“I promised, my dear aunt,” continued Nelly, “when I left you, to tell

you every thing I saw! I little knew what a promise that was when I made

it! but there’s something so mighty quare has happened lately in this

great town, that I should like you to come to knowledge of it; it is so

different from what’s going on in poor ould Ireland. I haven’t much time

for writing this month, so must tell it _out of the face_, and be done

with it. Do you remember the watching we used to have when the war was

going on betwixt Miss Mulvany of the big shop, and Mrs. Toney Casey of

the red house, about the length of their gowns? All the county cried

shame on Miss Mulvany, when the hem of her brand-new-Sunday-silk reached

the binding of her shoe, and then they shouted double shame on Mrs. Tony

Casey, all the way home from mass, when the next Sunday _her_ dress

touched the heel; sure it served us for conversation all the week, and

every girl in the place letting down her hems—and happy she, who had a

good piece in the gathers—and to see the smile and the giggle on Miss

Mulvany’s face! We all knew, when we saw _that_, that she’d come out

past the common, the next Sunday; and so she did, and a cruel wet Sunday

it was, and she in another silk, a full finger on the ground behind and

before, and she too proud to hold it up! and that little villain, Paddy

Macgann, coming up to her in the civilist way and asking if he might

carry home her tail for her! And then the row there was between Tony

Casey and his wife, the little foolish _crayshur_, because he refused

her the price of a new gown, with which she wanted to break the heart of

the other fool, Miss Mulvany, by doubling the length, and how Mrs. Casey

would not go to mass, because she couldn’t have a longer tail than Miss

Mulvany! And sure _you mind_, aunt dear, when all that work was going

on, how the fine priest stood on the altar, and ‘Girls and boys,’ he

says—it was after mass—‘Girls and boys, but especially girls, I had a

drame last night, or indeed, to be spaking good English, it was this

morning I had it, and I need not tell you, my little darlings,’ (that

was the kind way he had of speaking,) ‘that a morning drame comes true.

Well, in my drame I was on the Fair green, and there was a fine lot of

you, all looking fresh and gay like a bank of primroses, and all sailing

about like a forest of paycocks, with tails as long and as draggled as

Mary Mulvany _has_ got, and Mrs. Tony Casey has _not_ got.’

“‘No fault of hers, plaze your reverence,’ says Tony.

“‘Hould y’er tongue, Tony,’ said the priest, ‘until you’re spoken to,

and don’t be a fool; when a wise man wins a battle, he shouldn’t brag of

it; and it is ill manners you have, to be putting your priest out in the

face of his congregation. Where was I?’

“‘In a forest of paycocks, your reverence,’ squeaked little Paddy

Macgann.

“‘That’s a fine boy, Paddy, to remember what your priest says.’

“‘Your reverence promised me a penny the last time I held your horse,’

squeaked Paddy again; upon which there was a grate laugh, in which his

reverence joined. It was mighty sharp of Paddy.

“‘Well, girls,’ continued his reverence, ‘you were all like paycocks,

only some had longer tails than others, and very proud you were of

them—mighty fine, and quite natural; showing them off, girls, not to

one another, but at one another. Well, there is, as you all know, no

accounting for drames, for all of a sudden who should come on the green,

but the Black Gentleman himself! It’s downright earnest I am. I saw him

as plain as I see you; hoofs and horns, there he was; and when you all

saw him, of course you ran away like hares, and those that had short

gowns got clean off, tight and tidy, but as for poor Mary Mulvany, and

all like her, (in dress, I mean) all he had to do, was to put his hoof

on the gown tails and they were done for—pinned for everlasting. Girls!

remember _the morning drame comes true_! If ye make a vanity of your

gown tails, it’s a sure sign that the devil has set his foot on them.

Now be off every one of you, and let me see you next Sunday.’ Ah, aunt

dear, the tails were cut off to the shoe binding.

“Now, aunt, it would be the greatest blessing in life if the fine ladies

here had some little contrivance (those who walk) for keeping their

dresses off the streets; it’s a murdering pity to see the sweep they

give to the dirt and dust as they float over the pavements; my mistress

says, that long ago the upper petticoat reached the ancle joint, and was

of quilted silk, mighty handsome, and the dress drawn up so as to show

it a bit, and could be let down at pleasure; it’s next to impossible to

keep shoes and stockings clean, while what our good old priest called

the ‘paycock’s tail’ sweeps the streets as the lady walks. But, indeed,

(as my dear, good lady says) ‘extremes meet;’ for will you believe it,

that there has been an attempt made by some ladies from America (that

wonderful uneasy country, that’s too big to contain itself, and must

keep on a-meddling and a-doing for ever more) to revolutionize, that is,

stir up a rebellion against every stitch we wear! There is reason in all

things; and it would be both more clean and more convenient if the

ladies left it to the dear little red-coated ragged-school boys, to

sweep the streets; but these ladies (_Bloomers_ they call themselves)

are for turning all the women into men, by act of parliament. I don’t

know if they have got any plan for turning the men into women, but my

mistress says _that_ must follow. You remember, aunt, that we used to

call the darling Miss Mildred a ‘bloomer;’ and there was a poem made

about her, in such beautiful rhyme:

‘Oh, you are like Cassandra fair,

Who won great Alexander’s heart;

A bloomer, sweeter than the rose.’

I forget it, aunty, but it continued very learned—about

‘O’Donaghoo and the great O’Brien,

That banged the strength out of Orion.’

It was all about her, and her bating Venus for beauty, and went to the

tune of ‘Jackson’s Morning Brush.’

“Only think of our darling Miss Mildred being thought of in the same day

with _these_ ‘bloomers,’ as if she wore a man’s hat and waistcoat—to

say nothing of _the other things_—in the broad light of day; and if

_that_ isn’t enough, strapped over the _boot_! Our own, born, bred, and

reared Miss Mildred, with the blush of innocence on her cheek, a brow as

fair as if it had been bathed in May-dew every morning of her life, with

the freshness of youth on her rosy lips, cantering through the country

on her snow-white pony, man-fashion, to say nothing of boots and spurs!

“Well, this band of Bloomers is quite different to what you would expect

from the name. My mistress bought the picture of one, and that was

pretty enough to look at. But think of the dress of a slim young lady of

ten years old, on a grown-up woman, particularly if she is rather fallen

into flesh, and you’ll see how I saw a stout Bloomer look—certainly,

that was not blooming. Any thing looks well on youth and beauty; or

rather, youth and beauty look well in any thing; but the deepness of the

dress was that it was only a _cloak_, (though that’s not true, for

_cloaks_ are not Bloomers,) only a sign, or an all-over sort of badge,

for another thing—putting us all into counsellor’s wigs, and turning us

into Parliament men and ministers, and police-inspectors and generals,

and rifle-brigades. The upsettingest thing that ever crossed the wild

waters of the Atlantic!

“My dear mistress shook her poor head, and said to me—for I was greatly

troubled at the first going off to think if it was passed into a law

here, what I should have to turn to myself, or whether it would not be

more patriotic for me to go back to ould Ireland and be a White-Boy at

once, because if the women were turned into men, surely we’d have the

best of it then, any how. I _was_ troubled, for I hate the law, and as

for Parliament, I never could stand the arguments there, as I’d like

best to have my own way, without any contradiction, which a woman can do

at home if she’s at all _cute_; so, seeing me bothered, (this as I say

was at the first) my lady was quite amused, and ‘Ellen,’ she said, ‘do

not trouble yourself about it, there is little doubt but that the more

civilized we become, the more employment will be found for women, and

the more highly will they be respected; but to be either happy or

useful, a woman must be employed as a _Woman_, not as a man; she must be

employed where her tenderness, her quick perceptions, her powers of

endurance, her unselfishness, her devotion, are called into, and kept

in, action. She who is the mother of heroes does not covet to enter the

battle-field herself,’ said my mistress, all as one as if she was

reading out of a printed book—(I never could handle any thing but a

stone, and should dead faint at the sound of a pistol, but I was not

going to _let on_ that to her)—so, ‘True for you, ma’am,’ I said,

though I was fairly bothered, but made _bould_ to add, ‘Sure no lady

could attend to the Parliament-house and the wants of a large small

family.’

“‘Oh,’ she said, smiling, ‘no married lady, I suppose, would think of

entering Parliament, it would be very awkward indeed when a right

honorable lady-member was delivering her opinion on the malt tax, or on

the duty on bread-stuffs, just as the ladies on the opposition benches

cried out ‘Hear, hear,’ to be interrupted by a message from the _other

house_, of ‘Please, ma’am, the baby wants you.’’

“Well, I saw a great deal of good sense in this, and thought it would be

better for women to be content to be women. I am sure we used to be very

happy long ago, before this came into our heads, but the landlady I told

you of did not think so: she has two or three friends that come and talk

over all the domestic and un-domestic arrangements of all their

‘gossips:’ one of these ladies is a widow—for the second time; and they

say she was the death of the first by her tongue, and of the second by

her temper, maybe the one helped on the other against both the poor

fellows! any how, they both are dead, and she makes a great boast of

never taking a third; they say she was never asked: she is what’s called

a ‘strong-minded woman,’ she would say any thing, or do any thing; and

what I can’t understand—though she is forever abusing the men, and

letting on she hates them and their ways—is that she does every thing

in the world she can to seem manly. She tramps about in high-heeled

boots, with straps; she speaks in—what she calls—a ‘fine, manly tone,’

and hates soft voices, because they are _womanly_; she has a way of her

own, of turning the rights of women into the rights of men; she parts

her hair at the side, and turns it in an under roll all round—‘because

it is like a man’s;’ and yet she calls ‘them men’ bears and brutes

enough to fill the zoology gardens; and though she grumbles because men

tyrannize over women, she is bringing up her _son_ to have his way in

every thing, and makes his sister give the cake from her hand, and the

orange from her lips to pamper him.

“Now that’s mighty quare to me—she is the landlady’s prime

minister—her name is Mrs. Blounet. Then there are the two Miss

Hunters—Miss Cressy and Miss Mary Jane. Miss Cressy is a fine stately

woman—all bone—and high-learned, and has spoken more than once on

‘Man, the oppressor;’ but, though Miss Mary Jane dresses bloomer, she

does not abuse her fellow-creatures as badly as Miss Cressy. She is five

years younger, and very good-looking—by candle-light. To be sure it is

wonderful how the tongues of the three go against mankind, when they’re

all together, and the landlady making one little lament after another,

how that her husband does this, and doesn’t do that; and this often

makes me think of what I heard of often, from one we both loved—you

will remember _who it was_ when I tell you the advice. ‘If you would

lead a happy life, never tell your husband’s faults to any ear but his

own; a woman who makes her husband’s failings a subject for

conversation, is unworthy his respect or his affection.’ And, if you

mind, aunty, the same woman—the heavens be her bed!—used to say, we

had two ears and but one tongue: a sign that we should not say all we

hear. Anyhow, it would bother the saints to hear the talk of them—Mrs.

Blounet hitting ever so hard at Miss Cressy and Miss Mary Jane for being

old maids; and, Miss Cressy especially, turning upon Mrs. Blounet for

having two husbands—not at a time, though. It was wonderful the talk

they used to have, and the suppers; and then Miss Cressy disappeared in

the evenings, and poor Mr. Creed—that’s the landlady’s

husband—declared she served at a confectioner’s of an evening _in the

dress_; and my mistress said that sort of thing would crush ‘the

movement altogether;’ as if the dress was thought to be ever so healthy

and convenient, its going into that class as a show, and a vulgar

attraction, would prevent its ever being recognized as respectable in

England. Then Mrs. Blounet took stronger than ever to lecturing in pink

trousers—she weighs thirteen stone—and a gray ‘tunic,’ she calls it;

but it is just a short petticoat pleated full. Oh! so short.

“And Miss Mary Jane was wonderful, except when Mr. Creed had any

gentlemen visitors; _then_ she would allow that Alexander the Great, and

Bonaparte, and a few more, were equal to us. But the worst of it was

that this spirit of Bloomer was quite upsetting our house: the landlady

took to writing about the rights of woman, and left every one of her

duties uncared for. Mr. Creed is a police inspector of the P division,

and often wanted a hot cup of coffee, but Mrs. Creed downright refused

to make it. The baby did as it liked. The only thing its mother

corrected was _proofs_!—long strips of printed paper, like dirty

farthing ballads; and Mrs. Blounet and she would sit all day, just

making mischief, and writing the _botheringest_ nonsense that ever was,

while my mistress might wait for her dinner. Think of three guineas

a-week for three rooms, and done for!—and yet not able to get a chop

dressed, because the landlady is practicing the _rights of women_—by

giving us no rights at all. Now, isn’t it quare? And it was worse and

worse she was getting, so that between her and the east wind, we had

neither peace nor quiet—all the morning she was reading newspapers, and

correcting them ‘proofs;’ all the evenings, attending public meetings.

