BRINVILLIERS, MARIE MARGUÉ

RITE, MARCHIONESS DE,

WAS a woman whose singular atrocity gives her a species of infamous claim to notice in this collection. She was born at Paris in 1651, being the daughter of D'Aubrai, lieutenant-civil, of Paris, who married her to N. Gobelin, marquis of Brinvilliers. Although possessed of attractions to captivate lovers, she was for some time much attached

to her husband, but at length became madly in love with a Gascon officer, named Goden St. Croix. This young man had been introduced to her by the marquis himself, who was adjutant of the regiment of Normandy. Her father, being informed of the affair, imprisoned the officer, who was a mere adventurer, in the Bastile, where he was detained a year. This punishment of her lover made the marchioness, apparently, more circumspect; but she nourished in her heart the most implacable hatred towards her father, and her whole family.

While St. Croix was in the Bastile, he learned, from an Italian named Exili, the art of composing the most subtle and mortal poisons; and the result, on his release, was the destruction, by this means, in concurrence with the marchioness, of her father, sister, and two brothers, all of whom were poisoned in the same year, 1670. During the whole time, the marchioness was visiting the hospitals, outwardly as a devotee, but, as was afterwards strongly suspected, really in order to try on the prisoners the effect of the poisons produced by her paramour.

The discovery of these monstrous criminals happened in a very extraordinary manner. St. Croix, while at work distilling poison, accidentally dropped the glass mask which he wore to prevent inhaling the noxious vapour; the consequence was his instantaneous death. As no one appeared to claim his effects, they fell into the hands of government, and the marchioness imprudently laid claim to a casket. She seemed so very anxious to obtain it, that the authorities ordered it to be opened, when it was found to be filled with packets of

poison, with ticketed descriptions of the effects these would produce.

When this wicked woman was informed of the opening of the casket, she fled to England; from thence she went to Liege, where she was arrested and brought back to Paris. She was tried for the murder of her father, sister, and brothers, convicted, and condemned to be beheaded and then burned. In this dreadful condition she evinced remarkable courage, or rather insensibility. When she entered the chamber where she was to be put to the question by the torture of swallowing water, she observed three buckets-full provided, and exclaimed "It is surely intended to drown me; for it is absurd to suppose one of my size can swallow all that."

She listened to her sentence without exhibiting either weakness or alarm, and showed no other emotion on her way to execution, than to request that she might be so placed as to see the officer who had apprehended her. She ascended the ladder, unaided and barefoot, and stood boldly up on the scaffold. What adds to the atrocity of this wretched woman's character, she was proved to have had connections with several persons suspected of the same crimes, and to have provided poisons for the use of others. Many persons of rank and power died suddenly about this period; and the investigation appeared likely to unveil so much guilt in high places, that it was from policy, though most unjustly and disgracefully, abandoned.

The marchioness of Brinvilliers seems to have been by nature inclined to wickedness. She acknowledged in her last confession, that at the age of seven she set fire to a house, urged by an inexplicable desire to commit a crime. Yet she made pretension to religion, went regularly to confession, and when arrested at Leige, a sort of general form was found in her possession, which sufficiently alluded to her criminality to form a strong presumption against her. She probably had more respect for the ceremonies of her faith than for the law of God.

BROOKE, FRANCES,

WHOSE maiden name was Moore, was the daughter of an English clergyman, and the wife of the Rev. John Brooke, rector of Colny in Norfolk, of St. Augustine in the city of Norwich, and chaplain to the garrison of Quebec. She was as remarkable for her gentleness and suavity of manners as for her literary talents. Her husband died on the 21st of January, 1789, and she herself expired on the 26th of the same month, at Sleaford, England, where she had retired to the house of her son, who had a rectorship in that country. Her first literary performance was "The Old Maid," a periodical work, begun in November, 1755, and continued every Saturday until about the end of July, 1756. In the same year she published "Virginia," a tragedy, with odes, pastorals, and translations. In the preface to this publication she assigns as a reason for its appearance, "that she was precluded from all hopes of ever seeing the tragedy brought upon the stage, by there having been two so lately

on the same subject." Prefixed to this publication were proposals for printing by subscription a poetical translation, with notes, of "Il Pastor Fielo," a work which was probably never completed.

