At dead of night, or in the grey of morn, The muffled tramp of hoofs on Salisbury Plain Anon, full trot, as in law's open scorn, Came thundering past the church a loaded train Of swarthy horsemen, armed: none knew their name Hang Aram and Dick Turpin!-get a score Of these our own west country Dicks at call Bear off the bride, and plunder the old hall, Or shall we try a ghost, then, after all? Bold Hampden Pye, who walk'd without a head? Attention to the stanzas which I said I doubted of, and when you reach the close, I'll be revenged for 't with this very pen; To bring confusion. How shall I succeed? Reader, attend; go on, comparing this My promise with the final consummation I'll place poor Wat secure in his vocation Just like Macbeth on spying Banquo's ghost. * The legend of Farringdon House, in the Vale of White Horse, formerly the property of Henry James Pye, Esq. late Poet Laureate, who, I believe, has made allusion to the history of his ancestor in his poem of Farringdon Hill. + On whose chronicled feats, mentioned, I think, in Glanville's Witchcraft, Addison's farce of the Drummer was founded. The deception was curiously kept up, and never discovered. The ancient family of the Mompessons of Wiltshire, then in possession of Tedworth estate, were ruined by keeping open house for the number of persons who flocked from all parts to ascertain the truth of the ghost or devil's freaks. SONG OF THE EARTH TO THE MOON. BY T. J. OUSELEY. SWEET sister draw thee near, Breathe o'er my weary brow thy silver dreams; My giant forests spread Their sombre leaves, and, groaning neath the wind, Midnight has shaded o'er My mountain tops, and my deep rivers rush Come forth and kiss me, sweet! Yes, thou art coming now, Philomel loudly welcomes thy return; Thy trembling pearly rays Quiver with music, and the fairies tread Beneath thy magic eye Grey Ruin smiles, as though a second life The wither'd branchless trunk That once had million'd emerald types of bloom, The wither'd, branchless trunk! Upon thy clouds of snow, Like a fair conqueror, thou sailest on ; Whilst the warm fragrant zephyrs gently blow, Upon thy clouds of snow! Joy!-Sister, thou art near! My heart is light, my face is joyous now; My flower-cups ope their lips, as though in prayer. List, how my forests sing!-flood, lawn, and bough: Joy, sister, though art near! MOLIERE AND HIS WIFE. BY GEORGE HOGARTH. THERE were in Molière's theatrical company two sisters of the name of Bejart; the younger of whom, Armande, he married in 1662, when he was forty, and she seventeen. Almost all his biographers have described these ladies as mother and daughter. Even in his own time it was a current piece of scandal that he had married the natural daughter of his first mistress; and Montfleuri, a man of letters, made this the subject of a formal accusation, addressed to Louis the Fourteenth, in which he went so far as to insinuate that Molière had married his own daughter. The only answer which the king made to this piece of malignity was to stand godfather to the poet's first child; and its falsehood has been established by the recent discovery of the marriage contract between Molière and the younger of the sisters. The marriage was unhappy. Molière, like many great masters of humour, was of a singularly sensitive disposition, serious to a degree approaching to melancholy, and, worst of all, more than double the age of his wife. She was witty and volatile, a great favourite of the public, and surrounded by a host of fashionable admirers. Very soon after their marriage, Molière seems to have become a prey to suspicion and jealousy, for which his wife's spirit of coquetry doubtless gave ample occasion, though there is no evidence of actual infidelity on her part. It is said that, in consequence of the reports of her intimacy with the celebrated M. de Lauzun, Molière found it necessary to come to an explanation with her; when, to change the course of his suspicions, she admitted a harmless flirtation with the Count de Guiche, and got herself out of the scrape, and succeeded in mollifying her husband, by tears and fainting fits. Be this as it may, it is certain that the pair soon came to live on such terms, that though they never formally separated, they for a long time never saw each other except on the stage. Many years before, Molière had been attached to an actress, one Mademoiselle de Brie, who was still in his company, and with whom his matrimonial tribulations induced him to renew his liaison. His writings contain many allusions to his personal situation; and it has been supposed, apparently with reason, that the incident in the Misantrope, in which Alceste is induced, by the slights he receives from Célimène, to return to Eliante, his first love, is one of these allusions. It is cer tain that, when the Misantrope was first represented, Molière personated Alceste; Madame Molière, Célimène; and Mademoiselle de Brie, Eliante; and that this comedy appeared at a time when all domestic intercourse had ceased between the poet and his wife. Molière had a country-house at the village of Auteuil, near Paris, where it appears he spent much of his time in brooding over his domestic unhappiness, and sometimes gave vent to his feelings to the friends who visited him in his retreat. As these friends were persons of literary distinction, some of these conversations have been recorded by contemporary memoir-writers. On one occasion his friend Chapelle (so celebrated for his wit and dissipated habits) found him walking in his garden in a state of more than usual depression. Chapelle urged him repeatedly to explain the cause of his melancholy; and Molière, after much hesitation, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, at length relieved the fullness of his heart by confessing that the terms on which he lived with his wife made him wretched. Chapelle, talking in the style of a man of the world, rallied his friend on the absurdity of a man like him, who could so well discern the foibles of others, falling into one which he himself had so often ridiculed. "For my part," said Chapelle," if I had the misfortune to be so situated, and were persuaded that the object of my attachment granted favours to others, my contempt for her would soon cure me of my sense. less passion." "Ah, my dear friend," said Molière," I suspect you have never been