish their favors on those who contribute to their interest.
Every wife would make her husband as many compliments as Eve pays to Adam, in Milton, if he was the only man in the world; so would every man, if his wife was the only woman.
People are better pleased with the knavish lawyer—who instructs them how to cheat the adverse party in a cause, or to avoid the payment of a just claim, by a legal technicality, than with the honest one—who recommends an equitable arbitration.
Romance and comedy writers always make lovers rich before they marry: they know this is an essential requisite to the completion of happiness, both in the hero and the heroine. Unfortunately, young people follow the example of these romantic characters in love, but not in the acquisition of fortune: they forget that love alone will not make them happy, and that, like lunatics, as they come more and more to themselves, they will require more and more the comforts and conveniences of life, which, in the paroxysm of passion, were never attended to.
The people of Fire Island are accused of pillaging strangers who are shipwrecked. Are not the inhabitants of inland towns equally eager to divide the spoil of a deceased neighbor or friend, and to glut themselves with the idea of obtaining his property at half the value?
Prudent people never are beloved. Imprudence, by preventing envy, raises popularity; yet prudence is the sole friend of generosity. Generosity is like a beautiful and expansive river; we admire its beauty, and enjoy its advantages, but neither see nor think of the secret springs that feed it.
The idea of good or bad fortune attending a man, has been generally received in all ages. Cicero recommended Pompey to the Romans for their general, as he was a man of good fortune; and Cardinal Mazarin, when any officer was recommended to him, always asked, “Est il heureux?”
We never regard innovation, or even oppression, till it comes home to ourselves. In the life of Cromwell, an anecdote is told of a clerk in chancery, who had seen with great indifference all the alterations that had been made in the constitution both in church and state; but when he was told there was to be some new regulations in the sex’ clerk’s office—Nay, says he, if they begin once to strike out fundamentals, there is no telling where they will stop.
Public opinion is a tyrant—cruel are the sacrifices it demands.
How many fathers there are who always comfort themselves with saying, “I shall die poor, but let my sons make their way in the world as I have done!” To which some complaisant neighbor replies, “And I am sure, sir, they cannot do better!” But should not parents reflect that their sons have not only the same difficulties to encounter which they have had, but the additional disadvantage, that having been brought up in habits of luxury and idleness, to which the parents themselves in their youth were strangers.
Married people sometimes study to appear as fond as lovers, passing their time in billing and cooing like turtle doves. Let them remember that bankrupts in love, like those in fortune, appear in gaudy colors, to keep up their credit.
A deaf and dumb person being asked what is forgiveness, took out his pencil and wrote the answer to the written question thus: “It is the odor which flowers yield when trampled upon.” What a volume of exquisite poetry and at the same time forcible truth is contained in it.
I remember somewhere to have read of a tyrannical ruler, who is said to have publicly erected altars to cruelty and injustice. Many modern worshipers of the same hideous divinities are equally as zealous as this tyrant: but with the essential difference, that their altars are erected in private, within the penetralia of their own homes. Like the Egyptian priesthood, after having performed the most diabolical rites, they come forth arrayed in the white robes of innocence. And society is too apt, like the “ignobile vulgus” of Egypt, to greet them with the same reverence they did their priesthood. They, too, have their esoteric and exoteric theology—the one is their religion in private, the other abroad.
“The nobility of the Spencers has been enriched by the trophies of Marlborough; but I exhort them to consider ‘The Fairy Queen’ as the most precious jewel in their coronet.”
This lively paragraph may be found in the memoirs of Gibbon; and the sentiment therein conveyed is no less beautiful than true; for after all, what is military glory and renown when compared with the fame of the distinguished poet, historian, or man of letters. The hero, after the lapse of a few centuries shines like a very distant constellation, merely visible in the wide expanse of history, while the poet and historian continue to sparkle in the eyes of all men, like that radiant star of the evening, perpetually hailed by the voice of gratitude, affection, and delight.
“The lawyer,” said Burke, “has his forms and his positive institutions, and he adheres to them with a veneration altogether as religious as the divine. The worst cause cannot be so prejudicial to the litigant as his attorney’s ignorance of forms. A good parson once said, where mystery begins, there religion ends. May not the same be said of justice, that where the mystery of forms begin, there all justice ends.”
There is a great deal more truth in the above quotation from Burke, than is generally admitted by the followers of Coke and Littleton. The satire may be, perhaps, too broad, as the whole essay in which it occurs was a burlesque upon Bolingbroke; but, nevertheless, there is truth in the sarcasm. Law, as a system, even in this age of intelligence, is cumbered up with useless forms, absurd fictions, and unmeaning technicalities; serving only to strew with stumbling blocks the pathway to the temple of justice, which should ever be of safe and easy approach. The system of the administration of laws in this country, needs a thorough overhauling. The Augean stables were not half as much in want of the labors of an Hercules, as the departments of law of the labors of the modern reformer. And as the stables in the classic fable were cleansed by the turning of a river through them, so all that it wants now in reference to the administration of law, is, that the current of popular sentiment should be turned in that direction; and gathering strength as it goes
“Vires acquirit eundo,”
it will thoroughly cleanse and purify the Augean stables of the law.
The impudent man has wonderful advantages; he successfully assumes every talent, and pretends to every branch of learning; and passes the time, spent by others in recluse retirement and gloomy study, in making useful friends, and acquiring the habits of the world.
Any transitory marks of distinction, or ideal honors, produce future regret, and often poignant grief. The beauty of the ball is little flattered, twenty years afterward, by that praise and admiration which is past and forgotten, any more than the collegian, who gained every literary prize, which vainly taught him to expect admiration, applause, and respect through life.
Imprudence is so often the cause of misfortunes, that the Cardinal Richelieu used to say, that imprudence and misfortune were synonymous.
Memory is productive of more misery than happiness. Misfortune leaves unpleasing vestiges, whilst the remembrance of pleasures past creates regret.
Fortune, like the fickle female, despises the object of her power. She slights the very sighs that she creates; and whilst the suppliant is disregarded, she courts the hand which rejects her. Relentless and obdurate to her most passionate admirers, what she refuses to love, she often lavishes on indifference.