And the poor babby!—I have heard her tell her husband that if he wanted

it washed, he must do it himself, for she had the rights of her sex to

attend to, and it was as much his business as hers to mind it. Oh! it’s

wonderful when politics get into a woman’s head how they drive nature

out of it!—they beat small tea-parties, and fairs, and dances, and

patterns—ay, and falling in love—out and out for making a woman forget

herself. And yet if there’s a thing in the world she is proud of, it is

that babby, and sitting at the head of her tea-table, pouring out tea,

and laying down the law. You used to say, aunty dear, that a woman never

went out and out to the bad, until her heart got into the wrong place:

indeed, you and the landlady would not agree at all; _for in almost_

_every thing she had reasoned herself out of nature_—and that’s what

they try to do—but just wait until I tell you how things went on. We

were very uncomfortable: my poor mistress kept waiting for her dinner,

and if I had not studied a cookery-book as hard as ever Father

Jonas—dear holy man!—studied his breviary, she must have gone days and

days without a bit of proper food, for there is but one poor fag of a

servant, who was born on her legs, and has kept on them ever since, to

cook, and wash, and walk with the children, and lay the cloth, and wait

the table, and go everybody’s messages, and open the door, and bear the

ill temper of the parlors, drawing-rooms, and every floor, and faction

in the house. Well, since the landlady took up with the rights of women,

no slave in the free states of America has been so overworked as that

poor girl; among other things, the landlady reproached her for taking no

pride in laying out supper for the ‘great movers,’ as she called them,

‘in the cause of women:’ and the girl asked what good the ‘movement’ was

to her, except to give her more work. Well, you should have heard the

landlady’s tongue go after that—no one that did could ever forgot

it—how she reproached her for want of public spirit, and proper

feeling—and ‘sympathy.’ Now the best of it is, that this good woman’s

husband is—as I said—a Police Inspector, though she tried hard and

long to make me believe he had a ‘situation in the city,’ which did not

sound like policeman. You see, darling, the English are grown very like

ourselves in _that_; my mistress says, that a great deal of the pride

and spirit they took in honest labor and its profits are gone; and

forgetting the respect due to great people—I mean, aunt, great good

people, and great good things—they run into every little dirty short

cut to wealth they can find; and after all sorts and kinds of

money—like mad: in fact, she says,—that there are as many at ‘_their

dirty diggings_’ in the city of London, as in that place, they call it

by the name of California, in a far away country. Now, to take pride out

of mere money there and then, seems of all things the most unnatural for

those who have souls in their bodies: the understanding that two and two

make four, doesn’t seem much to be proud of, and yet that’s the

beginning and end of half the knowledge and pride going—of all the

knowledge the gold-seekers care about, just as if grubbing up and

counting up would make them all as one as the rale quality; and then, if

you say a word, they get up a cry of

‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’

and bother ye’r heart out with ‘it’s nothing what a man _was_, but what

he _is_;’ and so I say, but with a different meaning,

‘A grub’s a grub for a’ that;’

and don’t tell me! all the wealth of California and Australia to the

back of it, wont change a man; what he was, he is, unless something

brighter than gold comes over him; the seeking and loving money never

purified a heart yet, nor raised a man the breadth of a straw.

‘It’s not the wealth, but how you use it.’

I see and hear a deal about wealth, but something keeps stirring in my

heart, and whispering in my ear, which, as a poor girl, I’ve no right to

talk about; there are ways of working up like the little grain of

mustard seed my mistress reads of, that grew into a great tree, and

sheltered the houseless and homeless. Now _that_ is a fine thing to

think of, and I delight in a little story of a mouse letting a lion out

of a net—there’s great comfort in _that_—and I feel

‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’

when I hear tell of a little old man who, blessed be God! first thought

of Infant Schools—Oh! it’s them are the blessings. The things I love

best, are the things that teach people how to keep from sin—of the two

I like them better than what takes them out of it. And when I remember

WHO sent Temperance abroad to the four quarters of the globe—so that

even gentlemen are ashamed of being tipsy—and how as a regenerator that

Temperance is only next to Godliness—there’s a glory for Ireland! And I

think of a fine ancient white-headed saint in Manchester, Wright by name

and nature, who remembers, as my dear mistress says, to tread in his

Master’s footsteps, who was sent, ‘not to call the righteous, but

sinners to repentance.’ And I think of the charities, grander than the

Pyramids of Egypt my cousin writes home about; charities purifying the

great sins of great London; charities, Aunt darling, increasing every

year, and as each new one starts up, from the brain maybe of some poor

working man, the people cry out, as with one voice, ‘This can’t be done

without.’ I am glad of such thoughts, and such knowledge, for I’ll tell

you the truth, I mortally abominate them great bloated gold-finders.

When I think of the _gold-loving_ English, I could send all the Fathers

of the Church against them, with bell, book, and candle. When I think of

the _other things_, Aunt dear, why I can only pray that they may be

remembered to them as a people, at the last day;—and I’m willing to do

penance for the prayer, if so be it’s a sin!

“But it’s high up above Bloomerism, and all other follies I’ve got,

_sure_ enough; only as the lark said, I must come down some time. At

last the house became a fair Babel, worse than what I’ve heard of

Donnybroke itself, when the boys used to cry out, ‘Oh! the glory’s left

ould Ireland—twelve o’clock, and no fight;’ and when the poor fellows

would be going about the Fair green, shouting, ‘Who’ll fight me for the

sake of St. Patrick.’ The man of the house was sorely to be pitied, he

was a mighty quiet man; and impossible as it may seem, very fond of his

vixen of a wife (talk as you will, there’s mighty little reason in

love,) and his baby; and moreover, he was very little at home at all,

which ought to have made her all the pleasanter when he was in it, for

it’s very easy to find words going sharp, when a man’s ever and always

_molly coddling_ about a house, and bothering about every in and out, no

ways becoming to him. Of late, she was always grumbling when he went

out, though it was about his business—and yet never peaceable when he

came in; I wondered how he took it so easy, but there is no use ever

interfering betwixt married people; no matter how bitter they are

to-night, they may be all like sugar and honey to-morrow morning, and

whatever you say to one, is sure to go to the other—they’re not safe to

make or meddle with; if you want to make peace, you must never let one

know what the other says when they’re in their ‘tiffs;’ and to keep quit

of that you must tell more woppers than is at all pleasant to carry,

particularly when the priest is cross, and _puts heavy weights on the

penances_.

“I kept as clear of both husband and wife as I could, though they would

come now and again, and tell me their troubles; the landlady blaming the

tyranny of mankind, and the badness of the laws—and the husband

bewailing that she had got among the bloomers; I hinted that may be if

the dress which she only wore at their meetings was burned, it might put

her off her fancy; but he said, ‘he couldn’t do that—she looked so

pretty in it;’ was not that foolish? but Aunt, dear, men is that—and

think more of a pretty face with a sharp tongue—than of a plain one,

that has nothing to say but goodness. Well, he gave in to her—it seemed

so in every thing for ever so long, but I sometimes thought that smooth

water runs deep. One evening he told her he was going to have a few of

his friends come there, and he hoped she would do her best to make them

comfortable; she rose at this, and said she wasn’t going to be no man’s

slave, and that if he had company, he must attend to them himself; and

that she would dress as she pleased, and have one of her own friends

with her, and sit at the head of her tea-table—like the queen; well, he

said he hoped she would wear the dress, and have her friend by all

means, and he would give her as little trouble as possible; instead of

this putting her into good humor, it made her quite fractious, for she

liked to be contradicted, that she might have something to complain of:

they went on jangling all day—I heard her say:—

“‘The world never will be right until we change places.’

“‘My love,’ he answered, ‘I thought you wanted us all to be in the same

place.’

“‘Not I indeed,’ she said, ‘you are much more suited to be a slave than

I am; content that every thing should be as it is, so that you may not

have the trouble of moving it—augh!’

“‘Very true, my dear.’

“‘I only wish they would make ME an Inspector of Police—I would soon

get things in order—I only wish I was a man!’

“‘I wish you were, my dear!’

“‘You know you don’t wish any such thing—Oh yes! you would like finely

to be trampled upon, as all poor women are—but _I_ don’t wait on your

friends, you may depend on _that_: you may snub me as you always do, and

set the baby crying, that my maternal feelings may be worked on to

attend to it; you may spill the tea-kittle into the fire, that I may be

forced—yes, Mr. Peter Creed—_forced_ to light it again, you having

first sent the other white slave out for cigars and muffins—but from

this hour I’ll pluck up a spirit!’

“‘Which spirit, my love?’

“And so they went on; I wondered how he could bear it; for she told him

over and over again, he was only fit for woman’s work; but my dear

mistress says, its always the way—the gentle quiet men get the vixens;

and surely young maids are so gentle, that one wonders where the old

vixens come from! However, in the course of the evening, as she was

flourishing down in her ‘bloomers,’ she told me that she had made up her

mind not to do a hand’s turn, let Peter manage as he might; but sit as

grand as Cromwell, at the head of her tea-table—pour out her tea, and

talk of the wrongs of woman! She was as proud of her beautiful chaney as

of her baby. Well, about an hour after, before any one came, I met a

strange woman on the stairs, a very tall, thin woman, and then there was

a knock at the door; Mrs. Creed kept firm, the poor servant was out; but

to my surprise, the tall woman sprang up from somewhere, and introduced

the gentlemen to the bloomer ladies in the parlor—oh what a _skrietch_

the landlady gave. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘that is Peter, that is my

husband—in my best apple silk.’

“‘Changed places—that is all,’ said the Inspector of the P Division,

coolly; ‘we agreed, my good friends, (the first time we have agreed

since the new movement,) that I was intended by nature to be one of the

_fair_ sex, and my wife—(according to the old fashion,) to be one of

the _foul_; so I have taken her place, and when the hour comes, she will

accompany you to Great Scotland Yard, and take my duty, while I attend

to the house and baby.’ After this speech, he plumped down at the head

of the tea-table, the seat she delighted in, and began placing the

things—or rather misplacing them—and pouring out the tea. Oh, if you

could but have seen her! At first she and her friend, Miss Cressy,

stormed; and when they did, the men laughed so loudly, as to drown the

storming; then she flew at her husband like a mad cat, and tore his cap,

and a cup and saucer were broken; upon which she sat down and went into

determined hysterics—the men declaring it was the first time their

Inspector had ever occasion to use vinegar and burnt feathers; then a

basin of water was thrown over her to bring her to, and in the midst of

it the baby cried; just as a fierce cat will run to its kitten—the

screaming took another turn, and she called out ‘My child, my child!’

but the men would not let her move—and the Inspector rushed out and

returned bringing in the baby, _hush-owing_ it in his arms, and talking

all kinds of nursery nonsense to it, and dancing it as a woman would,

but far more roughly: then he placed it on his knee, and stuffed cake

into its mouth; and then a knock came to the door, with a message that

the Inspector of the P Division was wanted immediately, as there was a

fire in Holborn; and Peter insisted that the new superintendent of the P

Division should act up to her words and go; he had done all according to

her wishes, and to please her, had resolved to dress as a woman, and

perform all a woman’s duties; and she must therefore take his place, and

act his part; that she had declared publicly and privately that she was

the better man of the two, and he therefore insisted she should now

prove it, and that his friends would see that she did so. I could hardly

tell whether to laugh or cry, I was so frightened for fear the poor

innocent baby should get hurt; and because it continued screaming, the

father went to the cupboard and emptied a whole bottle full of that

wicked Daffy’s Elixir, which the women here of that class, half in

ignorance, half in laziness, give their infants to keep them quiet; and

seemed as though he was going to pour it at once down the dear baby’s

throat. Och hone! it was _then_ I pitied the poor mother.

“‘Oh, Peter, Peter!’ she called out, ”even a spoonful is too much.

Don’t—don’t. Oh, just give my baby to myself again, and I’ll never be a

Bloomer;“ and then the dreadful instigator of the mischief shook her

head at her, and cried, ‘For shame, for shame,’ and harangued about

consistency, and called upon her ‘to be worthy of herself, and go to the

fire and command the force, not like a man, but—a woman!’ And all the

time the poor mother was struggling to get at her baby; and, for fear of

mischief, I turned over the cup—though to be sure it did for the

apple-green silk. Poor woman! she could see nothing but her child, and

hear nothing but its cries. ‘Give me my baby, and go to your duty, and

I’ll never go near a Rights of Woman woman as long as I live,’ she

repeated.

