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HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOLUME IV.
DECEMBER, 1851, TO MAY, 1852.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1852.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Fourth Volume of HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE is completed by the
issue of the present number. The Publishers embrace the opportunity of
renewing the expression of their thanks to the public and the press, for
the extraordinary degree of favor with which its successive Numbers have
been received. Although it has but just reached the close of its second
year, its regular circulation is believed to be at least twice as great
as that of any similar work ever issued in any part of the world.
The Magazine will be continued in the same general style, and upon the
same plan, as heretofore. Its leading purpose is to furnish, at the
lowest price, and in the best form, the greatest possible amount of the
useful and entertaining literary productions of the present age. While
it is by no means indifferent to the highest departments of culture, it
seeks primarily to place before the great masses of the people, in every
section of the country, and in every walk of life, the most attractive
and instructive selections from the current literature of the day. No
degree of labor or expense will be spared upon any department. The most
gifted and popular authors of the country write constantly for its
pages; the pictorial illustrations by which every Number is embellished
are of the best style, and by the most distinguished artists; the
selections for its pages are made from the widest range and with the
greatest care; and nothing will be left undone, either in providing
material, or in its outward dress, which will tend in any degree to make
it more worthy the remarkable favor with which it has been received.
The Magazine will contain regularly as hitherto:
_First._--One or more original articles upon some topic of general
interest, written by some popular writer, and illustrated by from
fifteen to thirty wood engravings, executed in the highest style of art:
_Second._--Copious selections from the current periodical literature of
the day, with tales of the most distinguished authors, such as DICKENS,
BULWER, LEVER, and others--chosen always for their literary merit,
popular interest, and general utility:
_Third._--A Monthly Record of the events of the day, foreign and
domestic, prepared with care, and with entire freedom from prejudice and
partiality of every kind:
_Fourth._--Critical Notices of the Books of the day, written with
ability, candor, and spirit, and designed to give the public a clear and
reliable estimate of the important works constantly issuing from the
press:
_Fifth._--A Monthly Summary of European Intelligence concerning Books,
Authors, and whatever else has interest and importance for the
cultivated reader:
_Sixth._--An Editor's Table, in which some of the leading topics of the
day will be discussed with ability and independence:
_Seventh._--An Editor's Easy Chair, or Drawer, which will be devoted to
literary and general gossip, memoranda of the topics talked about in
social circles, graphic sketches of the most interesting minor matters
of the day, anecdotes of literary men, sentences of interest from papers
not worth reprinting at length, and generally an agreeable and
entertaining collection of literary miscellany.
The Publishers trust that it is not necessary for them to reiterate
their assurances that nothing shall ever be admitted to the pages of the
Magazine in the slightest degree offensive to delicacy or to any moral
sentiment. They will seek steadily to exert upon the public a healthy
moral influence, and to improve the character, as well as please the
taste, of their readers. They will aim to make their Magazine the most
complete repertory of whatever is both useful and agreeable in the
current literary productions of the day.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV.
Amalie de Bourblanc, the Lost Child 202
American Arctic Expedition 11
Anecdotes and Aphorisms 348
Anecdotes of Leopards and Jaguars 227
Anecdotes of Monkeys 464
Artist's Sacrifice 624
Ass of La Marca 354
Benjamin Franklin. By JACOB ABBOTT 145, 289
Bird-hunting Spider 78
Black Eagle in a Bad Way 217
Bleak House. By CHARLES DICKENS 649, 809
Blighted Flowers 549
Boston Tea-Party. By B. J. LOSSING 1
Bow Window 50
Brace of Blunders 540
Chewing the Buyo 408
Child's Toy 476
Christmas as we grow Older. By CHARLES DICKENS 390
Christmas in Company of John Doe. By CHARLES DICKENS 386
Christmas in Germany 499
Clara Corsini--a Tale of Naples 68
Conspiracy of the Clocks 185
Crime Detected 768
Curious Page of Family History 351
Curse of Gold--A Dream 335
Czar of Russia at a Ball 828
Difficulty 56
Diligence in doing Good 781
Dream of the Weary Heart 511
EDITOR'S DRAWER.
Tailing on; The John Jones Party; How many Times did the
Hedge-pig mew? Touching the Tin, 134. The Deformed's Hope;
Looking out for Number One--Abroad and at Home; Leaves and Coats;
The Mathematical Monomaniac, 135. A puzzled Doctor, 136. A Text
for a Sermon; The entombed Racer; Cause and Effect; Vagaries of
the Insane, 268. Munchausenism; Love and Mammon; Professional
Enthusiasm, 269. Mind your P's and Q's; Sympathy thrown away;
Winter Duties, 270. Experiments in Flying; Affair of
Honor--almost, 271. Takin' Notes; Having One's Faculties; Great
Talkers, 421. Witnesses and Counsel--with an Example; Physiognomy
at Fault; Mercantile Drummers, 422. On Discontentment;
Omnipresence of the Deity; To Snuffers and Chewers; The French
and Death, 412. Rat and Owl Fight; Moralizing on Climbing a
greased Pole; Inquisitiveness, with an Instance thereof, 565.
Street Thoughts by a Surgeon; The Millionaire without a Sou; The
Deaf-and-Dumb Boy; Workers in Worsted, 566. Subscribing
Something; Bad Spelling; Lending Umbrellas, 567. Something about
Music; The Workhouse Clock, 568. Sweets in Paris; Something about
China, 569. Difference of Opinion; a Tale of other Times, 704.
Stealing Sermons; About Snuff; Laughter; Looking-glass
Reflections; Something from Sam Slick, 705. Turning the Tables:
Youthful Age; Fools and Madmen; Under Canvas, 706. Joking in
Letters; Welsh Card of Invitation; Chiffoniers in Paris, 707.
Harrowing Lines, 708. Eating cooked Rain; Patent Medicine Toast;
New Language of Flowers, 847. Song of the Turkey; Marks of
Affection; Tired of Nothing to do; Lame and impotent Conclusion,
848. Orders is Orders; The Sleeping Child; Dickens's Denouements;
Statistical Fellows, 849. Keep your Receipts; Giving a Look;
About Dandies; Chawls Yellowplush on Lit'ry Men; Deep-blue
Stockings, 850. A Climax; Some Love-Verses; A Criminal
Curiosity-hunter; a Skate-vender on Thaws, 851.
EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR.
Kossuth; Louis Napoleon; A Workingman for President, 131. Musical
Chit-chat; Lumley and Rossini; America in the Exhibition, 132. A
very French Story of Love and Devotion; Another of Devotion and
Smuggling, 133. Kossuth and our Enthusiasm for him, 265. On Lola
Montez; Dumas and the French Censorship; Signor Braschi; Female
Stock-brokers; The consoled Disconsolates, 266. An Italian
Romance, 267. Louis Napoleon's Coup d'etat; Kossuth Talk, 418.
Paris Gossip; Cavaignac and his Bride elect; The Lottery of Gold,
419. Home Gossip; How Mr. Coper sold a horse, 420. The Hard
Winter; The Forrest Trial, 563. The French Usurpation;
President-making and Morals in the Metropolis; A Bit of Paris
Life; Legacies to Litterateurs, 564. Now; Close of the Carnival;
the Cooper Testimonial; Lectures; Exemplary Damages, 702.
Congressional Manners; The Maine Liquor Law; Reminiscence of
Maffit; French Writers, 703. The Chevalier's Stroke for a Wife,
704. More about the Weather, 843. Sir John Franklin; Free Speech;
Lola in Boston; Jenny Goldschmidt, 844. Marriage Associations;
About Punch; Magisterial Beards; An equine Passport, 845.
Matrimonial Confidence; Dancing in the Beau Monde; Major M'Gowd's
Story, 846.
EDITOR'S TABLE.
Time and Space, 128. Testimony of Geology to the Supernatural,
130. The Year, 262. The Pulpit and the Press, 265. The Value of
the Union, 415. The Seventh Census, 557. The Immensity of the
Universe, 562. The Spiritual Telegraph, 699. History the World's
Memory, 700. Mental Alchemy:--Credulity and Skepticism, 839.
Episode of the Italian Revolution 771
Esther Hammond's Wedding Day 520
Eyes made to Order 91
Fashionable Forger 231
Fashions for December 143
Fashions for January 287
Fashions for February 431
Fashions for March 575
Fashions for April 719
Fashions for May 863
Forgotten Celebrity 778
French Flower Girl 54
Gold--What, and Where from 87
Good Old Times in Paris 395
Great Objects attained by Little Things 330
Habits and Character of the Dog-Rib Indians 690
Helen Corrie 391
High Life in the Olden Time 254
How Gunpowder is Made 643
How Men Rise in the World 211
Hunting the Alligator 668
Impressions of England in 1851. By FREDRIKA BREMER 616
Indian Pet 38
Insane Philosopher 647
Introduction of the Potato into France 622
Keep Him Out 515
Knights of the Cross. By CAROLINE CHESEBRO' 221
Kossuth--A Biographical Sketch 40
LEAVES FROM PUNCH.
Better Luck next Time; Doing one a Special Favor; Etymological
Inventions, 141. Off Point Judith; Singular Phenomenon; A Slight
Mistake; New Biographies, 142. Arrant Extortion; Mr. Booby in the
New Costume, 285. A Bloomer in Leap Year; Strong-minded Bloomer,
286. A Horrible Business; Rather too much of a Good Thing, 429.
Mrs. Baker's Pet, 430. Signs of the Times; France is Tranquil,
573. The Road to Ruin; New Street-sweeping Machines, 574. Going
to Cover, 173. Revolution on Bayonets; Thoughts on French
Affairs; Early Publication in Paris, 714. Scene from the
President's Progress, 715. Touching Sympathy; Sound Advice, 716.
Effects of a Strike, 717. Perfect Identification; Calling the
Police; The Seven Wonders of a Young Lady, 718. Butcher Boys of
the Upper Ten, 857. The Inquisitive Omnibus Driver; The Flunky's
Idea of Beauty, 858. A Competent Adviser; Scrupulous Regard for
Truth, 859. Awful Effects of an Eye-glass; Penalties; Rather
Severe, 860. What I heard about Myself in the Exhibition; The
Peer on the Press, 861. The Interior of a French Court of Justice
in 1851, 862.
Legend of the Lost Well 47
Legend of the Weeping Chamber 358
Life and Death. By the Author of _Alton Locke_ 216
LITERARY NOTICES.
BOOKS NOTICED.
Melville's Moby Dick; Putnam's Hand-books; Rural Homes;
Hawthorne's Wonder-Book, 137. Greeley's Glances at Europe;
Stoddard's Poems; Neander on Philippians; Heavenly Recognition;
Lindsay and Blackiston's Gift-Books; Bishop McIlvaine's Charge,
138. Taylor's Wesley and Methodism, 272. Boyd's Young's Night
Thoughts; Mrs. Lee's Florence; Words in Earnest; Herbert's
Captains of the Old World; Ida Pfeiffer's Voyage Round the World,
273. Reveries of a Bachelor; James's Aims and Obstacles; Simm's
Norman Maurice; Richard's Claims of Science; Greenwood Leaves;
Winter in Spitzbergen; Dream-land by Daylight, 274. Memoir of
Mary Lyon; Woods's Sixteen Months at the Gold Diggings;
Wainwright's Land of Bondage; Mrs. Kirkland's Evening Book; The
Tutor's Ward; Thompson's Hints to Employers, 275. Layard's
Nineveh; Saunders's Great Metropolis; Ik. Marvel's Dream-life;
Florence Sackville; Clovernook, 424. Salander and the Dragon;
Spring's First Woman; Edwards's Select Poetry; Sovereigns of the
Bible; Hawthorne's Snow Image; Summerfield; The Podesta's
Daughter; Ross's What I saw in New York; Curtis's Western
Portraiture; Stephen's Lectures on the History of France, 425.
Chambers's Life and Works of Burns, 569. Abbott's Corner Stone;
Browne's History of Classical Literature; Dickson's Life, Sleep,
and Pain; Head's Faggot of French Sticks; Hudson's Shakspeare;
Simmon's Greek Girl; House on the Rock; Companions of my
Solitude; Wright's Sorcery and Magic; Ravenscliffe; Mitford's
Recollections of a Literary Life, 570. Memoirs of Margaret Fuller
Ossoli; Edwards's Charity and its Fruits, 708. Richardson's
Arctic Searching Expedition; Bonynge's Future Wealth of America;
Copland's Dictionary of Medicine; Cheever's Reel in the Bottle;
The Head of the Family; Neander's Exposition of James; Men and
Women of the Eighteenth Century; Bon Gaultier's Book of Ballads;
Walker's Rhyming Dictionary, 709. Stiles's Austria in 1848-49,
852. Forester's Field Sports; Simms's Golden Christmas;
Falkenburg; Isa; The Howadji in Syria, 853. Stuart's Commentary
on Proverbs; Parker's Story of a Soul; Arthur and Carpenter's
Cabinet Histories; Mosheim's Christianity before Constantine;
Pulszky's Tales and Traditions of Hungary; Aytoun's Lays of the
Scottish Cavaliers; Barnes's Notes on Revelation, 854. Kirwan's
Romanism at Home, 855.
PERSONAL AND LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.
Hawthorne; _Literary Gazette_ on Hitchcock; The _News_ on
Vestiges of Civilization; Westminster Review; New Works
announced; Assyrian Sculptures; Pension to Reid; Christopher
North; Map of France; Manuscripts of Lalande; Dumas's Memoirs,
139. Documents on the Thirty Years' War; Douglas Jerrold's Works,
275. Lady Bulwer; Rise of Bunsen; New College, Edinburgh; Madame
Pfeiffer; Richardson's Arctic Expedition, 276. Plays by Jerrold
and Marston; Stephen's Lectures; Critique on Hildreth; On Moby
Dick; Shakspeare for Kossuth; Landor on Kossuth; Critique on
Springer's Forest Life; On Layard's Nineveh, 277. Alison; Works
denounced; Brougham; Translations of Scott; New Works in France,
278. M. Vattemare; The Elzevirs; Daguerre; Heine; Leipzig Easter
Fair; Papers in Germany; Japanese Dictionary; Excavations at
Athens; Ximenes; Spanish Classics; Ida Hahn-Hahn; Professor
Nuylz; Oriental MSS.; Proscription in Italy; Discovery of Old
Paintings in Muenster; Jeffrey; Mr. Jerdan; Brougham; Gutzlaff,
425. Carlyle's Sterling; Yeast; Blake; Dickens in Danish; Delta;
Stephen: M'Cosh; Hahn-Hahn; Junius; Kossuth's Eloquence;
Beresford, 426. Guizot; Revolutionary Walls; Migne's Book
Establishment; French Works; Bonaparte and Literature; Silvio
Pellico; German Novels; Oersted; Oehlenschlaeger; Menzel; Heine,
427. Schiller Festival; Zahn; Kosmos; Servian Poetry; Shakspeare
in Swedish; Italian Book on America; Chinese Geography; Turkish
Grammar and Dictionary; Ticknor in Spanish, 428. Westminster
Review; New Books; Benedict; Macaulay, 570. Browning's Shelley;
Junius; Budhist Monuments; Freund's German-English Lexicon;
Bulwer's Works; The Head of the Family; Lossing's Field-Book;
Hawthorne; Eliot Warburton, 571. French Literary Exiles;
Lamartine; Count Ficquelmont; Works on the Coup d'Etat; Louis
Philippe and Letters; George Sand; Humboldt; Schiller's Library;
Hagberg; Translations into Spanish, 572. Theological
Translations; Bohn's New Publications; Greek Professorship in
Edinburgh; Dr. Robinson; Talvi, 710. Moby Dick; Tests in Scottish
Universities; Montalembert; Cavaignac; The Press in Paris;
Posthumous Work by Meinhold, 711; Lamartine's Civilisateur;
Eugene Sue; Neuman's English Empire in Asia; English Literature
in Germany; Nitzsch on Hahn-Hahn; Gutzkow; The Rhenish Times;
Hebrew Books; Literature of Hungary; Monument to Oken, 712.
Cockburn's Life of Jeffrey; Grote's History of Greece; Farini's
History of the Roman State; The Shelley Forgeries; James R.
Lowell; Papers of Margaret Fuller, 855. Life of Fox; Sale of rare
Books; Greek Professor at Edinburgh; Bleak House in German;
Macaulay in German; Barante's Histoire de la Convention
Nationale; Pierre Leroux; Chamfort; George Sand; Stuart of
Dunleath in French; Epistolary Forgeries; Anselm Feuerbach; Bust
of Schelling; Goethe and Schiller Literature; Count
Platen-Hallermuende; Lives of the Sovereigns of Russia, 856.
OBITUARIES.
Archibald Alexander, D. D.; J. Kearney Rodgers, M. D.; Granville
Sharp Pattison, M. D.; Gardner G. Howland, 122. Dr. Wingard;
Byron's Sister; H. P. Borrell; Dr. Gutzlaff; Mrs. Sherwood, 140.
