and of everything he deemed best calculated to soothe and calm an over-agitated spirit, and, among the rest, of his son, who had entered the Russian service ten years since; and the father's heart forgot his cares, as he listened to commendations of his brave boy; the composer's spirit became harmonized, as the general, with the words and tone of a connoisseur and an enthusiast, bestowed unqualified praise on his compositions, the children of his genius. So passed the night, and Cimarosa in his own joy and gratitude forgot not his fellow-sufferers. But the general could not help them: they were lost, doubly betrayed-first, by the breach of the treaty; and secondly, by the treachery of Giordano, who had basely endeavoured to lure some of his fellow-prisoners into an endeavour to effect their escape, and then, Judas-like, sought to purchase his own life by betraying them to the Giunto, which rewarded his treachery with instant death. Cimarosa was set at liberty two days afterwards, and pronounced free from guilt, and a loyal subject of King Ferdinand. He instantly departed for Venice, where he long remained in a very bad state of health, and where he died on the 11th of January, 1801, at the age of sevenand-forty. This composer attained a greater degree of celebrity than any of his cotemporaries, excepting Paicini, and wrote numerous operas, which, although chiefly comic, always preserved a pure and healthy wit, which never degenerated into vulgarity or buffoonery: among them the "Matrimonio Segreto" has become the most popular. The peculiarity of his compositions consists in the simple purity of the vocal, and the exuberant richness of the instrumental music. At his death a requiem was performed in honour of him, composed by himself, and which has by some been considered as but little inferior to that of Mozart. RECOLLECTIONS. BY A. T I do remember me Of a dim sequester'd glade, Where the interlacing trees Perpetual twilight made. There, oft in musing childhood, I dream'd away long hours, And chose me lov'd companions From its wealth of birds and flowers. I do remember me Of a little streamlet near, Whose murmuring untiring flow, Was music to mine ear. I lov'd to lie beside it At Eve's holy hour of rest, Watching the struggling moonbeams Illume its darken'd breast. It was a fine night during the month of May, 1543. All the stars glittered on the azure dome, like so many jewels on a dark velvet robe. The silence of nature was so deep that one might have thought he heard the stars gravitating on the firmament, the sap ascending in the trees, and the breeze speaking to the flowers. Every one was buried in the arms of sleep, in the little town of Warmie, a canonship of Polish Prussia: every one—except one man. This man watched alone; shut up in a little room on the summit of a tower, with a table, some books, and an iron lamp. He was an old man of about seventy; bent and wrinkled by labour, but his eye sparkled with genius. His noble features had an expression of mildness and contemplation. Strangers to the earth, his eyes opened and shut by turns to look up towards heaven and down into his soul. The most perfect peace of conscience was depicted on his countenance. His grey hair, still abundant, parted on the summit of his head, descended in curls upon his shoulders. He wore the ecclesiastical garment of his age and country—that is, the long, straight robe, with collar of fur, and double sleeves likewise lined with fur on the fore-arm. This old man was the greatest astronomer of ancient and modern times-Nicholas Copernicus, born at Thorn (on the Vistula), in Poland, on the 19th of February, 1473; doctor in philosophy, in theology, and in medicine; incumbent canon of Warmie, and honorary professor of Rome and Bologna. Having nearly reached the end of his earthly career, as well as the limit of science, Copernicus had just finished his prodigious work, "De Orbium Cœlestium Revolutionibus." Seized, as with an astronomer's fury, he had destroyed all the solid heavens imagined by the ancients; he had taken our globe and thrown it far from the centre of the universe, where he had established the sun, with all the planets revolving around it. In short, Copernicus had revealed the heavens to the earth; and all that in the midst of poverty, of raillery, and persecution; without other support but his modest genius, and without other instrument but a wooden triangle. Copernicus had received the same day the last revise of his work, which was printed at Nuremberg, under the superintendence of his disciple, Rhéticus; and before sending back this decisive revise, he wanted to examine, for a last COPERNICUS. time, the whole of his discoveries. In order to do this, he fortunately had a cloudless night at his disposal, and he had passed it entirely in his observatory. II. As soon as the stars disappeared in the east, the astronomer took his parallactical instrument, made by himself of three small pieces of wood, and levelled it successively towards the four cardinal points. Convinced that he had at last that he was going to reveal to the world the imdestroyed an error of five thousand years, and perishable truth, he knelt down, folded his thin hands upon his breast, and thanked his Creator for having explained his infinite works to him. After that he sat down, and taking a pen, he wrote under the title of his book :: "Behold the work of the wisest and greatest artist-behold the work of God!" He meditated for a moment, and wrote the following dedication of his work: "TO THE MOST HOLY FATHER, POPE PAUL III: I dedicate my work to your Holiness, that every one might sec-the ignorant