brother, and the Abbé Devisse, their nephew, came, successively, during his lucid intervals, to implore and receive bis benediction, to present him the crucifix to kiss, and to address to him some words of pious consolation. There were also some persons of the town, who came to receive his last benediction. His servants then ap proached altogether, and bathed in tears, to ask it of him, and he gave it them with friendly kindness. The Abbé le Vayer, (of the congregation of St. Sulpice), superior of the seminary at Cambrai, received it also for the seminary, and for the diocese. He then recited the prières des agonisants, intermingling occasionally short and affecting passages from scripture, most suitable to the condition of the dying man, who was about half an hour without giving any sign of consciousness: after which he gently expired, at a quarter past five in the morning, on the 7th of January, 1715.

"We believe that our holy and pious archbishop died, as be had lived, with perfect sanctity. Every one who had been most intimate with him, was eager to possess something which had belonged to him. He left behind him no ready money; the losses and the great expense which the vicinity of the armies, during the last three campaigns, had occasioned, was the cause of it; for, notwithstanding them, he retrenched none of the alms which he gave to the convents of the town, to the poor or dinands of his seminary, to the nuns of charity for the indigent sick, to the parishes which he visited, to the students of his diocese whom he supported at the univer

sities, and to various other purposes. Hence, his revenues were absolutely exhausted. He appointed, by his will, the Abbé de Beaumont, his nephew, his sole heir, to execute his pious intentions, which were communicated to him alone; and M. de Beamont continued to dispense the same alms to the poor, as the archbishop had done, till the arrival of his successor.

"Such are the things which I observed respecting the conduct of our boly archbishop, during the last days of his life. His nephews, and the other persons, who scarcely ever quitted him during his illness, may have noticed things which I did not, or which I cannot now recollect."

The death of Fenelon excited sincere and universal regret through the whole of the Netherlands; and, notwithstanding the clamours of party which divided the church, every heart was ready to deplore the death of a bishop who had won the respect, the esteem, and the affection even of his adversaries. saries. We have already said, that notwithstanding his opposi tion to the doctrine of the Jansenists, and though he had encountered them with great success in numerous writings, he had always turned from them the band of power, and had preserved them, by his zeal, from the personal dangers to which they might have beep exposed. Far from detracting from the general love which was felt for Fenelon, they were the more afflicted at his loss, as they were ignorant what might be the dispositions of his successor with regard to them, and as they could scarcely expect, under exist

of such kind conduct towards them.

As to the friends of Fenelon, it were superfluous to say, in the words of the Duke de St. Simon, "that they were plunged into an abyss of the most severe sorrow."

When the news of his death arrived in foreign countries, it was perhaps felt with greater sensibi. lity than in France itself, in which the minds of men were incensed, and divided by considerations of party, in which a recent peace still left the smart of a long and calamitous war, in which the yoke of authority had become irksome to every one, and in which the love of innovation led every mind to contemplate a future change of things. But, in all the rest of Europe, they were sensible only to the loss of a man who had shed a lustre upon the age in which he lived, by his talents, his virtues, and his writings, which will endure as long as the language in which they are written. Such men had begun to be rare in every country, and the name of Fenelon was, perhaps, the only one at that time which enjoyed a universal reputation.

Pope Clement XI. shed sincere tears of sorrow at his death, and seemed to regret that he had not nominated him a cardinal, from the fear of displeasing Louis XIV. It was the wish nearest his heart, and he disclosed the wish to the celebrated Cardinal Quirini, at a time when it was still in his power to gratify it. The cardinal himself has recorded this circumstance in his writings, where he gives an account of a conversation which he had with Clement XI. before it was known at Rome that

de doctrinâ et pietate Feneloi sensus e sanctissimo pectore depromp→ sit; unde facile mihi innotesceret cogitationem de illo præsule ad cardinalatum evehendo pontificis mente jam repositam manere.”