King of Hanover, 261. Professors Wolff and Humbert, 280. Joel R.
Poinsett; Moses Stuart, 411. Marshal Soult, 414. William Wyon;
Rev. J. H. Caunter; Chevalier Lavy; M. de St. Priest; Paul Erman;
Professor Dunbar; Dr. Sadleir; Basil Montague, 426. T. H. Turner,
570. Baron D'Ohsen; Robert Blackwood; Serangelli, 712. Hon.
Jeremiah Morrow, 836. Thomas Moore; Archbishop Murray; Sir
Herbert Jenner Fust, 837. Marshal Marmont; Armand Marrast, 838.
Louis Napoleon and his Nose 833
Love Affair at Cranford 457
Masked Ball at Vienna 469
Maurice Tiernay, the Soldier of Fortune. By CHARLES
LEVER 57, 187, 339
Mazzini, the Italian Liberal 404
Miracle of Life 500
MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.
UNITED STATES.
The November Elections: success of the Union Party in Georgia,
South Carolina, Mississippi, and Alabama, 120. Adoption of the
New Constitution in Virginia, 120. Election in Pennsylvania, 120.
Return of the Arctic Expedition, 121. Dinner to Mr. Grinnell,
121. Imprisonment of John S. Thrasher in Havana, 121, 258, 553.
Appeal of Mr. Tyler in behalf of the Cuban prisoners, 121.
Inauguration of Gov. Campbell of Tennessee, 121. Convention of
Cotton-planters in Macon, 121. Decision in favor of Morse's
Telegraph, 122. Decision of the Methodist Book-fund case, 122.
Letter of Mr. Clay on the Compromise, 122. Elections in
California, 122. General Intelligence from California, 122, 258,
411, 553, 693, 835. General Intelligence from Oregon, 122, 411,
693. Volcanic Eruption in the Sandwich Islands, 123. General
Intelligence from New Mexico, 123, 259, 411, 553, 693,835.
Arrival of Kossuth, and reception in New York, 255. Speech of
Kossuth at the Corporation banquet in New York, 255. At the Press
dinner, 256. Opening of the Thirty-second Congress, 256. Abstract
of the President's Message, 256. Correspondence with foreign
Powers respecting Cuba, 258. Official vote in New York, 258.
Speech of Kossuth at the Bar dinner in New York, 410. Kossuth at
Brooklyn, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, 410. Opening
of the New York Legislature and Message of Governor Hunt, 410.
Opening of the Pennsylvania Legislature, 411. Mr. Clay resigns
his seat in the Senate, 411. Destruction of the Congressional
Library, 411. American expedition to the Sandwich Islands, 411.
Kossuth at the West, 551. Esterhazy, Batthyanyi, Pulszky, and
Szemere on Kossuth, 551. Speeches in Congress on Intervention,
552. Outrage at Greytown disavowed by the English government,
553. Legislative nominations for the Presidency, 553. Message of
Gov. Farwell of Wisconsin, 553. The U.S. Indemnity in Texas, 553.
Letter of Mr. Buchanan, 553. Of Mr. Benton, 553. General
proceedings in Congress, 692. Correspondence respecting Kossuth,
692. Mr. Webster's discourse before the Historical Society, 693.
Commemorative meeting to J. Fenimore Cooper. 693. Archbishop
Hughes's lecture on Catholicism in the United States, 693. Whig
State Convention in Kentucky, 693. In Indiana, 693. Webster
meeting in New York, 693. Washington's birthday at the Capital,
693. Mormon disturbances in Utah, 694. Debates in the Senate on
Intervention; speech of Mr. Soule, 834. Abstraction of public
papers, 834. Mr. Cass on the Wilmot Proviso, 834. Presidential
speeches in the House, 834. Political Conventions in various
States, and nominations for the Presidency, 834. Proceedings in
the Legislature of Mississippi, 834. State debt of Pennsylvania,
835. Mr. Webster at Trenton, 835. Accident at Hell-gate, 835.
Return of Cuban prisoners, 835. Letter of Mr. Clay on the
Presidency, 835. Expedition to Japan, 835. Loss of steamer North
America, 835. Col. Berzenczey's expedition to Tartary, 835.
SOUTHERN AMERICA.
Election of Montt as President of Chili, 123. Attempt at
insurrection, 123, 412. Contest against Rosas in Buenos Ayres,
124, 694, 835. Difficulties growing out of the Tehuantepec right
of way in Mexico, 124. Insurrection in the northern departments
under Caravajal, 124, 412, 553, 694, 835. Letters to the
Governors of the departments, 124. General Intelligence from
Mexico, 124, 412, 553, 835. Message of the President of
Venezuela, 694. Disturbance in Chili penal settlements, 694, 835.
Mexican claims for Indian depredations, 835. Defeat and flight of
Rosas, 836. Peruvian expedition against Ecuador, 836. Gold in New
Grenada, 836.
GREAT BRITAIN.
Arrival of Kossuth at Southampton, 124. Speech of Kossuth at
Winchester, 125. Close of the Great Exhibition, 126. Disturbances
in Ireland, 126. War at the Cape of Good Hope, 126, 554, 696.
Opposition of the Sultan of Turkey to the Suez Railway, 126.
Kossuth at Birmingham, Manchester, London, and Southampton, 259.
Embarkation for America, 259. Resignation of Lord Palmerston and
appointment of Earl Granville as Foreign Secretary, 412.
Deputation of merchants to Lord John Russell, 412. Dinner to Mr.
Walker, 412. From Ireland, 412. Petitions from Scotland against
the Maynooth grant, 413. Burning of the steamer Amazon, 554. The
national defenses, 554. Controversy between workmen and
employers, 554. Movements of the Reformers, 554. Gold in
Australia, 554. Destruction of Lagos in Africa by the British,
554, 696. Meeting of Parliament and the Queen's Speech, 694.
Explanations as to the retirement of Lord Palmerston, 694. Defeat
and resignation of the Russell Ministry, 695. Appointment of a
Protectionist Ministry, 696. Correspondence with Austria
respecting political refugees, 696. Disaster from water, 696. New
expedition in search of Sir John Franklin, 697. Attitude of the
Derby Ministry, 836. Position of Lord John Russell, 837. Mr.
Disraeli's address to his constituents, 837. Revival of the Anti
Corn-Law League, 837. Mr. Layard declines to continue in office,
837.
FRANCE.
The President demands the repeal of the election law of May 31;
the Ministers refuse their assent and resign, 126. Formation of a
new Ministry, 127. Insults to the Republican members of Assembly,
127. Meeting of the Assembly, Message of the President, demanding
the restoration of universal suffrage, and its rejection by the
Assembly, 260. Progress of the struggle between the President and
Assembly, 261. President's speech on distributing prizes to
exhibitors, 261. The President dissolves the Assembly and assumes
the sole powers of government, 413. His decree, 413. Arrest of
members of Assembly, 413. Unsuccessful attempts at resistance,
413. Great majorities returned in favor of the President, 414,
554. Correspondence between the English and French Governments,
414. Celebration at the result of the election, 554. Speech of M.
Baroche, 555. Proceedings of the President, 555. The new
Constitution decreed by the President, 555. Formation of a
Ministry of Police and of State, 556. Seizure of the property of
the Orleans family, 556. Measures limiting discussion, 556. New
Legislative law, 697. Letter of the Orleans princes, 697. The
Ministry of Police, 697. Dinner by the President to English
residents, 697. Decree regulating the press, 697. Correspondence
between the government and the Emperor of Russia, 697.
Proceedings in relation to Belgium, 698. Success of the
government in the elections, 837. Presidential decree for
mortgage banks, 837. Decree respecting the College of France,
837. Judges superannuated at seventy years, 837. Prize for
adaptation of Voltaic pile, 838. Donation to M. Foucauld, 838.
New military medal and pension, 838. French demands upon Belgium
refused, 838. Correspondence between Austria, Prussia, and Russia
respecting France, 838. French demands upon Switzerland, 839.
SOUTHERN EUROPE.
Neapolitan answer to Mr. Gladstone's letter, 127. New Colonial
Council in Spain for Cuba, 127. Austrian rigor in Italy, 261.
Pardon of the American prisoners in Spain, 414. Attempt to
assassinate the Queen of Spain, 698. Change in the government of
the Spanish colonies, 839.
CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPE.
Preparations in Prussia, 127. Telegraphic arrangements in
Germany, 127. The Polish provinces of Prussia excluded from the
Confederation, 127. The Emperor of Austria declares himself
absolute, 127. Elections in Switzerland, 261. Critical state of
affairs in Austria, 261, 414. Austria and France, 414. Annulling
of the Constitution of 1849 in Austria, 556. General
Intelligence, 556. Attitude assumed by the European powers toward
France, 678. Demands of France upon Switzerland in relation to
political refugees, 698. Transferrence of Holstein to Denmark,
698. Switzerland menaced by a commercial blockade, 839.
THE EAST.
General Intelligence, 127. Negotiations in Turkey respecting the
Holy Sepulchre, 414. Hostilities in India, 415. Changes of
Ministry in Greece and Turkey, 698. Generosity of the Porte
toward rebels, 839. High interest forbidden in Turkey, 839. Death
of the Persian Vizier, 839. Hostilities between the English and
Burmese, 839.
Mr. Potts's New Years Adventures 281
My First Place 489
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. By SIR EDWARD BULWER
LYTTON 105, 239, 371, 525, 673, 793
Mysteries 65
My Traveling Companion 636
Napoleon Bonaparte. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT 22, 166, 310, 592, 736
New Discoveries in Ghosts 512
Old Maid's First Love 360
Orphan's Dream of Christmas 385
Our School. By CHARLES DICKENS 75
Paradise Lost 611
Personal Sketches and Reminiscences. By MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 503
Pipe Clay and Clay Pipes 688
Pleasures and Perils of Ballooning 96
Poison Eaters 364
Potter of Tours 219
Promise Unfulfilled 80
Public Executions in England 542
Recollections of St. Petersburg 447
Rising Generationism 478
Rodolphus.--A Franconia Story. By JACOB ABBOTT 433, 577, 721
Short Chapter on Frogs 791
Sicilian Vespers 790
Sleep to Startle us 830
Stolen Bank Notes 627
Story of a Bear 786
Story of Oriental Love 75
Story of Rembrandt 516
Street Scenes of the French Usurpation 399
Suwarrow--Sketch of 409
Talk about the Spider 200
Taste of French Dungeons 670
Taste of Austrian Jails 481
The Bedoueen, Mahomad Alee, and the Bazaars. By GEORGE WILLIAM
CURTIS 755
The Brothers 212
The Expectant--A Tale of Life 93
The Game of Chess 205
The German Emigrants. By JOHN DOGGETT, Jr. 183
The Little Sisters 641
The Lost Ages 547
The Mighty Magician 772
The Moor's Revenge. By EPES SARGENT 669
The Mountain Torrent 466
The Night Train 783
The Opera. By THOMAS CARLYLE 252
The Ornithologist 470
The Point of Honor 494
The Sublime Porte 332
The Tub School 85
Thiers--Sketch of his Life 214
Thy Will be Done. By GEORGE P. MORRIS 119
Tiger Roche.--An Irish Character 760
To be Read at Dusk. By CHARLES DICKENS 235
True Courage 620
Two Kinds of Honesty 773
Vagaries of the Imagination 63
Vatteville Ruby 613
Vision of Charles XI. 397
What becomes of the Rind? 402
What to do in the Mean Time 545
Who knew Best 485
Wives of Great Lawyers 764
Wonderful Toys 634
You're Another 105
Zoological Stories 769
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. Casting the Tea over in Boston Harbor 1
2. Boston in 1770-74 3
3. Faneuil Hall 4
4. Portrait of Governor Hutchinson 5
5. Portrait of the Earl of Dartmouth 5
6. House of John Hancock 6
7. Province House 7
8. The Old South Church, Boston 7
9. Portrait of David Kinnison 9
10. Portrait of George R. T. Hewes 10
11. Pouring Tea down the Throat of America 10
12. Route of the Arctic Expedition (Map) 12
13. Vessels beating to Windward of Iceberg 12
14. Perilous Situation of the Advance and Rescue 13
15. Discovery Ships near the Devil's Thumb 14
16. The Advance leading the Prince Albert 15
17. The Advance stranded at Cape Riley 16
18. Anvil-Block, and Guide-Board 17
19. Three Graves at Beechy 17
20. The Advance and Rescue at Barlow's Inlet 18
21. The Advance in Barrow's Straits 19
22. The Advance and Rescue drifting 19
23. The Advance and Rescue in the Winter 20
24. The Advance in Davis's Straits 20
25. The Advance among Hummocks 21
26. Stern of the Rescue in the Ice 21
27. The Passage of the Tagliamento 24
28. The Gorge of Neumarkt 26
29. The Venetian Envoys 27
30. The Conference dissolved 30
31. The Court at Milan 31
32. The Triumphal Journey 33
33. The Delivery of the Treaty 34
34. Portrait of Kossuth 40
35. Better Luck next Time 141
36. Doing One a Special Favor 141
37. Off Point Judith 142
38. Singular Phenomenon 142
39. A Slight Mistake 142
40. Costumes for December 143
41. Parisian, Frileuse, and Camara Cloaks 144
41. Child's Costume 144
43. Portrait of Franklin 145
44. The Franklin Smithy 145
45. Franklin at Ten Years of Age 146
46. Building the Pier at the Mill-pond 146
47. Franklin reading in his Chamber 147
48. The Franklin Family 147
49. Franklin studying in the Printing-office 147
50. Franklin's First Literary Essay 148
51. Franklin ill-used by his Brother 149
52. Franklin plans to escape 149
53. The Sloop at Sea 149
54. Franklin traveling through the Storm 150
55. The old Woman's Hospitality 150
56. Franklin with his Penny Rolls 150
57. Franklin gives the Bread to a poor Woman 151
58. Franklin asleep in the Meeting-house 152
59. Franklin with Bradford and Keimer 152
60. The Quakeress's Counsel 153
61. Franklin showing his Money 153
62. Franklin and the Governor of New York 154
63. Collins flung overboard 154
64. Reading on the Banks of the River 155
65. Franklin's Courtship 155
66. Franklin takes Leave of Miss Read 155
67. Franklin delivers his Letter 156
68. Franklin at the Book-store 156
69. Franklin carrying Type Forms 157
70. The Widow Lady of Duke-street 157
71. The Recluse Lodger 157
72. Franklin looking out of the Window 158
73. The Copper-plate Press 158
74. Franklin's First Job 159
75. The Junto Club 160
76. Meredith on a Spree 160
77. Grief of Miss Read 161
78. Franklin with the Wheelbarrow 161
79. The Library 162
80. Industry of Mrs. Franklin 162
81. The China Bowl and Silver Spoon 162
82. The Gardener at work 163
83. Grinding the Ax 163
84. The Widow carrying on Business 164
85. Franklin playing Chess 164
86. Franklin takes Charge of his Nephew 165
87. Portrait of Whitefield 165
88. The Expedition to Egypt 166
89. Napoleon embarking for Egypt 169
90. Napoleon looking at the distant Alps 170
91. The Disembarkation in Egypt 173
92. The March through the Desert 175
93. The Battle of the Pyramids 178
94. The Egyptian Ruins 183
95. Mr. Potts makes his Toilet 281
96. Mr. Potts suffers--Inexpressibly 281
97. Mr. Potts is discomposed 281
98. Mr. Potts in the wrong Apartment 282
99. Mr. Potts enchanted 283
100. Mr. Potts assumes a striking Attitude 283
101. Mr. Potts makes a Sensation 283
102. Mr. Potts tears himself away 284
103. Mr. Potts receives a Lecture 284
104. Arrant Extortion 285
105. Mr. Booby in the New Costume 285
106. A Bloomer in Leap Year 286
107. The Strong-minded Bloomer 286
108. Winter Costumes 287
109. Walking Dress 288
110. Hood and Head-dress 288
111. Preparing the Regimental Colors 290
112. Franklin on Military Duty 290
113. Franklin's Colloquy with the Quaker 291
114. The Indian Pow-wow 291
115. The Female Street-sweeper 292
116. The Horse and Packages for Camp 293
117. The precipitous Flight 293
118. March to Gnadenhuetten 294
119. Franklin's military Escort 295
120. Portrait of Buffon 296
121. Franklin and the new Governor 296
122. Sign of St. George and the Dragon 297
123. The Ship in Peril of the Rocks 297
124. Franklin writing to his Wife 298
125. The Old Man from the Desert 298
126. Portrait of Mrs. Franklin 299
127. Franklin on his Tour of Inspection 300
128. Bees swarming 301
129. Franklin's Departure from Chester 301
130. Reception of the Satin 302
131. Franklin transformed by his new Dress 302
132. Franklin repulsed from Lord Hillsborough's 303
133. The Boston Riot 304
134. Portrait of Lord Chatham 304
135. Portrait of Lord Camden 304
136. Franklin at Chess with the Lady 305
137. Drafting the Declaration of Independence 306
138. Old Age 307
139. Feeling toward Franklin in Paris 308
140. Portrait of Lafayette 309
141. Franklin's Amusement in Age 309
142. Napoleon's Escape from the Red Sea 310
143. The Dromedary Regiment 312
144. The Plague Hospital at Acre 317
145. The Bomb-shell exploding 320
146. Arrival of the Courier 326
147. Napoleon and Kleber 328
148. The Return from Egypt 329
149. A Horrible Business 429
150. Mrs. Baker's Pet 430
151. Costumes for February 431
152. Evening Dress 432
153. Full Dress for Home 432
154. The Rabbit House 433
155. The Pursuit 437
156. The Raft 439
157. Up the Ladder 441
158. The Yard at Mr. Randon's 442
159. Plan of Mr. Randon's House 444
160. The Great Room 444
161. Inundation at St. Petersburg 449
162. Russian Ice Mountains 452
163. Punishment for Drunkenness 454
164. Russian Isvoshtshiks 455
165. The Easter Kiss--agreeable 456
166. The Easter Kiss--as matter of Duty 456
167. The Easter Kiss--under Difficulties 456
168. The Easter Kiss--disagreeable 456
169. France is tranquil 573
170. The President's Road to Ruin 574
171. New Parisian Street-sweeping Machine 574
172. Costumes for March 575
173. Young Lady's Toilet 576
174. Morning Toilet 576
175. Ellen Asleep 578
176. The Snow-shoes 579
177. The Funeral 583
178. The Boys and the Boat 585
179. The Evasion 587
180. Raising the Hasp 591
181. The Corn-barn 591
182. Napoleon's Return from Egypt 595
183. Napoleon and the Atheists 596
184. Napoleon's Landing at Frejus 598
185. Napoleon's Reconciliation with Josephine 602
186. Napoleon on the Way to St. Cloud 608
187. Napoleon in the Council of Five Hundred 609
188. The Little Old Lady 662
189. Miss Jellyby 667
190. Going to Cover 711
191. Revolutionary Inquiries 714
192. Early Publication of a Paper in Paris 714
193. Scene from the President's Progress 715
194. Touching Sympathy 716
195. Sound Advice 716
196. Effects of a Strike 717
197. Perfect Identification 718
198. Calling the Police 718
199. Fashions for April 719
200. Dress Toilet 720
201. Child's Fancy Costume 720
202. The Drag Ride 722
203. The Well 724
204. The Conflagration 726
205. The barred Window 727
206. Antonio's Picture 728
207. The Court Room 729
208. The Arrest 732
209. The Governor 735
210. The Consuls and the Gold 737
211. Napoleon in the Temple 739
212. Napoleon's Entrance into the Tuileries 742
213. Napoleon and the Vendeean Chief 746
214. Napoleon and the Duchess of Guiche 750
215. Napoleon and Bourrienne 751
216. Unavailing Intercession of Josephine 753
217. The Lord Chancellor copies from Memory 814
218. Coavinses 821
219. Butcher-Boys of the Upper Ten 857
220. The Inquiring Omnibus Driver 857
221. Flunky's Idea of Beauty 858
222. A Competent Adviser 859
223. Regard for the Truth 859
224. Awful Effect of Eye-glasses 860
225. Rather Severe 860
226. Portrait of a Gentleman 861
227. The Peer on the Press 861
228. Interior of a French Court of Justice 862
229. Fashions for May 863
230. Visiting Dress 864
231. Home Toilet 864
HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
No. XIX.--DECEMBER, 1851.--VOL. IV.
