"Spirit born under happy auspices, to show us, in the chaste beauty of thy terrestrial envelope, all the gifts which nature and heaven can bestow on their favourite creation!"
"What inexorable law denies to this faithless world, to this mournful and fallacious life, the long possession of such a treasure? Why cannot death pardon so beautiful a work?"—(Sonnet 25.)
The poet, however, already knew that such is the law, severe in appearance, but merciful in reality, which governs all things on this earth, "where nothing endures but tears."[62] It was then that Michel Angelo discovered in his heart that treasure of energy destined to sustain him in the multiplied trials of a life, of which he measured the probable length with a melancholy resignation.[63]
"Why," he exclaims, "grant to my wounded soul the vain solace of tears and groaning words, since heaven, which clothed a heart with bitterness, takes it away but late, and perhaps only in the tomb?"
"Another must die. Why this haste to follow her? Will not the remembrance of her look soothe my last hours? And what other blessing would be worth so much as one of my sorrows?"[64]
In fine, armed with "the faith that raises souls[65] to God, and sweetens their death," Michel Angelo, when the fatal blow fell, was enabled to impart to his regrets an expression of thankfulness to the Supreme Dispenser of our destinies; and giving a voice from the tomb to her whom he had so deeply loved, he puts these sublime words into her mouth:
"I was a mortal, now I am an angel. The world knew me for a little space, and I possess heaven for ever. I rejoice at the glorious exchange, and exult over the death which struck, to lead me to eternal life!"—Epitaffio, v.
THINGS IN GENERAL.
A Gossiping Letter from the Seaside to Christopher North, Esq.
By an Old Contributor.
------
Near ——, England,
October 1846.
My Dear Christopher,—Where am I? What am I doing? Why have I forgotten you and Maga? Bless us! what a pother!—Give a man time, my revered friend, to answer: I have not forgotten either you or Maga; I am at the seaside; and I am doing, as well as I can, nothing. There are your testy questions answered: and as to divers objurgatory observations of your's, I shall not attempt to reply to them—regarding them as the results of some gout-twinges which have, I fear, a little quickened and heated the temper of that "old man eloquent," who, when in good health, plays but one part—that of a caressing father towards his children; for as such Christopher North has ever (as far as I know) regarded his contributors. "Why don't you review something or other? There's ——, an impudent knave!—has just sent me his ——: you will find it pleasant to flagellate him, or ——, a Cockney coxcomb! And if you be not in that humour, there are several excellent, and one or two admirable works, which have appeared within the last eighteen months, and which really have as strong a claim on Maga as she has on her truant sons,—and you, among the rest, have repeatedly promised to take one, at least, in hand. If you be not in the critical vein—do, for heaven's sake, turn your hand to something else—you have lain fallow long enough!—With one of the many articles which you have so often told me that you were 'seriously thinking of' on ——, or ----, or ——, &c., &c., &c.; and if that won't do—why, rather than do nothing, set to work for an hour or two on a couple of mornings, and write me a gossiping sort of letter—such as I can print—such as you have once before done, and I printed,—on Things in General. Surely the last few months have witnessed events which must have set you, and all observant men, thinking, and thinking very earnestly. Set to work, be it only in a simple, natural, easy way—care not you, as I care not, how discursively—a little touch of modest egotism, even, I will forgive on this occasion, if you find that—" Here, dear Christopher, I recalcitrate, and decline printing the rest of the sentence; but as to "Things in General"—I am somewhat smitten with the suggestion. 'Tis a taking title—a roomy subject, in which one can flit about from gay to grave, from lively to severe, according to the humour of the moment; and since you really do not dislike the idea of an old contributor's gossip on men and things, given you in his own way, I shall forthwith begin to pour out my little thoughts as unreservedly as if you and I were sitting together alone here. Here; but where? As I said before, at the seaside; at my favourite resort—where (eschewing "Watering-places" with lively disgust) I have spent many a happy autumn. When I first found it out, I thought that the lines had indeed fallen to me in pleasant places, and I still think so; but were I to tell the public, through your pages, of this green spot, I suspect that by this time next year the sweet solitude and primitive simplicity of the scene around me would have vanished: greedy speculating builders, tempting the proprietors of the soil, would run up in all directions vile, pert, vulgar, brick-built, slate-roofed, Quakerish-looking abominations, exactly as a once lovely nook in the Isle of Wight—Ventnor to wit—has become a mere assemblage of eyesores, a mass of unfavourable eruptions, so to speak—Bah! I once used to look forward to the Isle of Wight with springy satisfaction. Why, the infatuated inhabitants were lately talking of having a railroad in the island!!
I quitted Babylon, now nearly eleven weeks ago, for this said sweet mysterious solitude. London I dearly, dearly love—except during the months of August, September, and October, when it goes to sleep, and lies utterly torpid. When I quitted it very early in August, London life was, as it were, at dead-low water-mark. I was myself somewhat jaded with a year's severe exertion in my lawful calling, (what that may be, it concerns none of your readers to know,) and my family also were in want of change of air and scene; so that, when the day of departure had arrived, we were in the highest possible spirits. Our house would—we reflected—within a few hours put on the dismal, dismantled appearance which almost every other house in the street had presented for several weeks, and we, whirling away to ----; but first of all it occurred to me to lay in a stock of our good friend Lee's port and sherry, (for where were we to get drinkable wine at ----?)—ditto, in respect of six pounds of real tea—not quasi tea, i.e., raisin-stalks and sloe-leaves—three bottles of whisky; four of Anchovy sauce; and four of Reading or Harvey's sauce; two pounds of mustard, and some cayenne and curry-powder: having an eye, in respect of this last, to—hot crab! a delicious affair! Arrangements these which we are resolved always to make hereafter, having repeatedly experienced the inconvenience of not doing so. Having packed up every thing, and given special orders for the Times to be provided daily, and the Spectator weekly, away we go—myself, wife, three hostages to fortune, and three other persons, and—bless him!—Tickler; Timothy Tickler—that sagacious, quaint, affectionate, ugly-beautiful Skye terrier, which found its way to me from you, my revered friend—and is now lying gracefully near me, pretending—the little rogue—to be asleep; but really watching the wasps buzzing round him, and every now and then snapping at them furiously, unconscious of the probable consequences of his success,—that,