In 1763, she published a novel called "The History of Lady Julia Mandeville," concerning the plan of which there were various opinions, though there seems to have been but one of the execution. It was read with much avidity and approbation. In the same year she published "Letters from Juliet, Lady Catesby, to her Friend Lady Henrietta Campley, translated from the French." She soon afterwards went to Canada with her husband, who was chaplain to the garrison at Quebec; and there saw those romantic scenes, so admirably painted in her next work, entitled "Emily Montague," a novel in four volumes, written in 1769. The next year she published "Memoirs of the Marquis de St. Folaix,' in four volumes. On her return to England, accident brought her acquainted with Mrs. Yates, and an intimacy was formed that lasted as long as that lady lived; and when she died, Mrs. Brooke published an eulogy to her memory in the "Gentleman's Magazine." If we are not mistaken, Mrs. Brooke had, with Mrs. Yates, some share in the opera-house. She certainly had some share of the libellous abuse which the management of that theatre at that time produced. Her first play, Virginia, was refused by Garrick. After several years she tried her fortune once more at the theatre; but the tragedy she wrote had not the good fortune to please Mr. Garrick, whose rejection of it excited the authoress's resentment so much that she took a severe revenge on him, in a novel published in 1777, in two volumes, called "The Excursion." This invective she afterwards regretted and retracted. In 1771, she translated "Elements of the History of England, from the invasion of the Romans to the reign of George II., from the abbé Millot," in four volumes. In 1781, she wrote a tragedy called "The Siege of Sinope," which was acted at Covent Garden, but added little to her reputation; it wanted energy and originality. Her next and most popular piece was "Rosina," acted at Covent Garden in 1782. Few pieces have been equally successful. The simplicity of the story, the elegance of the language, and the excellence of the music, caused it to be admired for a long time. Her last work was "Marian," acted in 1788, at Covent Garden, with some success, but very much inferior to Rosina.

BROOKS, MARIA,

KNOWN as a poetess under the name (given to her by Mr. Southey) of Maria del Occidente, was descended from a Welsh family, settled at Medford, in Massachusetts. Her maiden name was Gowen. She was born about 1795, and early displayed uncommon powers of mind. She had rather favourable opportunities of education, yet her own genius was her best teacher. When quite young, Maria Gowen married Mr. Brooks, a merchant of Boston. A few years after their marriage he lost the greater

part of his property, and Mrs. Brooks resorted to poetry for occupation and amusement. In 1820, she published "Judith, Esther, and other Poems," which show considerable genius. Mr. Brooks dying in 1823, his widow went to reside with her relations in Cuba, where she wrote her principal work, "Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven," which was published by her at London, during a visit that she made to England, in 1833. Part of the time that she spent in England was passed by her at the residence of Robert Southey, at Keswick, who appreciated her genius very highly. In 1834 Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States. In 1843, she wrote for private circulation, “Idomea, or the Vale of the Yumari," being simply her own history under a different name. In the same year Mrs. Brooks returned to Cuba, to take charge of the estates left her by her uncle. She died at Matanzas, in November, 1845.

The plot of "Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven," was undoubtedly borrowed from the Book of Tobit, in the Apocrypha, and may be fully understood by reading that curious story. Sara, the heroine in Tobit, is married to seven husbands, successively, who all die on entering the bridal chamber, each one " 'being killed by Asmodeus, an evil spirit." At last Tobias, son of Tobit, is taken under the care of " Raphael that was an angel," and instructed how to overcome the evil spirit. Tobias marries Sara, and drives off Asmodeus by means of "a smoke" made of the liver and heart of a fish,-"The which smell when the evil spirit had smelled, he fled into the utmost parts of Egypt, and the angel bound him."

Mrs. Brooks has, however, displayed much artistic skill, as well as poetical talent, cultivated taste, and literary research, in managing these materials of her poem. "The Bride of Seven" has many beautiful passages; the descriptions are gorgeous and glowing; there is thrilling incident and burning passion; but it lacks nature, simplicity, and true feeling. It excites the fancy, leaving the heart unmoved, comparatively; therefore the poem is deficient in that kind of interest which insures popularity: though praised by critics, it will never be read by the people. The minor poems of Mrs. Brooks are finished with much care; some of these evince the deep affections of woman's heart with great pathos and beauty. The "Ode to the Departed" is one of the last of her poems.

ODE TO THE DEPARTED.
"Con Vistas del Cielo."

THE dearth is sore: the orange leaf is curled,
There's dust upon the marble o'er thy tomb,
My Edgar, fair and dear;

Though the fifth sorrowing year

Hath past, since first 1 knew thine early doom,

I see thee still, though death thy being hence hath hurled.

I could not bear my lot, now thou art gone-
With heart o'er-softened by the many tears
Remorse and grief have drawn-
Save that a gleam, a dawn,
(Haply, of that which lights thee now.) appears,
To unveil a few fair scenes of life's next coming morn.

Go, hand in hand, to regions new and fair,

In shapes and colours for the scene arrayed-
With looks as bland and dear

As charms, by glimpses, here.
Receive divine commissions; follow-aid

Those legions formed in heaven for many a guardian care.

By every sigh, and throb, and painful throe,
Remembered but to heighten the delight

That crowns the advancing state

Of souls emancipate —

Oh! as I think of you, at lonely night,

Say to my heart, ye're blest, and I can bear my wo.