[Illustration: CASTING TEA OVERBOARD IN BOSTON HARBOR.]
THE BOSTON TEA PARTY.[1]
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
Revolutions which dismember and overturn empires, disrupt political
systems, and change not only the forms of civil government, but
frequently the entire character of society, are often incited by causes
so remote, and apparently inconsiderable and inadequate, that the
superficial observer would never detect them, or would laugh
incredulously if presented to his consideration as things of moment.
Yet, like the little spring of a watch, coiled unseen within the dark
recess of its chamber, the influences of such remote causes operating
upon certain combinations, give motion, power, and value to latent
energies, and form the _primum mobile_ of the whole machinery of
wonderful events which produce revolutions.
As a general rule, revolutions in states are the results of isolated
rebellions; and rebellions have their birth in desires to cast off evils
inflicted by actual oppressions. These evils generally consist of the
interferences of rulers with the physical well-being of the governed;
and very few of the political changes in empires which so prominently
mark the course of human history, have had a higher incentive to
resistance than the maintenance of creature comforts. Abridgment of
personal liberty in the exercise of natural rights, excessive taxation,
and extortion of public officers, whereby individual competence and
consequent ease have not been attainable, these have generally been the
chief counts in the indictment, when the people have arisen in their
might and arraigned their rulers at the bar of the world's judgment.
The American Revolution, which succeeded local rebellions in the various
provinces, was an exception to a general rule. History furnishes no
parallel example of a people free, prosperous, and happy, rising from
the couch of ease to gird on the panoply of war, with a certainty of
encountering perhaps years of privation and distress, to combat the
intangible _principle_ of despotism. The taxes of which the English
colonies in America complained, and which were the ostensible cause of
dissatisfaction, were almost nominal, and only in the smallest degree
affected the general prosperity of the people. But the method employed
in levying those slight taxes, and the prerogatives assumed by the king
and his ministers, plainly revealed the _principles_ of tyranny, and
were the causes which produced the quarrel. In these assumptions the
kernel of despotism was very apparent, and the sagacious Americans,
accustomed to vigorous and independent thought, and a free interchange
of opinions, foresaw the speedy springing of that germ into the bulk and
vigor of an umbrageous tree, that would overshadow the land and bear the
bitter fruit of tyrannous misrule. Foreseeing this, they resolved
neither to water it kindly, nor generously dig about its roots and open
them to the genial influences of the blessed sun and the dews; but, on
the contrary, to eradicate it. Tyranny had no abiding-place in America
when the quarrel with the imperial government began, and the War of the
Revolution, in its inception and progress, was eminently a war of
principle.
How little could the wisest political seer have perceived of an
elemental cause of a revolution in America, and the dismemberment of the
British Empire, in two pounds and two ounces of TEA, which, a little
less than two centuries ago, the East India Company sent as a present to
Charles the Second of England! Little did the "merrie monarch" think,
while sitting with Nell Gwynn, the Earl of Rochester, and a few other
favorites, in his private parlor at Whitehall, and that new beverage
gave pleasure to his sated taste, that events connected with the use of
the herb would shake the throne of England, albeit a Guelph, a wiser and
more virtuous monarch than any Stuart, should sit thereon. Yet it was
even so; and TEA, within a hundred years after that viceregal
corporation made its gift to royalty, became one of the causes which led
to rebellion and revolution, resulting in the independence of the
Anglo-American colonies, and the founding of our Republic.
When the first exuberant feelings of joy, which filled the hearts of the
Americans when intelligence of the repeal of the Stamp Act reached them,
had subsided, and sober judgment analyzed the Declaratory act of William
Pitt which accompanied the Repeal Bill, they perceived small cause for
congratulation. They knew Pitt to be a friend--an earnest and sincere
friend of the colonists. He had labored shoulder to shoulder with Barre,
Conway, Burke, and others, to effect the repeal, and had recently
declared boldly in the House of Commons, "I rejoice that America has
resisted. Three millions of people, so dead to all the feelings of
liberty as voluntarily to submit to be slaves, would have been fit
instruments to make slaves of the rest." Yet he saw hesitation; he saw
_pride_ standing in the place of _righteousness_, and he allowed
_expediency_ to usurp the place of _principle_, in order to accomplish a
great good. He introduced the Declaratory Act, which was a sort of salvo
to the national honor, that a majority of votes might be secured for the
Repeal Bill. That act affirmed that Parliament possessed the power _to
bind the colonies in all cases whatsoever_; clearly implying the right
to impose taxes to any extent, and in any manner that ministers might
think proper. That temporizing measure was unworthy of the great
statesman, and had not the colonists possessed too many proofs of his
friendship to doubt his constancy, they would now have placed him in the
category of the enemies of America. They plainly perceived that no
actual concession had been made, and that the passage of the Repeal Bill
was only a truce in the systematic endeavors of ministers to hold
absolute control over the Americans. The loud acclamations of joy and
the glad expressions of loyalty to the king, which rung throughout
America in the spring and early summer of 1766, died away into low
whispers before autumn, and as winter approached, and other schemes for
taxation, such as a new clause in the mutiny act developed, were evolved
from the ministerial laboratory, loud murmurings went over the sea from
every English colony in the New World.
Much good was anticipated by the exercise of the enlightened policy of
the Rockingham ministry, under whose auspices the Stamp Act had been
repealed, when it was suddenly dissolved, and William Pitt, who was now
elevated to the peerage, became prime minister. Had not physical
infirmities borne heavily upon Lord Chatham, all would have been well;
but while he was tortured by gout, and lay swathed in flannels at his
country-seat at Hayes, weaker heads controlled the affairs of state.
Charles Townshend, Pitt's Chancellor of the Exchequer, a vain, truckling
statesman, coalesced with Grenville, the father of the Stamp Act, in the
production of another scheme for deriving a revenue from America. Too
honest to be governed by expediency, Grenville had already proposed
levying a direct tax upon the Americans of two millions of dollars per
annum, allowing them to raise that sum in their own way. Townshend had
the sagacity to perceive that such a measure would meet with no favor;
but in May, 1767, he attempted to accomplish the same result by
introducing a bill providing for the imposition of a duty upon glass,
paper, painters' colors, and TEA imported from Great Britain into
America. This was only another form of taxation, and judicious men in
Parliament viewed the proposition with deep concern. Burke and others
denounced it in the Commons; and Shelburne in the House of Lords warned
ministers to have a care how they proceeded in the matter, for he
clearly foresaw insurrection, perhaps a revolution as a consequence. But
the voice of prudence, uttering words of prophecy, was disregarded;
Townshend's bill was passed, and became a law at the close of June, by
receiving the royal signature. Other acts, equally obnoxious to the
Americans, soon became laws by the sanction of the king, and the
principles of despotism, concealed behind the honest-featured
Declaratory Act, were displayed in all their deformity.
During the summer and autumn, John Dickenson sent forth his powerful
_Letters of a Pennsylvania Farmer_. Written in a simple manner, they
were easily understood. They laid bare the evident designs of the
ministry; proved the unconstitutionality of the late acts of Parliament,
and taught the people the necessity of united resistance to the slow
but certain approaches of oppression.
[Illustration: BOSTON IN 1770-74.]
Boston, "the ringleader in rebellion," soon took the initiative step in
revolutionary movements, and during 1768, tumults occurred, which caused
Governor Bernard to call for troops to awe the people. General Thomas
Gage, then commander-in-chief of the British forces in America, ordered
two regiments from Halifax. Borne by a fleet which blockaded the harbor
in September, they landed upon Long Wharf, in Boston, on Sunday morning,
and while the people were desirous of worshiping quietly in their
meeting-houses, these soldiers marched to the Common with charged
muskets, fixed bayonets, drums beating, and colors flying, with all the
pomp and insolence of victorious troops entering a vanquished city. It
was a great blunder, and Governor Bernard soon perceived it.
A convention of delegates from every town but one in Massachusetts was
in session, when the fleet arrived in Nantasket roads. They were not
alarmed by the approach of cannon and bayonets, but deliberated coolly,
and denounced firmly the current measures of government. Guided by their
advice, the select-men of Boston refused to furnish quarters for the
troops, and they were obliged to encamp on the open Common, where
insults were daily bandied between the military hirelings and the
people. The inhabitants of Boston, and of the whole province felt
insulted--ay, degraded--and every feeling of patriotism and manhood
rebelled. The alternative was plain before them--_submission or the
bayonet!_
Great indignation prevailed from the Penobscot to the St. Mary's, and
the cause of Boston became the common cause of all the colonists. They
resented the insult as if offered to themselves; and hatred of royal
rule became a fixed emotion in the hearts of thousands. Legislative
assemblies spoke out freely, and for the crime of being thus
independent, royal governors dissolved them. Delegates returned to their
constituents, each an eloquent crusader against oppression; and in every
village and hamlet men congregated to consult upon the public good, and
to determine upon a remedy for the monster evil now sitting like an
incubus upon the peace and prosperity of the land.
As a countervailing measure, merchants in the various coast towns
entered into an agreement to cease importing from Great Britain, every
thing but a few articles of common necessity (and especially those
things enumerated in the impost bill), from the first of January, 1769,
to the first of January, 1770, unless the obnoxious act should be sooner
repealed. The people every where seconded this movement by earnest
co-operation, and Provincial legislatures commended the scheme. An
agreement, presented in the Virginia House of Burgesses by Washington,
was signed by every member; and in all the colonies the people entered
at once upon a course of self-denial. For more than a year this powerful
engine of retaliation waged war upon British commerce in a
constitutional way, before ministers would listen to petitions and
remonstrances; and it was not until virtual rebellion in the British
capital, born of commercial distress, menaced the ministry, that the
expostulations of the Americans were noticed, except with sneers.
In America meetings were frequently held, and men thus encouraged each
other by mutual conference. Nor did _men_, alone, preach and practice
self-denial; American _women_, the wives and daughters of patriots, cast
their influence into the scale of patriotism, and by cheering voices and
noble examples, became efficient co-workers. And when, in Boston,
cupidity overcame patriotism, and the defection of a few merchants who
loved gold more than liberty, aroused the friends of the
non-importation leagues, and assembled them in general council in
Faneuil Hall, there to declare that they would "totally abstain from the
use of TEA," and other proscribed articles, the women of that city,
fired with zeal for the general good, spoke out publicly and decidedly
upon the subject. Early in February, 1770, the mistresses of three
hundred families subscribed their names to a league, binding themselves
not to use any more TEA until the impost clause in the Revenue Act
should be repealed. Their daughters speedily followed their patriotic
example, and three days afterward, a multitude of young ladies in Boston
and vicinity, signed the following pledge:
"We, the daughters of those patriots who have, and do now appear for the
public interest, and in that principally regard their posterity--as
such, do with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the
drinking of foreign TEA, in hopes to frustrate a plan which tends to
deprive a whole community of all that is valuable in life."
[Illustration: FANEUIL HALL.]
From that time, TEA was a proscribed article in Boston, and opposition
to the form of oppression was strongly manifested by the unanimity with
which the pleasant beverage was discarded. Nor did the ladies of Boston
bear this honor alone, but in Salem, Newport, Norwich, New York,
Philadelphia, Annapolis, Williamsburg, Wilmington, Charleston, and
Savannah, the women sipped "the balsamic hyperion," made from the dried
leaves of the raspberry plant, and discarded "the poisonous bohea." The
newspapers of the day abound with notices of social gatherings where
foreign tea was entirely discarded.
About this time Lord North succeeded Townshend as Chancellor of the
Exchequer. He was an honest man, a statesman of good parts, and a
sincere friend to English liberty. He doubtless desired to discharge his
duty faithfully, yet in dealing with the Americans, he utterly
misunderstood their character and temper, and could not perceive the
justice of their demands. This was the minister who mismanaged the
affairs of Great Britain throughout the whole of our war for
independence, and by his pertinacity in attempts to tax the colonies,
and in opposing them in their efforts to maintain their rights, he
finally drove them to rebellion, and protracted the war until
reconciliation was out of the question.
Early in 1770, the British merchants, the most influential class in the
realm, were driven by the non-importation agreements to become the
friends of the colonists, and to join with them in petitions and
remonstrances. The London merchants suffered more from the operations of
the new Revenue Laws, than the Americans. They had early foreseen the
consequences of an attempt to tax the colonists; and when Townshend's
scheme was first proposed, they offered to pay an equivalent sum into
the Treasury, rather than risk the loss of the rapidly-increasing
American trade. Now, that anticipated loss was actual, and was bearing
heavily upon them. It also affected the national exchequer. In one year,
exports to America had decreased in amount to the value of almost four
millions of dollars; and within three years (1767 to 1770), the
government revenue from America decreased from five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars per annum, to one hundred and fifty thousand. These
facts awakened the people; these figures alarmed the government; and
early in March, Lord North asked leave to bring in a bill, in the House
of Commons, for repealing the duties upon glass, paper, and painters'
colors, but retaining the duty of three-pence upon TEA. This impost was
very small--avowedly a "pepper-corn rent," retained to save the national
honor, about which ministers prated so loudly. The friends of
America--the _true_ friends of English liberty and "national
honor"--asked for a repeal of the whole act; the stubborn king, and the
short-sighted ministry would not consent to make the concession. North's
bill became a law in April, and he fondly imagined that the
insignificant three-pence a pound, upon a single article of luxury,
would now be overlooked by the colonists. How egregiously he
misapprehended their character!
