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us of the rule for our behaviour-" At table silent as at mass." But who can resist Matthew's gravity? Not I, at all events.

Wednesday, 15th March.

I have to recount an event at last! Yesterday when with my governess and my sisters I descended to breakfast, I found the son of the Castellan Kochanowski conversing with my father in a recess of one of the windows. They were so intent upon their conversation that they did not observe our entry. I could not hear what was the subject of their discourse, but my father at last ended it by saying in a loud voice, "Sir, I must have time to consider, and you shall hear my determination." He then spoke with my mother aside for some time, and she called the maitre d'hotel, to whom she gave an order. After some delay dinner was announced, and as M. Kochanowski sat directly opposite to me, I had ample opportunity to observe his toilette, which was worthy of all notice, being exceedingly recherché. His coat was of embroidered velvet, with cuffs of fine lace, and a waistcoat of white figured satin. His hair was frizzed, powdered, and curled to perfection, and his manner was as unusually fine as his toilette. He looked flushed, seemed agitated, and spoke much, and altogether in French. Dinner being unusually delayed, I had time to perceive, that though he took pains to appear at his ease, he changed colour continually, and cast many glances towards the door; at last the dishes were laid upon the table, and Kochanowski became pale as death. I cast my eyes in all directions to see what had occasioned this shock, not knowing to what I might attribute it, but all my doubts were removed, when happening to look towards the dishes, I beheld a goose dressed with black sauce, a profound hieroglyphic, which, with us, signifies refusal of a proposal of marriage.

I was thunderstruck as this sudden light broke upon me! I remembered the Mazurka, the Krakowiak, the minuet -all the positions in which Kochanowski displayed such grace-his elaborate management of his horse-his intimate knowledge of the French language-his polite and pleasing deportment-his conversation, abounding in happy quotations and elegantly turned compliments. An emotion of grief took possession of my heart. I lost presence of mind. I could not touch

a morsel at dinner, neither could my
parents. It seemed as if we were
hours at table, and that weary dinner
would never end, so impatient was I to
hear some particulars of what Kocha-
nowski had said to my parents.
last my father gave the signal, and we
all rose, but while grace was saying,
Kochanowski glided from the room,
and appeared no more.


When the people of the suite had disappeared, my parents ordered me to discontinue my work and come near. I approached my father, who said, "Française! M. Kochanowski, son to the Castellan of Fadour, has asked us to bestow your hand upon him. We know that his birth is illustrious, and his family ancient and honourable—that his fortune is large and proportioned to yours, but still it does not suit us that you should contract this marriage. M. Kochanowski is too young, and is honoured only with the title of his father. He has obtained no favour at courtat least no title-and, finally, we think his mode of demanding the honor of being allied to the family of the Starost Krasinski was not sufficiently ceremonious. His declaration was too abrupt, and he furthermore demanded an imTherefore was our remediate reply. ply accorded to him, in like manner,that is, it was as speedy and as unceremonious as could well be imagined. Of course you agree with us in our view of this matter. Française, return to your work !"

Without doubt, parents are always right-indeed infallible; but as my journal is only talking to myself on paper, I may here be candid, and I confess that neither his age nor the manner of Kochanowski's proposal seems to me to form a sufficient obstacle. The true reason is his want of title. Though I see this, God knows I am well content that matters should be decided as they are. I have no desire to marry. I am so happyso completely without want or care in the house of my dear parents. After my return from Sulgostow, I was very sad, I acknowledge, for some days, but now I am as happy as ever. My position is very different from what it used to be; for I am treated with twice as much respect and consideration since my sister's marriage. When no strangers are by, I am always helped the fourth at table. I hold many important keys, and I accompany my parents wherever they go. I feel conscious that I should find reason to regret abandoning so pleasant a manner of