“‘Oh you unworthy member!’ cried her _friend_. ‘If you had a drop of the

old Roman blood in your veins you would sacrifice home, husband, child,

to the public good.’

“Now, aunt, think of that being said before me—and I being a Roman

born, bred, and reared—as you and Father Doyle know well—as if female

Romans did not care for their children! I gave it to her then. I never

let my tongue go as I did then, since I’ve been in the country. She said

she should not forget me, and I told her the remembrance would be

mutual. Roman blood, indeed! I saw her out of the house, and going down

the street, with a gang of boys after her, calling out, ‘There’s an old

Bloomer—there’s an old Bloomer!’

“While I was busy with her the poor landlady got her baby, and humbled

herself—as was right—and in another hour the house was quiet enough,

and the Inspector gone to his duty. The next morning my dear good

mistress sent for the landlady.

“‘I suppose,’ she said to me, going up stairs, ‘I shall lose my lodgers

as well as my character.’

“Now my mistress says, that of all laws the law of kindness is the

strongest; and, though the landlady entered the drawing-room with every

nerve in her body set for a battle, the tears came into her eyes by the

time my mistress bade her good morning and told her to sit down—of

course, I came away. When Peter came home that evening, I heard his wife

go—rather slowly, but she did go—to the door; and I heard _him_ say,

‘Thank you, my love—this is very good of you.’ And when I told my dear

lady this, she smiled the old smile, and went on talking so sweetly to

me, that I judged it was just the way she talked to her.

“‘Ah!’ she said, ‘it is very wrong to go on laughing at follies that are

likely to lead to evil. Not but what ridicule will sometimes gain a

quicker victory than reason; but it leaves an ugly scar, which marks to

the death.’ (I always put down her exact words.) ‘Whether the young or

the ignorant listen patiently or not, to reproof or advice, it is no

less the duty of the old to give it; but to be done usefully, Ellen, it

must be done kindly. I should have talked to this young creature before,

and not have suffered her to go on in her folly without remonstrance. It

is a vain creature, as I might have known by the cards—that was one

turn of the vanity, this is another. All love of notoriety is vanity;

it’s wonderful the forms it takes. One man wants to write a book before

he can spell; another talks of joining the legislature because he has

been listened to at a vestry; another’s desire leads to heading charity

lists—very useful, if he pays the money. One woman piques herself on

small hands, and lays them on the top of a muff intended to keep them

warm; another gets up an ancestry; another, (the vulgarest,) talks of

her rich friends and her accounts at her banker’s, or stuffs your ears

with titles, committed to memory from the peerage. But these, Ellen, if

you understand them, are innocent vanities, doing no harm. The ill-spelt

book will never be published; if the would-be orator gets into

parliament, he continues a ‘single-speech Jack’ to the end of his days;

the small hands become chilblained; the rich friends get into the list

of uncertified bankrupts, the titles are soon drilled off; but the

vanity which takes a woman from the sacred duties of home to display her

weakness abroad—and unsexes her—strikes at the root of our domestic

happiness, and should be treated accordingly. I should have talked to

her before, Ellen—I should indeed!—kindly, you know, and nothing

daunted even if repulsed. And I am not sure but that kindness can turn

even vanity to good account. There are plenty of mischievous people

always ready to start new wrongs and new sorrows as causes for

discontent; and, between you and me, Ellen, if more extensive employment

could be given to women, they would not get into such imaginary

troubles; they would have more to do. In gentle, profitable employment

the legislature—law-makers, Ellen—have neglected our interests now and

then; but short tunics and long trowsers wont alter laws, you know. That

young woman confesses she never knew she had any thing to complain of

until it was put into her head. And—it makes me smile—but she says,

the folly of the thing never struck her until she saw that six-foot-two

Peter of hers, with his black whiskers and broad shoulders, _in her

dress_, spoon-feeding the baby! She bitterly resents his exposing her to

the ridicule of his companions; but I reminded her she had exposed

herself by her attempts at establishing so unblushing a notoriety.

Certainly the landlady is a changed woman, poor thing! poor thing!’

“It will be some time, dear aunt, before I will be able to write to you

again, for we are going to a fine watering-place—over the seas—to seek

that health for my mistress that is so plenty on our hill-side. Oh,

dear! if every thing in ould Ireland was as plenty as health, what a

people we should be!

“Ever, with a heart and a half, your own

“Nelly Nowlan.”

* * * * *

=YESTERDAY—TO-DAY—TO-MORROW!=

=BY CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M. D.=

Last night an aged spirit, worn with care,

Forsook its earthly tenement—to soar

To that unknown, mysterious Refuge, where

The troubled rest—the weary toil no more!

Gently and painfully the “Essence” crept

From the o’ertasked clay, and all was still!

Dimmed eyes saw through their tears—the sufferer slept,

And stricken hearts throbbed with a grateful thrill.

As prayers went up, hope-laden, to the throne

Of the Omnipotent! All vain! All vain!

Death hath already one more life-blade mown!

Rise, lone ones, see! kneel! kneel and pray again!

* * * * *

The sun, this morn, looked with unclouded face

O’er the new wakened earth, and Nature smiled

Upon her children with a freshened grace,

From last night’s harrowing vigil undefiled!

A festal scene! bright eyes beam doubly bright,

And loving hearts thrill yet more lovingly,

A youthful pair in blissful bond unite,

And Heaven approves their pledge of unity!

Thy brightest smile, oh Morn! thou need’st must wear!

Thy fairest flowers, oh Nature! thou must strew!

To light these young hearts on their path of care,

And with fresh fragrance wavering hopes renew!

* * * * *

Drearily, heavily, through the thick air

Struggles the sunbeam to pierce with his glare!

Droopingly, listlessly, hang the wet leaves;

Slowly the mist trickles down o’er the eaves

Seeming, in monotone mournful, to say—

“Dust to dust!” “Time flitteth!” “What is to-day!”

Silently, solemnly, on the damp sod,

Kneel a few stricken ones, humbly, to God!

Tearfully, trustfully, goes up the prayer:

“Him they loved—him they lost”—may they meet there!

* * * * *

=AMONG THE MOORS.=

=FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.=

Arrived at Cadiz in 1847, after a ramble through Spain, we felt an

irresistible desire to take a peep at Morocco. We strongly desired to

see what Mauritania’s children were like; whether they had black or

copper-colored faces; whether they wore turbans or caps, sandals or

hose, mantles or jerkins; whether they resembled our play-going

recollections of Othello. Exactly at ten o’clock, one night late in

October, this desire pressed so strongly upon us, that we decided that

existence could not be tolerated an hour longer without an instant

departure for Morocco. The beautiful blue Mediterranean was scarcely

rippled by a wave; the moon shed a glorious light over its glassy

surface, while its bed seemed formed of the myriads of stars which the

deep, still waters reflected. A lazy felucca lay motionless on the

shore; and, in her, a lazy boatman was stretched at full length. We

questioned him as to the practicability of our instant embarkation for

Morocco. He turned up his head, eyed us inquisitively, as if to satisfy

himself how mad we were, told us to “Go with God,” coiled himself up,

and disposed his limbs in that posture of utter, uncompromising

idleness, of which only the limbs of Spanish boatmen and Italian

lazzaroni are capable. The master of a sailing-vessel had, however, more

confidence in our sanity and in his own bark, and we struck a bargain

with him.

The terms of this treaty were strictly fulfilled; for, aided by a light,

fresh breeze, which sprung up soon after we had embarked, we dashed into

the pretty bay of Tangiers early on the following morning. Our colors

were soon hoisted; and, in obedience to conventional laws, a messenger

was dispatched to ask permission for us to land. Meanwhile, we lay there

at anchor under a heavy fire of telescopes. Although sailing under the

Spanish flag our English faces were soon recognized, and the British

consul politely came out in a small boat to receive and to conduct us on

shore. Landing in these parts is a sort of national amusement, in which

lookers-on take especial delight. It is a practical joke, performed by a

party of Moors, who play with every gentleman who desires to land, a

game of pickaback through the shallow water of the shore. Ladies are

carried, more solemnly, in chairs upon a pair of swarthy Moslem

shoulders. The Moors are a handsome race of men; not nearly so black as

the Othello of the stage, not generally tall, but the turban and haick

add greatly to their apparent height. They also make the most of

themselves by an upright and dignified carriage. Their black eyes are

full of fire and intelligence. Their bronze complexions and long,

swarthy beards, contrast strongly with their snow-white costume.

The circumstance of arriving on a Sunday was favorable to our first

impression of a Moorish town. English, French, Spanish, and American

flags were gayly floating from various buildings, with the colors of all

nations who are civilized enough to afford a Tangerene consulate. The

natives did their part to make the appearance of things cheerful; for it

happened to be market-day, and the market-place presented a busy and

sparkling picture. Moors gravely discussing matters of commerce, and

totally indifferent to the appearance of foreigners: Arabs displaying

their rich merchandise to the best advantage: Jews scrutinizing some

curious relic on which they were asked to lend money (the rate of

interest paid for cash so advanced is three-pence per month on the

dollar): women sheeted up in their haicks, with only one eye visible,

hurrying through the crowd, neither looking to the right nor to the

left, fearful of encountering with their one eye the rude glance of man:

laden camels instinctively bending to be disburdened of their load of

fruit, grain, or other load: bands of wild-looking negroes, with

scarcely any covering, hooting in tones most dissonant to civilized

ears. To all these discords was added a constant din of Moorish music,

which appeared to give ecstatic delight to the negroes, whose wild

gestures were marvelous to behold.

Our attention was, by this time, attracted to the houses which, from

their peculiar construction, offer a complete contrast to any thing

European; the rooms are built so as to form a square court, which is

open to the sky; the exquisite climate precluding the necessity of using

their painted oil-skin canopy, except as a protection against the heavy

rains by which they are occasionally visited. This court is covered with

a carpet or matting, according to the season; and in the centre there is

a fountain, which—continually playing—produces a delicious freshness;

the windows, instead of looking on to the streets, open generally

into—and receive light and air from—this court. By this arrangement,

the sun is entirely excluded, and the houses are frequently found cooler

and more comfortable, notwithstanding the heat of the climate, than

European dwellings. The roofs are quite flat, and form terraces, on

which people walk in the evening, or whenever the sun is sufficiently

temperate. Looking down, from this promenade, the town has a singular

appearance; the minarets of the mosques alone standing out in relief

from the flat, low, white roofs, give it the appearance of a large

church-yard; and this impression is strengthened by the repeated call to

prayer from the mosques. It begins at day-break, and is continued at

intervals all day; the Moslem priest addressing himself alternately to

the four winds.

A considerable part of the population of most Moorish towns is Jewish,

and they form—it need scarcely be said—separate and distinct class,

being wholly different in habits, manners, and dress from the

Mahometans. The male costume is prescribed by law: it consists of a

tunic or gaberdine of dark blue-cloth, fitting close to the throat, and

descending to the ankles, slashed at the sides, and trimmed with braid;

a row of small buttons are ranged down the front, and the slashed

sleeves are ornamented to correspond; there is an under-vest of while

cotton buttoned to the throat, which one sees by the upper part of the

blue dress being left open; the white sleeves are also seen under the

open sleeves of cloth; the waist is encircled by a handsome Moorish

scarf, of satin, with stripes of all the brightest colors worked in with

gold thread; yellow slippers, and a little black cloth cap, resembling

that worn by the modern Greeks, complete the Jewish dress worn

throughout Morocco. It is a classic costume: the sombre tint of the

tunic contrasting, not unpleasingly, with the white Moorish dresses on

which the eye is constantly dwelling.

It is said, that many of the frail daughters of Israel offending against

their own strict laws, become followers of the Prophet to avoid

celibacy, which is the penalty of indiscretion inflicted on Jewish

maidens; but, one never hears this charge of heresy brought against the

men, who—having no indulgence to crave from Mahometanism, are

proverbial for a scrupulous observance of their religious feasts and

fasts.

We had not remained long in the city before I was afforded the rare

privilege of being present at a Jewish wedding. The solemnization of the

marriage rite is preceded by seven days’ feasting and rejoicing at the

house of the betrothed. Open house is indeed kept, where the friends and

relations of the affianced couple meet every day to eat, drink, and be

merry. The guests usually assemble before noon. On my arrival at twelve

o’clock, the rooms were already filled with visitors. I was conducted

first to a chamber where the bride, prettily attired and veiled, was

seated on a bed to be looked at: Moorish modesty forbidding that she

should take any other part in the merry-making than that of silently

looking on. Passing through the adjoining rooms—where cakes, wine and

fruit of every description were spread in abundance—I was ushered into

the presence of the family group and their large circle of friends, all

of the gentler sex: male visitors being rigidly prohibited. I have

rarely seen any thing more classically beautiful than the faces of those

Jewish women. One more beautiful and pensive-looking than the rest

appeared to take a prominent part in the affair. She was magnificently

dressed in amber-colored and crimson silk damask embroidered with gold,

white silk with satin stripes; spangles; a jacket of pale blue velvet

embroidered with gold and trimmed with gold buttons; sleeves of white

gauze, curiously pinned together behind the back, leaving the arms

exposed, the rounded form of which was set off by costly bracelets, in

keeping with a profusion of jewelry in the shape of brooches, ear-rings,

and necklace. A handkerchief was tied over the head, and red slippers,

embroidered in silver, completed the dress.

