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dergone. Indeed, few French persons can be ! land would never listen to it.” I must add brought to believe that it ever was a decent that his highness said this “ rather in sorrow abode; and no one can deny that it must outrage than in anger;" then, addressing Count the feelings of a people like the French, so —, one of the faithful followers of Napoespecially affected by associations, to see the leon in exile, and asking him which mausobed-chamber of their former emperor a dirty leum he preferred the one in which we then stable, and the room in which he breathed his stood, the dome of the Invalides, or the rock last sigh, appropriated to the purposes of win- of St. Helena – he answered, to my surprise, nowing and threshing wheat! In the last- " St. Helena; for no grander monument than named room are two pathetic mementos of that can ever be raised to the emperor!" affection. When Napoleon's remains were Circumstances have made one little incident exhumed, in 1846, Counts Bertrand and Las connected with this, our visit to the Invalides, Cases, carried off with them, the former a most deeply interesting. Comte d'Orsay was piece of the boarded floor on which the em- of the party ; indeed, it was in his elegant peror's bed had rested, the latter a stone from atelier we had all assembled, ere starting, to the wall pressed by the pillow of his dying survey the mausoleum being prepared for the chief.
ashes of Napoleon. Suffering and debilitated Would that I had the influence to recom- as Comte D'Orsay was, precious, as critiques mend to the British government, that these on art, were the words that fell from his lips ruined, and I must adă, desecrated buildings during our progress through the work-rooms, should be razed to the ground; and that on as we stopped before the sculptures intended their site should be erected a convalescent to adorn the vault wherein the sarcophagus is hospital for the sick of all ranks, of both ser- to rest. Ere leaving the works, the director, vices, and of both nations. Were the British in exhibiting the solidity of the granite which and French governments to unite in this plan is finally to encase Napoleon, struck fire with a how grand a sight would it be to behold the mallet from the magnificent block; " See,” two nations shaking hands, so to speak, over said Comte D'Orsay, “ though the dome of the grave of Napoleon !
the Invalides may tall, France may yet light On offering this suggestion, when in Paris a torch at the tomb of her emperor.” I canlately, to one of the nephews of the first Ein- not remember the exact words, but such was peror Napoleon, the prince replied that “the their import; Comte D'Orsay died a few idea was nobly philanthropic, but that Eng-. weeks after this.
From Eliza Cook's Journal.
writer is now in course of publication, which BOZZIES.
seems to have been prepared in the same hasty
We allude to the Life of Moore, English literature is poor in biography. It edited by Lord John Russell. Here we have, is true we have many Lives, but not not a life, but a collection of materials. His many of them are very life-like. Biography- lordship, greatly to his honor, has taken the writing is an art little studied. The author trouble of arranging the papers which the oftener thinks of himself than of his subject. illustrious poet left behind him, and then sent If he be rhetorically inclined, he does not them so arranged to the publisher. Mr. Pa80 much desire to convey to the reader an accu- pizzi, of the British Museum, whose business rate picture of the Life delineated, as to aston- is to make catalogues, might have done the ish by fine writing and beautifully-rounded work as well : he could have arranged the periods. These rhetorical lives are not worth papers for the printer. But we looked for a much. They may duzzle, astonish, and even biography - a picture of the living, writing, instruct, but they do not give us what we thinking man, hy one who knew him; and look for in a biography – a picture of how we have, instead, little more than an arrangethe man lived, how he dressed and ate, what ment of his papers for publication. It is true, be did, and what he said. The rhetorical Moore has left behind him fragment of a biography is a kind of literary clothes-horse, diary, fresh and sparkling, which speaks for on which the author exhibits himself. As itself; but we want more than that, and trust for life, you see little of it; the subject is the noble editor will yet, before he concludes only taken as a peg to hang fine sentences his labors, supply a portraiture, without upon.