When intelligence of this act reached America, the scheme found no
admirers. The people had never complained of the _amount_ of the taxes
levied by impost; it was trifling. They asserted that Great Britain had
_no right to tax them at all_, without their consent. It was for a great
_principle_ they were contending; and they regarded the retention of the
duty of three-pence upon the single article of TEA, as much a violation
of the constitutional rights of the colonists, as if there had been laid
an impost a hundred-fold greater, upon a score of articles. This was the
issue, and no partial concessions would be considered.
The non-importation agreements began to be disregarded by many
merchants, and six months before this repeal bill became a law, they had
agreed, in several places, to import every thing but TEA, and that
powerful lever of opposition had now almost ceased to work. TEA being an
article of luxury, the resolutions to discard that were generally
adhered to, and concerning TEA, alone, the quarrel was continued.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON]
For two years very little occurred to disturb the tranquillity of New
England. Thomas Hutchinson, a man of fair abilities, but possessed of
very little prudence or sound judgment, succeeded Bernard as Governor of
Massachusetts. New men, zealous and capable, were coming forth from
among the people, to do battle for right and freedom. Poor Otis, whose
eloquent voice had often stirred up the fires of rebellion in the hearts
of the Bostonians, when _Writs of Assistance_, and the _Stamp Act_,
elicited his denunciations, and who, with prophetic voice, had told his
brethren in Great Britain, "Our fathers were a _good_ people, we have
been a _free_ people, and if you will not let us be so any longer, we
shall be a _great_ people," was now under a cloud. But his colleagues,
some of them very young, were growing strong and experienced. John
Adams, then six-and-thirty, and rapidly rising in public estimation,
occupied the seat of Otis in the General Assembly. John Hancock, one of
the wealthiest merchants of Boston; Samuel Adams, a Puritan of great
experience and tried integrity; Joseph Warren, a young physician, full
of energy and hope, who afterward fell on Breed's Hill; Josiah Quincy, a
polished orator, though almost a stripling; Thomas Cushing, James
Warren, Dr. Samuel Church, Robert Treat Paine--these became the popular
leaders, and fostered "the child independence," which John Adams said,
was born when Otis denounced the Writs of Assistance, and the populace
sympathized. These were the men who, at private meetings, concerted
plans for public action; and with them, Hutchinson soon quarreled. They
issued a circular, declaring the rights of the colonies, and enumerating
their grievances. Hutchinson denounced it as seditious and traitorous;
and while the public mind was excited by the quarrel, Dr. Franklin, who
was agent for the colony in England, transmitted to the Speaker of the
Assembly several private letters, written by the governor to members of
Parliament, in which he spoke disrespectfully of the Americans, and
recommended the adoption of coercive measures to abridge "what are
called English liberties." These revelations raised a furious storm, and
the people were with difficulty restrained from inflicting personal
violence upon the governor. All classes, from the men in legislative
council to the plainest citizen, felt a disgust that could not be
concealed, and a breach was opened between ruler and people that grew
wider every day.
[Illustration: EARL OF DARTMOUTH.]
The Earl of Hillsborough, who had been Secretary of State for the
Colonies during the past few years of excitement, was now succeeded by
Lord Dartmouth, a personal friend to Dr. Franklin, a sagacious
statesman, and a man sincerely disposed to do justice to the colonies.
Had his councils prevailed, the duty upon tea would have been taken off,
and all cause for discontent on the part of the colonies, removed. But
North's blindness, countenanced by ignorant or wicked advisers,
prevailed in the cabinet, and the olive-branch of peace and
reconciliation, constantly held out by the Americans while declaring
their rights, was spurned.
At the beginning of 1773, the East India Company, feeling the effects of
the non-importation agreements and the colonial contraband trade, opened
the way for reconciliation, while endeavoring to benefit themselves.
Already seventeen millions of pounds of tea had accumulated in their
warehouses in England, and the demand for it in America was daily
diminishing. To open anew an extensive market so suddenly closed, the
Company offered to allow government to retain six-pence upon the pound
as an exportation tariff, if they would take off the duty of
three-pence. Ministers had now a fair opportunity, not only to
conciliate the colonies in an honorable way, but to procure, without
expense, double the amount of revenue. But the ministry, deluded by
false views of national honor, would not listen to the proposition, but
stupidly favored the East India Company, while persisting in
unrighteousness toward the Americans. A bill was passed in May, to allow
the Company to export tea to America on their own account, without
paying export duty, while the impost of three-pence was continued. The
mother country thus taught the colonists to regard her as a voluntary
oppressor.
While the bill for allowing the East India Company to export tea to
America on their own account, was under consideration in Parliament, Dr.
Franklin, Arthur Lee, and others, apprised the colonists of the
movement; and when, a few weeks afterward, several large vessels laden
with the plant, were out upon the Atlantic, bound for American ports,
the people here were actively preparing to prevent the landing of the
cargoes. The Company had appointed consignees in various seaport towns,
and these being generally known to the people, were warned to resign
their commissions, or hold them at their peril.
[Illustration: HANCOCK'S HOUSE.]
In Boston the most active measures were taken to prevent the landing of
the tea. The consignees were all friends of government; two of them were
Governor Hutchinson's sons, and a third (Richard Clarke, father-in-law
of John Singleton Copley, the eminent painter), was his nephew. Their
neighbors expostulated with them, but in vain; and as the time for the
expected arrival of two or three tea-ships approached, the public mind
became feverish. On the first of November several of the leading "Sons
of Liberty," as the patriots were called, met at the house of John
Hancock, on Beacon-street, facing the Common, to consult upon the public
good, touching the expected tea ships. A public meeting was decided
upon, and on the morning of the third the following placard was posted
in many places within the city:
"TO THE FREEMEN OF THIS AND THE NEIGHBORING TOWNS.
"_Gentlemen._--You are desired to meet at the Liberty Tree this
day at twelve o'clock at noon, then and there to hear the persons
to whom the TEA shipped by the East India Company is consigned,
make a public resignation of their offices as consignees, upon
oath; and also swear that they will reship any teas that may be
consigned to them by the said Company, by the first vessel
sailing to London.
O. C. Sec'y.
"Boston, Nov. 3, 1773.
"[Illustration: A pointing finger] Show me the man that dare take
this down!"
The consignees were summoned at an early hour in the morning, to appear
under Liberty Tree (a huge elm, which stood at the present junction of
Washington and Essex streets), and resign their commissions. They
treated the summons with contempt, and refused to comply. At the
appointed hour the town-crier proclaimed the meeting, and the
church-bells of the city also gave the annunciation. Timid men remained
at home, but about five hundred people assembled near the tree, from the
top of which floated the New England flag. No definite action was taken,
and at three o'clock the meeting had dispersed.
On the 5th, another meeting was held, over which John Hancock presided.
Several short but vehement speeches were made, in which were uttered
many seditious sentiments; eight resistance resolutions adopted by the
Philadelphians were agreed too; and a committee was appointed to wait
upon the consignees, who, it was known, were then at Clarke's store, on
King-street, and request them to resign. Again those gentlemen refused
compliance, and when the committee reported to the meeting, it was voted
that the answer of the consignees was "unsatisfactory and highly
affrontive." This meeting also adjourned without deciding upon any
definite course for future action.
The excitement in Boston now hourly increased. Grave citizens
congregated at the corners of the streets to interchange sentiments, and
all seemed to have a presentiment that the sanguinary scenes of the 5th
of March, 1770, when blood flowed in the streets of Boston, were about
to be reproduced.
The troops introduced by Bernard had been removed from the city, and
there was no legal power but that of the civil authorities, to suppress
disorder. On the 12th, the captain-general of the province issued an
order for the Governor's Guards, of which John Hancock was colonel, to
stand in readiness to assist the civil magistrate in preserving order.
This corps, being strongly imbued with the sentiments of their
commander, utterly disregarded the requisition. Business was, in a
measure, suspended, and general uneasiness prevailed.
[Illustration: PROVINCE HOUSE.]
On the 18th, another meeting was held in Faneuil Hall, and a committee
was again appointed to wait upon the consignees and request them to
resign. Again they refused, and that evening the house of Richard
Clarke, on School-street, was surrounded by an unruly crowd. A pistol
was fired from the house, but without serious effect other than exciting
the mob to deeds of violence; the windows were demolished, and the
family menaced with personal injury. Better counsels than those of anger
soon prevailed, and at midnight the town was quiet. The meeting, in the
mean while, had received the report of the committee in silence, and
adjourned without uttering a word. This silence was ominous of evil to
the friends of government. The consignees were alarmed, for it was
evident that the people were determined to _talk_ only, no more, but
henceforth to _act_. The governor, also, properly interpreted their
silence as a calm before a storm, and he called his council together at
the Province House, to consult upon measures for preserving the peace of
the city. During their session the frightened consignees presented a
petition to the council, asking leave to resign their commissions into
the hands of the governor and his advisers, and praying them to adopt
measures for the safe landing of the teas. The council, equally fearful
of the popular vengeance, refused the prayer of their petition, and the
consignees withdrew, for safety, to Castle William, a strong fortress at
the entrance of the harbor, then garrisoned by a portion of the troops
who had been encamped on Boston Common. The flight of the consignees
allayed the excitement for a few days.
On Sunday evening, the 28th of November, the _Dartmouth_, Captain Hall,
one of the East India Company's ships, arrived in the harbor. The next
morning the following handbill was posted in every part of the city:
"_Friends! Brethren! Countrymen!_--That worst of plagues, the
detested TEA shipped for this port, by the East India Company, is
now arrived in the harbor. The hour of destruction, or manly
opposition to the machinations of tyranny, stares you in the
face; every friend to his country, to himself, and to posterity,
is now called upon to meet at _Faneuil Hall_, at nine o'clock
THIS DAY (at which time the bells will ring), to make united and
successful resistance to this last, worst, and most destructive
measure of administration.
"Boston, Nov. 29th, 1773."
[Illustration: THE "OLD SOUTH."]
A large concourse assembled in and around Faneuil Hall at the appointed
hour, too large to be admitted within its walls, and they adjourned to
the Old South Meeting House, on the corner of the present Washington and
Milk streets. Hancock, the Adamses, Warren, Quincy, and other popular
leaders and influential citizens were there. Firmness marked all the
proceedings, and within that sanctuary of religion they made resolves of
gravest import. It was agreed that no TEA should be landed within the
precincts of Boston; that no duty should be paid; and that it should be
sent back in the same bottom. They also voted that Mr. Roch, the owner
of the _Dartmouth_, "be directed not to enter the tea at his peril; and
that Captain Hall be informed, and at his peril, not to suffer any of
the tea to be landed." They ordered the ship to be moored at Griffin's
wharf, near the present Liverpool dock, and appointed a guard of
twenty-five men to watch her.
When the meeting was about to adjourn, a letter was received from the
consignees, offering to store the tea until they could write to England
and obtain instructions from the owners. The people had resolved that
not a chest should be landed, and the offer was at once rejected. The
sheriff, who was present, then stepped upon the back of a pew, and read
a proclamation by the governor, ordering the assembly to disperse. It
was received with hisses. Another resolution was then adopted, ordering
two other tea vessels, then hourly expected, to be moored at Griffin's
wharf; and, after solemnly pledging themselves to carry their several
resolutions into effect at all hazards, and thanking the people in
attendance from the neighboring towns for their sympathy, they
adjourned.
Every thing relating to the TEA movement was now in the hands of the
Boston Committee of Correspondence. A large volunteer guard was
enrolled, and every necessary preparation was made to support the
resistance resolutions of the 29th. A fortnight elapsed without any
special public occurrence, when, on the afternoon of the 13th of
December, intelligence went through the town that the _Eleanor_, Captain
James Bruce, and the _Beaver_, Captain Hezekiah Coffin, ships of the
East India Company, laden with tea, had entered the harbor. They were
moored at Griffin's wharf by the volunteer guard, and that night there
were many sleepless eyes in Boston. The Sons of Liberty convened at an
early hour in the evening, and expresses were sent to the neighboring
towns with the intelligence. Early the next morning the following
placard appeared:
"_Friends! Brethren! Countrymen!_--The perfidious arts of your
restless enemies to render ineffectual the resolutions of the
body of the people, demand your assembling at the Old South
Meeting House precisely at two o'clock this day, at which time
the bells will ring."
The "Old South" was crowded at the appointed hour, yet perfect order
prevailed. It was resolved to order Mr. Roch to apply immediately for a
clearance for his ship, and send her to sea. The owner was in a dilemma,
for the governor had taken measures, since the arrival of the Dartmouth,
to prevent her sailing out of the harbor. Admiral Montague, who happened
to be in Boston, was directed to fit out two armed vessels, and station
them at the entrance to the harbor, to act in concert with Colonel
Leslie, the commander of the garrison at the Castle. Leslie had already
received written orders from the governor not to allow any vessel to
pass the guns of the fort, outward, without a permit, signed by himself.
Of course Mr. Roch could do nothing.
As no effort had yet been made to land the tea, the meeting adjourned,
to assemble again on the 16th, at the same place. These several popular
assemblies attracted great attention in the other colonies; and from New
York and Philadelphia in particular, letters, expressive of the
strongest sympathy and encouragement, were received by the Committee of
Correspondence. At the appointed hour on the 16th, the "Old South" was
again crowded, and the streets near were filled with a multitude, eager
to participate in the proceedings. They had flocked in from the
neighboring towns by hundreds. So great a gathering of people had never
before occurred in Boston. Samuel Phillips Savage, of Weston, was chosen
Moderator, or Chairman, and around him sat many men who, two years
afterward, were the recognized leaders of the Revolution in
Massachusetts. When the preliminary business was closed, and the meeting
was about to appoint committees for more vigorous action than had
hitherto been directed, the youthful Josiah Quincy arose, and with words
almost of prophecy, uttered with impassioned cadence, he harangued the
multitude. "It is not, Mr. Moderator," he said, "the spirit that vapors
within these walls that must stand us in stead. The exertions of this
day will call forth events which will make a very different spirit
necessary for our salvation. Whoever supposes that shouts and hosannas
will terminate the trials of this day, entertains a childish fancy. We
must be grossly ignorant of the importance and the value of the prize
for which we contend: we must be equally ignorant of the power of those
who have combined against us; we must be blind to that malice,
inveteracy, and insatiable revenge, which actuates our enemies, public
and private, abroad and in our bosoms, to hope that we shall end this
controversy without the sharpest conflicts--to flatter ourselves that
popular resolves, popular harangues, popular acclamations, and popular
vapor will vanquish our foes. Let us consider the issue. Let us look to
the end. Let us weigh and consider before we advance to those measures
which must bring on the most trying and terrible struggle this country
ever saw." This gifted young patriot did not live to see the struggle he
so confidently anticipated; for, when blood was flowing, in the first
conflicts at Lexington and Concord, eighteen month's afterward, he was
dying with consumption, on ship-board, almost within sight of his native
land.
The people, in the "Old South," were greatly agitated when Quincy closed
his harangue. It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon.
The question was immediately proposed to the meeting, "Will you abide by
your former resolutions with respect to not suffering the TEA to be
landed?" The vast assembly within, as with one voice, replied
affirmatively, and when the purport was known without, the multitude
there responded in accordance. The meeting now awaited the return of Mr.
Roch, who had been to the governor to request a permit for his vessel to
leave the harbor. Hutchinson, alarmed at the stormy aspect of affairs,
had taken counsel of his fears, and withdrawn from the city to his
country-house at Milton, a few miles from Boston. It was sunset when
Roch returned and informed the meeting that the governor refused to
grant a permit, until a clearance should be exhibited. As a clearance
had already been refused by the collector of the port, until the cargo
should be landed, it was evident that government officers had concerted
to resist the demands of the people. Like a sea lashed by a storm, that
meeting swayed with excitement, and eagerly demanded from the leaders
some indication for immediate action. Night was fast approaching, and as
the twilight deepened, a call was made for candles. At that moment, a
person in the gallery, disguised in the garb of a Mohawk Indian, gave a
war-whoop, which was answered from without. That signal, like the notes
of a trumpet before the battle-charge, fired the assemblage, and as
another voice in the gallery shouted, "Boston harbor a tea-pot to-night!
Hurrah for Griffin's wharf!" a motion to adjourn was carried, and the
multitude rushed to the street. "To Griffin's wharf! to Griffin's
wharf!" again shouted several voices, while a dozen men, disguised as
Indians, were seen speeding over Fort Hill, in that direction. The
populace followed, and in a few minutes the scene of excitement was
transferred from the "Old South" to the water side.
No doubt the vigilant patriots had arranged this movement, in
anticipation of the refusal of the governor to allow the _Dartmouth_ to
depart; for concert of action marked all the operations at the wharf.
