The International Monthly Magazine Volume V to No II

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Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. V.
NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY 1, 1852.
No. II.

[Illustration: THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.]

THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

CONTENTS

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.
THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.
CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.
TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE
COLONIES.
A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS' TEMPLE AT BAKU.
A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.
LORD MAHON'S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
FAUST OF WITTENBERG AND FUST OF MENTZ.
SOME SMALL POEMS.
MR. JUSTICE STORY, WITH SOME REMINISCENT REFLECTIONS.
COLUMBUS AT THE GATES OF GENOA.
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.
SMILES AND TEARS.
FREEDOM OF THOUGHT AND THE LATEST MIRACLES.
THE SONG QUEEN.
LOVE SONG.
AUTUMN LINES.
THE PUNISHMENT OF GINA MONTANI.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VISION OF CHARLES XI.
DIVINATION, WITCHCRAFT, AND MESMERISM.
A CHAPTER OF EPITAPHS.
THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.
THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.
THE BULL FIGHT OF MADRID.
THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.
AN OLD MAID'S FIRST LOVE.
MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO.
MY NOVEL:
BOOK IX. - INITIAL CHAPTER.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
REMINISCENCES OF PRINTERS, AUTHORS, AND BOOKSELLERS IN NEW-YORK.
Noctes Amicae.
Authors and Books
THE FINE ARTS
Historical Review of the Month
Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.
Recent Deaths.
Ladies' Fashions for February.

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

On the preceding page is a portrait, and under the head of Recent Deaths,
in another part of this magazine, is a sketch of the history of NICHOLAS
JEAN-DE-DIEU SOULT, the last of the great Marshals created by the Emperor
Napoleon. He was unquestionably possessed of extraordinary abilities,
fitting him for eminence in many and diverse capacities, but it cannot be
said that he was of the first rank of illustrious generals, as the world
has been led to suppose, chiefly by the masterly but partial delineations
of his career in the Peninsula by General Napier. He had a genius for war
which qualified him for every position in connection with it but that of
leader in the field. The subtle and irreversible decisions of Napoleon
followed his astonishingly quick apprehensions of facts, as suddenly as
the thunderbolt follows lightning; but Soult, profoundly familiar with all
the arts of war, and surpassing any of the great commanders with whom he
was associated except only his chief, in the wisdom of his judgments, was
yet so slow in his intellectual operations, so destitute of the
enthusiasm, passion, and fire, which in high circumstance give an almost
miraculous activity to the minds of the first order of men, that he could
never have entitled himself to all the precedences he has received in
history. Napoleon understood him, and in a few pregnant words addressed to
O'Meara, gave that measure of his character which will be adopted as the
final opinion of the world. "He is," said Napoleon, "an excellent minister
at war, or major-general of an army, one who knows much better how to
manage an army than to command in chief."

The course of Soult as a citizen, a legislator, and a minister, was not
one upon which his best biographers will linger with much satisfaction.
The glory he had achieved as one of the lieutenants of Napoleon, in that
turbulent and grand career which has no parallel for interest or
importance in human history, was his only claim to distinction in
politics. His master had an ambition as fair in its proportions as it was
vast in its extent, and brought to every purpose the same forces of
character and preternatural energy of intelligence; but Soult had no love
for civil duties, but little capacity for them, and he accepted place as a
gratification of vanity or a means of success in mercenary aims. We see in
all his private and political life "the soilure of his revolutionary
origin,"--proofs that he loved money and power far more than he loved
honor, and himself far more than his country or mankind.

The last of the imperial marshals, the last of that gigantic race who
filled the world with a red glory like the gloom which will precede the
judgment, closed his stormy life peacefully in the place where he was
born, and thence was borne to the Invalides, to "sleep well" with his old
companions."

THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.

We have in the last _Art Journal_ another of the pleasant gossipping
_Pilgrimages to English Shrines_, by Mrs. S. C. HALL, and the following
abridgement of it will please all who have perused the previous papers of
the series. In Chertsey and its neighborhood are memorials of some of the
noblest men of England.

[Illustration: ABRAHAM COWLEY.]

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.

The county of Surrey is rich to overflowing in memories, both of persons
and events, and the little quaint and quiet town of Chertsey could tell of
the gorgeous and gloomy past as much as many of its ancient neighbors
within a day's drive of the city. Had its old abbey stones but tongues,
how they could discourse of years when a visit to Chertsey was an
undertaking; though now the distance is but half an hour.