Dancing appeared to form the chief entertainment, and was kept up with

great spirit to the discordant sounds of sundry tomtoms and a fiddle.

The want of harmony was, however, amply compensated by the singularity

of their national dances. They are intended to represent the human

passions. They were generally performed singly, though sometimes two

persons stood up together, each holding a gay-colored handkerchief

coquettishly over the head. They seldom moved from one spot, and their

movements were nearly all with the body, not with the legs. Their

figures were entirely unconfined by stays. The Terpsichorean part of the

rejoicing terminated about six o’clock, and a sumptuous banquet

followed, of which about thirty of the guests partook. The table was

decorated with massive candelabra, and a costly service of plate, which

is generally an heir-loom in the families of these rich Jewish

merchants.

As a looker-on, I was not asked to join in the feast; but I am not

unacquainted with the mysteries of the Jewish _cuisine_ and can

pronounce them capable of satisfying even Epicurean tastes. We had

already seen some portions of the viands which now smoked upon the

board; for, according to the ancient Jewish custom, the animal part of

their food undergoes a process of sprinkling with salt and water, and

during this operation it is placed in the open court, and is, therefore,

seen by all who may enter the house: indeed, the first thing which

attracted our attention on arriving was the goodly array of some two or

three dozen head of poultry, arranged in rows upon a wooden machine,

resembling a common garden flower-stand, where they were put to drain

out every drop of blood. The betrothed had, like myself, nothing to eat;

being condemned to remain daily on her show-bed, until the departure of

the guests.

I felt curious to know at what time a Moorish bride eats and drinks

during the eight days of purgatory to which she is subject; for at

whatever hour you enter you find her always in the same position. On the

eve of the eighth day she is exhibited until an unusually late hour, in

consequence of the customary display of the marriage gifts; all of which

are spread out upon the bed where she is sitting, to be curiously

examined by the visitors. Amongst the gaudy display of silk and gauze

dresses, scarfs, etc.—for the Jews are remarkable for their love of gay

colors—may be seen the long glossy tresses, of which the intended bride

is—according to the Jewish custom—always despoiled before marriage;

being, as wives, strictly forbidden to wear their own hair. They feel no

regret at losing what is said to be a “woman’s glory,” as it is

certainly one of her greatest ornaments.

On the morning of the eighth day, the friends and relations—who are to

be present at the ceremony—arrive as early as seven o’clock, to assist

the bride in the last duties of her toilet, which are somewhat onerous;

for a Moorish woman indulges freely in the use of rouge, white lead, and

powder. Her eyebrows and eyelashes are darkened, the tips of her fingers

are painted pink, and her nails are dyed with henna. These operations

over, scarf, head-dress and veil are put on by the woman of the highest

rank present. The bridal head-dress is formed of paste-board worked over

with silk, and profusely ornamented with jewels: it is very high, and

resembles in shape the papal crown. The toilet fairly achieved, the

damsel is conducted to the principal apartment, and placed in an

arm-chair, raised on a kind of dais about three feet from the floor; a

bride’s-woman standing on each side, holding in her right hand a long

wax-candle, such as those seen on the altars in Catholic churches. There

are no bridesmaids; their office being always performed by married

women: virgin eyes not being allowed to gaze on a marriage feast. The

important moment was now at hand: the moment which was to decide the

happiness or misery of the fair timid child, whose youth and beauty it

seemed a sin to sacrifice. She was only thirteen years of age.

In proportion as the preceding seven days had been joyous, the eighth

appeared solemn. The scene seemed to awaken sad memories in the minds of

those present. In the expression of one woman I fancied I could read a

mother’s grief for her dishonored child: in another, imagination

conjured up a wife weeping over her childless state; and—in the

latter—I was not mistaken, for I was afterward informed that the

beautiful, pensive-looking woman—whose dress we admired—had just been

divorced from her husband, having been wedded two years without

presenting him with a representative of his name. This alone was ground

for divorce.

All eyes were now turned toward the door: the betrothed peered through

her veil, as anxious to behold the ceremony as we were; and, as eight

o’clock struck, the Rabbi entered, followed by the bridegroom. Taking

his place in front of the bride’s chair, the bridegroom standing on his

right, and the guests in a circle round him; the Rabbi read aloud from

the Hebraic ritual the moral and social duties to be observed by the man

and wife. The greater part of the service is chanted—all present

lending their voices. A massive gold ring, of a strange form, was given,

to be worn on the forefinger of the right hand. The service ended, the

bride was carried in her chair of state to the chamber where she had

been exhibited during the preceding week; and—halting on the

threshold—a piece of sugar was given to her by the Rabbi, who, taking a

full glass of water, at the same time broke the glass over her head. The

sugar is typical of the sweets of Hymen: the water of its purity: and

the broken glass of the irrevocable character of the ceremony. The bride

was then placed again upon the bed, and her mother took her place beside

her, as if to guard the precious treasure until called upon to resign

her to her husband.

The ceremony of the sugar and broken glass only appertains to Jewish

weddings. The cutting off the betrothed’s hair is also peculiar to them:

but many of the Moorish and ancient Jewish rites have become identical.

The eight days’ feasting and the exclusion of male visitors are alike

common to both. A pair of female slippers placed on the threshold of the

door is a sign that no male visitor above the age of twelve may cross

it. The costume of the Moorish and Jewish bride is also the same, except

that women of the Shreefian family—or those descended from the

Prophet—wear green. In rich families, the wedding is always followed by

horse-races and fireworks. The women look on closely veiled, or—more

correctly—sheeted. The bride is carried through the streets in

procession, to the sound of music, in a sort of Punch-theatre, placed on

the back of a horse. If the procession pass a mosque, all the persons

composing it are obliged to take off their shoes and walk barefooted.

Lastly—the Moorish bride on arriving at her husband’s house is lifted

over the threshold of the door, lest she should stumble while entering,

which would be a fearful omen.

* * * * *

=THE OLD MAN’S EVENING THOUGHTS.=

The former days return again—

I hear the cricket sing

From its pastoral nook in the shaven mead,

And the lizard at the spring.

From the silent realm, wild images

Come thronging round once more,

The bounding limb, the gentle eye,

And the crooked form of yore.

At the still twilight’s dewy hour,

Their varied tones I hear,

As when I ranged these pastures o’er

In childhood’s sunny year.

On the evening air a lay is borne,

Soft wandering up the vale,

Where smoky wreaths o’er cottage brood,

Quiet as yon bright sail.

The hamlet has its voices yet—

I hear them where I stand,

And I love to fancy them still the lays

Of the olden minstrel band.

The time is like those fairy hours

When life had no regret—

I seem to feel its vernal breeze

Fanning these temples yet.

Nature is ever beautiful,

Her form the youth of old;

These limbs are tending to their earth—

Mind triumphs o’er the mould.

F. G.

* * * * *

=MY FIRST INKLING OF A ROYAL TIGER.=

=BY AN OLD INDIAN OFFICER.=

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream—

The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds

Of fiery climes, he made himself a home,

And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt

With strange and dusky aspects: by his sleeping side

Stood camels grazing; and some goodly steeds

Were fastened near a fountain—— Byron.

Many years have elapsed since the occurrence took place which I am now

about to relate; but the period is yet fresh in my mind, when, shortly

after arriving at Madras, I was dispatched on a march of several hundred

miles to join my regiment, then stationed in the Deccan.

No sooner had our detachment crossed the rocky bed of the Kishnah, and

ascended the table-land beyond, than we found ourselves in quite a

different climate from the Carnatic. We now inhaled a dry and bracing

atmosphere; the mornings and evenings were deliciously cool, and a

blanket proved, under canvas, a not superfluous covering at night—for

it happened to be at that delightful period of the year when Nature, in

these sunny regions of the East, is still arrayed in all her gayest

holyday garb—the verdant garlands with which she is then decked out not

being yet faded by the withering influence of that simoom-like blast,

which, periodically sweeping across the desert, soon licks up with fiery

breath every sign of verdure and vegetation, leaving—except where

patches of hardy jungle intervene—naught over which the eye can rest

save a brown, arid, and burnt-up soil, here and there dotted with still

more bare, brown, and desolate-looking masses of stone and rock.

I must not, however, anticipate. On crossing the Kishnah, we entered a

region quite different in feature and aspect from that which we had

hitherto traversed since leaving the Coromandel coast. High, undulating

tracts of land—in some parts covered with low thorny thickets, in

others (at this season of the year) with high waving grass, amidst which

might occasionally be caught a glimpse of the graceful antelope, or from

whence the florikan and bustard were sometimes flushed; whilst peering

from an ocean of jungle verdure—like the back of a huge whale—some

dark denuded mass of rock, all bristling with native battlements and

forts, would occasionally protrude from the surrounding jungle or

“meidan,”[12] and pleasingly diversify the scene.

The nature of the vegetation, and agricultural products of the country,

appeared likewise to be completely changed, the moment we entered the

“Deccan,” from what we had been accustomed to witness in the low and

level plains of the Carnatic, which we had so recently left behind. The

cultivation of rice, with its concomitant swamps, had in a great measure

disappeared, and was replaced in the low grounds by waving fields of

Indian corn, and occasionally—though as yet but rarely—by the tall and

graceful sugar-cane; whilst Bengal gram,[13] and other stunted pulse,

marked the sites of the higher, and consequently drier and more arid

portions of the cultivated soil.

The feathery cocoa-nut and fan-like palmyra of the lower country had now

given way to the no less serviceable—and hardly less

beautiful—date-tree, which, although in this part of the world yielding

a scarcely palatable fruit, is nevertheless applied to an infinity of

useful purposes, and yields, moreover, a very considerable revenue to

the state. For each individual of these

“Groups of lovely ‘date-trees,’

Bending their leaf-crowned heads

On youthful maids, like sleep descending,

To warn them to their silken beds,”

was taxed to the annual amount of one rupee, which sum was strictly

exacted from the poor oppressed Ryot, by the zemindar intrusted with the

collection of the revenue of each particular district of the Nizam’s

dominions.

To the casual inquirer it might appear that such an impost would amount

to almost a prohibition on the culture of this tree; they nevertheless

abound in all parts of the country adapted to their growth; and this can

only be accounted for, from the numerous and manifold purposes to which

every portion of it is usefully and profitably applied. The fruit,

although in this part of the world coarse and rough to the taste, is

nevertheless made use of for different purposes by the natives; the

stems and leaves are severally converted into baskets and mats, and are

likewise employed to roof their lowly huts; but the chief produce of the

Indian date-tree is the “tara,” or, as called in English, “toddy,” it so

plentifully yields, and which is extracted by making deep incisions in

the trunk, for here—

“The ‘date,’ that graceful dryad of the woods,

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods,”

when thus tapped, readily gives forth a sweet, pleasant, and abundant

beverage, which, if partaken of at the cool hour of early morn, is both

refreshing and salubrious, but soon becomes a deleterious and

intoxicating liquor when fermented, by being exposed to the powerful

rays of a tropical sun. The tara, or toddy, in this condition is a

liquor much sought after, and often conducive to great irregularity and

crime amidst English soldiery in the East; and the vicinity of a “toddy

tope,” or date-grove, should for this reason be sedulously avoided in

the pitching of a camp.

On entering the Nizam’s dominions, after the passage of the Kishnah, the

sportsmen of our party found ample scope for the employment of their

fowling-pieces; for although snipe and water-fowl were here much more

scarce than in the low ground of the Carnatic, this deficiency was amply

made up, in the far greater abundance of larger and nobler game.

The rangers of the “meidan,” or open grassy “prairies,” through which

the line of march would now often lie for miles, therein found abundance

of hares, of partridges, and every variety of quail—occasionally got a

shot at a florikan, or a bustard; sometimes even stalked an antelope;

and enjoyed occasionally an opportunity of breathing their nags in a

gallop after the dog-hyæna, the wily little Indian fox, or a skulking

jackal. Such as adventured into the jungle in quest of painted partridge

or pea-fowl, sometimes recounted on their return to camp, that they had

witnessed indubitable traces of animals of a more formidable kind, and

described the appearance of what they concluded must be the foot-marks

of the royal tiger, which they had seen imprinted in the sandy bed of

the dry “nullahs,” or water-courses they had traversed during their

sporting excursions from the camp.