which the biography of the poet will be inThere are biographies of another kind - complete, and, in many respects, only parmen who collect all the letters, memoranda, tially intelligible. scraps of writing, anecdotes at second-hand, It is said that Johnson, when he heard rumors, reports, birth and marriage certifi- that Bozzy intended to write a Life of him, cates, of a distinguished personage, and stow- threatened that he would prevent it by taking ing them away in a book, which they “ edit” Boswell's! This rage of Johnson was doubtas the “ Life and Letters” of such a one ; less caused by the lainentable manner in and forth with a big book is issued from the which so many great English Lives have been press. Call this a biography ! It is no such strangled by their biographers. For, good thing. It is an omnium gatherum, a collec- biographies are even rarer than well-spent tanea, often a pile of rubbish, but not a Life. lives; and many great men have been strangled We have had many notable instances of this after death by little men, who have attempted to sort of manufacture lately, the most melan- delineate them, but succeeded only in drawing choly of which was the Life of Wordsworth, their own pictures. Strange enough it is, by his son. Southey fared rather better, but that Boswell, who was so suspected by Johnson his Life too suffered in the ponderous six vol- as an incompetent biographer, should have umes of undigested, though admirable mate- left us the most complete portraiture of a great rials, which have recently been given to the English, living man, that is to be found in world. Wilberforce's Life, though hand- our language. And yet Boswell was no dissomely paid for, was another failure, originat- tinguished littératcur. Macaulay contempting in the same
For sons, even uously calls him “a dunce, a parasite, a coxthough they possess the requisite literary comb”. " one of the smallest men that ever ability, are the last persons to write fairly lived." And yet this despised Boswell has and dispassionately the Lives of their parents. written the best English biography - a book They draw a veil over those points of charac- that is worthy of a place beside Plutarch, ter which the world most wishes to see un- How is this? Why, because Boswell related veiled, and which give the chief interest to that of which he knew, and because out of a biography. They think of their father's the fulness of his heart and memory his mouth fair name, and aim at reconciling editorial spoke and his pen wrote. He gave us a real duties with filial love. And thus, often, the Life of Johnson told us every minute detail pith of the memoir is allowed to escape.
Sir about him, even to the kind of coat and wig Samuel Romilly's life, by his son, is one of he wore the tea, fish-sauce, and veal-pio the best that has appeared ; but, fortunately, with plums, which he loved - his rolling walk the father had left behind him an excellent and blinking eye - his foibles, vanities, and autobiography which the son allowed to speak prejudices — his trick of touching the posts as for itselt, and there was left little more to be he walked, and his superstition about entering desired. To this, we may add the extremely a house with the right foot first his habit interesting Life of Curran, by his son --- one of picking up and treasuring by him scraps of the best pieces of biography which has of orange peal.— his gruntings -- his vehecome to light of recent years.
ment “You lie, sir!” – his whirlwind elo Another biography of a highly-celebrated Iquence — his fits of rage -- his penitence
his gloomy moroseness, and sometimes his un-fing, consequential ways, the daily reproofs controllable laughter. In fact, you have the and rebuffs he underwent, could gain from man as he lived, written down by one who the world no golden, but only leaden, opinions. followed him like his shadow ; or rather, who His devout discipleship seemed nothing more daguerreotyped him for us in sun-pictures than a mean spanielship in the general eye. which shall live forever in English biography. There is much lying yet undeveloped in And not only is Johnson delineated as he lived the love of Boswell for Johnson. A cheering in Boswell's pages, but by far the most charac- proof, in a time which else utterly wanted teristic traits in the life of Oliver Goldsmith- and still wants such, that living Wisdom is those which inform us as to the life, and char- quite infinitely precious to man, is the symbol acter, and dress, and conversation, of that of the Godlike to him, which even weak eyes simple-minded being - are also to be found may discern; that loyalty, discipleship, all recorded there. And so of many others of that was ever meant by hero-worship, lives Johnson's distinguished contemporaries, of perennially in the human bosom, and waits, whom, but for James Boswell, we should now even in these dead days, only for occasions have known comparatively little.