Nowhere within twenty miles of London does the Thames appear more queenly,
or sweep with greater grace through its fertile dominions, than it does at
Chertsey. It is, indeed, delightful to stand on the bridge in the glowing
sunset of a summer evening, and turning from the refreshing green of the
Shepperton Range, look into the deep clear blue of the flowing river,
while the murmur of the waters rushing through Laleham Lock give a sort of
spirit music to the scene. On the right, as you leave Chertsey, the river
bends gracefully towards the double bridge of Walton, and to the left, it
undulates smoothly along, having passed Runnymede and Staines, while the
almost conical hill of St. Anne's attracts attention by its abrupt and
singular form when viewed from the vale of the Thames.

About a mile, on the Walton side, from our favorite bridge (Old Camden
tells us so), is the spot where Caesar crossed the Thames. Were the
peasantry as imaginative as their brethren of Killarney, what legends
would have grown out of this tradition; how often would the "noblest Roman
of them all" have been seen by the pale moonlight leading his steed over
the waters of the rapid river--how many would have heard Cassivelaunus
himself during the stillness of some particular Midsummer night working at
the rude defence which can still be traced beneath the blue waters of the
Thames. What hosts of pale and ghastly spectres would have risen from
those tranquil banks, and from the deepest hollows of the rushing current,
and--like the Huns, who almost live on the inspired canvas of
Kaulbach,--fought their last earthly battle, again and again, in the spirit
world, amid the stars! But ours is no region of romance; even remnants of
history, which go beyond the commonest capacity, are rejected as dreams,
or put aside as legends. But history has enough to tell to interest us
all; and we may be satisfied with the abundant enjoyment we have in
delicious rambles through the lanes and up the hills, along the fair
river's banks, and among the many traditional ruins of ancient and
beautiful Surrey.

Never was desolation more complete than in the ruin of the Mitred Abbey of
Chertsey; hardly one stone remains above another to tell where this
stately edifice--since the far-away year 664--grew and flourished, lording
it with imperial sway over, not only the surrounding villages, but
extending its paternal wings into Middlesex and even as far as London. The
abbey was of the Benedictine order, and founded, almost as soon as the
Saxons were converted from Paganism; but it was finished and chiefly
endowed by Frithwald, Earl of Surrey. The endowment prospered rarely; the
establishment increased in the reputation of wealth and sanctity; that it
was "thickly populated" is certain, for when the abbey was sacked and
burnt by the Danes, in the ninth century, the abbot, and ninety monks,
were barbarously murdered by the invaders.

Standing upon the site of their now obliterated cloisters and towers,
their aisles and dormitories, cells and confessionals, seeing nothing but
the dank, damp grass, and the tracings of the fish-ponds--stagnant pools in
our day--it is almost impossible to realize the onslaught of these wild
barbarians panting for plunder, the earnest defence of men who fought (the
monks of old could wield either sword or crosier) for life or death, the
terrible destruction, the treasures and relics, and painted glass, and
monuments, the plunder of the secret almerys, the intoxicated triumph of
those rude northern hordes let loose in our fair and lovely island; what
scenes of savagery, where now the jackdaw builds, and the blackbird
whistles, and the wild water-rat plays with her brood amongst the tangled
weeds!

The fierce sea-kings being driven back to their frozen land, King Edgar,
willing to serve God after the fashion of his times, refounded the Abbey
of Chertsey, dedicating it to St. Peter, and vying with Pope Alexander in
augmenting its privileges and its wealth.

Some of the abbots took great interest in home improvements, planting
woods, conducting streams, enlarging ponds--building, now a mill, now a
dove-cot, according to the wants of the abbey or their own fancies. Henry
I. granted them permission to keep dogs, that, according to the old
chronicle, they might take "hare, fox, and cats." King John, in the first
year of his reign, gave them ample confirmation of all their privileges,
which, it would seem, they had somewhat abused, for we find that the
sovereign seized their manors of Egham and "Torp" (Thorp) on account of a
servant of the abbot's having killed "Hagh de Torp." Oh, rare "old times!"
The abbot was mulcted in a heavy fine. Then, while Bartholomew de
Winchester was abbot, from 1272 until 1307, during the reign of our first
Edward, complaints were made to Pope Gregory X. that the possessions of
the abbey were alienated to civilians and laymen, whereupon the pope
issued a bull ordering such grants to be revoked.

It is worthy of note, that the Chertsey monastery sheltered, for a time,
the remains of the pious, but unfortunate, Henry VI.

"Poor key-cold figure of a Holy King,
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster."