The number of persons disguised as Indians, was fifteen or twenty, and
these, with others who joined them, appeared to recognize Lendall Pitts,
a mechanic of Boston, as their leader. Under his directions, about sixty
persons boarded the three tea-ships, brought the chests upon deck, broke
them open, and cast their contents into the water. The _Dartmouth_ was
boarded first; the _Eleanor_ and _Beaver_ were next entered; and within
the space of two hours, the contents of three hundred and forty-two
chests of tea were cast into the waters of the harbor. During the
occurrence very little excitement was manifested among the multitude
upon the wharf; and as soon as the work of destruction was completed,
the active party marched in perfect order back into the town, preceded
by a drum and fife, dispersed to their homes, and Boston, untarnished by
actual mob or riot, was never more tranquil than on that bright and
frosty December night.
A British squadron was not more than a quarter of a mile from Griffin's
wharf, where this event occurred, and British troops were near, yet the
whole proceeding was uninterrupted. The newspapers of the day doubtless
gave the correct interpretation to this apathy. Something far more
serious had been anticipated, if an attempt should be made to land the
tea; and the owners of the vessels, as well as the public authorities,
civil and military, doubtless thanked the _rioters_, in their secret
thoughts, for thus extricating them from a serious dilemma. They would
doubtless have been worsted in an attempt forcibly to land the tea; now,
the vessels were saved from destruction; no blood was spilt; the courage
of the civil and military officers remained unimpeached; the "_national
honor_" was not compromised, and the Bostonians, having carried their
resolutions into effect, were satisfied. The East India Company alone,
which was the actual loser, had cause for complaint.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF DAVID KINNISON]
It may be asked, Who were the men actively engaged in this high-handed
measure? Were they an ignorant rabble, with no higher motives than the
gratification of a mobocratic spirit? By no means. While some of them
were doubtless governed, in a measure, by such a motive, the greater
portion were young men and lads who belonged to the respectable part of
the community, and of the fifty-nine participators whose names have been
preserved, some of them held honorable stations in after life; some
battled nobly in defense of liberty in the Continental Army of the
Revolution which speedily followed, and almost all of them, according to
traditionary testimony, were entitled to the respect due to good
citizens. Only one, of all that band, as far as is known, is yet among
the living, and he has survived almost a half century beyond the
allotted period of human life. When the present century dawned, he had
almost reached the goal of three score and ten years; and now, at the
age of _one hundred and fifteen years_, DAVID KINNISON, of Chicago,
Illinois, holds the eminent position of the _last survivor of the Boston
Tea Party_! When the writer, in 1848, procured the portrait and
autograph of the aged patriot, he was living among strangers and
ignorant of the earthly existence of one of all his twenty-two children.
A daughter survives, and having been made acquainted of the existence
of her father, by the publication of this portrait in the "Field-Book,"
she hastened to him, and is now smoothing the pillow of the patriarch as
he is gradually passing into the long and peaceful slumber of the grave.
[Illustration: GEORGE ROBERT TWELVES HEWES.]
The life of another actor was spared, until within ten years, and his
portrait, also, is preserved. GEORGE ROBERT TWELVES HEWES, was supposed
to be the latest survivor, until the name of David Kinnison was made
public. Soon not one of all that party will be among the living.
Before closing this article let us advert to the _effect_ produced by
the destruction of the tea in Boston Harbor, for to effects alone are
causes indebted for importance.
The events of the 16th of December produced a deep sensation throughout
the British realm. They struck a sympathetic chord in every colony which
afterward rebeled; and even Canada, Halifax, and the West Indies, had no
serious voice of censure for the Bostonians. But the ministerial party
here, and the public in England, amazed at the audacity of the Americans
in opposing royal authority, and in destroying private property, called
loudly for punishment; and even the friends of the colonists in
Parliament were, for a moment, silent, for they could not fully excuse
the lawless act. Another and a powerful party was now made a principal
in the quarrel; the East India Company whose property had been
destroyed, was now directly interested in the question of taxation. That
huge monopoly which had controlled the commerce of the Indies for more
than a century and a half, was then almost at the zenith of its power.
Already it had laid the foundation, broad and deep, of that
British-Indian Empire which now comprises the whole of Hindostan, from
the Himalaya Mountains to Cape Comorin, with a population of more than
one hundred and twenty millions, and its power in the government affairs
of Great Britain, was almost vice-regal. Unawed by the fleets and
armies of the imperial government, and by the wealth and power of this
corporation, the Bostonians justified their acts by the rules of justice
and the guarantees of the British constitution; and the next vessel to
England, after the event was known there, carried out an honest
proposition to the East India Company, from the people of Boston, to pay
for the tea destroyed. The whole matter rested at once upon its original
basis--the right of Great Britain to tax the colonies--and this fair
proposition of the Bostonians disarmed ministers of half their weapons
of vituperation. The American party in England saw nothing whereof to be
ashamed, and the presses, opposed to the ministry, teemed with grave
disquisitions, satires, and lampoons, all favorable to the colonists,
while art lent its aid in the production of several caricatures similar
to the one here given, in which Lord North is represented as pouring tea
down the throat of unwilling America, who is held fast by Lord Mansfield
(then employed by government in drawing up the various acts so obnoxious
to the colonists), while Britannia stands by, weeping at the distress of
her daughter. In America, almost every newspaper of the few printed, was
filled with arguments, epigrams, parables, sonnets, dialogues, and every
form of expression favorable to the resistance made in Boston to the
arbitrary acts of government; and a voice of approval went forth from
pulpits, courts of law, and the provincial legislatures.
[Illustration: POURING TEA DOWN THE THROAT OF AMERICA]
Great was the exasperation of the king and his ministers when
intelligence of the proceedings in Boston reached them. According to
Burke, the "House of Lords was like a seething caldron"--the House of
Commons was "as hot as Faneuil Hall or the Old South Meeting House at
Boston." Ministers and their supporters charged the colonies with open
rebellion, while the opposition denounced, in the strongest language
which common courtesy would allow, the foolish, unjust, and wicked
course of government.
In cabinet council, the king and his ministers deliberately considered
the matter, and the result was a determination to use coercive measures
against the colonies. The first of these schemes was a bill brought
forward in March, 1774, which provided for the closing of the port of
Boston, and the removal of customs, courts of justice, and government
offices of every kind from Boston to Salem. This was avowedly a
retaliatory measure; and the famous _Boston Port Bill_, which, more than
any other act of the British government, was instrumental in driving the
colonies to rebellion, became a law within a hundred days after the
destruction of the tea. In the debate upon this bill, the most violent
language was used toward the Americans. Lord North justified the measure
by asserting that Boston was "the centre of rebellious commotion in
America; the ring-leader in every riot." Mr. Herbert declared that the
Americans deserved no consideration; that they were "never actuated by
decency or reason, and that they always chose tarring and feathering as
an argument;" while Mr. Van, another ministerial supporter,
denounced the people of Boston as totally unworthy of civilized
forbearance--declared that "they ought to have their town knocked about
their ears, and destroyed;" and concluded his tirade of abuse by quoting
the factious cry of the old Roman orators, "Delenda est
Carthago!"--Carthage must be destroyed.
Edmund Burke, who now commenced his series of splendid orations in favor
of America, denounced the whole scheme as essentially wicked and unjust,
because it punished the innocent with the guilty. "You will thus
irrevocably alienate the hearts of the colonies from the mother
country," he exclaimed. "The bill is unjust, since it bears only upon
the city of Boston, while it is notorious that all America is in flames;
that the cities of Philadelphia, of New York, and all the maritime towns
of the continent, have exhibited the same disobedience. You are
contending for a matter which the Bostonians will not give up quietly.
They can not, by such means, be made to bow to the authority of
ministers; on the contrary, you will find their obstinacy confirmed and
their fury exasperated. The acts of resistance in their city have not
been confined to the populace alone, but men of the first rank and
opulent fortune in the place have openly countenanced them. One city in
proscription and the rest in rebellion, can never be a remedial measure
for disturbances. Have you considered whether you have troops and ships
sufficient to reduce the people of the whole American continent to your
devotion?" From denunciation he passed to appeal, and besought ministers
to pause ere they should strike a blow that would forever separate the
colonies from Great Britain. But the pleadings of Burke and others, were
in vain, and "deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity," this,
and other rigorous measures, were put in operation by ministers.
The industry and enterprise of Boston was crushed when, on the first of
June, the _Port Bill_ went into operation; but her voice of wail, as it
went over the land, awakened the noblest expressions and acts of
sympathy, and the blow inflicted upon her was resented by all the
colonies. They all felt that forbearance was no longer a virtue. Ten
years they had pleaded, petitioned, remonstrated; they were uniformly
answered by insult. There seemed no other alternative but abject
submission, or open, armed resistance. They chose the latter, and
thirteen months after the Boston _Port Bill_ became a law, the battle at
Lexington and Concord had been fought, and Boston was beleaguered by an
army of patriots. The Battle of Bunker Hill soon followed; a continental
army was organized with Washington at its head, and the war of the
Revolution began. Eight long years it continued, when the oppressors,
exhausted, gave up the contest. Peace came, and with it, INDEPENDENCE;
and the Republic of the United States took its place among the nations
of the earth.
How conspicuous the feeble Chinese plant should appear among these
important events let the voice of history determine.
THE AMERICAN ARCTIC EXPEDITION.
The safe return of the Expedition sent out by Mr. Henry Grinnell, an
opulent merchant of New York city, in search of Sir John Franklin and
his companions, is an event of much interest; and the voyage, though not
resulting in the discovery of the long-absent mariners, presents many
considerations satisfactory to the parties immediately concerned, and to
the American public in general.
In the second volume of the Magazine, on pages 588 to 597 inclusive, we
printed some interesting extracts from the journal of Mr. W. PARKER
SNOW, of the _Prince Albert_, a vessel which sailed from Aberdeen with a
crew of Scotchmen, upon the same errand of mercy. That account is
illustrated by engravings; and in his narrative, Mr. Snow makes
favorable mention of Mr. Grinnell's enterprise, and the character of the
officers, crew, and vessels. We now present a more detailed account of
the American Expedition, its adventures and results, together with
several graphic illustrations, engraved from drawings made in the polar
seas during the voyage, by Mr. CHARLES BERRY, a seaman of the _Advance_,
the largest of the two vessels. These drawings, though made with a
pencil in hands covered with thick mittens, while the thermometer
indicated from 20 deg. to 40 deg. below zero, exhibit much artistic skill in
correctness of outline and beauty of finish. Mr. Berry is a native of
Hamburg, Germany, and was properly educated for the duties of the
counting-room and the accomplishments of social life. Attracted by the
romance of
"The sea, the sea, the deep blue sea,"
he abandoned home for the perilous and exciting life of a sailor.
Although only thirty years of age, he has been fifteen years upon the
ocean. Five years he was in the English service, much of the time in the
waters near the Arctic Circle; the remainder has been spent in the
service of the United States. He was with the _Germantown_ in the Gulf,
during the war with Mexico, and accompanied her marines at the siege of
Vera Cruz. He was in the _North Carolina_ when Lieutenant De Haven went
on board seeking volunteers for the Arctic Expedition. He offered his
services; they were accepted, and a more skillful and faithful seaman
never went aloft. And it is pleasant to hear with what enthusiasm he
speaks of Commander De Haven, as a skillful navigator and kind-hearted
man. "He was as kind to me as a brother," he said, "and I would go with
him to the ends of the earth, if he wanted me." Although he speaks
English somewhat imperfectly, yet we have listened with great pleasure
to his intelligent narrative of the perils, occupations, sports, and
duties of the voyage. Since his return he has met an uncle, the
commander of a merchant vessel, and, for the first time in fifteen
years, he received intelligence from his family. "My mother is dead,"
said he to us, while the tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes; "I
have no one to go home to now--I shall stay here."
[Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE ROUTE OF THE EXPEDITION.
(The solid black line shows the outward course of the vessels; the
dotted line denotes the drift of the vessels, their baffled attempt to
reach Lancaster Sound a second time, and their return home.)]
We shall not attempt to give a detailed narrative of the events of the
Expedition; we shall relate only some of the most noteworthy
circumstances, especially those which the pencil of the sailor-artist
has illustrated. By reference to the small map on the preceding page,
the relative position of the places named; the track of the vessels in
their outward voyage; their ice-drift of more than a thousand miles, and
their abortive attempt to penetrate the ice of Baffin's Bay a second
time, will be more clearly understood.
[Illustration: ADVANCE AND RESCUE BEATING TO WINDWARD OF AN ICEBERG
THREE MILES IN CIRCUMFERENCE.]
Mr. Grinnell's Expedition consisted of only two small brigs, the
_Advance_ of 140 tons; the _Rescue_ of only 90 tons. The former had been
engaged in the Havana trade; the latter was a new vessel, built for the
merchant service. Both were strengthened for the Arctic voyage at a
heavy cost. They were then placed under the directions of our Navy
board, and subject to naval regulations as if in permanent service. The
command was given to Lieutenant E. De Haven, a young naval officer who
accompanied the United States Exploring Expedition. The result has
proved that a better choice could not have been made. His officers
consisted of Mr. Murdoch, sailing-master; Dr. E. K. Kane, Surgeon and
Naturalist; and Mr. Lovell, midshipman. The _Advance_ had a crew of
twelve men when she sailed; two of them complaining of sickness, and
expressing a desire to return home, were left at the Danish settlement
at Disko Island, on the coast of Greenland.
The Expedition left New York on the 23d of May, 1850, and was absent a
little more than sixteen months. They passed the eastern extremity of
Newfoundland ten days after leaving Sandy Hook, and then sailed
east-northeast, directly for Cape Comfort, on the coast of Greenland.
The weather was generally fine, and only a single accident occurred on
the voyage to that country of frost and snow. Off the coast of Labrador,
they met an iceberg making its way toward the tropics. The night was
very dark, and as the huge voyager had no "light out" the _Advance_
could not be censured for running foul. She was punished, however, by
the loss of her jib-boom, as she ran against the iceberg at the rate of
seven or eight knots an hour.
The voyagers did not land at Cape Comfort, but turning northward, sailed
along the southwest coast of Greenland, sometimes in an open sea, and
sometimes in the midst of broad acres of broken ice (particularly in
Davis's Straits), as far as Whale Island. On the way the anniversary of
our national independence occurred; it was observed by the seamen by
"splicing the main-brace"--in other words, they were allowed an extra
glass of grog on that day.
From Whale Island, a boat, with two officers and four seamen, was sent
to Disko Island, a distance of about 26 miles, to a Danish settlement
there, to procure skin clothing and other articles necessary for use
during the rigors of a Polar winter. The officers were entertained at
the government house; the seamen were comfortably lodged with the
Esquimaux, sleeping in fur bags at night. They returned to the ship the
following day, and the Expedition proceeded on its voyage. When passing
the little Danish settlement of Upernavick, they were boarded by natives
for the first time. They were out in government whale-boats, hunting for
ducks and seals. These hardy children of the Arctic Circle were not shy,
for through the Danes, the English whalers, and government expeditions,
they had become acquainted with men of other latitudes.
[Illustration: PERILOUS SITUATION OF THE ADVANCE AND RESCUE IN MELVILLE
BAY.]
When the Expedition reached Melville Bay, which, on account of its
fearful character, is also called the _Devil's Nip_, the voyagers began
to witness more of the grandeur and perils of Arctic scenes. Icebergs of
all dimensions came bearing down from the Polar seas like vast
squadrons, and the roar of their rending came over the waters like the
booming of the heavy broadsides of contending navies. They also
encountered immense _floes_, with only narrow channels between, and at
times their situation was exceedingly perilous. On one occasion, after
heaving through fields of ice for five consecutive weeks, two immense
_floes_, between which they were making their way, gradually approached
each other, and for several hours they expected their tiny vessels--tiny
when compared with the mighty objects around them--would be crushed. An
immense _calf_ of ice six or eight feet thick slid under the _Rescue_,
lifting her almost "high and dry," and careening her partially upon her
beam's end. By means of ice-anchors (large iron hooks), they kept her
from capsizing. In this position they remained about sixty hours, when,
with saws and axes, they succeeded in relieving her. The ice now opened
a little, and they finally warped through into clear water. While they
were thus confined, polar bears came around them in abundance, greedy
for prey, and the seamen indulged a little in the perilous sports of the
chase.
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE, RESCUE, AND PRINCE ALBERT NEAR THE DEVIL'S
THUMB.]
