be still, at least, let it be satisfied with the very kind demonstrations of the North: let it not push matters so far that men of all parties there will feel themselves bound in honor to make war on us. We ought to think only of calling on Congress for some of the surplus money for our defence,-for we must come to actual defence, and give up Lynch law, a good thing only in the absence of all other good things, and in the midst of all evil ones. I hav'n't time to say more on this subject now, but shall probably write soon to P****** about it.

With regard to your enquiries about my poor self, do you think, dear Huger, that one whose illusions have been all, one after another, "star by star,"-dispelled, can have the heart to think of himself? "Satisfy my ambition !"-Why I never had any ambition, properly so called: it was, perhaps, my bane to have none: the aspiring after excellence, which people mistook for what it is so different from, was for its own sake, and, I will add, with the hope of being useful to a country of which I was proud and felt honored to serve. My. immense labor for the Southern Review, (which they saddled me with, as if it had been an hereditary estate,) do you think I went through so many nights (summer nights, too) of watching and toil, because I hoped to be spoken of with some terms of compliment in our own newspapers, or even by foreigners? If so, why don't I write now, when pressed to do so? No-no. I thought I could help to shew that people did not know what our race was:I felt that, in speaking its language, I should be thought eloquent, and I have not been mistaken. But I wrote as an American, and, especially, as a Carolinian,--and for some reasons you wot of, I fear, "Othello's occupation's gone." At all events, as you will probably have learned ere now, for better for worse, I return next summer,--certainly with a heavy heart, and almost despairing of all I ever wished to see realized, but with a determination to do what I can to make myself useful,--if it be possible. You may, for instance, count upon your wines, if I can procure them of a delicate taste, though, for my own part, you will be surprised to learn that, for some fifteen months past and more, I hardly ever do more than taste wine, and am a very pattern of sobriety in meat and drink, to avoid gout and some other appurtenances of my forefathers' constitutions.

poor

Your Jew made me smile sadly, for it reminded me of B** H****'s hearty laugh fifteen years ago, at the horror I expressed at a certain "Marchand en fer,"--which he called the last dying embers of aristocracy.

Pray remember me to Madame, the Judge and all, and believe me ever yours, H. S. L.

Mr. Legaré to his sister.

BRUSSELS, MAY 5, 1833. My dear Mary,Something more than a week ago I went to Antwerp, to breathe once more the air of the sea and see a ship, -two things that I never feel easy in being separated from for any length of time. While there I bought you a pretty collection of the newest and most fashionable music I could find. Among the pieces sent, you will find no less than one hundred overtures by all the most celebrated composers, together with favorite waltzes and gallopades, played and danced every where in Europe,-pot-pourris for the piano-forte, made up of variations on favorite motifs of some popular operas, such as Robert le Diable, a magnificent affair by Meyerbeer, a German, brought out at the grand opera at Paris last year, the Muette di Portici of Auber, Zampa, or La Fiancée de Marbre, by the same, etc., etc. I left the parcel with Mr. Patterson, our consul there, who promises to take particular care it shall be carried safely to you. The music of Zampa is excessively admired here, as well as that of the Muette, which pleases me more. The whole second act of the latter runs upon the air, "Amis la matinée est belle", and is very spirited and agreeable. Robert le Diable is a masterpiece of musical composition, which puts Meyerbeer upon an equality with Rossini, and it is got up at Paris with all the pomp and splendor of their unrivalled opera. The subject is a fine one, and gives a sort of epic, religious grandeur and solemnity to the whole exhibition, which recalls the sacred music and gorgeous though gloomy display of the Romish service, in one of their glorious old Gothic cathedrals. The scene, especially, in which Count Robert's father, Bertram, (the devil in human form,) contends for the soul of his son with Alice, the depositary of Robert's departed mother's fatal secret and last injunctions, is admirably executed. The part of Alice was performed by Mad. Falcon, who both sung and acted with all the vehement zeal and energy required by a struggle about a human being's eternal welfare, with an infernal adversary present in flesh and blood. I never felt so much interested in an opera before,—I mean so rationally interested, for you know I have always been excessively in love with that charming spectacle.