And the reader of Shakespeare will recall the scene in which Richard meets
the Lady Anne on her way to Chertsey with her husband's body. This poor
king's remains had a claim to be well received by the monks of Chertsey
Abbey, for he had granted to the abbot the privilege of holding a fair on
St. Anne's-hill, then called Mount Eldebury, on the feast of St. Anne's
(the 26th of July): the fair has changed its time and quarters as well as
its patron, and is held in the town on the 6th of August, and called Black
Cherry Fair. Manning, in his history of Surrey, says, that the tolls of
this fair were taken by the abbot, and are now taken by the owner of the
site of the Abbey House; thus the memory of King Henry VI. is commemorated
in the town of Chertsey to this day, by the sale of black cherries in the
harvest month of August!

[Illustration: "THE NUN'S WELL."]

"THE NUN'S WELL."

Centuries passed over those magnificent abbeys, whose ruins in many places
add so much beauty to our fertile landscapes; they grew and grew, and
added acre to acre, and stone to stone, and knowledge to knowledge; but
most they cherished the knowledge which blazed like a lamp under a bushel,
and kept all but themselves in darkness; they preached no freedom in
Christ to the Christian world, they abolished no serfdom, they taught no
liberty, they enslaved even those who in their turn enslaved their "born
thralls," and saw no evil in it. Oh, rare old times! Better it is for us
that the site of Chertsey Abbey should be scarcely traceable now-a-days
than that it should be as it was, with its proud pageants and pent-up
learning!--Yet we have neither sympathy no respect for that foul king, who,
to serve his own carnal purposes, overthrew the very faith which had
hallowed his throne. But he did not attack and storm the Abbey of
Chertsey, as he did other religious houses. He came to them, this Eighth
Harry, with a fair show of kindness, saying that "to the honor of God, and
for the health of his soul, he proposed and most nobly intended to refound
the late Monastery, Priory, or Abbey of Bisham in Berks, and to
incorporate and establish the Abbot and Convent of Chertsey, as Abbot and
Convent of Bisham, and to endow them with all the Manors late belonging to
Bisham." How the then Abbot John Cordrey, and his brethren, must have
shivered at the conditions; how they must have grieved at quitting their
cherished home, their stews and fish-ponds, their rich meadows of Thorpe,
overlooked by the woods of Eldebury hill, their nursing ground where their
calves and young lambs were stowed in luxurious safety in the pleasant
farm of Simple Marsh at Addlestone!

But their star was setting, and they were forced to "give, sell, grant and
confirm, to the king their house and all manors belonging to them."

The total destruction of the Abbey must have amazed the whole country. An
earthquake could hardly have obliterated it more entirely. Aubrey, writing
in the year 1673, says "of this great Abbey, scarce any thing of the old
building remains, except the out walls about it. Out of this ruin, is
built a 'fair house,' which is now in possession of Sir Nicholas Carew,
master of the Buckhounds." Dr. Stukeley alludes to this house, in a letter
written in 1752; he speaks of the inveterate destruction, and of "the
gardener" carrying him through a "court" where he saw the remains of the
church of the Abbey. He says the "east end reached up to an artificial
mount along the garden wall; that mount and all the terraces of the
pleasure garden, to the back front of the house, are entirely made up of
the sacred _rudera_ or rubbish of continual devastations. Bones of abbots,
monks, and great personages, who were buried in large numbers in the
church and cloisters which lay on the south side of the church, were
spread thick all over the garden, _so that one may pick up whole handsfull
of them every where amongst the garden stuff_." Brayley mentions in his
pleasant History of Surrey, that this artificial mount was levelled in
1810, and its materials employed to fill up a pond. Many human skulls and
bones were found intermixed with the chalk and mortar of which it had been
formed. Fragments of old tiles were also frequently found, and are still
sometimes turned up. No trace even of the "Abbey house" is left; it was
purchased in 1809 by a stock-broker, who in the following year sold the
materials--and so ends the great monastic history of Chertsey. Where are
now its spiritualities in Surrey?--its temporalities in Berkshire and
Hampshire?--its revenues of Stanwell, and rents of assize?--its
spiritualities in Cardiganshire? Alas! they have left no sign, except on
the yellow parchment--of rare value to the antiquary.

