The International Weekly Miscellany - Volume I, No. 3 | Page 3

can see nothing but the heavens shining above his head.

I have not seen Madame Sand dressed in men's clothes or wearing the
blouse and the iron-shod staff of the mountaineer. I have not seen her
drinking from the cup of bacchanals and smoking indolently reclining
on a sofa like a sultana,--natural or affected eccentricities which for me
could add nothing to her charms or her genius.
Is she more inspired when she causes a cloud of vapor to rise from her
mouth about her hair? Did Lelia escape from the head of her mother
through a burning mist, as Sin, according to Milton, proceeded from the
head of the glorious and guilty archangel amid a whirlpool of smoke? I
know not what passes in the sacred courts; but here below Neamede,
Phila, Lais, Gnathene, the witty Phryne, the despair of the pencil of
Apelles, and the chisel of Praxiteles, Leëna, beloved of Harmodias, the
two sisters named Aphyes, because they were small and had large eyes,
Dorica, the fillet of whose locks and embalmed robe were consecrated
in the temple of Venus,--all these enchantresses knew only the
perfumes of Arabia. It is true that Madame Sand has on her side the
authority of the Odalisques and the young Mexicans who dance with
cigars between their lips.
What effect has Madame Sand had upon me, after the few gifted
women, and many charming women whom I have known--after those
daughters of the earth, who like Madame Sand said with Sappho:
"Come, Mother of Love, to our delicious banquets, fill our cups with
the nectar of roses?" As I have placed myself now in fiction and now in
reality, the author of Valentine has made on me two very different
impressions.
As for fiction, I do not speak of it, for I ought no longer to understand
its language; as for reality, a man of grave age, cherishing the notions
of propriety, attaching as a Christian the highest value to the timid
virtue of woman. I know not how to express my unhappiness at such a
mass of rich endowments bestowed on the prodigal and faithless hours
which are spent and vanish.
* * * * *
MARIA BROOKS AND SOUTHEY.

It is well known that our countrywoman MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE
was on terms of familiar intimacy with the poet-laureate, whose
admiration of her genius is illustrated in several allusions to her in his
works, and particularly in that passage of "The Doctor" in which she is
described as "the most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses."
Southey superintended the publication of "Zophiel," in London, and
afterward was a frequent correspondent of Mrs. Brooks, during her
residence in New York and in Cuba. Among the souvenirs of Mrs.
Brooke's grateful recollection of his kindness, are two or three short
poems commemorating her visits to Keswick, and the following song,
put into a lyrical form by her, from the blank verse of "Madoc."
PRINCE HOEL'S LAY OF LOVE.
I've harnessed thee, my faithful steed-- Now, by the ocean, prove thy
speed, While, as we pass, th' advancing spray Shall kiss thy side of
glossy gray;-- Oh! fairer than the ocean foam Is that cold maid for
whom we roam! Her cheek is like the apple flower Or summer heavens,
at evening hour, While, in her tender bashfulness, She starts and files
my love's excess, Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail, As ocean when
the sun is pale. On, on! until my longing sight, Can fix upon that
dwelling white, Beside a verdant bank that braves The ocean's
ever-sounding waves;-- There, all alone, she loves to sing, Watching
the silver sea-mew's wing. In crowded halls, my spirit flies To wait
upon her; and wasting sighs Consume my nights; where'er I turn For
her I pant, for her I burn, Who, like some timid, graceful bird, Shrinks
from my glance and fears my word. I faint; my glow of youth is gone;
Sleepless at night and sick at morn, My strength departs; I droop, I fade,
Yet think upon that lonely maid, And pity her, the while I pine That she
should spurn a love like mine This, Madoc took the harp to play; Cold
in the earth Prince Hoel lay; And Llaian listened, fain to speak But
wept as if her heart would break.
In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was
received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her coffee
estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:
When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc," such

is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of its delineations.
Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and canes of that island where
repose the bones of Columbus,) the song of Prince Hoel attached itself
to