The open sea continued but a short time, when they again became
entangled among _bergs_, _floes_, and _hummocks_, and encountered the
most fearful perils. Sometimes they anchored their vessels to icebergs,
and sometimes to _floes_ or masses of _hummock_. On one of these
occasions, while the cook, an active Frenchman, was upon a _berg_,
making a place for an anchor, the mass of ice split beneath him, and he
was dropped through the yawning fissure into the water, a distance of
almost thirty feet. Fortunately the masses, as is often the case, did
not close up again, but floated apart, and the poor cook was hauled on
board more dead than alive, from excessive fright. It was in this
fearful region that they first encountered _pack-ice_, and there they
were locked in from the 7th to the 23d of July. During that time they
were joined by the yacht _Prince Albert_, commanded by Captain Forsyth,
of the Royal Navy, and together the three vessels were anchored, for a
while, to an immense field of ice, in sight of the _Devil's Thumb_. That
high, rocky peak, situated in latitude 74 deg. 22' was about thirty miles
distant, and with the dark hills adjacent, presented a strange aspect
where all was white and glittering. The peak and the hills are masses of
rock, with occasionally a lichen or a moss growing upon their otherwise
naked surfaces. In the midst of the vast ice-field loomed up many lofty
_bergs_, all of them in motion--slow and majestic motion.
From the _Devil's Thumb_ the American vessels passed onward through the
_pack_ toward Sabine's Islands, while the _Prince Albert_ essayed to
make a more westerly course. They reached Cape York at the beginning of
August. Far across the ice, landward, they discovered, through their
glasses, several men, apparently making signals; and for a while they
rejoiced in the belief that they saw a portion of Sir John Franklin's
companions. Four men (among whom was our sailor-artist) were dispatched
with a whale-boat to reconnoitre. They soon discovered the men to be
Esquimaux, who, by signs, professed great friendship, and endeavored to
get the voyagers to accompany them to their homes beyond the hills. They
declined: and as soon as they returned to the vessel, the expedition
again pushed forward, and made its way to Cape Dudley Digges, which they
reached on the 7th of August.
At Cape Dudley Digges they were charmed by the sight of the _Crimson
Cliffs_, spoken of by Captain Parry and other Arctic navigators. These
are lofty cliffs of dark brown stone, covered with snow of a rich
crimson color. It was a magnificent sight in that cold region, to see
such an apparently warm object standing out in bold relief against the
dark blue back-ground of a polar sky. This was the most northern point
to which the expedition penetrated. The whole coast which they had
passed from Disko to this cape is high, rugged, and barren, only some of
the low points, stretching into the sea, bearing a species of dwarf fir.
Northeast from the cape rise the Arctic Highlands, to an unknown
altitude; and stretching away northward is the unexplored Smith's Sound,
filled with impenetrable ice.
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE LEADING THE PRINCE ALBERT, NEAR LEOPOLD
ISLAND.]
From Cape Dudley Digges, the _Advance_ and _Rescue_, beating against
wind and tide in the midst of the ice-fields, made Wolstenholme Sound,
and then changing their course to the southwest, emerged from the fields
into the open waters of Lancaster Sound. Here, on the 18th of August,
they encountered a tremendous gale, which lasted about twenty-four
hours. The two vessels parted company during the storm, and remained
separate several days. Across Lancaster Sound, the _Advance_ made her
way to Barrow's Straits, and on the 22d discovered the _Prince Albert_
on the southern shore of the straits, near Leopold Island, a mass of
lofty, precipitous rocks, dark and barren, and hooded and draped with
snow. The weather was fine, and soon the officers and crews of the two
vessels met in friendly greeting. Those of the _Prince Albert_ were much
astonished, for they (being towed by a steamer) left the Americans in
Melville Bay on the 6th, pressing northward through the _pack_, and
could not conceive how they so soon and safely penetrated it. Captain
Forsyth had attempted to reach a particular point, where he intended to
remain through the winter, but finding the passage thereto completely
blocked up with ice, he had resolved, on the very day when the Americans
appeared, to "'bout ship," and return home. This fact, and the
disappointment felt by Mr. Snow, are mentioned in our former article.
The two vessels remained together a day or two, when they parted
company, the _Prince Albert_ to return home, and the _Advance_ to make
further explorations. It was off Leopold Island, on the 23d of August,
that the "mad Yankee" took the lead through the vast masses of floating
ice, so vividly described by Mr. Snow, and so graphically portrayed by
the sailor-artist. "The way was before them," says Mr. Snow, who stood
upon the deck of the _Advance_; "the stream of ice had to be either gone
through boldly, or a long _detour_ made; and, despite the heaviness of
the stream, _they pushed the vessel through in her proper course_. Two
or three shocks, as she came in contact with some large pieces, were
unheeded; and the moment the last block was past the bow, the officer
sung out,'So: steady as she goes on her course;' and came aft as if
nothing more than ordinary sailing had been going on. I observed our own
little bark nobly following in the American's wake; and as I afterward
learned, she got through it pretty well, though not without much doubt
of the propriety of keeping on in such procedure after the 'mad Yankee,'
as he was called by our mate."
From Leopold Island the _Advance_ proceeded to the northwest, and on the
25th reached Cape Riley, another amorphous mass, not so regular and
precipitate as Leopold Island, but more lofty. Here a strong tide,
setting in to the shore, drifted the _Advance_ toward the beach, where
she stranded. Around her were small bergs and large masses of floating
ice, all under the influence of the strong current. It was about two
o'clock in the afternoon when she struck. By diligent labor in removing
every thing from her deck to a small _floe_, she was so lightened, that
at four o'clock the next morning she floated, and soon every thing was
properly replaced.
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE STRANDED AT CAPE RILEY.]
Near Cape Riley the Americans fell in with a portion of an English
Expedition, and there also the _Rescue_, left behind in the gale in
Lancaster Sound, overtook the _Advance_. There was Captain Penny with
the _Sophia_ and _Lady Franklin_; the veteran Sir John Ross, with the
_Felix_, and Commodore Austin, with the _Resolute_ steamer. Together the
navigators of both nations explored the coast at and near Cape Riley,
and on the 27th they saw in a cove on the shore of Beechy Island, or
Beechy Cape, on the east side of the entrance to Wellington Channel,
unmistakable evidence that Sir John Franklin and his companions were
there in April, 1846. There they found many articles known to belong to
the British Navy, and some that were the property of the _Erebus_ and
_Terror_, the ships under the command of Sir John. There lay, bleached
to the whiteness of the surrounding snow, a piece of _canvas_, with the
name of the _Terror_, marked upon it with indestructible charcoal. It
was very faint, yet perfectly legible. Near it was a _guide board_,
lying flat upon its face, having been prostrated by the wind. It had
evidently been used to direct exploring parties to the vessels, or,
rather, to the encampment on shore. The board was pine, thirteen inches
in length and six and a half in breadth, and nailed to a boarding pike
eight feet in length. It is supposed that the sudden opening of the ice,
caused Sir John to depart hastily, and that in so doing, this pike and
its board were left behind. They also found a large number of _tin
canisters_, such as are used for packing meats for a sea voyage; an
_anvil block_; remnants of clothing, which evinced, by numerous patches
and their threadbare character, that they had been worn as long as the
owners could keep them on; the remains of an _India rubber glove_, lined
with wool; some old _sacks_; a _cask_, or tub, partly filled with
charcoal, and an unfinished _rope-mat_, which, like other fibrous
fabrics, was bleached white.
[Illustration: ANVIL BLOCK. GUIDE BOARD.]
But the most interesting, and at the same time most melancholy traces of
the navigators, were _three graves_, in a little sheltered cove, each
with a board at the head, bearing the name of the sleeper below. These
inscriptions testify positively when Sir John and his companions were
there. The board at the head of the grave on the left has the following
inscription:
"Sacred to the memory of JOHN TORRINGTON, who departed this life,
January 1st, A. D., 1846, on board her Majesty's ship _Terror_, aged 20
years."
On the centre one--"Sacred to the memory of JOHN HARTNELL, A. B., of her
Majesty's ship _Erebus_; died, January 4th, 1846, aged 25 years. 'Thus
saith the Lord of Hosts, Consider your ways:' Haggai, chap. i. v. 7."
On the right--"Sacred to the memory of W. BRAINE, R. M., of her
Majesty's ship _Erebus_, who died April 3d, 1846, aged 32 years. 'Choose
you this day whom you will serve:' Joshua, chap. xxiv., part of the 15th
verse."
[Illustration: THREE GRAVES AT BEECHY.[2]]
How much later than April 3d (the date upon the last-named head-board),
Sir John remained at Beechy, can not be determined. They saw evidences
of his having gone northward, for sledge tracks in that direction were
very visible. It is the opinion of Dr. Kane that, on the breaking up of
the ice, in the spring, Sir John passed northward with his ships through
Wellington Channel, into the great Polar basin, and that he did not
return. This, too, is the opinion of Captain Penny, and he zealously
urges the British government to send a powerful screw steamer to pass
through that channel, and explore the _theoretically_ more hospitable
coasts beyond. This will doubtless be undertaken another season, it
being the opinions of Captains Parry, Beechy, Sir John Ross, and others,
expressed at a conference with the Board of Admiralty, in September,
that the season was too far advanced to attempt it the present year. Dr.
Kane, in a letter to Mr. Grinnell, since the return of the expedition,
thus expresses his opinion concerning the safety of Sir John and his
companions. After saying, "I should think that he is now to be sought
for north and west of Cornwallis Island," he adds, "as to the chance of
the destruction of his party by the casualties of ice, the return of our
own party after something more than the usual share of them, is the only
_fact_ that I can add to what we knew when we set out. The hazards from
cold and privation of food may be almost looked upon as subordinate. The
snow-hut, the fire and light from the moss-lamp fed with blubber, the
seal, the narwhal, the white whale, and occasionally abundant stores of
migratory birds, would sustain vigorous life. The scurvy, the worst
visitation of explorers deprived of permanent quarters, is more rare in
the depths of a Polar winter, than in the milder weather of the moist
summer; and our two little vessels encountered both seasons without
losing a man."
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE AND RESCUE AT BARLOW'S INLET.]
Leaving Beechy Cape, our expedition forced its way through the ice to
Barlow's Inlet, where they narrowly escaped being frozen in for the
winter. They endeavored to enter the Inlet, for the purpose of making it
their winter quarters, but were prevented by the mass of _pack-ice_ at
its entrance. It was on the 4th of September, 1850, when they arrived
there, and after remaining seven or eight days, they abandoned the
attempt to enter. On the right and left of the above picture, are seen
the dark rocks at the entrance of the Inlet, and in the centre the
frozen waters and the range of hills beyond. There was much smooth ice
within the Inlet, and while the vessels lay anchored to the "field,"
officers and crew exercised and amused themselves by skating. On the
left of the Inlet, (indicated by the dark conical object,) they
discovered a _Cairn_ (a heap of stones with a cavity) eight or ten feet
in height, which was erected by Captain Ommanny of the English
Expedition then in the Polar waters. Within it he had placed two
letters, for "whom it might concern." Commander De Haven also deposited
a letter there. It is believed to be the only post-office in the world,
free for the use of all nations. The rocks, here, presented vast
fissures made by the frost; and at the foot of the cliff on the right,
that powerful agent had cast down vast heaps of _debris_.
From Barlow's Inlet, our Expedition moved slowly westward, battling with
the ice every rood of the way, until they reached Griffin's Island, at
about 96 deg. west longitude from Greenwich. This was attained on the 11th,
and was the extreme westing made by the expedition. All beyond seemed
impenetrable ice; and, despairing of making any further discoveries
before the winter should set in, they resolved to return home. Turning
eastward, they hoped to reach Davis's Straits by the southern route,
before the cold and darkness came on, but they were doomed to
disappointment. Near the entrance to Wellington Channel they became
completely locked in by _hummock-ice_, and soon found themselves
drifting with an irresistible tide up that channel toward the pole.
Now began the most perilous adventures of the navigators. The summer day
was drawing to a close; the diurnal visits of the pale sun were rapidly
shortening, and soon the long polar night, with all its darkness and
horrors, would fall upon them. Slowly they drifted in those vast fields
of ice, whither, or to what result, they knew not. Locked in the moving
yet compact mass; liable every moment to be crushed; far away from land;
the mercury sinking daily lower and lower from the zero figure, toward
the point where that metal freezes, they felt small hope of ever
reaching home again. Yet they prepared for winter comforts and winter
sports, as cheerfully as if lying safe in Barlow's Inlet. As the winter
advanced, the crews of both vessels went on board the larger one. They
unshipped the rudders of each to prevent their being injured by the ice,
covered the deck of the _Advance_ with felt, prepared their stores, and
made arrangements for enduring the long winter, now upon them. Physical
and mental activity being necessary for the preservation of health, they
daily exercised in the open air for several hours. They built ice huts,
hunted the huge white bears and the little polar foxes, and when the
darkness of the winter night had spread over them, they arranged in-door
amusements and employments.
[Illustration: SITUATION OF THE ADVANCE IN BARROW'S STRAITS]
Before the end of October, the sun made its appearance for the last
time, and the awful polar night closed in. Early in November they wholly
abandoned the _Rescue_, and both crews made the _Advance_ their
permanent winter home. The cold soon became intense; the mercury
congealed, and the spirit thermometer indicated 46 deg. below zero! Its
average range was 30 deg. to 35 deg.. They had drifted helplessly up Wellington
Channel as high as the point 4. on the map, almost to the latitude from
whence Captain Penny saw an open sea, and which all believe to be the
great polar basin, where there is a more genial clime than that which
intervenes between the Arctic Circle and the 75th degree. Here, when
almost in sight of the open ocean, that mighty polar tide, with its vast
masses of ice, suddenly ebbed, and our little vessels were carried back
as resistlessly as before, through Barrow's Straits into Lancaster
Sound! All this while the immense fields of _hummock-ice_ were moving,
and the vessels were in hourly danger of being crushed and destroyed. At
length, while drifting through Barrow's Straits, the congealed mass, as
if crushed together by the opposite shores, became more compact, and the
_Advance_ was elevated almost seven feet by the stern, and keeled two
feet eight inches, starboard, as seen in the engraving. In this position
she remained, with very little alteration, for five consecutive months;
for, soon after entering Baffin's Bay in the midst of the winter, the
ice became frozen in one immense tract, covering millions of acres. Thus
frozen in, sometimes more than a hundred miles from land, they drifted
slowly along the southwest coast of Baffin's Bay, a distance of more
than a thousand miles from Wellington Channel. For eleven weeks that
dreary night continued, and during that time the disc of the sun was
never seen above the horizon. Yet nature was not wholly forbidding in
aspect. Sometimes the Aurora Borealis would flash up still further
northward; and sometimes Aurora Parhelia--mock suns and mock
moons--would appear in varied beauty in the starry sky. Brilliant, too,
were the northern constellations; and when the real moon was at its
full, it made its stately circuit in the heavens without descending
below the horizon, and lighted up the vast piles of ice with a pale
lustre, almost as great as the morning twilights of more genial skies.
[Illustration: ADVANCE AND RESCUE DRIFTING IN WELLINGTON SOUND.]
Around the vessels the crews built a wall of ice; and in ice huts they
stowed away their cordage and stores to make room for exercise on the
decks. They organized a theatrical company, and amused themselves and
the officers with comedy well performed. Behind the pieces of _hummock_
each actor learned his part, and by means of calico they transformed
themselves into female characters, as occasion required. These dramas
were acted upon the deck of the _Advance_, sometimes while the
thermometer indicated 30 deg. below zero, and actors and audience highly
enjoyed the fun. They also went out in parties during that long night,
fully armed, to hunt the polar bear, the grim monarch of the frozen
North, on which occasions they often encountered perilous adventures.
They played at foot-ball, and exercised themselves in drawing sledges,
heavily laden with provisions. Five hours of each twenty-four, they
thus exercised in the open air, and once a week each man washed his
whole body in cold snow water. Serious sickness was consequently
avoided, and the scurvy which attacked them soon yielded to remedies.
[Illustration: ADVANCE AND RESCUE DURING THE WINTER OF 1850-51.]
Often during that fearful night, they expected the disaster of having
their vessels crushed. All through November and December, before the ice
became fast, they slept in their clothes, with knapsacks on their backs,
and sledges upon the ice, laden with stores, not knowing at what moment
the vessels might be demolished, and themselves forced to leave them and
make their way toward land. On the 8th of December, and the 23d of
January, they actually lowered their boats and stood upon the ice, for
the crushing masses were making the timbers of the gallant vessel creak
and its decks to rise in the centre. They were then ninety miles from
land, and hope hardly whispered an encouraging idea of life being
sustained. On the latter occasion, when officers and crew stood upon the
ice, with the ropes of their provision sledges in their hands, a
terrible snow-drift came from the northeast, and intense darkness
shrouded them. Had the vessel then been crushed, all must have perished.
But God, who ruled the storm, also put forth his protecting arm and
saved them.
Early in February the northern horizon began to be streaked with
gorgeous twilight, the herald of the approaching king of day; and on the
18th the disc of the sun first appeared above the horizon. As its golden
rim rose above the glittering snow-drifts and piles of ice, three hearty
cheers went up from those hardy mariners, and they welcomed their
deliverer from the chains of frost as cordially as those of old who
chanted,
"See! the conquering hero comes!