At Antwerp, where I passed last Sunday, visiting the churches, I had an opportunity, which I wish you could have enjoyed with me, of seeing once more the most renowned master-pieces of the Flemish school. I went to the cathedral at nine o'clock in the morning, and was present at high mass. You may re

member hearing me speak of this admirable church, after my return from Europe thirteen years ago. It is an immense edifice, which was building during the whole of the fifteenth century, VOL. I.-29

the period of Antwerp's greatest commercial prosperity, and when, indeed, it was the great centre of European business and capital. Its spire, which is upwards of 460 feet high, is one of the most beautiful remains of that sort of architecture extant; and the interior is distinguished by the grandeur of its effect, owing to its vastness, the immense height of the roof, the colossal magnitude of its pillars, and the perfect simplicity of the style. Judge for yourself what an impression a building 500 feet long, 230 wide, and 360 high, presenting the most imposing Gothic forms, consecrated to religion, resounding with the voice of Christian thanksgiving and supplication, and adorned with the masterpieces of genius, must make. But you know I hate descriptions, and so I will proceed merely to tell you that I gazed once more and with increased pleasure upon the three famous works of Rubens, that belong to the cathedral, the "Elevation of the Cross" on the left, and the "Descent" from it, on the right of the nave, in the cross aisle, and the "Ascension of the Virgin" over the grand altar in the choir. One of the wings of the first of these pictures is the "Visitation", which is a charming picture, and I looked for half an hour, at least, with doating pleasure, upon the sweet and modest countenance of the conscious virginmother. At a later hour of the day Mr. Patterson joined me, and getting into my calèche, we drove to the church of St. James. This wonderful monument, or collection of monuments, had either escaped my observation the first time I visited Antwerp, or (which is hardly credible) my recollection since. I have never seen any thing half so rich as this treasure, whether it be considered with regard to the display of all the finery of the Romish church in the day of its splendor, or the assemblage of a still more striking variety and multitude of works of art. To be sure, I have never been in Italy, and the French revolution has swept all the Continental churches I have seen with its besom of destruction,-while the zeal of the reformers had stripped those of England and Scotland of all the frippery of the spiritual Babylon long ago. The carving in wood and the sculpture in stone and marble that fill every chapel, nay, almost every spot of this church, and the painting of the windows, are really wonderful. To complete its glory, there is a delicious painting of Rubens, executed by himself for the very purpose it has been put to, which is to adorn his sepulchre, (for he was buried here, and a simple black marble slab, in a chapel at the side of the choir, marks the spot). In this posthumous painting, he represents the infant Jesus on the knees of his mother, the Madonna (a beautiful creature, as the child is a perfect cherub) being, it seems, the likeness of his adored mistress, while the three female forms that are looking at the sweet child are images, it is said, of his three successive wives. From this church, in which I wished

for Charles Fraser a hundred times, we went to the Museum, which contains many fine pictures,-among which I was particularly struck with a copy, in miniature, by Rubens, of his celebrated "Descent from the Cross." It is a charming picture, and I felt (what I am told many others before me have experienced) a strong impulse to steal it. The colouring is as vivid and glowing as your Southern sky. Another painting of prodigious power, here, is a famous chef d'œuvre of the same great master, Christ between the thieves; but it is not seen to advantage, and I was glad to hear the remark I made, that it was hung too low, had been anticipated by a distinguished artist. There is, also, in this collection, a "Christ on the cross" by Vandyke, whose "Crucifixion", over the altar-piece of the cathedral at Malines, I had seen the day before on my way to Antwerp. You know Vandyke is renowned for his portraits, in which department of the art, indeed, he has no rival. Nothing can be imagined more perfect they live and breathe before you. But I have never heard as much of his excellence in historical painting, as I think it deserves. He certainly wants the invention, boldness, strength and colouring of Rubens, and may be considered as, upon the whole, an inferior genius. But then there is so much grace and soberness, such a "rapture of repose", and I know not what indescribable classical sweetness about his forms, that I yield a very hesitating, reluctant assent to the opinion of better judges, who give the palm to Rubens. From the Museum we went into the study of a very young artist (Wappers) of the same city, who seems likely to maintain the reputation of its school. I saw some brilliant sketches and some admirable portraits there: among the latter, one of King Leopold on horseback.