HYMN.

SIRE, Maker, Spirit, who alone canst know

My soul, and all the deep remorse that's there

I ask no mitigation of my wo;

Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear!

Remorse?-ah! not for ill designedly done:

To look on pain, to me is pain severe;

Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won,
Had Love been Wisdom, haply were ye here!
Much have I suffered; yet this form, unscathed,
Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift:
With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed;
My ills are my desert, my good thy gift.

Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft
Hath mourned for two, ta'en by the powers on high,
Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left

Beneath the marble where their relics lie.

Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast:

Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow Burns brighter now their mortal lives are past, Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo.

Oh! may their spirits, disembodied, come,

And strong though secret influence dispensePitying the sorrows of an earthly doom,

And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence.

Oh! cover them with forms so made to meet
The models of their souls, that, when they see,
They cast themselves in beauty at thy feet,
In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy

Methinks I see them, side by side, in love,
Like brothers of the zodiac, all around
Diffusing light and fragrance, as they move
Harmonious as the spheric music's sound.

And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep,

(In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned.) Lie, while o'er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind.

This fond ideal which my grief relieves,

Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be:
For more than all my feeble sense conceives,
Thy hand can give in blest reality.

Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that's fair!
Howe'er my poor words be unworthy thee,
Oh! be not weary of the imperfect prayer
Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me!

THE MOON OF FLOWERS.

Oн, moon of flowers! sweet moon of flowers!*
Why dost thou mind me of the hours
Which flew so softly on that night

When last I saw and felt thy light?

Oh, moon of flowers! thou moon of flowers!
Would thou couldst give me back those hours
Since which a dull, cold year has fled,
Or show me those with whom they sped!

Oh, moon of flowers! oh, moon of flowers!

In scenes afar were passed those hours,

Which still with fond regret I see,

And wish my heart could change like thee'

*The savages of the northern part of America sometimes count by moons. May they call the moon of flowers.

TO NIAGARA.

SPIRIT of Homer! thou whose song has rung

From thine own Greece to this supreme abode
Of Nature this great fane of Nature's God-
Breathe on my brain! oh, touch the fervid tongue
Of a fond votaress kneeling on the sod!
Sublime and Beautiful! your chapel's here-

Here, 'neath the azure dome of heaven, ye 're wed;
Here, on this rock, which trembles as I tread,
Your blended sorcery claims both pulse and tear,
Controls life's source, and reigns o'er heart and head.
Terrific, but, oh, beautiful abyss!

If I should trust my fascinated eye,

Or hearken to thy maddening melody,

Sense, form, would spring to meet thy white foam's kiss,
Be lapped in thy soft rainbows once, and die!

Colour, depth, height, extension - all unite
To chain the spirit by a look intense!
The dolphin in his clearest seas, or thence
Ta'en, for some queen, to deck of ivory white,

Dies not in changeful tints more delicately bright.
Look, look! there comes, o'er yon pale green expanse,
Beyond the curtain of this altar vast,

A glad young swan; the smiling beams that cast Light from her plumes, have lured her soft advance; She nears the fatal brink: her graceful life has past!

Look up! nor her fond, foolish fate disdain:

An eagle rests upon the wind's sweet breath; Feels he the charm? woos he the scene beneath? He eyes the sun; nerves his dark wing again; Remembers clouds and storms, yet flies the lovely death.

"Niagara! wonder of this western world,

And half the world beside! hail, beauteous queen
Of cataracts!"-an angel, who had been

O'er heaven and earth, spoke thus, his bright wings furled,
And knelt to Nature first,-on this wild cliff unseen.

SONG.

DAY, in melting purple dying,
Blossoms, all around me sighing,
Fragrance, from the lilies straying,
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness.

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent--
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure:
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling:
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation,

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me !
Let these eyes again caress thee;
Once, in caution, I could fly thee:
Now, I nothing could deny thee;

In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

FRIENDSHIP.

To meet a friendship such as mine,
Such feelings must thy soul refine
As are not oft of mortal birth:
"Tis love without a stain of earth,
Fratello del mio cor.

Looks are its food, its nectar sighs,
Its couch the lips, its throne the eyes,
The soul its breath: and so possest,
Heaven's raptures reign in mortal breast,
Fratello del mio cor.

Though Friendship be its earthly name,
Purely from highest heaven it came;
"T is seldom felt for more than one,
And scorns to dwell with Venus' son,
Fratello del mio cor.

Him let it view not, or it dies
Like tender hues of morning skies,
Or morn's sweet flower of purple glow,
When sunny beams too ardent grow,
Fratello del mio cor.

A charm o'er every object plays; All looks so lovely, while it stays, So softly forth in rosier tides The vital flood extatic glides,

Fratello del mio cor.