John Baptist Rousseau, who was then retired to a foreign land, wit> nessed the regret which was every where expressed at the death of Fenelon. He wrote to a protestant (Crousaz), eminent for the works which he had published, in the following manner, upon the occasion:

"Great talents are of all coun→ tries and of all persuasions, and I am not surprised to find you so grieved at the loss which the church and the republic of letters have sustained in the death of the Archbishop of Cambrai. In an age when true merit is so rare, there is no honest man who ought not to mourn for so truly great a personage. His reputation will live as long as there shall be upon the earth men who are sensible of true genius and of true virtue; and, to the shame of our nation be it said, it will perhaps be among us that his death will be least mourned."

It appeared to be so difficult to appoint a successor to Fenelon, who was worthy of filling his place, that Louis XIV. who survived hin eight months, died without having nominated any one to the Archbishopric of Cambrai.

66

"Fenelon," says the Duke' de St. Simon in his Memoirs, was a tall man, thin, well-made, and with a large nose; from his eyes issued the fire and animation of his mind like a torrent; and his countenance was such, that I ne

ver yet beheld any one similar to it, nor could it ever be forgotten if

once seen.

"It combined every thing, and yet there was nothing in opposition: it was grave and yet alluring, it was solemn and yet gay, it bespoke equally the theologian, the bishop, and the nobleman. Every thing which was visible in it, as well as in his whole person, was delicate, intellectual, graceful, becoming, and above all, noble. It required an effort to cease looking at him; all the portraits of him are strong resemblances, though they have not caught that harmony which was so striking in the original, and that individual delicacy which characterised each feature; his manners were answerable to his countenance; they had all that ease which communicates itself to others, that air, and that urbanity which can be derived only from intercourse with the best society, and with the world, and, which diffused itself over all his discourse."

Amusements of the American Spaniards. [From Mr. Walton's Present State of the Spanish Colonies.]

If it be a fact, that the style of amusements indicates the character of a nation, it may not be thought foreign to my subject to give those of the American Spaniards a brief consideration. "A principal one is cock-fighting, but without spurs, and the English game are much esteemed. The light of holding the cock-pit is rented by government, and Sunday is the day of exhibition. The

proceeds of admittance-prices go to support hospitals of the poor.

The general and national taste, however, here, as in Old Spain, runs principally on bull-feasts; and in those places where there are no amphitheatres, the avenues to a square are palisadoed, the doors of the houses are closed, the ladies crowd the grated windows and flat roofs; yet, though the natives of South America are extremely active and nimble, these representations consist more in jading and harassing the poor animal, than in any display of dexterity, and are very unlike those of Spain.

The Spanish national dances have been marked by most travellers amongst their peculiarities, and appear beyond the imitation of other people; for though they are attempted on our theatres in England, being unaccompanied with a certain association of ideas, they cannot be relished by any other audience, or represented by any other performers than natives; nay, in Spain itself, the sedate Castilian does not exquisitely enjoy the graceful and animated movements of the Andalusian, though he crowds to the dance.

Of all these, the most elegant, scientific, and peculiarly characteristic, is the Bolero. It affords to the well-formed female the most graceful display of person, as well as dexterity and agility of motion the dancers beat the castenets with their fingers in time to their feet, going through varied interesting changes and positions, accompa nied by the guitar and voice. A great merit in this dance is the bien parado, or peculiar position of the two dancers opposite each,

o'ber

other, with their arms extended, and one foot in the air; this posture they suddenly seize, and hold the moment the different changes have exhausted the tune, and in perfect accord with the last sound of the guitar; the applausos of the audience then most resound. The suitable dress to this national dance is a-lo-mojo, as used in the bull-feasts, and any other would be out of character. This dance partakes of the hornpipe of the English, the trescone of the Tuscans, the furlana of the Venetians, the corrente of the Monserrines, and the minuet of the French, and is varied both by slow and quick time.