Sound the trumpet, beat the drums."
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE IN DAVIS'S STRAITS, JUNE 5, 1851.]
[Illustration: STERN OF THE RESCUE IN THE ICE.]
Day after day it rose higher and higher, and while the pallid faces of
the voyagers, bleached during that long night, darkened by its beams,
the vast masses of ice began to yield to its fervid influences. The
scurvy disappeared, and from that time, until their arrival home, not a
man suffered from sickness. As they slowly drifted through Davis's
Straits, and the ice gave indications of breaking up, the voyagers made
preparations for sailing. The _Rescue_ was re-occupied, (May 13th 1851),
and her stern-post, which had been broken by the ice in Barrow's
Straits, was repaired. To accomplish this, they were obliged to dig
away the ice which was from 12 to 14 feet thick around her, as
represented in the engraving. They re-shipped their rudders; removed the
felt covering; placed their stores on deck, and then patiently awaited
the disruption of the ice. This event was very sudden and appalling. It
began to give way on the 5th of June, and in the space of twenty minutes
the whole mass, as far as the eye could reach became one vast field of
moving _floes_. On the 10th of June they emerged into open water (7, on
the map) a little south of the Arctic Circle, in latitude 65 deg. 30'. They
immediately repaired to Godhaven, on the coast of Greenland, where they
re-fitted, and, unappalled by the perils through which they had just
passed, they once more turned their prows northward to encounter anew
the ice squadrons of Baffin's Bay. Again they traversed the coast of
Greenland to about the 73d degree, when they bore to the westward, and
on the 7th and 8th of July passed the English whaling fleet near the
Dutch Islands. Onward they pressed through the accumulating ice to
Baffin's Island, where, on the 11th, they were joined by the _Prince
Albert_, then out upon another cruise. They continued in company until
the 3d of August, when the _Albert_ departed for the westward,
determined to try the more southern passage. Here again (8,) our
expedition encountered vast fields of _hummock-ice_, and were subjected
to the most imminent perils. The floating ice, as if moved by adverse
currents, tumbled in huge masses, and reared upon the sides of the
sturdy little vessels like monsters of the deep intent upon destruction.
These masses broke in the bulwarks, and sometimes fell over upon the
decks with terrible force, like rocks rolled over a plain by mountain
torrents. The noise was fearful; so deafening that the mariners could
scarcely hear each other's voices. The sounds of these rolling masses,
together with the rending of the icebergs floating near, and the vast
_floes_, produced a din like the discharge of a thousand pieces of
ordnance upon a field of battle.
[Illustration: THE ADVANCE AMONG HUMMOCKS]
Finding the north and west closed against further progress, by
impenetrable ice, the brave De Haven was balked, and turning his vessels
homeward, they came out into an open sea, somewhat crippled, but not a
plank seriously started. During a storm off the banks of Newfoundland, a
thousand miles from New York, the vessels parted company. The _Advance_
arrived safely at the Navy Yard at Brooklyn on the 30th of September,
and the _Rescue_ joined her there a few days afterward. Toward the close
of October the government resigned the vessels into the hands of Mr.
Grinnell, to be used in other service, but with the stipulation that
they are to be subject to the order of the Secretary of the Navy in the
spring, if required for another expedition in search of Sir John
Franklin.
We have thus given a very brief account of the principal events of
interest connected with the American Arctic Expedition; the officers of
which will doubtless publish a more detailed narrative. Aside from the
success which attended our little vessels in encountering the perils of
the polar seas, there are associations which must forever hallow the
effort as one of the noblest exhibitions of the true glory of nations.
The navies of America and England have before met upon the ocean, but
they met for deadly strife. Now, too, they met for strife, equally
determined, but not with each other. They met in the holy cause of
benevolence and human sympathy, to battle with the elements beneath the
Arctic Circle; and the chivalric heroism which the few stout hearts of
the two nations displayed in that terrible conflict, redounds a
thousand-fold more to the glory of the actors, their governments, and
the race, than if four-score ships, with ten thousand armed men had
fought for the mastery of each other upon the broad ocean, and battered
hulks and marred corpses had gone down to the coral caves of the sea, a
dreadful offering to the demon of Discord. In the latter event, troops
of widows and orphan children would have sent up a cry of wail; now, the
heroes _advanced_ manfully to _rescue_ husbands and fathers to restore
them to their wives and children. How glorious the thought! and how
suggestive of the beauty of that fast approaching day, when the nations
shall sit down in peace as united children of one household.
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.[3]
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
CONCLUSION OF THE FIRST ITALIAN CAMPAIGN.
Mantua had now fallen. The Austrians were driven from Italy. The Pope,
with the humility of a child, had implored the clemency of the
conqueror. Still Austria refused to make peace with republican France,
and with indomitable perseverance gathered her resources for another
conflict. Napoleon resolved to march directly upon Vienna. His object
was peace, not conquest. In no other possible way could peace be
attained. It was a bold enterprise. Leaving the whole breadth of Italy
between his armies and France, he prepared to cross the rugged summits
of the Carnic Alps, and to plunge, with an army of but fifty thousand
men, into the very heart of one of the most proud and powerful empires
upon the globe, numbering twenty millions of inhabitants. Napoleon
wished to make an ally of Venice. To her government he said, "Your whole
territory is imbued with revolutionary principles. One single word from
me will excite a blaze of insurrection through all your provinces. Ally
yourself with France, make a few modifications in your government such
as are indispensable for the welfare of the people, and we will pacify
public opinion and will sustain your authority." Advice more prudent and
humane could not have been given. The haughty aristocracy of Venice
refused the alliance, raised an army of sixty thousand men, ready at any
moment to fall upon Napoleon's rear, and demanded neutrality. "Be
neutral, then," said Napoleon, "but remember, if you violate your
neutrality, if you harass my troops, if you cut off my supplies, I will
take ample vengeance. I march upon Vienna. Conduct which could be
forgiven were I in Italy, will be unpardonable when I am in Austria. The
hour that witnesses the treachery of Venice, shall terminate her
independence."
Mantua was the birth-place of Virgil. During centuries of wealth and
luxurious ease neither Italy nor Austria had found time to rear any
monument in honor of the illustrious Mantuan bard. But hardly had the
cannon of Napoleon ceased to resound around the beleaguered city, and
the smoke of the conflict had hardly passed away, ere the young
conqueror, ever more interested in the refinements of peace than in the
desolations of war, in the midst of the din of arms, and contending
against the intrigues of hostile nations, reared a mausoleum and
arranged a gorgeous festival in honor of the immortal poet. Thus he
endeavored to shed renown upon intellectual greatness, and to rouse the
degenerate Italians to appreciate and to emulate the glory of their
fathers. From these congenial pursuits of peace he again turned, with
undiminished energy, to pursue the unrelenting assailants of his
country.
Leaving ten thousand men in garrison to watch the neutrality of the
Italian governments, Napoleon, early in March, removed his head-quarters
to Bassano. He then issued to his troops the following martial
proclamation, which, like bugle notes of defiance, reverberated over the
hostile and astonished monarchies of Europe. "Soldiers! the campaign
just ended has given you imperishable renown. You have been victorious
in fourteen pitched battles and seventy actions. You have taken more
than a hundred thousand prisoners, five hundred field-pieces, two
thousand heavy guns, and four pontoon trains. You have maintained the
army during the whole campaign. In addition to this you have sent six
millions of dollars to the public treasury, and have enriched the
National Museum with three hundred masterpieces of the arts of ancient
and modern Italy, which it has required thirty centuries to produce. You
have conquered the finest countries in Europe. The French flag waves for
the first time upon the Adriatic opposite to Macedon, the native country
of Alexander. Still higher destinies await you. I know that you will not
prove unworthy of them. Of all the foes that conspired to stifle the
Republic in its birth, the Austrian Emperor alone remains before you. To
obtain peace we must seek it in the heart of his hereditary state. You
will there find a brave people, whose religion and customs you will
respect, and whose property you will hold sacred. Remember that it is
liberty you carry to the brave Hungarian nation."
The Archduke Charles, brother of the king, was now intrusted with the
command of the Austrian army. His character can not be better described
than in the language of his magnanimous antagonist. "Prince Charles,"
said Napoleon, "is a man whose conduct can never attract blame. His
soul belongs to the heroic age, but his heart to that of gold. More than
all he is a good man, and that includes every thing, when said of a
prince." Early in March, Charles, a young man of about Napoleon's age,
who had already obtained renown upon the Rhine, was in command of an
army of 50,000 men stationed upon the banks of the Piave. From different
parts of the empire 40,000 men were on the march to join him. This would
give him 90,000 troops to array against the French. Napoleon, with the
recruits which he had obtained from France and Italy, had now a force of
fifty thousand men with which to undertake this apparently desperate
enterprise. The eyes of all Europe were upon the two combatants. It was
the almost universal sentiment, that, intoxicated with success, Napoleon
was rushing to irretrievable ruin. But Napoleon never allowed enthusiasm
to run away with his judgment. His plans were deeply laid, and all the
combinations of chance carefully calculated.
The storms of winter were still howling around the snow-clad summits of
the Alps, and it was not thought possible that thus early in the season
he would attempt the passage of so formidable a barrier. A dreadful
tempest of wind and rain swept earth and sky when Napoleon gave the
order to march. The troops, with their accustomed celerity, reached the
banks of the Piave. The Austrians, astonished at the sudden apparition
of the French in the midst of the elemental warfare, and unprepared to
resist them, hastily retired some forty miles to the eastern banks of
the Tagliamento. Napoleon closely followed the retreating foe. At nine
o'clock in the morning of the 10th of March, the French army arrived
upon the banks of the river. Here they found a wide stream, rippling
over a gravelly bed, with difficulty fordable. The imperial troops, in
most magnificent array, were drawn up upon an extended plain on the
opposite shore. Parks of artillery were arranged to sweep with
grape-shot the whole surface of the water. In long lines the infantry,
with bristling bayonets and prepared to rain down upon their foes a
storm of bullets, presented apparently an invincible front. Upon the two
wings of this imposing army vast squadrons of cavalry awaited the
moment, with restless steeds, when they might charge upon the foe,
should he effect a landing.
The French army had been marching all night over miry roads, and through
mountain defiles. With the gloom of the night the storm had passed away,
and the cloudless sun of a warm spring morning dawned upon the valley,
as the French troops arrived upon the banks of the river. Their clothes
were torn, and drenched with rain, and soiled with mud. And yet it was
an imposing array as forty thousand men, with plumes and banners and
proud steeds, and the music of a hundred bands, marched down, in that
bright sunshine, upon the verdant meadows which skirted the Tagliamento.
But it was a fearful barrier which presented itself before them. The
rapid river, the vast masses of the enemy in their strong
intrenchments, the frowning batteries, loaded to the muzzle with
grape-shot, to sweep the advancing ranks, the well fed war-horses in
countless numbers, prancing for the charge, apparently presented an
obstacle which no human energy could surmount.
Napoleon, seeing the ample preparations made to oppose him, ordered his
troops to withdraw beyond the reach of the enemies' fire, and to prepare
for breakfast. As by magic the martial array was at once transformed
into a peaceful picnic scene. Arms were laid aside. The soldiers threw
themselves upon the green grass, just sprouting in the valley, beneath
the rays of the sun of early spring. Fires were kindled, kettles
boiling, knapsacks opened, and groups, in carelessness and joviality,
gathered around fragments of bread and meat.
[Illustration: THE PASSAGE OF THE TAGLIAMENTO.]
The Archduke Charles, seeing that Napoleon declined the attempt to pass
the river until he had refreshed his exhausted troops, withdrew his
forces also into the rear to their encampments. When all was quiet, and
the Austrians were thrown completely off their guard, suddenly the
trumpets sounded the preconcerted signal. The French troops, disciplined
to prompt movements, sprang to their arms, instantly formed in battle
array, plunged into the stream, and, before the Austrians had recovered
from their astonishment, were half across the river. This movement was
executed with such inconceivable rapidity, as to excite the admiration
as well as the consternation of their enemies. With the precision and
beauty of the parade ground, the several divisions of the army gained
the opposite shore. The Austrians rallied as speedily as possible. But
it was too late. A terrible battle ensued. Napoleon was victor at every
point. The Imperial army, with their ranks sadly thinned, and leaving
the ground gory with the blood of the slain, retreated in confusion to
await the arrival of the reinforcements coming to their aid. Napoleon
pressed upon their rear, every hour attacking them, and not allowing
them one moment to recover from their panic. The Austrian troops, thus
suddenly and unexpectedly defeated, were thrown into the extreme of
dejection. The exultant French, convinced of the absolute invincibility
of their beloved chief, ambitiously sought out points of peril and
adventures of desperation, and with shouts of laughter, and jokes, and
making the welkin ring with songs of liberty, plunged into the densest
masses of their foes. The different divisions of the army vied with each
other in their endeavor to perform feats of the most romantic valor, and
in the display of the most perfect contempt of life. In every fortress,
at every mountain pass, upon every rapid stream, the Austrians made a
stand to arrest the march of the conqueror. But with the footsteps of a
giant, Napoleon crowded upon them, pouring an incessant storm of
destruction upon their fugitive ranks. He drove the Austrians to the
foot of the mountains. He pursued them up the steep acclivities. He
charged the tempests of wind and smothering snow with the sound of the
trumpet, and his troops exulted in waging war with combined man and the
elements. Soon both pursuers and pursued stood upon the summit of the
Carnic Alps. They were in the region of almost perpetual snow. The vast
glaciers, which seemed memorials of eternity, spread bleak and cold
around them. The clouds floated beneath their feet. The eagle wheeled
and screamed as he soared over the sombre firs and pines far below on
the mountain sides. Here the Austrians made a desperate stand. On the
storm-washed crags of granite, behind fields of ice and drifts of snow
which the French cavalry could not traverse, they sought to intrench
themselves against their tireless pursuer. To retreat down the long and
narrow defiles of the mountains, with the French in hot pursuit behind,
hurling upon them every missile of destruction, bullets, and balls, and
craggy fragments of the cliffs, was a calamity to be avoided at every
hazard. Upon the summit of Mount Tarwis, the battle, decisive of this
fearful question, was to be fought. It was an appropriate arena for the
fell deeds of war. Wintry winds swept the bleak and icy eminence, and a
clear, cold, cloudless sky canopied the two armies as, with fiend-like
ferocity, they hurled themselves upon each other. The thunder of
artillery reverberated above the clouds. The shout of onset and the
shrieks of the wounded were heard upon eminences which even the wing of
the eagle had rarely attained. Squadrons of cavalry fell upon fields of
ice, and men and horses were precipitated into fathomless depths below.
The snow drifts of Mount Tarwis were soon crimsoned with blood, and the
warm current from human hearts congealed with the eternal glacier, and
there, embalmed in ice, it long and mournfully testified of man's
inhumanity to man.
The Archduke Charles, having exhausted his last reserve, was compelled
to retreat. Many of the soldiers threw away their arms, and escaped over
the crags of the mountains; thousands were taken prisoners; multitudes
were left dead upon the ice, and half-buried in the drifts of snow. But
Charles, brave and energetic, still kept the mass of his army together,
and with great skill conducted his precipitate retreat. With merciless
vigor the French troops pursued, pouring down upon the retreating masses
a perfect storm of bullets, and rolling over the precipitous sides of
the mountains huge rocks, which swept away whole companies at once. The
bleeding, breathless fugitives at last arrived in the valley below.
Napoleon followed close in their rear. The Alps were now passed. The
French were in Austria. They heard a new language. The scenery, the
houses, the customs of the inhabitants, all testified that they were no
longer in Italy. They had with unparalleled audacity entered the very
heart of the Austrian empire, and with unflinching resolution were
marching upon the capital of twenty millions of people, behind whose
ramparts, strengthened by the labor of ages, Maria Theresa had bidden
defiance to the invading Turks.
Twenty days had now passed since the opening of the campaign, and the
Austrians were already driven over the Alps, and having lost a fourth of
their numbers in the various conflicts which had occurred, dispirited by
disaster, were retreating to intrench themselves for a final struggle
within the walls of Vienna. Napoleon, with 45,000 men, flushed with
victory, was rapidly descending the fertile steams which flow into the
Danube.
Under these triumphant circumstances Napoleon showed his humanity, and
his earnest desire for peace, in dictating the following most noble
letter, so characteristic of his strong and glowing intellect. It was
addressed to his illustrious adversary, the Archduke Charles.
"General-in-chief. Brave soldiers, while they make war, desire peace.