That, wrung by grief to see it part A very life-drop leaves the heart: Such drop, I need not tell thee, fell, While bidding it, for thee, farewell! Fratello del mio cor.

PRAYER.

SIRE of the universe-and me

Dost thou reject my midnight prayer! Dost thou withhold me even from thee,

Thus writhing, struggling 'gainst despair! Thou knowest the source of feeling's gush, Thou knowest the end for which it flows: Then, if thou bid'st the tempest rush,

Ah! heed the fragile bark it throws!

Fain would my heaving heart be still-
But Pain and Tumult mock at rest:
Fain would I meekly meet thy will,

And kiss the barb that tears my breast.
Weak I am formed, I can no more-
Weary I strive, but find not aid;
Prone on thy threshold 1 deplore,
But ah! thy succour is delayed.
The burning, beauteous orb of day,
Amid its circling host upborne,
Smiles, as life quickens in its ray;
What would it, were thy hand withdrawn!-
Scorch-devastate the teeming whole

Now glowing with its warmth divine; Spirit, whose powers of peace control

Great Nature's heart, oh! pity mine!

Extracts from Zophiel. DESCRIPTION OF EGLA.

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,
The light vermilion of her cheek more warm
For doubtful modesty; while all were glancing
Over the strange attire that well became such form.
To lend her space, the admiring band gave way;
The sandals on her silvery feet were blue;
Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day
Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling
dew.

Light was that robe as mist; and not a gem
Or ornament impedes its wavy fold,
Long and profuse, save that, above its hem,
'Twas broider'd with pomegranate wreath, in gold.
And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue,

In shapely guise about the waist confined,
Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,

Half floated, waving in their length behind;
The other half, in braided tresses twined,

Was deck'd with rows of pearls, and sapphire's azure too.
Arranged with curious skill to imitate

The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live
And droop those tender flowers in natural state;
And so the trembling gems seem'd sensitive,

And pendent, sometimes touch'd her neck; and there
Seem'd shrinking from its softness as alive.
And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair.
Slight bandelets were twined of colours five,
Like little rainbows seemly on those arms;

None of that court had seen the like before,
Soft, fragrant, bright-so much like heaven her charms,
It scarce could seem idolatry to adore.
He who beheld her hand forgot her face;
Yet in that face was all beside forgot;
And he who, as she went, beheld her pace,

And locks profuse, had said. "Nay, turn thee not."
Placed on a banquet couch beside the king,

'Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore;

But, like their darts, the warrior princes fling

Such looks as seem'd to pierce, and scan her o'er and o'er; Nor met alone the glare of lip and eye

Charms, but not rare: the gazer stern and cool, Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy; In every limb, joint, vein, the maid was beautiful, Save that her lip, like some bud-bursting flower,

Just scorn'd the bounds of symmetry, perchance,
But by its rashness gain'd an added power,
Heightening perfection to luxuriance.

But that was only when she smiled, and when
Dissolved the intense expression of her eye;
And had her spirit love first seen her then,
He had not doubted her mortality.

MELES AND EGLA CONTRASTED.
She meekly stood. He fasten'd round her arms
Rings of refulgent ore; low and apart
Murmuring, "So, beauteous captive, shall thy charms
For ever thrall and clasp thy captive's heart."
The air's light touch seem'd softer as she moved,
In languid resignation; his quick eye
Spoke in black glances how she was approved,
Who shrank reluctant from its ardency.
"T was sweet to look upon the goodly pair
In their contrasted loveliness: ber height
Might almost vie with his, but heavenly fair,
Of soft proportion she, and sunny hair;

He, cast in manliest mould, with ringlets murk as night. And oft her drooping and resigned blue eye

She'd wistful raise to read his radiant face;

But then, why shrunk her heart ?-a secret sigh
Told her it most required what there it could not trace.

ZOPHIEL LISTENING WHILE EGLA SINGS.

His wings were folded o'er his eyes; severe
As was the pain he'd borne from wave and wind,
The dubious warning of that being drear,
Who met him in the lightning, to his mind
Was torture worse; a dark presentiment
Came o'er his soul with paralyzing chill,
As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent
To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill.
He search'd about the grove with all the care
Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace,
By track or wounded flower, some rival there;
And scarcely dared to look upon the face
Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell
To make the only hope that soothed him vain:
He hears her notes in numbers die and swell,
But almost fears to listen to the strain
Himself had taught her, lest some hated name
Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed,
While he was far; she sighed-he nearer came-
Oh, transport! Zophiel was the name she breathed,

MORNING.

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!-
The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done,
As when he moved exulting in his fires.
The infant strains his little arms to catch
The rays that glance about his silken hair;
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match
Thy face, when turn'd away from bower and palace fair
Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit:

Music and perfumes mingle with the soul;
How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute!
And lightd beauty's tints enhance the whole.