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life, and such valuable privileges, to become the wife of any one. Beside marriage is not, in my opinion, so exceedingly desirable as some persons think. A woman's career is over when she marries. Once married, all is fixed-certainty takes the place of all her pleasant dreams. For her, no more hopes; no more doubts; no more suspense; no more possibility of any thing better. She knows what she is and will be until death. For my part, I like to give free scope to my thoughts. And when I am sitting still at my embroidering frame, my mind is more employed than my fingers, and is sometimes enacting scenes of heroism or of tenderness, or of any thing that renders me famous in the court of War saw or of Paris. It amuses me so, in the absence of brilliant realities, to dream of a brilliant future, in which all things happen just as I would have them occur. My mother sometimes says to me, (though I never venture to make her the confidante of my dreams,) a young lady, well brought up, accepts thankfully the husband her parents select for her; but until it pleases them to make the choice, and acquaint her with their wishes, she should never let her thoughts dwell on the subject." My thoughts are not, indeed, much about husbands or marriage; but I say to myself, "If I was placed in the predicament of such a heroine of Madame Scuderi, or Madame La Fayette, or Madame De Beaumont and then, having laid this foundation, I go on imagining innumerable adventures. Since Barbara's marriage, this penchant has greatly increased. She always blamed my turn for reverie, and hindered my reading novels and romances; but, to make up for lost time, Madame makes me read French for hours, and the more I read, the more I am supplied with situations and recollections for my reveries.

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How different may be the characters of sisters, even when brought up together, as Barbara and I were, and subjected to exactly the same course of education! She has vowed to me, that never did her thoughts wander beyond the present; and, that if the idea of a husband ever occurred to her, it was only suggested when ordered by our parents, after reaching the age of sixteen years, to say very demurely, at the conclusion of her prayers, "May God grant me good sense, good health, the love of my neighbours, and a good husband." This

was the only time she could recall to memory that she had thought of him, and she added, "It is worse than useless suffering our thoughts to wander to such subjects, since we will, of course, marry whomsoever our parents choose for us; and whatever he be, since he replaces our father and mother, we must love him, obey him, and live with him until death." Au reste, she professed herself, and I know she was, perfectly indifferent when he was to come, or any thing about him. And the good effects of such mental discipline-of such perfect submission to the will of Providence and our parents, is proved in her fate, for she has succeeded perfectly in her marriage. She writes to us, that now her sorrow at separating from us has worn off, never was any one happier than she is. Every day she loves the Starost more, and finds new cause to respect him. And I will my fate be thus blessed?

However, my parents did quite right in refusing Kochanowski, only I really must be allowed to pity him for the humiliations they compelled him to suffer; the insulting manner in which they gave their reply. Little Matthew prophesies he will soon forget me. I wonder will he?

Sunday, 17th of March.

This evening, just as we sat to supper, we had a delightful surprise. A visit from my aunt the Princess Palatine Subomirska, and the Palatin, her husband. Being occupied with important duties about the Prince Royal, who was departing for his duchy of Courland, they could not come to my sister's marriage, but set off as soon as circumstances would permit, to offer their congratulations. The arrival of these illustrious visiters has given new life to the castle. My father is testifying the most schoolboyish delight (if it be not irreverent so to write of my parent) at having this honored and beloved sister with him. It being five years since the Prince and Princess were here, I was a child, but now they find me a grown up young woman, and since I entered their presence, they have scarcely spoken on any other subject than to praise my figure and my face, and extol my beauty in a manner that surely must be exaggerated. In truth I find such open flattery very displeasing, for I know not what indescribable feeling of awkwardness takes place of my usual self-possession

when such praises are addressed to me, or said of me in my presence. Such speeches are delightful when heard by accident; but frequently repeated, in fact, reiterated every time I appear before them, they confuse and distress me exceedingly. Therefore, I prefer thinking over them, to hearing them said. The Palatin declared, looking quite in earnest all the time, that if I appear at court, the Starostine Wessell, the Palatine Potocka, and the Princess Sapieka would be completely eclipsed. I have thought over this sentence very often among all the charming compliments he paid me, for those ladies are the most celebrated beauties in Warsaw. The princess says I only require more gravity of appearance, and more dignity of demeanour to be perfectly lovely.