and the learned-that I do not fear judgment or examination. Your authority and your love for the sciences in general, and for the mathematics in particular, will serve me as a shield against faithless and wicked slanderers, notwithstanding the proverb which says that there is no remedy against the attacks of calumny. "NICHOLAS KOPERNIK." At the first glimmerings of day the lamp of the astronomer grew pale; he let his head fall on the table, and fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. This repose, nevertheless, was of short duration. It was interrupted by an old servant ascending the tower with a heavy tread. Sir," said he to the canon while tapping him on his shoulder, "the messenger of Rhéticus is ready to start; he waits for your work and your letters." The astronomer made a parcel of them, which he sealed with his seal, and fell again heavily on his chair. "Besides," continued the servant, "there are ten poor sick persons in the house, and you are wanted at Franenbourg, where the water-engine has stopped, and three workmen have broken their legs while trying to put it again in motion." "Poor men!" said Copernicus; "let my horse be saddled." And at the same time he descended rapidly from the tower. The house of Copernicus was one of the composed of a smallest in Warmie. It was laboratory, where he prepared medicines for the poor; of a small workshop, where, skilled in the arts and sciences, he painted his own image and that of his friends, and sketches of his happy reminiscences of Rome and Bologna; and, finally, of a parlour, always open to any one who implored his aid, his table, or his purse. An opening had been made above the door, through which the sun shining at noon, struck a certain point in the next room. This was his astronomical gnomon. Some verses, written by himself and stuck against the wall, were the only ornaments of this apartment. In this room he found the ten sick persons who claimed his cares; he dressed the wounded, gave remedies to others, and to all alms and | consolation. After that he drank a cup of milk, and was going on his way towards Franenbourg, when a horseman covered with dust delivered him a message. Copernicus, trembling, recognized a letter from his friend Gysius, bishop of Culm. bestowed on the unfortunate who had been wounded in the sluices; he set their broken limbs, and promised to return the next morning. But he himself was going to receive a blow which was to break his heart. As he crossed the market-place, he perceived some jugglers on their trestles, in the midst of the crowd. The theatre represented an astronomer's observatory, full of ridiculous instruments. An old man stood in the middle, dressed absolutely like Copernicus. The resemblance was so perfect, that he recognized himself; and stopped, quite stupified. The buffoon, who was to turn the great man into public derision, had behind him an individual whose claws, tail, and horns indicated plainly the Evil One, who made him act and speak like an automaton by pulling two strings fastened to his ears. These ears, as may be easily supposed, were of the greatest dimensions, and had once belonged to the most patient of quadrupeds. The farce was composed of different scenes. In the first, the astronomer sold himself to Satan, burnt a copy of the Bible, and trampled a crucifix "God pity us," wrote the prelate, "and prevent under his feet; in the second, he exposed his the blow which threatens us! Your enemies and system by juggling with apples in the way of your rivals-those who accuse you of folly, and those planets, which revolved round his face, transwho call you a heretic-have so well stirred up the formed into a sun by means of small resin minds of men at Nuremberg, that the people curse your name in the streets; the priests excommunicate candles; in the third, he became a quack and you from the pulpit; the academy desires your inter-mountebank, talked dog-latin to the passers by, diction; and the university, hearing that your work is going to appear, has sworn to destroy the presses, and to annihilate the toil of your whole life. Come, in order to divert the tempest-and fear lest you come too late!" Copernicus could not finish the perusal of this letter. He fell, exhausted, into the arms of his servant. When he rose again, he was asked if he was ready to start. "Yes," answered he; "but not for Nuremberg-not for Culm. The wounded wait for me at Franenbourg. They might perhaps die if I did not go to their assistance, and my enemies cannot destroy my work; they will not stop the courses of the stars!" III. An hour later, and Copernicus was at Franenbourg. The water-engine which he had constructed for this city, on the summit of a hill, carried the waters from the river Bouda, at two miles distance, with such force that they turned a water-mill, constructed by the astronomer, and ascended even higher than the steeple of the church. The inhabitants-instead of dying almost of thirst, like their fathers-had only to turn a stop-cock in order to have a fountain at their own houses. The engine had been put out of order the day before the more unseasonably as there was a great feast that day at Franenbourg. At the first glance, Copernicus perceived the evil; and in a few hours he had rectified it. It may be easily supposed that his first cares had been and, at a very high price, sold them water drawn from his well, while he himself got drunk with excellent wine, until he fell under the table; finally, in the fourth scene, he was cursed by God and man, and Satan, dragging him away in the midst of a cloud of brimstone and fire, punished him for having