to unfold it, and inspire all men with it, and Carlyle, in his admirable article on Samuel again inake the world alive! James Boswell Johnson, originally published in Fraser, has we can regard as a practical witness (or real done much to rescue Boswell from the oblo- martyr) to this high, everlasting truth.” guy and contempt which recent commentators It was through this intense admiration for have sought to cast upon his name. True, he Johnson, that Boswell was enabled to produce was a weak, vain man---something of a flun- his life-breathing biography; and although key. Yet was he a hero-worshipper. He many great literary men have lived since his might not have the capacity of being a nota- time, they have been able to produce nothing ble man himself; but he admired all such, equal to it. We want more Bozzies — men and Samuel Johnson was the hero whom he with a heart and an eye to discern character idolized. The man who had in him this in- and to recognize wisdom — with free insight, tense admiration of a character such as John- simple love, and childlike open-mindedness. son's could not be so utterly worthless. “It We have more than enough of rhetorical and is," says Carlyle, “one of the strangest pho- didactic talent, but in biography it is out of nomena of the past century, that at a time place. We want faithful delineations of charwhen the old reverent feeling of discipleship acter, which is nature in its highest form ; (such as brought men from far countries, and it is matter for thankfulness that brilliant with rich gifts and prostrate souls to the feet powers are not needed for its true appreciaof the Prophets), had passed utterly away tion. Your Bozzies are the best historians of from men's practical experience, and was no their age, and often teach_us more than longer surmised to exist (as it does) perennial, Hume or Robertson can do. Even the garruindestructible, in man's inmost heart, James lous Samuel Pepys may tell us more of the Boswell should have been the individual, of real life of his "Own Times" than a Burnet all others, predestined to recall it, in such or a Swist. singular guise, to the wondering, and, for a What would we not give for a Bozzy's long while, laughing and unrecognizing world. account of Shakspeare? --Shakspeare, the The worship of Johnson was his grand, ideal, man of men, of whose private life so little is voluntary business. Does not the frothy- known? Indeed, his only autobiography is hearted yet enthusiastic man, doffing his to be found in his sonnets. But we should advocate-wig, regularly take post and hurry like to know how Shakspeare lived, how be up to London, for the sake of his sage chiedy, dressed, even what kind of stockings he wore, as to a Feast of Tabernacles, the sabbath of what were his habits, his times of rising up his whole year? The plate-licker and wine- and lying down, whether he wrote in dressingbibber dives into Bolt Court to sip muddy gown and slippers, how he worked and fared. coffee with a cynical old man, and a sour-tem- who his companions and friends were, and, pered, blind old woman (feeling the cups, above all, what was his talk and familar conwhether they are full, with her finger), and versation, what were his speculations about patiently endures contradictions without end ; life and death, and wealth and poverty, and too happy so he may but be allowed to listen what was the daily life of the men and women and live. Nay, it does not appear that vulgar about him. We have only occasional glimpses vanity could ever have been much flattered by of these subjects in his noble works ; but then, Boswell's relation to Johnson. Mr. Croker to have his familiar talk jotted down for us, says, Johnson was, to the last, little regarded his recollections of his boyhood and of his by the great world; from which, for a vulgar adventures in the woods of Charlecote ; and vanity, all honor, as from a fountain, descends. then his struggles amid London life --- how he Bozzy, even among Johnson's friends and took to the stage, what was his history there, special admirers, seems rather to have been how he worked his way up to proprietorship laughed at than envied; his officious, whisk- l in the Blackfriars theatre, what was his life