Since I was born, I never heard so many flattering things, and truly I did not think I was handsome until this visit of my aunt and uncle. That is, I thought I was pretty, but never knew that I was lovely. Indeed, I did not think on the subject; but now it occupies much of my thoughts. I can perceive that my father's heart swells with pride, while my mother, fearing I suppose, that such extreme praise would turn my head, called me to her room to-day, and bade me attach no importance to the exaggerated language of our visiters, for that such praise was mere court flattery, applied to all alike.

It seems to me that they are discussing some project in which I am concerned, for my aunt holds long conversations with my father, in which my name is frequently mentioned. But my name is all I hear, though I confess I have tried to obtain a little further insight into the subject of their dis


According to my usual habit, my mother wished I should retire at ten o'clock to my sleeping apartment ;

but the Palatine obtained permission for me to sit up until very late with the rest of the company. The prince and princess conversed entirely upon the subject of the splendid fêtes given at the time of the prince's investiture. Accustomed as they are to scenes of magnificence, they never remember so brilliant a carnival. The colleges all performed plays, and both scholars and audience marked with loud vivas the parts that might allude to the prince royal's position, as the probable successor to his father. On Shrove Tuesday, (the day of Barbara's marriage,) the College of Jesuits represented Antigone, in which the warrior Demetrius defends his father against his enemies, and restores him to his kingdom. Towards the end of the piece, the audience vehemently applauded a part, the general sense of which runs somehow thus :

"'Tis not alone among the Greeks we find devoted sons. We, in Poland, have also our Demetrius! Thou, oh Charles the Great! art our hero and the heroic son, who hast defended his father against all his enemies. Be thou hereafter the father of our country! Reign over us, and we will love you as a Demetrius!"

By this we may perceive that the prince royal has avowed partizans. I have a presentiment he will one day be king of Poland, and a great man, but he will assuredly have to contend against a multitude of intrigues.

We may judge of the rest of Poland by observing how, in our own small circle, opinions are divided on this subject. The Princess Palatine does not share her husband's enthusiasm; nor does she desire that either Prince Charles or Poniatowski should be King of Poland. All her desires are for a third party; and may we not tremble for THE FUTURE, when all parties contest for their individual benefit!



To the Editor of the Dublin University Magazine.

SIR,-I dare say I am by no means the first Cambridge man who has had cause to confess that we have to seek in your University one advantage which our own do not afford, since neither of them has been able, for any long time, to support a University Magazine. It is, however, a happy circumstance, that a remedy can be found in Ireland for what we feel to be a defect in England, and that Dublin is ready to supply that which Oxford and Cambridge lack.

The enclosed paper on Anacreon seems more fitted for a University magazine than for any other, although it only professes to be a superficial glance at some of his best efforts, and by no means to infringe upon the ground which your countryman, Mr. Moore, has claimed as his own; for none would


be more ready to allow that claim than myself. Many papers of a similar
nature have appeared in other periodicals; and I think it is hardly fair, that
while we have become as familiar with every epigram in the Anthology as with
Chevy Chace or Robin Hood, no one seems to have written on Anacreon.
If you like this paper I may probably supply you from time to time with



"Hark! his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”—Gray.

"Anacreon non solum dedit hoc μλn, sed etiam in ipsis mella."-Scaliger.

ONE of the absurdities by which the
present day is characterised, has of late
been flourishing greatly in certain
quarters, under the euphonious and
meaning title of tee-totalism. But, per-
haps, it will be as well if, for the in-
struction of those who shall live in a
time when this folly, along with the
penny magazines, pantology, puffery,
and nonsense of the 19th century shall
have quietly resigned itself to slumber
in the grave of the forgotten, I give
some account of the creature whose
fancy it is to bestow upon his hobby
this most extraordinary of names. A
Tee-totalist, then, most courteous pos-
terity, is a person who hath so great
an abhorrence of spirit, that he ba-
nisheth it, not only from his drink, but
from his writings too. Moreover, he
considereth wine to be moral poison,
and therefore a thousand times more
terrible than Prussic acid, which affec-
teth only the body. Likewise hestoutly
escheweth beer, and esteemeth it worse
than cannibalism to eat the flesh of a
cow that hath been fed on grains. To
conclude the whole he telleth you, that
Moses must have been mistaken when
he wrote touching the drunkenness of
Noah; for if, saith he, the wine of the
ancients could have intoxicated, a
miracle would never have been worked
for the production of a liquor so vile;


and when beaten out of this stronghold, he betaketh himself to opining, that probably the water at Cana in Galilee was only turned into lemonade.