Those who desire, like ourselves, to investigate what tradition has
sanctified, will do well to turn down a lane beyond Chertsey Church, which
leads directly to the Abbey bridge, and there, amid tangled hedge rows and
orchards, stands the fragment of an arch, partly built up, and so to say,
disfigured by brick-work, and an old wall, both evidently portions of the
Abbey. In the wall are a great number of what the people call "_black
stones_," a geological formation, making them seem fused by fire. Layers
of tiles were also inserted in this wall, and where the cement has dropped
away they can be distinctly traced; there is also an ivy, very aged
indeed; it is so knotted and thick that it seems to grow through the
stones, the soil has so evidently encroached on the wall that it is most
probably rooted at the foundation. The pleasant market garden of Mr. Roake
covers the actual ground on which the Abbey stood. The workmen frequently
turn up broken tiles and human bones, and there is no doubt that by
digging deeper much would be discovered that might elucidate the history
of the past. At the farther end of the market garden a vault has been
discovered which is of considerable length and breadth; but the water
rises so high in it (except after a long continuance of dry weather has
sealed the land springs) that it is impossible to get to the end without
wading. An enormous quantity of richly-colored and decorated encaustic
tiles have been found here; some are preserved in our local museum. But
the most interesting remains in this place are the "stews," or fish-ponds,
which run parallel to each other like the bars of a gridiron; these ponds
do not communicate one with the other, nor has the water any outlet: a
little care and attention might make them valuable for their old purposes;
but they are deplorably neglected. Occasionally you see the fin of some
huge fish, whose slow movement partakes of the character of the stagnant
water he has inhabited for years;--who can tall how many?

[Illustration: "THE GOLDEN GROVE."]

"THE GOLDEN GROVE."

"The Abbey River," as it is still called, travels slowly along its way,
fertilizing the meadows and imparting life and freshness to the placid
scene. The denizens of Chertsey have planted orchards, and in a few
instances gardens on its banks. One, the garden of Mr. Herring, is a model
of neatness, almost concealed by its roses and carefully tended shrubs. We
wandered from orchard to orchard, amid the trees and over the uneven
ground; all was so still and lonely that it required the suggestions of an
active imagination to believe it had ever been the scene of contention by
flood and field. From the Abbey Bridge the richness of the meadow scenery
is exceedingly refreshing, the grass is deep and verdant, as it cannot
fail to be, lying so low, and fertilized by perpetual moisture.

During their wide-spreading magnificence, the abbots of Chertsey erected a
picturesque chapel on the lovely hill of St. Anne: this was done somewhat
about the year 1334. Orleton, Bishop of Winchester, granted an indulgence
of forty days to such persons as should repair to, and contribute to the
fabric and its ornaments.

There is nowhere a more delightful road, than that which leads from the
"Golden Grove," rendered picturesque by its old tree, the plantations of
Monksgrove on one side, and those of the once residence of Charles James
Fox on the other. The road is perfectly embowered, and so close is the
foliage that you have no idea of the beautiful view which awaits you,
until leaving the statesman's house to the left, you pass through a sort
of wicket gate on the right, and follow a foot-path to where two
magnificent trees crown the hill; it is wisest to wait until passing along
the level ridge you arrive at the "view point," and there, spread around
you in such a panorama as England only can show, and show against the
world for its extreme richness. On the left is Cooper's Hill, which
Denham, that high-priest of "Local poetry," long ago made famous; in the
bend just where it meets the plain, you see the towers of Windsor Castle;
there is Harrow Hill, the sun shining brightly on its tall church; a deep
pall hovers over London, but you can see the dome of St. Paul's looming
through the mist; nay, we have heard of those who have told the hour of
the day upon its broad-faced clock, with the assistance of a good glass.
How beautifully the Thames winds! Ay! there is the grand stand at Epsom,
and there Twickenham, delicious, soft, balmy Twickenham; and Richmond
Hill--a very queen of beauty!

[Illustration: REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.]

REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.

Yonder, beyond the valley, are Foxes Hills crowned with lofty pines--and
that is the church at Staines, and as you turn, there again is Cooper's
Hill; Laleham seems spread as a tribute at your feet, and there is no end
to the villages and mansions--the parks, and cottages like snow-drops in a
parterre, and church spires more than we can number; while close behind us
are the stones piled thickly one on the other--the only relics of the holy
Chapel of St. Anne.