when he went back, full of deep-welling |has it -“Were the best man's faults written thoughts, to that quiet country life at Strat- on his forehead, he would pull his bonnet. ford-on-Avon, where he died — who would over his brow.”. Could you expect him to not wish to have all this related to him, as put them in his biography! And Voltaire Boswell has related the story of Johnson's has observed in the same spirit, “ Every man career! But, as it is, Shakspeare's life is has a wild beast within him. Few know written in his works; and more than they how to chain him. The greater number give tell us we can scarcely be said to know. About him the rein except when the fear of the law all such great men there is the most natural holds them back." You cannot expect men desire to know much. The world's eyes are to tell you honestly how they manage with turned to them. We want to know their in- their wild beast.” We would rather bedividuality, and manner of existence, which lieve in the Bozzy, to the extent of his obsermay often be full of profit and instruction for ration. us. But we are curious also as to their feat of recent biographies, Carlyle's Life of Sterures, and looks, and dress, and sayings, and ling and Disraeli's Life of Lord George Beneven their most indifferent actions - the record tinck furnish apposite illustrations. The former of which only Bozzies can duly note for our sat- is a real, living portrait ; it lets you into the isfaction. Your “ distinguished writers” have actual life of an earnest man — paints him as rarely eyes for such small matter. They are so he lived, and thought, and worked ; it is a apt to make the subject of their book a mirror in life worthy of Plutarch. The latter -- the which they wish to see themselves. The lives life of Lord George Bentinck — is a political they write are not biographies, so much as pamphlet rather than a life. There is here the dry bones of a body, which should have and there to be found a little of the biograheen alive. It is only the loving, gossiping phic lath and plaster ; but we will venture to Bozzies who can adequately satisfy us about say that a better idea of Lord George Bentinck the matters we are most desirous to know. as a man might be obtained from a brief con
Autobiographies are very instructive ; in- versation with one of his servants or grooms deed, Johnson has said that every man's life than from this so-called biography. It is a may be best written by himself. But those mere clothes-horse, on which Mr. Disraeli who write their own lives are apt to omit the displays his collection of political wares. It very things in which the world takes most in- is little better than réchauffée of Hansard : terest. Å man is not always the best judge certainly it is not the Life of Lord George himself. He is disposed to paint himself en Bentinck. beau; otherwise he were scarcely human. The French greatly excel us in biography Rousseau is the only writer who has been and memoirs; but this topic we reserve for honest in this respect, and there may have some future number. been an affectation in his confession of faults, not altogether truthful. Hear Rousseau himself on this point:
Tue Journal des Débats, quoting from the "No one can write a man's life so well as Java Bode, a journal published at Batavia, himself. His interior being, his true life, is gives an account of a recent sale of slaves at known to himself alone; but, in writing, he the Chinese camp. The slaves, twelve in numdisguises it; under the 'name of a Life he ber, having been placed upon the table of the makes an apology; he shows himself as he exposition, disposed in four lots, rattled some would like to be seen, but not at all as he is. money in their hands, and addressed a few The sincere are more or less truthful in what bly. A person who acted as their agent here
words timidly and in low tones to the assemthey say, but they are more or less false stepped forward, and stated that his clients, through reservations; and what they conceal having accumulated by long and painful labors has such a bearing on what they avow, that, some small saving, solicited the favor of being in telling only a part of the truth, they in allowed to make a bidding for the purchase of reality say nothing. I place Montaigne at their own persons. No opposition being offered, the head of these false sincere writers, who the first lot was cried, and made an offer through would deceive you even in relating what is their agent, of forty francs. No advance being true. He paints himself with his faults, but made upon this sum, the slaves were knocked then they are only amiable ones ; there is no down to themselves, the next lot, encouraged by man who has not bateful faults too. Mon
their predecessors, offered only twenty-four francs. taigne paints himself like, but only in profile. The public preserved the same silence, and they Who knows but that some gash on the cheek, took the hint, and were even more fortunate,
became their own purchasers. The third lot or a cast in the eye, on the side concealed picking themselves up at a decided bargain, for from us, would not have totally altered the the modest sum of ten francs. The Java Bode expression of the countenance ?"
sees in these facts a great advance in civilization, A man cannot speak freely of himself in bis especially among the Chinese, who formed the autobiography. As the old 'Highland proverb / great majority of the persons present.