Although these conjectures of being occasionally on the trail of a

“Bagh,” (as the royal tiger is called in India) were repeatedly

confirmed by the protestations of such of the camp-followers and other

natives who might have been employed as “beaters,” still such complete

“Griffins”[14] were we all, that we could not bring ourselves to the

belief of being actually in the vicinity—perhaps often within the

spring—of so dangerous a customer, as, even in our profound ignorance,

we were all perfectly aware that a royal tiger must undoubtedly have

proved.

Rife with the impression that all “natives” are necessarily liars by

nature, without any “old hand” in Indian sports, to instruct and inform

us of the real state of things; and in spite of the repeated warnings we

received from our servants and camp-followers, we began, after a few

marches north of the Kishnah, to be extremely sceptical as to the very

existence of any tigers, near so much-frequented a thoroughfare as that

between Hyderabad and Madras; and it was only after a laughable

adventure, which might have been attended with fatal results, that we at

last found out our mistake.

Our camp was, on the occasion here alluded to, pitched near a large

village, or more strictly speaking, a small Mahommedan town, situated

between two lofty hills, composed of those bare and gigantic masses of

granite, so characteristic of the strange geological features of this

part of the country. I am however wrong in describing both these

elevations as bare and denuded masses of blackened rock. The most

northerly of the two possessed, in a most remarkable degree, those stern

features of aridity, but the crest of its opposite neighbor, crowned

with ruins—apparently the remains of some old stronghold or

castle—rose from amidst huge chaotic masses of granite, whose

interstices nourished the growth of innumerable parasitical lianes and

creeping plants, mostly of a thorny or prickly nature; amongst which the

wild cactus might be distinguished, even from the valley beneath, as

luxuriantly flourishing and widely spreading its fantastic, fleshy, and

thorn-covered growth.

The tents, pitched in the valley formed by those “ruins of some former

world,” had the full benefit of the refracted heat emanating from both;

and to this moment I can well remember the grilling we underwent on that

day, and the delight with which we hailed the prospect of the declining

sun, in order to be able to sally forth, and take our usual evening

stroll.

Accompanied by the assistant-surgeon doing duty with the detachment—a

remarkably short and corpulent personage from the “land o’ cakes,” who

stuttered intolerably, besides speaking the broadest Scotch—accompanied

by this nondescript character, who, with all his national peculiarities,

was, however, a most excellent fellow, and whom, for want of a better

“_nom de guerre_,” I shall here designate as Doctor Macgillivan; and

attended by a single “ghorawallah,” or “saïs” (_Anglice_, horsekeeper or

groom) did I, at the period in question, sally forth from the stifling

atmosphere of my tent, in order to breathe the cooling and refreshing

evening breeze. Thus accompanied, the doctor and myself bent our

footsteps toward the native town, in the vicinity of which our camp had

been pitched. We were soon within the precincts of its narrow streets,

and wandering through a densely-crowded bazaar.

To a “tazawallah” (a native term corresponding to that of a “Johnny

Newcome”)—to a young hand lately imported from Europe—in short, to the

animal commonly yclept a “Griffin,” in the East, the usual resort of a

large concourse of natives generally presents an untiring source of

interest and amusement. The different strange sights, sounds and

“smells,” which meet the eye, the ear, and the olfactories of the

uninitiated, would in themselves require a long chapter to describe.

This was the first place of any size or note we had yet visited since

entering the domains of His Highness the Nizam; and a single glance, as

we sauntered along the bazaars, sufficed to show that we were amongst a

people quite different from the long-subdued, slavish, and submissive

Hindoo inhabitants of the Carnatic.

Here the general outward characteristics of the natives appeared to be a

loftier bearing, and a lighter hue of complexion to what we had hitherto

seen within the territories of the Company, to the northward of Madras.

The predominant race—at least in the town itself—were (as Chiniah, my

horsekeeper, informed us) followers of the Prophet—haughty-looking

Mussulmans (Moormen, as they are often denominated by our countrymen in

the south of India) who, with erect gait and swaggering step, moved

proudly past us, their dark eyes flashing fire, their bearded lips

curled with contempt for the uncircumcised infidel Nussaranee:[15] the

hated “Ferringhees,” whom they longed, but dared not openly to insult.

Chiniah, who appeared to entertain a salutary dread of such

formidable-looking customers, begged us in no way to interfere with

their movements—

“Becase why,” said he, _sotto voce_, as if fearful of being overheard,

“Becase why—all Moormen great rascal, but these Deccanneewallahs bigger

rascals than all. Give plenty ‘galee’ (abuse) to master; suppose master

angry get, and strike ’em, then they quick take out tulwar or creese

(sword and dagger) and kill ’em quick!”

“Hout mon! ye dinna mean to say so!” stuttered out the doctor, “come

away then, we’ll hae nothing to say to such chiels, for I dinna at all

fancy the treatment o’ sic’ like kind of wounds.”

“Come along then, doctor—this way!” said I, perfectly agreeing with him

in his conclusions; “but, Chiniah, what are yonder two groups of men in

the choultrie, with plenty match-locks, swords, daggers, pistols, and

shields?” asked I, pointing to two armed and distinct parties, who

appeared to have lately arrived from a long and wearisome march; for

they looked way-worn, covered with dust and sweat, and were now

apparently preparing to rest, after the toil and heat of the day, but in

different compartments of the same “choultrie” or caravanserai: one of

those edifices appropriated in the East for the public use of all

travelers.

“Ahi! Saïb, come this way!” earnestly said Chiniah, “neber go near them

fellow. Deccannee Moormen—they big rascal: them fellow Seikhs and

Arabs, bigger rascal still: them cut every man’s, every woman’s throat:

them cut master’s throat if fancy take ’em!”

“Hout mon! come away,” interposed the doctor.

“But, Chiniah,” inquired I, “how do you know so much about these people,

whom I suppose you have never seen before?”

“I plenty know: I stop five year at Secunderabad in service of Captain

M——; him one great shikarree gentleman; him plenty hunt, plenty shoot,

plenty trabel, plenty speak Hindostanee. I plenty march with him—I

plenty better than English speak Hindostanee—when master learn

Hindostanee I can then plenty tings tell.”

Chiniah, who remained afterward for years in my service, told the truth;

he had really been long as saïs, or groom, in the service of one of the

keenest and best sportsmen of the Deccan; and, as I subsequently became

initiated into the “woodland craft” of this part of the world, I found

him invaluable from his local knowledge, his capability of enduring

fatigue, and often from the presence of mind which, on an emergency, he

has more than once displayed. He was, as he averred, far more of an

adept in Hindostanee than in the English tongue; however, after his own

fashion, he managed to enlighten us on the subject of the

formidable-looking groups of warriors who were now assembled in the

“Seraï.”

It appeared that they were Seikh and Arab mercenary troops, in the

service of the Nizam, and, as I afterward learned, a most refractory and

dangerous set of men, who, from their ferocity and numbers, had become

the terror of the inhabitants of Hyderabad, and whose long arrears of

pay were usually partly liquidated by obtaining grants from the

collection of the revenues of certain districts, where they often

exercised the most fearful acts of tyranny and oppression upon the poor,

mild, defenseless, and unoffending Telougoo cultivators of the soil; for

although the population of the towns in the Deccan be mostly composed of

Mahomedans, the fields are still cultivated by the aboriginal Hindoo

race of this portion of the formerly extensive and ancient empire of

Telingana.

As my worthy friend Dr. Macgillivan expressed an equally great aversion

to the treatment of gun-shot or match-lock wounds, as he had previously

manifested for such as were inflicted by the sharp edge of a Damascus

blade, we willingly turned from this dangerous locality, to perambulate

the more peaceful regions of the much-frequented bazaar.

In passing through Southern India, the traveler, although he generally

carries with him his own supplies, is never in want of the actual

necessaries of life; he can generally procure rice and ghee, fowls and

eggs, or an occasional sheep; but to every thing in the shape of

luxuries—unless we include what he has providently furnished himself

with—he must make up his mind to be a perfect stranger; and even fruit

of the commonest description is seldom to be had.

Since our departure from Madras, it was only at the large stations of

Nellore and Ongole that we had been able to procure this desirable

accessory to our daily meals; and we now, therefore, gladly hastened

toward a stall, on which were most invitingly displayed pieces of

water-melon and sugar-cane, guavas, custard-apples, sweet lemons,

plantains or bananas, and—what I have never before seen used as an

article of food—the fruit of the cactus, or prickly-pear tree, which

Chiniah assured us to be most palatable, and “very good body for!”

provided no other beverage were used to wash it down, save the “pure

element” in an unmixed and undiluted state.

Purchases of the tempting goods spread out before us, were soon made,

with directions to have them sent immediately to camp; but in settling

our account with the worthy retailer of the treasures of Vertumnus and

Pomona, we were not a little surprised at the much higher value he set

on the produce of the cactus, beyond that of his other horticultural

stores.

On inquiring, through the medium of Chiniah, as to the reason of this

difference of price, when from the very spot where we then stood, we

could see the prickly-pear trees—the sources from whence this store of

riches was derived—flourishing in all the wild luxuriance of nature,

amidst the lofty rocks towering high above, we were informed that it was

owing to the danger and difficulty of obtaining this species of fruit,

which, although growing wild in the stony crevices of the hill, was far

from easy to be procured; the natives having a great objection to repair

thither, through dread—as observed the worthy fruit-seller—of the many

tigers which infested the place, no less than of a certain “Jinn,” or

spirit, which was, he averred, in the habit of haunting—particularly

toward nightfall—the old ruin on the summit of the rock. As to the

existence of the tigers, we turned as usual, an incredulous ear; but the

“Jinn” excited our curiosity in no slight degree, and elicited the

desire to follow this perturbed spirit through the dilapidated recesses

of his romantic retreat.

“Ask the old gentleman,” said the doctor to Chiniah, “ask him if he

believes in the ‘ghaist,’ and what it is like?”

“Albuttah! most certainly;” was the reply of the “phulwallah,” or

fruit-seller, when thus questioned as to his belief, “there is no more

doubt as to the existence of the ‘Jinn,’ than of that of the ‘Baghs’

which nightly prowl amongst yonder rocks; although I have never seen

either myself, but people of unquestionable veracity have undoubtedly

beheld both. As to the ‘Jinn,’ sometimes he appears in one shape,

sometimes in another; sometimes as the ghost of the Hindoo Rajah, who in

the days of the Padshahs of Telingana, suffered himself and his

followers to be starved to death, rather than surrender his mountain

fortress to the victorious followers of the Prophet, who had besieged it

for many months. Some again have seen the spirit in the shape of a

Parsee, or Fire-worshiper, as those ‘Sheitanees’ (followers of the Evil

One) are said at one time constantly to have exposed their dead, to be

devoured by eagles and vultures on the top of yonder tower, of which the

remains are yet visible amidst the ruined walls still covering the

summit of the hill.”

Such was the purport of the communication of the fruit-seller,

translated by Chiniah after his own fashion, and the import of which so

fully aroused our curiosity as to determine us to attempt an immediate

ascent of the hill.

On being questioned concerning his personal knowledge of the localities

in question, Chiniah said he well knew the way to the summit of the

rock; and although ignorant of the abode of the “Jinn,” professed his

firm belief in the existence of tigers, having on one occasion

accompanied his former “sahib” on a tiger-shooting expedition to this

very spot; although he admitted that they had not been then successful

in the pursuit. Chiniah was, however, a bold and willing fellow; and

probably forgetting at the moment that he was no longer under the shadow

of the unerring rifle of his former lord, but acting as dry-nurse to a

couple of regular “griffs,” he unhesitatingly offered to second our

views by performing the part of guide. We accordingly forthwith started

on our exploratory expedition, in spite of the warning voice of the old

“phulwallah,” who unsparingly censured the rashness of the Ferringhees,

whom he stigmatized as being all “dewanah,” or, as the doctor would have

expressed it, “gone clean daft!”

Painful and toilsome to a degree was the ascent; but when breathless,

almost exhausted with fatigue, with our limbs and garments lacerated by

the numerous thorny brambles which had opposed our upward progress, we

at last succeeded in reaching the summit of the rock, we felt ourselves

amply repaid for all the toil and labor we had undergone.