How grandly the promontory of St. George's Hill stands out--sheltering
Weybridge, and forming a beautiful back-ground to Byfleet and the banks of
the Way; not forgetting its ruins--a Roman encampment of two thousand years
age, and its modern ornaments of rare trees, of which a generous nobleman
has made common property, to be enjoyed daily by all who choose. At the
foot of this richly planted hill, is the beautiful park of Oatlands--on the
eve of becoming an assemblage of villa-grounds. How pleasant to feel that
we can account, by our own knowledge of that glowing mount, for all the
shades formed by the hills and hollows, and different growths of trees in
the depths or heights of "the encampment," which forms the delight of many
a toilsome antiquary. Beyond are the more distant eminences of the North
Downs, and a tract of country extending into Kent. But we have not yet
explored the beauties of this our own hill of Chertsey; truly, to do so,
would take a day as long as that of its own black cherry fair.

A path to the left, among the fern and heather, leads to a well, famed for
its healing properties--it is called the Nun's Well; even now, the peasants
believe that its waters are a cure for diseases of the eye; the path is
steep and dangerous, and it is far pleasanter to walk round the brow of
the hill and overlook the dense wood which conceals the well, fringing the
meadows of Thorpe, than to seek its tangled hiding-place in the dell. The
monks of old would be sorely perplexed if they could arise, to account for
the long line of smoke which marks the passage of the different trains
along their railroads. But we turn from them to enjoy a ramble round the
brow of St. Anne's Hill; the coppice which clothes the descent into the
valley, is so thick, that though it is intersected by many paths, you
might lose yourself half-a-dozen times within an hour; if it be evening,
the nightingales in the thickets of Monksgrove have commenced their
chorus, and the town of Chertsey, down below, is seen to its full extent,
its church tower toned into beauty by the rich light of the setting sun,
while through the trees and holly thickets you obtain glimpses of the
Guildford and Leatherhead hills, so softly blue, that they meet and mingle
with the sky.

[Illustration: GATE OF FOX'S HOUSE.]

GATE OF FOX'S HOUSE.

[Illustration: SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX'S GARDEN.]

SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX'S GARDEN.

[Illustration: TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.]

TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.

Those who feel no interest in monkish chronicles, may reverence St. Anne's
Hill, because of its having been the favorite residence of Charles James
Fox, the contemporary of Pitt and Burke and Sheridan and Grattan, at a
period when men felt strongly and spoke eloquently. The site of the house
on the south-eastern site of the hill is extremely beautiful, and it is
much regretted in the neighborhood that it finds so little favor in the
heart of its present noble proprietor. The grounds are laid out with much
taste; there is a noble cedar planted by Mrs. Fox when only the size of a
wand. The statesman's widow survived her husband more than thirty-six
years, but never outlived her friends or her faculties. There is a temple
dedicated to Friendship, which was erected to perpetuate the coming of age
of one of the late Lords Holland; on a pedestal ornamented by a vase, are
inscribed some verses by General Fitzpatrick; another placed by Mrs. Fox
to mark a favorite spot where Mr. Fox loved to muse, is enriched by a
quotation from the "Flower and the Leaf," concluded by two graceful
stanzas:

"Cheerful in this sequestered bower,
From all the storms of life removed;
Here Fox enjoyed his evening hour,
In converse with the friends he loved.
And here these lines he oft would quote,
Pleased from his favorite poet's lay;
When challenged by the warbler's note,
That breathed a song from every spray."

At the bottom of the garden is a grotto, which must have once possessed
many attractions, and above it there is a pretty little quaint chamber
that was used as a tea-room, when, according to the custom of the time,
the English drank tea by daylight; it is adorned by painted glass windows;
there are portraits of the Prince of Wales and Mr. Fox, when both were
looking their best, and the balcony in front commands a delicious view of
the surrounding country.

The peasantry are still loud in their praise of "Madam Fox;" and some
remember with gratitude the education they received at her school, and
love to tell how the old lady was drawn there at "feast times," to see how
they all looked in their new dresses. She certainly retained her sympathy
with the young, and put away the feelings and habits of old age with a
determined hand, for it is said, when she was eighty she took lessons on
the harp. The present generation remember personally nothing of the great
statesman; he has become history to us, and we must look to history,
garbled as it always is, and always will be, by the opinions and feelings
of its writers, to determine the position of Charles James Fox in the
annals of his country. Those who were admitted to his society have written
with enthusiasm of his social qualities, and bestow equal praise on his
brilliant talents, his affability of manner, and the generosity of his
disposition. He was the third son of Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland,
and his mother was the eldest daughter of Charles, second Duke of
Richmond, and consequently great-granddaughter to Charles II.; the
material descent is one of blotted royalty, of which a man like Fox could
not have been proud. His academic course was unmarked by any of those
honors of which Oxford men are so ambitious, and yet, like his great
rival, William Pitt, he became a statesman before he was of age.

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