in love," 66 'Yes, I have," said Chapelle; "I have been in love like a man of sense; but love never could have made me guilty of such weakness, and want of resolution to do what was necessary to my honour, as you are exhibiting," "I see very well," Molière rejoined, " that you know nothing about the matter, and that what you thought love was mere imagination. As to my knowledge of human nature which you talk of, and my pictures of human follies, I admit that I have studied mankind very carefully; but if my knowledge has taught me that danger may be fled from, my own experience has shown me that there is no keeping out of its way. I was born with a tender heart; and, when I married, I hoped that my affection would inspire my wife with a similar feeling. As she was very young, I did not see her faults, and thought myself more fortu nate than many who contract a similar engagement. Marriage did not lessen my attentions; but I found her so cold and indifferent, that I perceived that all my anxiety had been thrown away, and that her feelings for me were very far from sufficient for my happiness. I tried to persuade myself that her conduct proceeded more from a careless temper than from any want of affection for me; but I was soon convinced of my mistake, and her foolish passion for the Count de Guiche made too much noise to allow me even the semblance of quiet. When it came to my knowledge, I made every effort to conquer my own weakness. I summoned all my strength of mind, and every topic of consolation. I looked upon her as a person whose whole merit had consisted in her innocence, and who, in losing that, had lost every claim to my regard. I resolved from thenceforth to live with her as an honourable man should who has a faithless wife, and is convinced, whatever may be thought to the contrary, that his reputation does not depend on her conduct; but I had the unhappiness to find that a woman by no means remarkable for beauty, and whose mental gifts consist in the slight education which she has received from me, was able in a moment to overturn all my philosophy. Her presence made me forget my resolutions; and the first words she uttered in her defence so completely convinced me of the groundlessness of my suspicions, that I begged her pardon for my credulity. My indulgence has made no impression on her, and I have come to the resolution to live no longer with her, as my wife; but you would pity me if you knew what this resolution has cost me. My love for her grows upon me, and never ceases to enlist my compassion in her behalf; and when I consider how impossible it is for me to overcome my feelings for her, I say to myself at the same time that she has no less difficulty in conquering her natural disposition to coquetry, and then I feel myself more in. clined to pity than to blame her. You will tell me, no doubt, that none but a poet would love in this manner; but, for my part, I think there is only one sort of love which deserves the name, and that those who have not felt with this delicacy have never known what real love is. Her image is mingled in my heart with everything which surrounds me. Even when absent, nothing can divert my mind from it even for a moment; and, when I see her, it is with an indescribable emotion which wholly deprives me of the power of reflection. My eyes are closed against her faults; and all that I can see is, that she is amiable. Now, do you not think all this the very extremity of folly? and do you not wonder that I should be so thoroughly sensible of my weakness, and yet so utterly incapable of overcoming it?" Chapelle, struck with this affecting communication, could only express his sympathy, and his hope in the soothing influence of time; and, finding that Molière had relapsed into the abstraction from which he had roused him, he retired, leaving his friend to pursue his solitary walk and melancholy musings. In various passages of Molière's comedies there are allusions to his own state of mind, and sentiments similar to those which he so feelingly expressed to Chapelle. The character of Alceste, in the Misantrope, is known to contain many traits of Molière's own character, and allusions (as has been already remarked) to his own circumstances. The first scene of that play, the dialogue between Alceste and his confidential friend, has in one place a remarkable resemblance to the conversation with Chapelle. Among the frequenters of Molière's theatre there was a young gentleman of the name of De Lorny. He belonged to a good family in the south of France; and, as next to “l'èpèe," "la robe" was looked upon as the most gentlemanly profession for young men of family and fortune, he had obtained by purchase the office of a judge in one of the provincial parliaments; the ability to pay a certain sum of money was considered a sufficient qualification for the exercise of the judicial functions; and M. de Lorny probably filled his seat on the bench as creditably as the bulk of his brethren. Being thus comfortably settled in life, he bethought him of a visit to Paris to rub off the rust of the country, and partake of the pleasures and gaieties of the metropolis. To be constantly seen at the theatres, lounging behind the scenes, gossiping with the actors, and flirting with the actresses, was then essential to the character of a Parisian "man of wit and pleasure about town.' The most distinguished fashionables thought it an additional distinction to be on a footing of familiarity with Molière; and his wife was constantly surrounded by a swarm of these exquisites, eager to show off their attractions before her, and to obtain from her some trifling notice, which might serve them to boast of, as a mark of favor or preference from the idol of the day. She captivated her admirers by her beauty, her wit, and the grace of her manners, but she appears to have always kept them at a distance; and though she acquired the reputation of a finished coquette, and plagued her husband's heart out, her conduct does not seem to have afforded room for serious imputa tions against her character. De Lorny was immediately smitten with the charms of the fascinat ing actress. But, country-bred as he was, and unhackneyed in the ways of the town, his feelings assumed a character too serious for a man of fashion, and he was foolish enough to fall in sober sadness over |