Ten Books on Architecture by Vitruvius (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖
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Throughout all time, shall be
The right of those old master-bards
Of Greece and Italy;
And of fair Albion's favored isle,
Where Poesy's celestial smile
Hath shone for ages, gilding bright
Her rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,
And cheering this new world of ours
With a reflected light.
By that immortal race—
Who walked with Nature, as with God,
And saw her, face to face—
No living truth by them unsung—
No thought that hath not found a tongue
In some strong lyre of olden time;
Must every tuneful lute be still
That may not give a world the thrill
Of their great harp sublime?
In Music's simplest tone,
And hear in Nature's every voice
An echo to their own!
Not till these scorn the little rill
That runs rejoicing from the hill,
Or the soft, melancholy glide
Of some deep stream, through glen and glade,
Because 'tis not the thunder made
By ocean's heaving tide!
In glory are arrayed,
And timid, blue-eyed violets yield
Their fragrance to the shade;
Nor do the way-side flowers conceal
Those modest charms that sometimes steal
Upon the weary traveler's eyes
Like angels, spreading for his feet
A carpet, filled with odors sweet,
And decked with heavenly dyes.
That all with flowers adorns—
Strew life's uneven path along,
And hide its thousand thorns:
Oh, many a sad and weary heart,
That treads a noiseless way apart,
Has blessed the humble poet's name,
For fellowship, refined and free,
In meek wild-flowers of poesy,
That asked no higher fame!
To one by deserts bound—
Making the air all musical
With cool, inviting sound—
Is oft some unpretending strain
Of rural song, to him whose brain
Is fevered in the sordid strife
That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,
While moving on, in caravan,
Across the sands of Life.
The poet's breast is stirred
As by the spirit that takes wings
And carols in the bird!
He thinks not of a future name,
Nor whence his inspiration came
Nor whither goes his warbled song;
As Joy itself delights in joy—
His soul finds life in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.
Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush
To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,
Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush
Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush
Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings
Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush
The reed already bending—now, there sings
The syren voice of Hope—her of the rainbow wings.
Fled are they all—and back the senses turn
To this dark hour of anguish and of pain—
Of rending heart-chords—agony too stern
For words to picture it—of thoughts that burn
And wither up the heart. I need not tell
What now I feel, or if my bosom yearn
With love for you at parting—there's a spell
To conjure up despair in that wild word—Farewell
Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.: Carey & Hart.
The larger portion of this work is made up of the account given by Josephine herself of the events of her life; and that part contributed by M'lle. Le Normand, completes a biography of the gifted, the fortunate and unfortunate queen of Napoleon. The Memoirs of Josephine sparkle with French sprightliness, and abound with French sentiment. Her style is eminently graceful, and the turn of thought such as we would expect from the most accomplished and fascinating woman of her times. The narrative is neither very copious nor very regular; but all that is told is of the deepest interest. It abounds in domestic anecdotes of the great usurper, and reports conversations between him and his wife, in which, by the way, her speeches rival, in prolixity, those given us by Livy. Many of her views of Bonaparte and herself are novel and striking, and calculated, if relied upon, to change opinions now generally entertained as truths. In relation to herself, her tone is one of almost unvarying self-eulogium; and the amiable and excellent qualities which she is known to have possessed need no better chronicler. She was of the opinion that her abilities and services, which were eminent and various, secured Napoleon's advancement at every step of his rapid career from obscurity to the imperial throne; and that the loss of her influence and counsels was the necessary harbinger of his downfall.