Like a huge ball of fire, the eastern sun was just dipping its burning

orb behind the dark ocean of jungle which bounded our view to the west;

and whilst the rest of the landscape was already cast into that brief

twilight which so shortly precedes the rapidly approaching darkness of a

tropical evening, the white buildings of the town, and the whiter tents

composing our camp, pitched in the adjacent hollow, were already looking

dim and indistinct under the darkening shadow of the opposite hill: the

ruined pinnacles of the lofty “Guebres’ tower” (for such we were

determined to consider it) was still lit up by the rays of that

brilliant luminary in whose honor it had perhaps been raised by the old

fire-worshipers of yore—the time-honored followers of Zoroaster, who

was supposed to be the mysterious founder of this creed.

Both time and scene most appropriately combined in our favor to nourish

this poetic—though, may-be, far-fetched—idea: the crumbling Cyclopean

remains of many other massive ruins, which—as subsequent experience

taught me—bore in their solid structure unmistakable evidence of the

ancient architecture of the Hindoos, and whose solid and gigantic

materials could scarcely have been misplaced save by some convulsive

effort of nature: the huge disjointed and blackened fragments of rock

cast in every direction around, and forming the colossal stepping-stones

of our toilsome accent; all favored the impression that—

“Each ravine, each rocky spire

Of that vast mountain, stood on fire.”

* * * * *

The sun had set: the short twilight of the torrid zone was fast merging

into darkness, still we continued to explore every nook and corner of

the old ruined fort, until warned at last by Chiniah of the lateness of

the hour, we reluctantly prepared to retrace our steps.

“Day-time, this bad place—night, ’tis plenty worse!” observed he.

“Plenty dark come then: never can see road back to camp: then fall over

these big stones. Suppose them tiger come—no rifle got—what we can

do?”

“I suspect, Chiniah, your tiger is something like the ‘Jinn’ of the old

fellow of the bazaar,” replied I—“a pure creature of fancy!”

Although Chiniah was not sufficiently learned in the Saxon tongue to

understand, to its full extent, this figurative mode of speech, he

evidently caught the purport of the general meaning of what I said, and

replied rather testily that, although he knew nothing about the “Jinns,”

he could—if we wished it—show us the tiger’s lair; which, although

unsuccessfully watched by his former master, was undoubtedly the usual

abode of the “Pharka Bagh,” or “Tiger of the Hill,” of whose existence

there could not be the slightest doubt, from the many traces of him

which they had then observed—such as hair, skulls, bones, and other

remnants of the victims of his hunger, or his wrath.

“Come along, then,” said I: “and since we have not been able to discover

any signs of the ‘Jinn,’ show us now where this tiger of yours has

pitched his tent?”

Readily did Chiniah comply with this behest: his veracity had been

apparently called in question; and he seemed, moreover, gladly to avail

himself of the opportunity of descending from the summit of the hill,

around which darkness was fast spreading its leaden mantle, when—as he

justly observed—there might be considerable difficulty, as well as

danger, in finding our way back to camp.

Availing himself, however, of the still glimmering twilight, he

unhesitatingly struck into a sort of goat-track, in the opposite

direction to that of our ascent, which—winding down the face of the

rock—led us to the brink of a deep fissure or chasm, partly over-arched

by huge masses of granite, and the “brown horrors” of whose depths our

eyes could not fathom by that fast declining and uncertain light.

“There, sar! down there, big tiger, him live—look!” added he, in a

whisper, as if afraid of being overheard by the grim tenant of the dark

skeleton-strewed Golgotha, which yawned at our feet. “Look! them white

things all bones—bullock-bones, buckra-bones, man and woman bones,

children-bones, all sort bones, now plenty dark, can’t see—day-time

plenty can see. I go down there with Captain M——, but then tiger never

find: him gone out. Captain M——, one great Shikar gentleman; wherefore

tiger him plenty afraid: him then leave house: him go away to jungle.”

Suddenly stopping short in his interesting discourse, Chiniah, raising

his hand to enjoin silence, remained in a listening attitude; whilst,

struck by his sudden action, we peered still more intently and in

breathless silence into the depths of the abyss below.

A sort of rustling noise—as that proceeding from some large animal

making its way through underwood or brambles—was evidently perceptible

to us all: then through the nearly total darkness now pervading the

cavernous opening below, suddenly glistened forth two round, bright,

shining objects, glistening like living coals through the obscurity

around—and, ere we had time to form any conjecture as to their origin

or cause, an appalling roar issued forth from the yawning chasm at our

feet; and so loud, so deep, and so terrific was this awful sound, that

for a second it rooted us in silent horror to the spot, where we

remained fixed as if suddenly stricken by an electric shock.

“_Sauve qui peut_,” appeared next instant to have become—not the

“standing” but “running” order of the day. Chiniah, in his terror,

bounded downward, like a mountain goat, from rock to rock; and, being in

those days tolerably active myself, and moreover, well accustomed to

range “o’er the mountain’s brow,” I followed pretty closely in his wake;

for awhile losing sight and—I am ashamed to say—all recollection of my

more corpulent and less agile comrade, who was apparently quite

distanced in the race. Chiniah and myself had now well nigh, and without

accident, succeeded in reaching the bottom of the hill, which—as may

well be imagined—was effected in a considerably shorter time than that

occupied in our ascent; and whilst here traversing a broad, level, and

slippery slab of granite, on a very inclined plane, my feet suddenly

slipping from under me, during my still rapid course, I came heavily

down “by the stern,” as sailors would term it, on the hard surface of

the rock.

Ere I could regain my feet, I heard immediately in my rear a sort of

dull rushing sound. Making sure the tiger was now upon me, I gave myself

up for lost, and mentally resigned myself to my fate—when, to my

infinite relief and satisfaction, instead of being grappled by a deadly

foe, the cause of alarm shot rapidly past and proved to be neither more

nor less than the rotund corporation of my friend the Doctor;

which—after continuing its rotatory course, with all the impetus and

rapidity of a huge snow-ball or avalanche, along the steep, smooth, and

slippery surface that had caused my fall—was projected over the

precipitous ledge terminating the declivity, and then disappeared amidst

the sound of crashing branches and opposing brambles, through a dense

mass of underwood below. On regaining my feet and looking around, my

first sentiment was one of gladness, to find that the enemy was nowhere

to be seen; the next was a feeling of alarm at my companion’s still

unknown fate.

I cautiously approached the ledge over which I had seen him disappear,

and through an intervening mass of jungle and foliage I could

indistinctly perceive a white object struggling some twelve or fifteen

feet below, and from whence proceeded piteous sounds of suffering and

lamentation. This was the Doctor; who—after having shot over the ledge

of rock—had been securely lodged amidst the thorny, complex, and

massive leaves of a dense bush of cactus, or prickly pear, which grew

immediately below.

After a long _détour_, and some considerable delay, I succeeded in

approaching the spot where the poor Medico sat impaled, as it were, on

his prickly throne; and, with the assistance of Chiniah, succeeded at

last in liberating him from so uncomfortable a position, and then

conveyed him to his tent.

The reader, who may chance to know the nature of the thorns of the

cactus, will be able fully to appreciate the sufferings poor Doctor

Macgillivan underwent, together with the time and labor it took to

extract the innumerable prickles from that most prominent and vulnerable

part on which, by the laws of gravity, he had naturally lodged.

-----

[12] A Persian term, much used in Hindostan, and signifying a plain open

space of ground.

[13] A sort of pea, on which the horses are fed in India, and which in

Spain, under the denomination of “garbansos,” constitutes a general

article of human food.

[14] A term usually applied to a new-comer in India, and having a

synonymous meaning to that of “greenhorn.”

[15] Meaning “Nazarenes,” or Christians, who are likewise denominated

“Ferringhees,” or Franks.

* * * * *

=REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.=

_Papers from the Quarterly Review. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 18mo._

Another volume of “Appleton’s Popular Library”—books intended to

“quicken the intelligence of youth, delight age, decorate prosperity,

shelter and solace us in adversity, bring enjoyment at home, befriend us

out of doors, pass the night with us, travel with us, go into the

country with us.” The present volume contains some happily selected

papers from the London Quarterly Review, on “The Printer’s Devil,”

“Gastronomy and Gastronomers,” “The Honey Bee,” “Music,” and “The Art of

Dress;” papers which are gracefully written, and abounding in

interesting anecdote. Our favorite is the article on “Gastronomy and

Gastronomers,” in which the art of cooking is raised to its true dignity

as one of the Fine Arts, and its great exemplars are generally judged

according to the principles of the profoundest philosophical criticism.

The great cooks have found in the author of this article one born to be

their critic—the Schlegel of gastronomy. From the New Zealand cannibal,

with his “cold clergyman on the sideboard,” to the exquisite Brummel,

who “once eat a pea,” our author ranges at will, the interpretator of

palates. And in truth the subject is worthy of such an analyst. It is

generally conceded that the highest action of the mind, in the gladdest

rush of its creative energy, is combination. From combination proceeds

the picturesque, represented in literature by Shakspeare in England, and

Calderon in Spain. The essence of the picturesque is the “union,

harmonious melting down and fusion of the diverse in kind and disparate

in degree;” and we suppose that in this quality of mind the great cook

is preëminent. He creates, by combination, new dishes out of old

materials; is the author of edible Hamlets and deliciously flavored

Romeos; and appeals, not to gluttons and fat-witted beer guzzlers, but

to the fine senses of the educated gastronomer.

It is impossible for an American, to whom a dinner is a mere filling up

of an empty stomach, to realize the art and science of eating as

practiced and taught in France. Our author tells us that no less a

dignitary than M. Henrion de Pensey, late President of the Court of

Cassation—a magistrate, says, or said, M. Royer Collard, “of whom

regenerated France has reason to be proud”—expressed to MM. Laplace,

Chaptol and Berthollet his views of the comparative importance of the

astronomical and gastronomical sciences, in these memorable words: “I

regard the discovery of a dish as a far more interesting event than the

discovery of a star, _for we have always stars enough, but we can never_

_have too many dishes_; and I shall not regard the sciences as

sufficiently honored or adequately represented amongst us, until I see a

cook in the first class of the Institute.”

In this article we have also a complete account given of the lives and

viands of the French masters of cookery, and minute directions given

respecting the character of the chief Parisian cafés. It must be

confessed that the celebrities of gastronomy have felt the dignity of

their art full as much as the sculptors and poets. George the Fourth, by

persevering diplomacy, and the offer of a salary of £1000, induced

Caréme to come to Carlton House as his _chef_; but the artist, indignant

at the lack of refined taste at the monarch’s table, left him at the end

of a few months in disgust. Russia and Austria then attempted to bribe

him to their kitchens; but, turning a deaf ear to imperial

solicitations, and determined never again to leave France, he accepted

as engagement with Baron Rothschild. Another of these dignitaries

refused to accompany the Duke of Richmond to Ireland, though offered a

liberal salary, because he understood that there was no Italian opera in

Dublin.

The great book on the palate is M. Brillat-Savarin’s “_Physiologie du

Goût_.” Among other important facts established in this world-renowned

treatise, there is one of great importance to ladies. “The penchant,”

says this profound writer, “of the fair sex for gourmandise has in it

something of the nature of instinct, for gourmandise is favorable to

beauty. A train of exact and rigid observations have demonstrated that a

succulent, delicate and careful regimen repels to a distance, and for a

length of time, the external appearances of old age. It gives more

brilliancy to the eyes, more freshness to the skin, more support to the

muscles; and as it is certain in physiology, that it is the depression

of the muscles which causes wrinkles, those formidable enemies of

beauty, it is equally true to say that, _cateris paribus_, those who

understand eating are comparatively ten years younger than those who are

strangers to this science.”

We have all heard that poets are born, not made; but M. Brillat-Savarin

makes the same assertion respecting gourmands. The art of eating, it

seems, cannot be acquired. Those who have an original aptitude to enjoy

the luxuries of the table, are described as having “broad faces,

sparkling eyes, small foreheads, short noses, full lips, and round

chins. The females are plump, rather pretty than handsome, with a

tendency to embonpoint. It is under this exterior that the pleasantest

guests are to be found; they accept all that is offered, _eat slowly_,

and _taste with reflection_. They never hurry away from the places where

they have been well treated; and you are sure of them for the evening,

because they know all the games and pastimes which form the ordinary

accessories of a gastronomic meeting. Those, on the contrary, to whom

nature has refused an aptitude for the enjoyments of taste, have long

faces, long noses, and large eyes; whatever their height, they have

always in their tournure a character of elongation. They have black and

straight hair, and are above all deficient in _embonpoint; it is they_

_who invented trowsers_. The women whom nature has affected with the

same misfortune are angular, get tired at table, and live on tea and

scandal.”

In the same strain he speaks of _eprouvettes_, “dishes of acknowledged

flavor, of such undoubted excellence, that their bare appearance ought

to excite in a human being, properly organized, all the faculties of

taste; so that all those in whom, in such cases, we perceive neither the

flush of desire nor the radiance of ecstasy, may be justly noted as

unworthy of the honors of the sitting and the pleasures attached to it.”

