The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1, April, 1851

The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had given his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter. His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none; but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent fit of hysterics.

HERBERT KNOWLES

We recently printed in the International an interesting account of the "marvellous boy" Chatterton, who "perished in his pride," and the memoirs of Southey recall to us the almost as unfortunate Herbert Knowles, who died in 1817. Knowles was a poor boy of the humblest origin, without father or mother, yet with abilities sufficient to excite the attention of strangers, who subscribed 20l. a year towards his education, upon condition that his friends should furnish 30l. more. The boy was sent to Richmond School, Yorkshire, preparatory to his proceeding as a sizer to St. John's, but when he quitted school the friends were unable to advance another sixpence on his account. To help himself, Herbert Knowles wrote a poem, sent it to Southey with a history of his case, and asked permission to dedicate it to the Laureate. Southey, finding the poem "brimful of power and of promise," made inquiries of the schoolmaster, and received the highest character of the youth. He then answered the application of Knowles, entreated him to avoid present publication, and promised to do something better than receive his dedication. He subscribed at once 10l. per annum towards the failing 30l., and procured similar subscriptions from Mr. Rogers and the late Lord Spencer. Herbert Knowles, receiving the news of his good fortune, wrote to his protector a letter remarkable for much more than the gratitude which pervaded every line. He remembered that Kirke White had gone to the university countenanced and supported by patrons, and that to pay back the debt he owed them he wrought day and night until his delicate frame gave way, and his life became the penalty of his devotion. Herbert Knowles felt that he could not make the same desperate efforts, and deemed it his first duty to say so. "I will not deceive," he writes in his touching anxiety.

"Far be it from me to foster expectations which I feel I cannot gratify. Two years ago I came to Richmond totally ignorant of classical and mathematical literature. Out of that time, during three months and two long vacations I have made but a retrograde course. If I enter into competition for university honors I shall kill myself. Could I twine, to gratify my friends, a laurel with the cypress I would not repine; but to sacrifice the little inward peace which the wreck of passion has left behind, and relinquish every hope of future excellence and future usefulness in one wild and unavailing pursuit, were indeed a madman's act, and worthy of a madman's fate."

The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities, and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad suspected.

A poem by him, The Three Tabernacles, though perhaps familiar to most of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:

THE THREE TABERNACLES

Methinks it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build,—but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no:
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For see, they would pin him below
To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets
The charms that she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:
Who hid, in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squandered again;
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no: they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve:
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah! no: for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow;
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

There are in his works several other pieces not less remarkable for the best qualities of poetry; and they all appear to be the echoes of genuine feeling.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[13 - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES

Continued from page 511, vol. II

PART SECOND—BOOK FIRST

THE DUCHESS

On the very day on which the marriage had been celebrated at the town of Sorrento, a man descended from a carriage that, from the dust on its wheels, seemed to have travelled far, at the town of Ceprano, situated on the frontier of the Roman States and the kingdom of Naples. People call Ceprano a city; it is, however, in fact, only a large town of the Abruzzi, very ugly and very dirty, to which leads one of the worst and most romantic roads in Italy. Ceprano would scarcely merit the traveller's notice, but for many curiosities which it contains, worthy of particular attention. These curiosities are neither the charms of nature, for the scenery is without interest, nor palaces, nor monuments. They are neither archeologic nor artistic, but the greatest of earthly rarities—curiosities of humanity. The women of Ceprano are, perhaps, the most beautiful in Italy. Their stature, their regular and noble features, their magnificent black hair, twined around their charming faces, a graceful carriage, truly antique, their picturesque costume, partaking of the characters of both modern Greece and Italy, form the most admirable and pleasant combination. The women of Ceprano display, also, a peculiar coquetry, by their graceful and bold air; they carry on their heads etruscan amphoræ, in which, like Rachel, they bring water from the spring. At the fountain, therefore, strangers assemble to admire these nymphs. The traveller of whom we speak had gone thither, according to the well established custom, while his horses were being changed. He had, however, been preceded by another man, whose strange appearance soon attracted attention. The latter was about sixty years of age, of middle height, and well made. He had been handsome, if one could judge from the purity of the lines of his features, which time had not entirely effaced. His coiffure alone would have made him appear whimsical and ridiculous, had not his head been noble and distinguished. He wore powder; and locks such as once were known as a l'aille de pigeon, were on each side of his face. A cloak of light silk was buttoned over his breast, so as to conceal a blue coat on which a cross of Saint Louis rested, being suspended to a broad blue ribbon. Sitting between two of the prettiest girls of Ceprano, he talked to them in an Italian, very little of which they understood; for his patois called forth from the volatile creatures bursts of laughter.

"Bah!" said he in French; "this is the consequence of not studying foreign tongues. I cannot turn the indigenes to profit. Pity, too, when they are beautiful as these are."

"Signor, may I be your interpreter?" said the last comer, who had heard only the latter portion of the old man's words.

"Thanks, Signor," said he; "heaven has sent you to the aid of a barbarian who was pitilessly murdering the mother tongue of Tasso. Formerly," continued he, "pantomime answered to talk with women as well as language; now, however, I must explain myself in another manner. I cannot, therefore, ask you to be the interpreter of my request of these girls!"

"What, Signor, did you ask them?" said he.

"Nothing, but permission to write two signs on my tablets. A habit I imported from London, a peculiar kind of statistics to introduce some variety into the tedious stories travellers spin. I indicate the region through which I pass by a single phrase or word which recalls to me what they have most agreeable to the heart, mind, or senses. See," said he, taking a rich pocket-book on which was a prince's coronet in gold, "all Italy will occupy but two pages. Florence? Flowers and museums. Bologna? Hams. Milan? La scala. Leghorn? Nothing. Rome? Every thing. Et cætera. I wished to write Ceprano? kisses: to prove that here I touched the lips of the two prettiest women of Italy."

"If that is all," said the person to whom the old man spoke, "and for the purpose of advocating so useful a cause," said she, with a laugh, "I will procure you the pleasure you desire."