For the movements that secured him the First Consulship, she claims almost exclusive credit. That she was an artful politician, and used, with great effect, the graces of mind, manner, and person, with which she was singularly endowed, to promote the interests of her husband, is certain; but it may be doubted whether his mighty genius ever leaned for support upon the political skill and counsel of a woman—even though that woman were Josephine. She, like her wonderful husband, seems to have cherished a superstitious reliance upon destiny—a weakness singularly inconsistent with their general character. The story of the early prediction that she would become a queen is given with an amusing simplicity and earnestness. The prophecy is as follows:
"You will be married to a man of a fair complexion, destined to be the husband of another of your family. The young lady whose place you are called to fill, will not live long. A young Creole, whom you love, does not cease to think of you; you will never marry him, and will make vain attempts to save his life; but his end will be unhappy. Your star promises you two marriages. Your first husband will be a man born in Martinique, but he will reside in Europe and wear a sword; he will enjoy some moments of good fortune. A sad legal proceeding will separate you from him, and after many great troubles, which are to befall the kingdom of the Franks, he will perish tragically, and leave you a widow with two helpless children. Your second husband will be of an olive complexion, of European birth; without fortune, yet he will become famous; he will fill the world with his glory, and will subject a great many nations to his power. You will then become an eminent woman, and possess a supreme dignity; but many people will forget your kindnesses. After having astonished the world, you will die miserable. The country in which what I foretell must happen, forms a part of Celtic Gaul; and more than once, in the midst of your prosperity, you will regret the happy and peaceful life you led in the colony. At the moment you shall quit it, (but not forever,) a prodigy will appear in the air;—this will be the first harbinger of your astonishing destiny."
Any fortune-teller might tell, and no doubt, if she thought it would flatter, would tell, a beautiful young girl that her destiny was to be a queen; but there is in this prediction a minuteness of detail, that cannot be accounted for on the ground of accidental coincidence. It is a brief history of her life. Unless we are prepared to believe that an ignorant old mulatto woman was gifted by divine Providence with supernatural power, constituted a second Witch of Endor, and able by "examining the ball of Josephine's left thumb with great attention," to discover the minute particulars of her future life, we must discredit the absurdity. A prediction believed sometimes effects its own fulfillment; and Josephine, whose ambition seems to have been most ardent, may have been inspired with romantic hopes by the foolish promise of an ignorant impostor, that she would rise to great eminence, and have been stimulated to greater exertions to realize those hopes. This may have urged her to intimacy with the corrupt and immoral Directory, with whom a beautiful and accomplished woman could not fail to be a favorite; may have secured her marriage to a very young and ardent man, who all believed must rise to eminence; and may have even induced her to excite her husband to the policy which secured a crown. But to believe that a prediction, giving all the leading events of the lives of several different persons, and those persons actors in scenes so wonderful, would be a folly equally weak and blasphemous. The same superstition is frequently betrayed in these volumes; and we have as many dreams and portents as ever disturbed the sleeping and waking hours of the wife of the first Napoleon, Caliphurnia.
The pages of these memoirs afford us the harshest and most repulsive views of Napoleon's character that we have yet seen. His affectionate consort was undoubtedly discerning, and used her keenness of perception with proper diligence to discover all her husband's faults. We have never shared in the excessive and extraordinary admiration with which the character of this man-hater and earth-spoiler is regarded in this land of liberty; but it seems to us that the portraiture before us would be deemed unjust coming from his foes, and is at least singular when traced by the hand of the affectionate and gentle Josephine. The praise awarded him is cold, formal and stinted; but the censure is interjected among her details with a freedom that we could not have anticipated. That she should have resented his heartless repudiation of the companion of all his struggles and fortunes, is natural, and perhaps just; but that she should have revenged the wrong, if indeed that be the motive, by depreciating him seems out of character with the Josephine of our imaginations. She describes him as vain, cruel, often weak, and at times abjectly cowardly. She dwells with great fullness upon his crimes, and passes rapidly and coldly over the many great and good things he achieved for France. In some instances positive misrepresentations are resorted to, calculated to blacken his character. Thus, in relation to the disaster at the bridge on the Elster, she says:
"I likewise learned that my husband has passed the only bridge by which he could make good his retreat; but in order to prevent pursuit by the foreign army, he had ordered it to be blown up at the very moment it was covered with thousands of Frenchmen, who were endeavoring to fly. By means of this murderous manœuvre he abandoned a part of his army on the bank of the stream."
Now this is a most inhuman calumny, and one that sounds strangely coming from a French woman, and that woman the wife of the unfortunate Napoleon. Bonaparte's strongest and ablest decryer, Alison, admits that the destruction of the bridge was an accident, resulting from the mistake of a corporal, who supposed the retreating French upon the bridge were the pursuing allies, and fired the train. It is seldom
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