As an awful warning to the eaters of America, it should be mentioned

that Napoleon owed his ruin to his habits of rapid eating. At Borodino

and at Leipsic he was prevented from pushing his successes to a

victorious conclusion, solely from the indecision and weakness of mind

proceeding from a disordered stomach. On the third day at Dresden—we

have it on the authority of the poet Hoffman—he again evinced a lack of

his usual energy, owing to his having eat part of a shoulder of mutton

stuffed with onions—“a dish,” says the writer in the Quarterly, “only

to be paralleled by the pork chops which Messrs. Thurtell and Co.

regaled on, after completing the murder of their friend Mr. Weare.” One

instance of Napoleon’s good taste, and the only one, we have reluctantly

been compelled to give up as a fiction. Tom Moore, in “The Fudge Family

in Paris,” mentions Chambertin Burgundy, the most delicious wine in the

world, as the “pet tipple of Nap;” but the Quarterly asserts that it was

never taken on serious occasions, for after the battle of Waterloo there

were found in his carriage two bottles—empty—one of which was marked

_Malaga_, the other _Rum_.

We commend this pleasant volume to all readers who desire a cosy

companion, full of wit, and anecdote, and information, and stimulating

just as much thought as the brain can comfortably bear in the hot summer

months.

* * * * *

_The Napoleon Ballads. By Bon Gaultier. The Poetical Works of

Louis Napoleon. Now first Translated into English. New York:

Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 18mo._

The idea of this volume is capital, but it is wretchedly carried out.

The name of Bon Gaultier, a name associated with wit that “sparkles like

salt in fire,” raises anticipations doomed to be dismally disappointed.

If written by him, he must have been muddy with beer during the hours of

composition; but we presume that the English publisher had as little

right to put his name to the volume as translator as he had to put that

of Louis Napoleon as the author. One of the few good things in the

collection is the Decree which prefaces it. It runs thus:

“Louis Napoleon:

_Prince President of the Republic._

“_Art._ 1. Considering—that it is good for the people to read

good poetry:

“_Art._ 2. Considering that few people can write it;

“_Art._ 3. Considering that he is one of the few, the Prince

President has written the following work. Respecting which

“It is Decreed—That any person within France found without a

copy, warranted to have been duly paid for, shall be liable to

summary trial and deportation, with the confiscation of all his

goods and chattels.

“Done at the Elysée, this first of April.

“Louis Napoleon.

“Countersigned,

“De Maupas.”

This is about as reasonable as many of the President’s decrees; for a

tyranny like Louis Napoleon’s defies the powers of the coarsest

caricature to reach the depth of its unnatural absurdities.

From the mass of trash which composes the volume, we extract the

following clever parody of Tennyson’s “In Memorium:”

“IN MEMORIUM. JUDÆ ISCARIOTTI.

_Obit A. D. 1._

(“The touching piety which has induced the Prince to devote a leisure

hour or two to the memory of this remarkable man needs no praise of

ours. _Translator._)

“’Tis well—’tis something—we can’t stand

Where Judas in the earth was laid,

But from his pattern may be made

Our conduct to our native land.

“He joined the high-priests—so do I;

He took the money—it is true;

He was a very noble Do,

And planned his treasons on the sly.

“He hung himself on gallows tree—

He gently swung in Potter’s Field,

And blessed crop that spot must yield

Of gracious memories to me.

“My Judas, whom I hope to see,

When my last treason has been done,

Dear as the rowdy to the dun,

More than my bottle is to me.”

There are some spirited lines in the parody of Macaulay’s Armada, and

some felicity in the measure of “The Eagle,” a poem after the manner of

Poe’s Raven; but the rich materials of the general subject for vitriolic

satire and riotous humor, are very imperfectly used. The Prince

President is the most accomplished rascal that Europe has yet produced,

fertile as she has been in reprobate politicians, and he deserves a

Juvenal. There is a meanness about his most vigorous actions which will

prevent his being ranked high among the world’s tyrants. He is

essentially a robber and ruffian, and his coup d’etat was a piece of

brilliant rascality which would have reflected great credit on a captain

of a gang of highwaymen. He has not yet performed a single action which

indicates a capacity in his nature to rise above vulgar perjury and

murder into splendid crime.

* * * * *

_Ingoldsby Legends; Or Mirth and Marvels. By Thomas Ingoldsby,

Esq. (the Rev. Richard Harris Barhaw.) First Series. New York:

D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._

It is strange that these curious pieces have not been reprinted before.

Few contributions to periodical literature, during the present century,

are so unmistakably original, and so irresistibly ludicrous, as these

legendary audacities; and they are all the more notable from the fact

that their author was a clergyman, and passed through life with the

reputation of being a pious one. Their chief characteristic is

irreverence, not only as regards divine things, but in respect to the

sanctities of human life. Indeed, their comic effect results, in a great

degree, from the electric shocks of surprise caused by their

recklessness, the author’s wit being nothing if not untamed. A spice of

the Satanic is in every legend. A mischievousness, which is literally

_devilish_ good, plays its wild pranks even with horrors, and impishly

extracts fantastical farce out of tragedy. The author’s fancy is a

worthy instrument of his tricksy disposition, and is ever ready with

queer images and quaint analogies, to support his most venturesome

caricatures of sin, death, and the devil. His learning, also, is very

great, especially in departments of literature which are unfamiliar to

ordinary students, such as old treatises on magic, witchcraft, and

astrology, and the like; and this, under the direction of his wit,

increases the grotesque effect of his legends. As the result of all

these qualities and acquirements we have the most audacious wit of the

age, and one of its greatest masters of versification.

* * * * *

_The Life and Letters of Barthold George Niebuhr. With Essays on

his Character and Influence. By the Chevalier Bunsen and

Professors Brandis and Lorbell. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1

vol. 12mo._

This thick volume of some six hundred pages is crammed with interesting

matter. The letters of Niebuhr are among the most instructive in

literature, and they range in subject over an immense extent of

knowledge. The vigor of his character, and its sterling honesty, are as

apparent throughout as the vast acquirements and vivid conceptions of

his intellect. His comments on the poets and philosophers of Germany

will be read with great interest, as he knew many of them intimately,

and expresses his opinions of their defects and merits with singular

sincerity and acuteness. His views of Goethe, especially, are entitled

to the most thoughtful consideration. The essays on Niebuhr, at the end

of the volume, are excellent.

* * * * *

_The Solar System. By J. Russell Hind, Foreign Secretary of the

Royal Astronomical Society of London, etc. New York: Geo. P.

Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is another of Putnam’s admirable publications, the first of a

series on popular science, and similar in form to his “Semi-Monthly

Library.” The present volume contains two hundred pages, is elegantly

printed, and is sold at the low price of twenty-five cents, which is

cheapening the solar system beyond all precedent. The volume is

succinctly and clearly written, and contains the latest “news from the

empyrean.” The only defect we have noticed is in the account given of

the discovery of Neptune. The author appears to be ignorant of the

important connection which Professor Pierce, of Harvard University, has

established with this new planet. He did not, it is true, discover it;

but he demonstrated that the planet which was discovered was not the

planet which Le Verrier was seeking.

* * * * *

_The Diplomacy of the Revolution: an Historical Study. By

William Henry Trescott. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.

12mo._

In this small volume we have a great deal of matter, which is both

interesting and new. The author has studied the subject thoroughly, and

exhibits many important transactions in the Revolution in a new light.

He has gained access to a number of unpublished documents, and has used

them with intelligence and discrimination.

* * * * *

_Eleven Weeks in Europe, and What May be Seen in that Time. By

James Freeman Clarke. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol.

18mo._

This is a thick volume of three hundred pages, giving an animated

account of a flying visit to England and the Continent of Europe. The

author is a thoughtful and intelligent tourist, who understood

beforehand what he wanted to see, and knew where he could find it. His

volume is accordingly crammed with interesting matter relating to famous

cities, public buildings, and works of art, and conveys fresh and

original impressions of them all.

* * * * *

The Harpers have published the second volume of their edition of

_Burns_, edited with great care by Robert Chambers, and containing his

letters and poems in the order in which they are written. It is, in

fact, a biography of Burns, illustrated by his works, and will probably

be the most popular edition in the market, as it undoubtedly is the

cheapest and the most perfect. The same publishers have issued Part 19

of Mayhew’s _London Labor and London Poor_, a work which is full of

important information gleaned at first hand. It promises to be the most

complete book of the kind ever printed. Its revelations of poverty,

disease, and vice, sound “bad as truth.”

_Lossing’s “Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution,”_ has also reached

its 22d number, and will be completed in two or three more. If we

consider the beauty of its typography and illustrations, this work must

be admitted to be one of the cheapest ever issued. Its matter is

intensely interesting to all who are interested in the history of the

country.

* * * * *

The Harpers of New York have published, in addition to the works we have

noticed—

“_The Two Families_,” a novel by the author of Rose Douglass. In one

volume.

“_Courtesy, Manners and Habits. By George Winfred Hervey_.” A volume in

which the principles of Christian politeness are enforced with much good

sense and considerable force and brilliancy.

“_Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy; a Romance_,” translated from the Swedish by

Professor A. L. Krause. An interesting and attractive number of the

Library of Select Novels.

* * * * *

_The Cavaliers of England, or The Times of the Revolutions of

1642 and 1688. By Henry William Herbert. New York: Redfield. 1

vol. 12mo._

This volume is composed of four exciting tales illustrative of English

history, and are in every way worthy of Mr. Herbert’s powerful and vivid

genius. In pictorial faculty, in the disposition and creation of

incidents, in the delineation of the passions, and, especially, in the

unwearied fire and movement of the style, these stimulating stories are

among the best which the press has given forth for a long period.

* * * * *

_An Exposition of Some of the Laws of the Latin Grammar. By

Gessner Harrison, M. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.

12mo._

The work of a ripe scholar, this volume is an important aid to all

students of the Latin language desirous of comprehending the general

doctrines of its etymology, its inflectional forms, and its syntax. It

is not intended to supersede the common grammars, but to be their

complement. The author is professor of the ancient languages in the

University of Virginia.

* * * * *

_Collections of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. No. 3.

Philadelphia: John Penington._

This valuable work, in which are duly chronicled the researches of the

Society, is issued in very excellent style; printed with bold, clear

type, upon white, fine paper. The number before us contains, Extracts

from Letters of John Quincy Adams—Letters of Thomas Jefferson—History

of Moorland, by W. J. Buck—and some valuable Memoranda from the Journal

of Henry M. Muhlenberg, D. D. The friends of the Society, and all

interested in preserving the records of the past from oblivion, should

encourage the circulation of the work.

* * * * *

_The Illustrated Old Saint Paul’s. By W. Harrison Ainsworth.

Embellished with spirited Engravings. Philadelphia: T. B.

Peterson._

Mr. Ainsworth is not a writer in whose productions we have heretofore

seen any thing to admire, but the volume before us is written with much

ability, and is far less exceptionable than many of his works. The era

of the story is that of “The Great Plague of 1665,” and powerfully

depicts the horrors of the time. There are two love scenes of marked

interest interwoven with the narrative, which give it all the

fascination of one of Dumas’s most powerful romances. As virtue is

rewarded and vice in some degree punished, the moral of the work will

meet the requirements of novel readers.

* * * * *

_The University Speaker: A Collection of Pieces designed for

College Exercises in Declamation and Recitation. By William

Russel. Boston: James Monroe & Co._

This is a very complete and able work by a competent hand, filled with

appropriate suggestions on appropriate passages, designed for the

practice of Elocution. The work is admirably printed, and is dedicated

to Dr. James Rush of this city.

* * * * *

=THE AZTEC CHILDREN.=

_Their probable Origin and peculiar Physical and Mental Developments;

together with other Physiological Facts, connected with their History

and Singular Appearance._

=BY AUSTRALIS.=

The two extraordinary and interesting beings known as the “Aztec

Children,” have for some considerable time been exhibited in the city of

New York, where thousands with an intense and excited interest have

sought to gratify their curiosity as to the probable origin and history

of these wonderful representatives of ancient Adam.

They have recently been removed from the great metropolis of the United

States to the paternal city of the ever memorable and benevolent Penn,

where they cannot fail to excite in the bosom of every enlightened

freeman and philanthropist, the same lively interest as to their

peculiar relations to the great family of man, and their claims to the

sympathy and interest of their fellow beings.

It is not the purpose of the author of this sketch to recur to the

account furnished by Mr. Stevens in his travels in Central America,

which constitutes the source and foundation upon which many of the facts

connected with the expedition of Velasquez rest, and from which

interesting portions of the history of these children are framed. The

admirable work of Mr. Stevens (particularly the account which he gives

of the wonderful remains which were brought to his view by the

intelligent padre of Santa Cruz del Quiche) furnishes strong ground for

the belief of the actual existence of the idolatrous city of Iximaya.