Now, from persons of this class, I can hardly expect that a paper on Anacreon, the chief of anti-Teetotallers, will obtain much favour. Yet I would fain hope, that in many a room within the precincts of T. C. D., a voice will be found to join me in invoking his shade, and an ear will be ready to listen to his ancient melodies, and that many an eye will deign to glance upon his thoughts, even when divorced from their melodious Greek, and wrapped in a more modern and less pleasing robe. Come, then, Anacreon, and let us cheer our hearts with a few specimens of thy glowing Poesy, (to which the contents of this long-necked bottle will form no bad accompaniment ;) for as we linger in extacy over thy spirit-stirring lays, we now fancy ourselves joyously carousing at the banquets of luxurious Ionians, while the flute and the harp blend their sweet notes with the deeper-toned barbiton; and anon we are alternately elevated and depressed by the stories of thy changeful Jove. O, Anacreon, thou art a potent defender of Bacchus votaries; thou arguest right wittily.


The fruitful earth drinks up the rain,
The trees drink up the earth again;
The ocean drinks the cooling breeze,
And the sun drinks the liquid seas;
The moon, in borrowed lustre bright,
Drinks of the sun her silvery light;
Can it be wrong, my friends, I pray,
That I should drink as well as they?

Who, after this, will refuse to quaff the beverage divine? Nay, who is there but thirsts as he reads, and, sym

pathizing with universal nature, throws copious streams of the rosy liquid upon his parched and craving palate?

How similarly doth Shakespeare prove the necessity of thievery! One could almost imagine that, affording at

the same time both precept and ex-
ample, he had himself thieved the idea
from the mighty Anacreon.

I'll example you with thievery :
The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;
The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief,
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen
From general excrement; each thing's a thief."

Now, though this be ingeniously wrought out by our own country bard, there is neither that conclusive persuasiveness nor that elegant neatness that adorns the Greek original. Though thievery is so commodious in itself, and hath so great natural charms-though the transmutation of tuum into meum is delightful and exhilarating a process, so yet hath not Shakespeare thrown such additional beauty and lustre upon it as might have been expected from the dignity of the subject and the genius of the poet. But Anacreon is so con


Timon of Athens, act iv. scene 3.

cise, so easy, and so elegant, that I am unable by words to give an idea of the high perfection he hath here attained unto, but must content myself with referring the reader to the Greek bard's own words; but if it be that thou art ignorant of this divinest of languages, bestir thyself, apply diligently to the study thereof; to read this one ode will repay thy toil.*

Now, having seen the poet prove the necessity of drinking, let us hear his description of a most glorious symposion.

With wreathes of roses on our brows,
We'll now enjoy a deep carouse;
Freely the sparkling wine we'll quaff,
And jocund raise the gladsome laugh;
While the lass, with slender foot,
Dances to the dulcet lute,

And sways aloft her thyrsus, bound
With softly-rustling ivy round;
And the boy with polished hair,
Breathing perfume on the air,
Pours his swelling voice on high
To the flute's sweet melody.
Now the rosy God of Wine,

And little Love, with locks of gold,

With beauteous Cytherea join

To grace the banquets of the old.

Hear again, how, despising the dull pursuits of common life, he composeth himself to the soft control of love and wine :


Why should I learn the lawyer's arts,

Or wield the rhetorician's darts?

• We cannot refrain from quoting a similar train of reasoning by which Phocylides, (Poem. admonit. 66-70), warns us against envy :

"Would you shun envy, shun an envious mind;

View others prosper with a heart resigned;

The high celestials live unenvying on

The moon unenvying views the brighter sun;

Earth sees not heaven with envy ;-and the streams

Envy not ocean-each concordant seems."

These lines are originally taken from Stobœus, xxxviii. p. 223, edit. Faber, 1609.

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