made the earth turn, by condemning him to hang with his head downwards during eternity! Seeing his genius and his virtues thus publicly despised, his science represented as quackery, his disinterestedness as sharping, and his true faith as impiety, finally his whole person delivered to human and Divine vengeance, Copernicus underwent the most frightful pains, and doubted of himself and of Providence. But he hoped that the Franenbourgers-his adoptive children, witnesses and objects of his devotedness during fifty years-would put an end to such infamy by overthrowing the jugglers and their trestles. Judge of his surprise, his grief, and his despair, when he saw his vile slanderers applauded by those whom he overloaded every day with favours and alms! He rallied his courage in vain-the trial was above his force. He sank to the earth in a swoon! It was then first that the ungrateful populace recognized their benefactor. The name of Copernicus was repeated from mouth to mouth. They heard that the very same day he had come to lend them his assistance. Passing from the excess of ingratitude to the excess of remorse, the crowd drove off the jugglers, and bore the astronomer in triumph. Alas! he was no longer able to appreciate this consolation. Exhausted by the labour of the day before, by the fatigue and the emotions of the present day, cast down by this last wound, he was only able to ask for a sedan-in which he arrived, dying, at Warmie. IV. His agony lasted five days; during which his genius and faith shone for the last time. The next morning a letter from Rhéticus confirmed the sinister predictions of the bishop of Culm. The students of the university had thrice endeavoured to seize the press from whence truth was to spring. "Even this morning," added he, " they have tried to put the house on fire. I have assembled all my friends. Day and night we remain here, keeping the doors and watching the workmen. The printers work with one hand on the press and the other on a pistol. If we hold firm for two days your work is saved; for once ten copies are pulled, nothing can destroy it. But if our enemies get the advantage to-morrow Rhéticus did not finish. The third day new messages, and new alarms. A printer, won by the enemies, had delivered the manuscript into their hands, which was burnt in public. Happily the copy from the press was made. They had almost finished; but a riot could destroy everything. Such were the expectations in which Copernicus agonized and passed his last day. His labour, his glory, and his name-were they to escape from the hands of fanaticism, or were they to perish before him? Imagine, if you can, such a martyrdom! This rapidly exhausted the old man's remaining forces. Death, invading his weakened body, was reaching the seat of genius, when a foaming horse stopped before his door. An armed man dismounted, covered with dust, and out of breath, like the soldier of Marathon. Like the Greek soldier, this man proclaimed the victory! He held a still wet volume against his breast. This volume was the master-piece of Copernicus! Justice and reason had triumphed over hatred and folly; the work of God was at last explained to man; the sun enlightened the earth for a second time! The dying man seized the book with his trembling hands, and contemplated it with an eager look. Then, with a smile, he sighed "Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine and thereupon he breathed his last. V. Copernicus was persecuted even on the other side of the grave. The Court of Rome answered to his dedication by condemning his book. But the book avenged itself, by enlightening the Court of Rome; which recognized at last, though late, the genius and the faith of the astronomer of Warmie. * Prussia, with the ingratitude of conquerors, has converted the observatory of Copernicus into a dungeon. But Poland, his mother country, has gathered its last children, and its last oboles to erect him a monument at Cracow, and a colossal statue at Warsaw, from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. W. DE D. *What is called the system of Ptolemy was annihilated by Copernicus-an hypothesis which during 2000 years had been suffered to remain, an ingenious, artificial, and wonderful mixture of error and sagacity. Copernicus assumed that the sun was the centre of the planetary system; that the earth was a planet, like Mars and Venus, and that all the planets revolved round the sun. When he described their paths, he It was early in the morning of the 23rd of found that these circles, notwithstanding their simMay, 1543; the sky displayed all its stars, earthplicity, fully explained all the motions of the heavenly was covered with flowers, and nature seemed to feast its revealer, like the last time, when he left his observatory. bodies; and that the apparent stations and retrogradations of the planets necessarily resulted from the motion of the earth. Thus he asserted the true system of the universe-that system bears its discoverer's name. The Vatican hurled its thunders against the astronomer. The Papal Court did not after the death of Copernicus. It should be borne annul its sentence of excommunication until 278 years in mind that Copernicus laboured, a century before the invention of telescopes, with miserable wooden * "Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, instruments, on which the lines were often only O Lord!" Soon the sun, casting its purest rays through a window on the head of this great man, seemed to say in his turn-"The King of Creation gives thee the kiss of peace; to thee who hast replaced him on his throne!" marked with ink.-ED. |