His description of the descendants of the ancient sacerdotal order of

the Aztec guardians of the once flourishing temples of that people not

unknown to Cortez and Alvarado, would seem to indicate a race answering

in no remote degree to the present physical construction and appearance

of the Aztec children. It is asserted by Velasquez, one of the principal

conductors of the expedition which resulted in the capture and flight of

these wonderful children, that they constitute a portion of the

descendants of the ancient and peculiar order of priesthood called

Kaanas, which it was distinctly asserted in the ancient annals of

Iximaya had accompanied the first migration of this people from the

Assyrian plains. “Their peculiar and strongly distinctive lineaments, it

is now perfectly well ascertained, are to be traced in many of the

sculptured monuments of the Central American ruins, and were found still

more abundantly on those of Iximaya. Forbidden, by inviolably sacred

laws, from intermarrying with any persons but those of their own caste,

they had here dwindled down, in the course of many centuries, to a few

insignificant individuals, diminutive in stature, and imbecile in

intellect.” Such is the language of the conductors of the enterprise

referred to—such the probable origin of these extraordinary

representations of those who in Scriptural language were “called

giants,” now reappearing in what might be justly delineated as miniature

editions of humanity—Daguerreotyped specimens of him “who was created a

little lower than the angels.”

The origin of these interesting little strangers must, we think, remain

for the present involved in an obscurity which time and future

discoveries can alone remove. Their history and relation to the

community from which they have been removed, and their language, habits

and occupations in the scale of rational and intelligent beings, are

calculated to excite in no ordinary degree the active and inquisitive

mind of the physiologist, the antiquarian and the Christian.

In their unusual diminutiveness as human beings—the singular and

striking features which give animation to their countenances, and at

times the fixed and unmistakable lines which indicate deep thought and

feeling—they are objects of profound interest and intense speculation.

To the reflecting and intelligent spectator their presence strikingly

recalls the language of the Psalmist—“We are fearfully and wonderfully

made.” In contemplating them as a portion of the human family, governed

by the general laws of Nature, and subject to the uniform operations of

her unchangeable economy, we are nevertheless startled at that apparent

degeneracy which, in the deprivation of physical strength and beauty,

humbles our own pride while it enlists our sympathy.

These phenomena of the human species, in their personal action, the

expression of agreeable features, and in the enjoyment of company and

the attentions of the visitors who throng around them, afford no

ordinary degree of interest and sympathy. The boy measures about

thirty-two inches in height, and the girl twenty-nine. They are finely

formed, and delicately fashioned in proportion to the reduced size and

natural conformation which distinguish their structures. Their color is

of the Spanish, or rather more of the Mexican complexion; the hair black

and silken in its appearance, slightly inclined to curl, yet glossy and

beautiful. Their features, deprived of that refined and graceful

adaptation to regularity and beauty which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon

countenance, are nevertheless interesting. Like the representations of

those Aztec heads which Stevens has portrayed, “the top of the forehead

to the end of the nose of each of these children is almost straight,

bearing an unmistakable resemblance to the features of their idolatrous

images. They are gratefully sensible of the caresses and little familiar

attentions of visitors, and appear always to be interested in the

gambols and amusements of children. To their guardians they manifest

every warm attachment, and seem with an intuitive sense of their own

helplessness and dependence for protection and security, to regard them

with a strong filial affection.”

In the relations which have placed them together, and in those

associations where custom and habit would seem to produce a community of

interest and a kindred sympathy, there appears but little affinity.

It is a curious fact, that there is little or no intercourse between

these mysterious representatives of a by-gone race. In public they

occasionally manifest some little displeasure toward each other in the

petty jealousies and interferences in each other’s objects of pleasure

or pastime; but, apart from public exhibitions and in the retirement of

domestic life, there are wholly absent those natural communications of

childhood—the look of kindness, the inquiry of affection, and the

remark of innocent and affectionate solicitude. How shall the want of

these common and natural associations of social and conventual interests

in these children be accounted for? Man, it is true, by his education

and acquirements, loses much of the inherent feelings incident to his

early training. He can, by strict discipline, escape and defy

speculation—elevate or depress himself by the skill and energy of

acquired advantages, but it is difficult to stifle or overcome the first

and benevolent emotions inspired by a mother’s kindness.

It is impossible to contemplate these retrograde movements of Nature

(for such they decidedly are) without acknowledging that an obscurity

rests upon them which neither science nor physiology have as yet been

able to remove. The facts, the astounding facts are before us—we see

and contemplate a reality which baffles inquiry, rejects reason, and

bewilders speculation.

The interest which these little beings have excited in the bosoms of the

thousands who have seen them in the city of New York, has been

unparalleled in the history and production of those natural phenomena

which have in this or any other age been presented to the world. Such an

exhibition is as instructive as it is wonderful. There is in such a

presentation, inculcated a great moral principle, which it is to be

feared has been overlooked, and which it behoves the Christian

philosopher, as well as the learned physiologist and the distinguished

naturalist, to consider. The great question in relation to the Aztec

children is, for what purpose have they been made the representatives,

before the civilized world and the American republic, of a supposed or

unknown race, yet in ignorance, superstition and moral degradation? Are

there no moral purposes in the just government of the Deity to be

accomplished by such a revelation? If there yet exists such a race as

have produced the unnatural disclosures of moral and physical degeneracy

so singularly apparent in the development and unnatural organization of

these children, it is certainly the duty (it should be the pride) of

government, the boast of philosophy, and the glory of religion, to

explore, regenerate, and restore such a race to that moral and mental

elevation in which man finds his greatest happiness and his noblest

employments.

Such a subject commends itself with an absorbing interest to the labors

of the statesman and the mind of the patriot, and should find a ready

and zealous advocate in the bosom of every intelligent freeman who

cultivates the soil of liberty, or in any way desires the glory and

happiness of his fellow man.

The moral regeneration of that country, the very ruins of which have

acquired such interest from the pen of Stevens—the exploration of its

hidden resources, and its re-establishment to its ancient grandeur,

renewed by a moral and political regeneration, would outvie the

advantages of twenty expeditions for the purpose of improving the

commercial condition of the Japanese, or humbling them into

unconditional subjection to the power of a superior enemy.

* * * * *

=GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.=

=Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and

Exchanges.=

The Present Volume.—The volume from July to December, just commenced,

opens with great promise in the way of an increase of subscribers; and

the press from one end of the country to the other gives us the most

cheering encouragement in the notices of the July number. When we

determined to increase the amount of reading matter—to give our readers

112 pages in every number—we felt assured that the resources at our

command, and the intimate acquaintanceship with the taste of our readers

which years of editorial efforts on their behalf have given us, would

enable us to present a Magazine of far higher literary value than any

which had preceded it. Nor were we mistaken. From the first number of

the year, the voice of the press and of subscribers, has been emphatic

in praise of our new plan. We have gone on adding attractions to the

work of various kinds, and trust we have shown a disposition not to be

excelled in the general ability and excellence of “Graham” by any

competitor or imitator.

Our change, has changed the course of others, and we feel that we shall

do no violence to truth in publishing the following notices, selected at

random from thousands of similar expressions of appreciation by the

American Newspaper Press.

Graham’s Magazine.—This magazine is last in order of reception,

but first in order of merit. It has some very fine

embellishments, and is filled to the brim with the rich

contributions of the best talent in the country. What a

revolution Graham has brought about in the Philadelphia

Monthlies. “Milliner Magazines”—a soubriquet to which they were

justly entitled, for they did little else than record the

changes of fashion, and furnish sickly, mawkish tales for

milliner’s apprentices—is now, applied to them, a misnomer.

From Graham’s the fashion plates are entirely discarded, in the

others they form an unimportant feature; and these magazines are

now filled with reading matter of an entirely different

character—so that where was once “milk for babes” is now “meat

for strong men.” As this is all Graham’s work, we hope he will

have his reward.—_Eastern Mail, N. Y._

Graham for July, surpasses any thing in its line that has come

under our observation. It is well filled with the choicest of

reading matter and some beautiful embellishments. Graham never

brags about his Magazine, but he is always sure to rival every

attempt, no matter by whom made, to throw him in the shade; he

seems to know just what the ladies want, and he sees that they

have it.—_Lansingburg Gazette._

Nothing but enterprise and untiring energy could produce such a

Magazine—and these Graham possesses. Bear in mind that while

some publishers give 112 pages of reading matter now and then,

(beginning and end of a volume) Graham gives 112 pages every

month.—_Gazette, Ellicott Mills, Md._

Graham’s Magazine for July was duly received. It is the very

best Magazine published in the United States. It cannot fail to

suit all kinds of readers. _American, Albion, N. Y._

* * * * *

J. K. Mitchell.—The Masonic Mirror for June contains a capital likeness

of Doctor John K. Mitchell, R. W. Jr. Grand Warden of the Grand Lodge of

Pa. The many friends of this eminent gentleman will be gratified with

this delicate testimony. Dr. Mitchell is too well known as an able

medical and literary man to require eulogy at our hands. His popularity

as an able speaker and writer, and as a polished, refined gentleman, is

second to that of no man among us, and his manly and unselfish stand for

the principles to which he is attached, have endeared him to the people.

The publishers could not have made a selection better calculated to

attract attention and subscription to the work.

* * * * *

“Knick Knacks.”—Our friend Clark of the Knickerbocker, has in the press

of the Appletons, a volume under the above title, embracing the best of

the many good things which for years have filled his Editor’s Table and

Gossip. That the volume will be readable and popular we have assurance

from the avidity with which even his monthly jottings down are looked

for. With “the cream of the correspondence,” as Tony Lumpkin says, we

shall have a feast of rare wit, with quips and jokes cracking like

almonds at the desert of a grand dinner. We bespeak an early copy of the

first edition of 10,000.

* * * * *

=Transcriber’s Notes:=

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has

been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted

below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete

due to condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

Page 120, wonderful too see how ==> wonderful to see how

Page 126, supplied by Flamtsead ==> supplied by Flamstead

Page 126, the satelites round ==> the satellites round

Page 130, seventh a moon later ==> seventh moon later

Page 163, des lieus si doux ==> des lieux si doux

Page 163, copse of chinquepins ==> copse of chinquapins

Page 167, Mem. Anne Stowe ==> Mme. Anne Stowe

Page 168, buy a gold-field ==> buy a gold field

Page 176, _Sqaulus zygæna_ numbers ==> _Squalus zygæna_ numbers

Page 177, M. Lacepede, who seems ==> M. Lacepède, who seems

Page 179, The knights of Espãna ==> The knights of España

Page 180, On the steamer—dampschiff ==> On the steamer—_dampfschiff_

Page 181, It it is one of ==> It is one of

Page 181, Turn were they would ==> Turn where they would

Page 182, Hermann Weinsoffer ==> Herman Weinsoffer

Page 187, a nose rather aqueline ==> a nose rather aquiline

Page 187, type of a young frontierman ==> type of a young frontiersman

Page 189, The mother’s called their ==> The mothers called their

Page 189, gathering at Fieldings ==> gathering at Fielding’s

Page 190, slaken his pace ==> slacken his pace

Page 191, of the Mississipi ==> of the Mississippi

Page 194, maintaing the same course ==> maintaining the same course

Page 195, these were decidely ignorant ==> these were decidedly ignorant

Page 196, fast as psssible ==> fast as possible

Page 198, and walkingly swiftly ==> and walking swiftly

Page 199, were upon his trick ==> were upon his track

Page 202, groupes of flowers ==> groups of flowers

Page 205, Thackary, the flagellator ==> Thackeray, the flagellator

Page 206, bran-new-Sunday-silk ==> brand-new-Sunday-silk

Page 206, draggled as Mary Mulvaney ==> draggled as Mary Mulvany

Page 207, Any think looks well ==> Any thing looks well

Page 207, for cloaks are not Bloomer ==> for cloaks are not Bloomers

Page 208, recognized as repectable ==> recognized as respectable

Page 212, the turban and hiack ==> the turban and haick

Page 212, sheeted up in their hiacks ==> sheeted up in their haicks

Page 213, frail daughters of Irsael ==> frail daughters of Israel

Page 213, handkerchief coquetishly ==> handkerchief coquettishly

Page 213, with massive candelebra ==> with massive candelabra

Page 213, eve of the eight day ==> eve of the eighth day

Page 214, There are no bridemaids ==> There are no bridesmaids

Page 218, wha it is like ==> what it is like

Page 218, these big istone. ==> these big stones.

Page 235, and is every ready ==> and is ever ready