We closed our day's tour with the church of the Dominicans, where there is a picture (by Rubens), "the Scourging of Christ", of the most frightful and hideous truth. Nothing can be more horribly natural than the blood-shot skin, the black and blue wheals, the clotted gore, etc. This church is also remarkable for one of the most singular monuments of Romish worship that are any where to be found, and very characteristic of this most Catholic of all Catholic countries. This is a representation in stone of Mount Calvary, a rude, wild, rocky scene, thronged with the statues of apostles and prophets, while, at the summit of the crag before you, the Saviour hangs upon the cross, the blood, spouting out of his side pierced with the spear, and falling in a parabolic curve into I forget what I think it is caught by one of the apostles in a vessel of some sort. Beneath the rock of the crucifixion, there is a sort of grotto or cavern, to which the spectator ascends by seven steps, worn by the knees of the penitents who crowd hither during passion week. There is a mysterious silence about the recess, in which, it may be, a

few humble sinners are upon their knees, devoutly gazing upon something half concealed within a sort of lattice. You look in, and see a corpse stretched out and shrouded in costly graveclothes of white silk, tricked off with glitter and tinsel. It is the tomb of Christ, reposing after the "Descent." Hard by, on your left hand, within another enclosure, a still more singular and striking scene presents itself. This is no less than purgatory itself, with its flames and torments, in the midst of which a crowd of sufferers stretch forth their hands, and lift up their weeping eyes, as if imploring the intercession of the spectator on their behalf. It is enough to make the stoutest Protestant pay for a mass for the dead; and, take it altogether, I never saw any thing so well calculated to affright the imagination of a true believer, as this same church of St. Paul with its appurtenances.

I returned to Brussels last Monday evening. The spring was not at all advanced, for the weather continued horribly cold and capricious. Within these three days it is entirely changed,-it was even hot yesterday,—and the verdure of a new foliage has suddenly covered the trees as by enchantment. I look out while I write upon my beautiful little garden, which is already blossoning all over, and sends up into my princely saloon the most delicious perfumes. Beyond it, the double row of trees in the Boulevards are waving their tender green leaves in a most soothing south-wind, and, in the back-ground, the whole face of the earth, diversified with hill and dale, seems smiling upon me to tempt me forth to my daily promenade. I shall obey the call, for it is three o'clock, and a severe rheumatic pain has kept me at home a good deal for the last three days. I ventured out yesterday, and experienced a charm in the first warmth of summer, like that exhiliration which the spirits of the just are described as enjoying, as they bathe themselves in the light of Elysium. At Prince Auguste d'Arenberg's, where I dined, all the company were complaining of the sudden and excessive heat, but I told them it had the same effect on me as the liveliest sparkling champagne. A glorious full moon closed and crowned the day, and never was evening more soft and lovely. Here's a description for you, but, you know, I am an enthusiast about fine weather. Nothing but female beauty,-not music itself, has such an effect on me; and, in my delightful house, I have every advantage for enjoying all the charms of the belle saison.

MAY S. I walked to-day in the Parc, and found it enchanting. These deep groves in the midst of European capitals, presenting the solitude and freshness of the country, the singing of multitudes of birds, etc., give them a great advantage over our cities. The weather is absolutely delicious, and I revel in it.

I mentioned to you that I had made the acquaintance of the Marchioness of Hastings and her daughters, who are sweet, lady