The fandango is another of their national dances, also performed by a couple, but difficult to conceive by any but a spectator. It is of much quicker time than the bolero, but equally accompanied by the voice and guitar, and a quick rolling time beat by the castenets at every cadence. The dancers wheel about, approach each other with a fond eagerness, then quickly retire, again approach, whilst every limb appears in such motion as may be called, with propriety, a regular and harmonious convulsion of the whole body; but it is rather a quick equal striking of the feet and toes on the ground, than graceful and continued steps. The chandé is the outre of this dance, but cannot be looked upon with the eye of modesty. Tonadillas, seguedillas, boleros, and tyranas, are the general national songs; but there are many provincial styles, such as the Malagueña, &c.-These dances, though sometimes met in Spanish America, are not those geVOL. LII.

nerally used in society; they have adopted the waltz, besides the Spanish country dance, which is extremely graceful, and more complicated, but not so monotonous as our own, though the time is slower.

To visit the dances of the people of colour, particularly those of Haiti, or many who are mixed and blended with the natives of Hispañola, is to be transported into a circle of lascivious bacchantes; the motion of the foot is no longer attended to, the time is beat with a rapid precision of movement and volubility of reins, that would almost bid defiance to the powers of mechanism; which, though it disgusts by obscenity, astonishes by the gesture and activity d splayed.

The lower order of the Spanish people of colour, accompany their grotesque dances with yells, and music created out of slips of hard sounding wood, or a furrowed calabash, scraped quickly with a thin bone; the baujo, rattles made by putting small pebbles into a calabash, the teeth fixed in the jawbone of a horse, scraped with rapid motion; and the drum. The steps are singular and obscene, the whole accompaniment and style appear to be derived from the African Congos and Indian Din mixed, and is the usual ceremony on the death of a relation, which they solemnize like the gypsies in Spain, with dances and music. The greatest compliment the lover pays his favourite in the dance for her graceful action, is to put his hat from his own, on her head, to wear during the evening, and which she generally returns by presenting him with a lighted segar, from her own stock.

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The

The dresses of the ladies at their balls or tertulias are fanciful, and generally consist of a muslin dress, sometimes worked in colours, with handsome fringe and tassels at the bottom. Over this they wear a close body or spencer of coloured, often red taffeta, or velvet, embroidered with gold. Their slippers are of embroidered silk, their stockings are of the finest, and often with gold clocks, or sandal. led; and the well-formed leg and foot, by the shortness of the petticoats, are displayed in luxuriant advantage to the admiring partner. Their hair is generally braided with chains of pearls or flowers, which forms a contrast with the dark glossy dye, and is confined with several ornamental or gold combs. The women, though not handsome, have a playful voluptuousness about them which cannot fail, at first sight, to please an European, accustomed to the more distant and demure manners of the society of his own clime; but though they thus attract, they seldom continue to interest. The care of domestic convenience and comfort by no means enters into their department; and they think of little else than dressing to go to the church, or processions in a morning, and the assemblies in the evening.

Characteristic Sketches of the American Spaniards. [From the same Work, Vol. H.]

Marriages, either in Spain or Spanish America, were never generally exhibited as models of conjugal felicity; and though there are many happy exceptions to this

remark, they too often serve as examples of irregularity to the children. That warmth of passions, that effervescence and impetuosity of feeling, frequently the result of romance, and delusive anticipations of hope, but not founded on congeniality, or matured by reason, too often bring a couple together. The parents having little hold on the actions of their progeny, cannot control their choice; they marry at an early age, but unlike our own quakers, who think this custom the greatest guardian to the morals of the rising generation, satiety and disgust too generally ensue; appearance and considerations of propriety make their home indeed mutual, but fidelity is a clog they both hasten to throw off. A cortejio, like the cicisbeo of the Italians, becomes the right of the wife; he leads her to the tertulias and public walks, dances with her, orders her carriage, and is entirely and exclusively attendant on her call; whilst the husband consoles himself in the arms of a mistress, and heeds little, nor interferes with what passes in his family. The lover, who had, previous to marriage, passed entire nights under the window of his intended, muffled in a cloak, to discover if she had more suitors than himself, scarcely trusting to her own professions, after the marriage ceremony is over becomes indifferent, and lays aside that jealousy we in our novels ascribe to the Spanish husband instead of the lover. Certainly Montesquieu, when he asserted, that the fewer marriages the less fidelity in them, must have made this people a wide exception.

We have already remarked, that they