From Chambers' Journal. double window over their heads, make a AN OLD-FASHIONED SWEDISH WEDDING. atom of that world or not; but instead of
pursuing reflections which might make the ST. STEPHEN'S Day - Boxing-day as it is good tender heart of my kind friend Frederisometimes rudely called in England, to the ka Bremer to ache, I will put on my cloak and infinite perplexity of foreigners, some of a bonnet, to show I am not going out to whom want to persuade me that it is among dinner ; and then I will take a walk, and us made the festival of our great national distract myself, as my French friends would art - St. Stephen's Day is, in Sweden, in say, in the only way I can. one sense, a greater holiday than its prede. The winter air of Sweden is very exhilaratcessor; it is observed in a less religious but ing out of doors; within, it is quite the more festive manner than Christmas. Shops contrary; the rooms are so warm, the walls and offices of all descriptions are closed ; and windows so thick, the closed-up stoves 80 visiting, meeting, congratulating, eating, oppressively hot, that they make me stupid, drinking, walking, sledge-driving, smoking, heavy, indolent as a native. Now, I am on and talking, may well fill up a short winter- Norrbro, gazing on a scene that never tires. day. My post of observation is my window, Here, looking at this beautiful Mälar, in its looking over my favorite Place - Carl tretons unfrozen part, sweeping between snowy Torg. What a scene I look down upon now ! boundaries, to cast itself into the Baltic, and the whole street, the whole Place, covered at the widely-extended and brilliantly-white with black figures moving over the snowy scene on either side, I get into a better ground. Everybody is going out to dinner. humor than I was in my air-tight rooms, and You may know that such is the intention of forget to feel spiteful when I see fur-clad these good people, for it is between two and men pulling off their hats, and perhaps exthree o'clock, and the women wear black posing a bald crown to the biting air, while hoods or black silk kerchiefs on their heads. they bow, and bow, and bow - three times Among true Swedes, no lady, young, or old, is the mode - as if they were presented for goes out to a party or public place without a the first time to the friends they salute; and hood or kerchief, which is taken off on enter then grasp them by the hand, clap. them on ing. Maid-servants, and decent women of the the shoulder, or perhaps, on occasions, hug lower ranks, wear the kerchief at all times them in the arms, with all the warmth of when abroad -- a bonnet would be thought brotherhood. And I forbear to envy the by them an impropriety, a “setting up for hooded women, who are constantly stopping something above them;" their entire costume on their way to courtesy down to the ground, is still appropriate and distinctive. May and then to pull a hand from the inevitable they long retain their own fashions, and scorn muff, and extend it with a certain formal the tawdry bonnets, flowers, and imitative heartiness to meet another hand. I never modes of a similar class among ourselves ! have to pull out my hand from the wide 'To look out of my window on this bright day, sleeves of my furred cloak, which I try to and over this charmingly clear and snowy persuade the Swedes answer for the muff, into prospect, one might fancy that the whole of which all classes, even without bonnets on Stockholm was moving out to a great funeral. their heads, must insert their hands. Voices Festivities in Sweden are solemn-looking are buzzing round me in congratulation or things. Black is the state-costume in every hopeful wishes. Perhaps even now sone sense ; only black or white can be worn at airy voice may syllable my name, but it does court, and black is still the state-dress of the not reach mé. Well, what matter? If I plain and lower ranks. Formerly, it was used had to shake many hands, mine would be at every ceremonial or visit of importance ; frozen; and if I had to say: “ Hur star det and to-day, the crowds of black figures till ?” to all the friends I met, my breath moving in the bright sunshine, together with would be congealed, as it is on the countless the always grave and quiet demeanor of the mustaches and beards around me. Swedes when out of doors, give one the idea I returned alone, as I had gone out, and of anything rather than the festive meetings alone I was to be. There was no dinner to which all are hastening.
dressed in the house this day ; every creature But are there no mourners left behind, no bad left the immense building, servants and sick, no sorrowing ? Are there no hidden all; a poor old woman was, I believe, in mourners moving among them? Is the fes- some remote corner, sent in just to see that tivity of St. Stephen's Day undarkened by a no one ran away with it. I was alone, and memory, unalloyed by a gnawing heart-pang ? had to make the best of my solitude. My Why ask the question? They look happy, respected and kind friends at the British speak happily, walk along contentedly, look- Embassy had illness in their family, and no ing as if the world were satisfied with them, one else thought of the solitary stranger on and they were satisfied with the world. They that day of reunions; but there was good in are not thinking whether I, perched at the this, too, for it taught me just to do the con