Has not this war already continued six years? Have we not slain enough
of our fellow-men? Have we not inflicted a sufficiency of woes upon
suffering humanity? It demands repose upon all sides. Europe, which took
up arms against the French Republic, has laid them aside. Your nation
alone remains hostile, and blood is about to flow more copiously than
ever. This sixth campaign has commenced with sinister omens. Whatever
may be its issue, many thousand men, on the one side and the other, must
perish. And after all we must come to an accommodation, for every thing
has an end, not even excepting the passion of hatred. You, general, who
by birth approach so near the throne, and are above all the little
passions which too often influence ministers and governments, are you
resolved to deserve the title of benefactor of humanity, and of the real
saviour of Austria. Do not imagine that I deny the possibility of saving
Austria by the force of arms. But even in such an event your country
will not be the less ravaged. As for myself, if the overture which I
have the honor to make, shall be the means of saving a single life, I
shall be more proud of the civic crown which I shall be conscious of
having deserved, than of all the melancholy glory which military success
can confer."
To these magnanimous overtures the Archduke replied: "In the duty
assigned to me there is no power either to scrutinize the causes or to
terminate the duration of the war, I am not invested with any authority
in that respect, and therefore can not enter into any negotiation for
peace."
In this most interesting correspondence, Napoleon, the plebeian general,
speaks with the dignity and the authority of a sovereign; with a
natural, unaffected tone of command, as if accustomed from infancy to
homage and empire. The brother of the king is compelled to look upward
to the pinnacle upon which transcendent abilities have placed his
antagonist. The conquering Napoleon pleads for peace; but Austria hates
republican liberty even more than war. Upon the rejection of these
proposals the thunders of Napoleon's artillery were again heard, and
over the hills and through the valleys, onward he rushed with his
impetuous troops, allowing his foe no repose. At every mountain gorge,
at every rapid river, the Austrians stood, and were slain. Each walled
town was the scene of a sanguinary conflict, and the Austrians were
often driven in the wildest confusion pell-mell with the victors through
the streets. At last they approached another mountain range called the
Stipian Alps. Here, at the frightful gorge of Neumarkt, a defile so
gloomy and terrific that even the peaceful tourist can not pass through
it unawed, Charles again made a desperate effort to arrest his pursuers.
It was of no avail. Blood flowed in torrents, thousands were slain. The
Austrians, encumbered with baggage-wagons and artillery, choked the
narrow passages, and a scene of indescribable horror ensued. The French
cavalry made most destructive charges upon the dense masses. Cannon
balls plowed their way through the confused ranks, and the Austrian rear
and the French van struggled, hand to hand, in the blood-red gorge. But
the Austrians were swept along like withered leaves before the mountain
gales. Napoleon was now at Leoben. From the eminences around the city,
with the telescope, the distant spires of Vienna could be discerned.
Here the victorious general halted for a day, to collect his scattered
forces. Charles hurried along the great road to the capital, with the
fragments of his army, striving to concentrate all the strength of the
empire within those venerable and hitherto impregnable fortifications.
[Illustration: THE GORGE OF NEUMARKT.]
All was consternation in Vienna. The king, dukes, nobles, fled like deer
before approaching hounds, seeking refuge in the distant wilds of
Hungary. The Danube was covered with boats conveying the riches of the
city and the terrified families out of the reach of danger. Among the
illustrious fugitives was Maria Louisa, then a child but six years of
age, flying from that dreaded Napoleon whose bride she afterward became.
All the military resources of Austria were immediately called into
requisition; the fortifications were repaired; the militia organized and
drilled; and in the extremity of mortification and despair all the
energies of the empire were roused for final resistance. Charles, to
gain time, sent a flag of truce requesting a suspension of arms for
twenty-four hours. Napoleon, too wary to be caught in a trap which he
had recently sprung upon his foes, replied that moments were precious,
and that they might fight and negotiate at the same time. Napoleon also
issued to the Austrian people one of his glowing proclamations which was
scattered all over the region he had overrun. He assured the _people_
that he was their friend, that he was fighting not for conquest but for
peace; that the Austrian government, bribed by British gold, was waging
an unjust war against France: that the _people_ of Austria should find
in him a protector, who would respect their religion and defend them in
all their rights. His deeds were in accordance with his words. The
French soldiers, inspired by the example of their beloved chief, treated
the unarmed Austrians as friends, and nothing was taken from them
without ample remuneration.
The people of Austria now began to clamor loudly for peace. Charles,
seeing the desperate posture of affairs, earnestly urged it upon his
brother, the Emperor, declaring that the empire could no longer be saved
by arms. Embassadors were immediately dispatched from the imperial court
authorized to settle the basis of peace. They implored a suspension of
arms for five days, to settle the preliminaries. Napoleon nobly replied,
"In the present posture of our military affairs, a suspension of
hostilities must be very seriously adverse to the interests of the
French army. But if by such a sacrifice, that peace, which is so
desirable and so essential to the happiness of the people, can be
secured, I shall not regret consenting to your desires." A garden in the
vicinity of Leoben was declared neutral ground, and here, in the midst
of the bivouacs of the French army, the negotiations were conducted. The
Austrian commissioners, in the treaty which they proposed, had set down
as the first article, that the Emperor recognized the French Republic.
"Strike that out," said Napoleon, proudly. "The Republic is like the
sun; none but the blind can fail to see it. We are our own masters, and
shall establish any government we prefer." This exclamation was not
merely a burst of romantic enthusiasm, but it was dictated by a deep
insight into the possibilities of the future. "If one day the French
people," he afterward remarked, "should wish to create a monarchy, the
Emperor might object that he had recognized a republic." Both parties
being now desirous of terminating the war, the preliminaries were soon
settled. Napoleon, as if he were already the Emperor of France, waited
not for the plenipotentiaries from Paris, but signed the treaty in his
own name. He thus placed himself upon an equal footing with the Emperor
of Austria. The equality was unhesitatingly recognized by the Imperial
government. In the settlement of the difficulties between these two
majestic powers, neither of them manifested much regard for the minor
states. Napoleon allowed Austria to take under her protection many of
the states of Venice, for Venice had proved treacherous to her professed
neutrality, and merited no protection from his hands.
[Illustration: THE VENETIAN ENVOYS.]
Napoleon, having thus conquered peace, turned to lay the rod upon
trembling Venice. Richly did Venice deserve his chastising blows. In
those days, when railroads and telegraphs were unknown, the transmission
of intelligence was slow. The little army of Napoleon had traversed
weary leagues of mountains and vales, and having passed beyond the
snow-clad summits of the Alps, were lost to Italian observation, far
away upon the tributaries of the Danube. Rumor, with her thousand voices
filled the air. It was reported that Napoleon was defeated--that he was
a captive--that his army was destroyed. The Venetian oligarchy, proud,
cowardly, and revengeful, now raised the cry, "Death to the French." The
priests incited the peasants to frenzy. They attacked unarmed Frenchmen
in the streets and murdered them. They assailed the troops in garrison
with overwhelming numbers. The infuriated populace even burst into the
hospitals, and poniarded the wounded and the dying in their beds.
Napoleon, who was by no means distinguished for meekness and
long-suffering, turned sternly to inflict upon them punishment which
should long be remembered. The haughty oligarchy was thrown into a
paroxysm of terror, when it was announced, that Napoleon was victor
instead of vanquished, and that, having humbled the pride of Austria, he
was now returning with an indignant and triumphant army burning for
vengeance. The Venetian Senate, bewildered with fright, dispatched
agents to deprecate his wrath. Napoleon, with a pale and marble face,
received them. Without uttering a word he listened to their awkward
attempts at an apology, heard their humble submission, and even endured
in silence their offer of millions of gold to purchase his pardon. Then
in tones of firmness which sent paleness to their cheeks and palpitation
to their hearts, he exclaimed, "If you could proffer me the treasures of
Peru, could you strew your whole country with gold, it would not atone
for the blood which has been treacherously spilt. You have murdered my
children. The lion of St. Mark[4] must lick the dust. Go." The Venetians
in their terror sent enormous sums to Paris, and succeeded in bribing
the Directory, ever open to such appeals. Orders were accordingly
transmitted to Napoleon, to spare the ancient Senate and aristocracy of
Venice. But Napoleon, who despised the Directory, and who was probably
already dreaming of its overthrow, conscious that he possessed powers
which they could not shake, paid no attention to their orders. He
marched resistlessly into the dominions of the doge. The thunders of
Napoleon's cannon were reverberating across the lagoons which surround
the Queen of the Adriatic. The doge, pallid with consternation,
assembled the Grand Council, and proposed the surrender of their
institutions to Napoleon, to be remodeled according to his pleasure.
While they were deliberating, the uproar of insurrection was heard in
the streets. The aristocrats and the republicans fell furiously upon
each other. The discharge of fire-arms was heard under the very windows
of the council-house. Opposing shouts of "Liberty forever," and "Long
live St. Mark," resounded through the streets. The city was threatened
with fire and pillage. Amid this horrible confusion three thousand
French soldiers crossed the lagoons in boats and entered the city. They
were received with long shouts of welcome by the populace, hungering for
republican liberty. Resistance was hopeless. An unconditional surrender
was made to Napoleon, and thus fell one of the most execrable tyrannies
this world has ever known. The course Napoleon then pursued was so
magnanimous as to extort praise from his bitterest foes. He immediately
threw open the prison doors to all who were suffering for political
opinions. He pardoned all offenses against himself. He abolished
aristocracy, and established a popular government, which should fairly
represent all classes of the community. The public debt was regarded as
sacred, and even the pensions continued to the poor nobles. It was a
glorious reform for the Venetian nation. It was a terrible downfall for
the Venetian aristocracy. The banner of the new republic now floated
from the windows of the palace, and as it waved exultingly in the
breeze, it was greeted with the most enthusiastic acclamations, by the
people who had been trampled under the foot of oppression for fifteen
hundred years.
All Italy was now virtually at the feet of Napoleon. Not a year had yet
elapsed since he, a nameless young man of twenty-five years of age, with
thirty thousand ragged and half starved troops, had crept along the
shores of the Mediterranean, hoping to surprise his powerful foes. He
had now traversed the whole extent of Italy, compelled all its hostile
states to respect republican France, and had humbled the Emperor of
Austria as emperor had rarely been humbled before. The Italians,
recognizing him as a countryman, and proud of his world-wide renown,
regarded him, not as a conqueror, but as a liberator. His popularity was
boundless. Wherever he appeared the most enthusiastic acclamations
welcomed him. Bonfires blazed upon every hill in honor of his movements.
The bells rang their merriest peals, wherever he appeared. Long lines of
maidens strewed roses in his path. The reverberations of artillery and
the huzzas of the populace saluted his footsteps. Europe was at peace;
and Napoleon was the great pacificator. For this object he had contended
against the most formidable coalitions. He had sheathed his victorious
sword, the very moment his enemies were willing to retire from the
strife.
Still the position of Napoleon required the most consummate firmness
and wisdom. All the states of Italy, Piedmont, Genoa, Naples, the States
of the Church, Parma, Tuscany, were agitated with the intense desire for
liberty. Napoleon was unwilling to encourage insurrection. He could not
lend his arms to oppose those who were struggling for popular rights. In
Genoa, the patriots rose. The haughty aristocracy fell in revenge upon
the French, who chanced to be in the territory. Napoleon was thus
compelled to interfere. The Genoese aristocracy were forced to abdicate,
and the patriot party, as in Venice, assumed the government. But the
Genoese democracy began now in their turn, to trample upon the rights of
their former oppressors. The revolutionary scenes which had disgraced
Paris, began to be re-enacted in the streets of Genoa. They excluded the
priests and the nobles from participating in the government, as the
nobles and priests had formerly excluded them. Acts of lawless violence
passed unpunished. The religion of the Catholic priests was treated with
derision. Napoleon, earnestly and eloquently, thus urged upon them a
more humane policy. "I will respond, citizens, to the confidence you
have reposed in me. It is not enough that you refrain from hostility to
religion. You should do nothing which can cause inquietude to tender
consciences. To exclude the nobles from any public office, is an act of
extreme injustice. You thus repeat the wrong which you condemn in them.
Why are the people of Genoa so changed? Their first impulses of
fraternal kindness have been succeeded by fear and terror. Remember that
the priests were the first who rallied around the tree of liberty. They
first told you that the morality of the gospel is democratic. Men have
taken advantage of the faults, perhaps of the crimes of individual
priests, to unite against Christianity. You have proscribed without
discrimination. When a state becomes accustomed to condemn without
hearing, to applaud a discourse because it impassioned; when
exaggeration and madness are called virtue, moderation and equity
designated as crimes, that state is near its ruin. Believe me, I shall
consider _that_ one of the happiest moments of my life in which I hear
that the people of Genoa are united among themselves and live happily."
This advice, thus given to Genoa, was intended to re-act upon France,
for the Directory then had under discussion a motion for banishing all
the nobles from the Republic. The voice of Napoleon was thus delicately
and efficiently introduced into the debate, and the extreme and terrible
measure was at once abandoned.
Napoleon performed another act at this time, which drew down upon him a
very heavy load of obloquy from the despotic governments of Europe, but
which must secure the approval of every generous mind. There was a small
state in Italy called the Valteline, eighteen miles wide, and fifty-four
miles long, containing one hundred and sixty thousand inhabitants. These
unfortunate people had become subjects to a German state called the
Grisons, and, deprived of all political privileges, were ground down by
the most humiliating oppression. The inhabitants of the Valteline,
catching the spirit of liberty, revolted and addressed a manifesto to
all Europe, setting forth their wrongs, and declaring their
determination to recover those rights, of which they had been defrauded.
Both parties sent deputies to Napoleon, soliciting his interference,
virtually agreeing to abide by his decision. Napoleon, to promote
conciliation and peace, proposed that the Valtelines should remain with
the Grisons as one people, and that the Grisons should confer upon them
equal political privileges with themselves. Counsel more moderate and
judicious could not have been given. But the proud Grisons, accustomed
to trample upon their victims, with scorn refused to share with them the
rights of humanity. Napoleon then issued a decree, saying, "_It is not
just that one people should be subject to another people._ Since the
Grisons have refused equal rights to the inhabitants of the Valteline,
the latter are at liberty to unite themselves with the Cisalpine
Republic." This decision was received with bursts of enthusiastic joy by
the liberated people, and they were immediately embraced within the
borders of the new republic.
The great results we have thus far narrated in this chapter were
accomplished in six weeks. In the face of powerful armies, Napoleon had
traversed hundreds of miles of territory. He had forded rivers, with the
storm of lead and iron falling pitilessly around him. He had crossed the
Alps, dragging his artillery through snow three feet in depth, scattered
the armies of Austria to the winds, imposed peace upon that proud and
powerful empire, recrossed the Alps, laid low the haughty despotism of
Venice, established a popular government in the emancipated provinces,
and revolutionized Genoa. Josephine was now with him in the palace of
Milan. From every state in Italy couriers were coming and going,
deprecating his anger, soliciting his counsel, imploring his protection.
The destiny of Europe seemed to be suspended upon his decisions. His
power transcended that of all the potentates in Europe. A brilliant
court of beautiful ladies surrounded Josephine, and all vied to do
homage to the illustrious conqueror. The enthusiastic Italians thronged
his gates, and waited for hours to catch a glance of the youthful hero.
The feminine delicacy of his physical frame, so disproportionate with
his mighty renown, did but add to the enthusiasm which his presence ever
inspired. His strong arm had won for France peace with all the world,
England alone excepted. The indomitable islanders, protected by the
ocean from the march of invading armies, still continued the unrelenting
warfare. Wherever her navy could penetrate she assailed the French, and
as the horrors of war could not reach her shores, she refused to live on
any terms of peace with Republican France.
Napoleon now established his residence, or rather his court, at
Montebello, a beautiful palace in the vicinity of Milan. His frame was
emaciate in the extreme from the prodigious toils which he had endured.
Yet he scarcely allowed himself an hour of relaxation. Questions of vast
moment, relative to the settlement of political affairs in Italy, were
yet to be adjusted, and Napoleon, exhausted as he was in body, devoted
the tireless energies of his mind to the work. His labors were now
numerous. He was treating with the plenipotentiaries of Austria,
organizing the Italian Republic, creating a navy in the Adriatic, and
forming the most magnificent projects relative to the Mediterranean.
These were the works in which he delighted, constructing canals, and
roads, improving harbors, erecting bridges, churches, naval and military
depots, calling cities and navies into existence, awaking every where
the hum of prosperous industry. All the states of Italy were imbued with
local prejudices and petty jealousies of each other. To break down these
jealousies, he endeavored to consolidate the Republicans into one single
state, with Milan for the capital. He strove in multiplied ways to rouse
martial energy among the effeminate Italians. Conscious that the new
republic could not long stand alive in the midst of the surrounding
monarchies so hostile to its existence, that it could only be strong by
the alliance of France, he conceived the design of a high road, broad,
safe, and magnificent, from Paris to Geneva, thence across the Simplon
through the plains of Lombardy to Milan. He was in treaty with the
government of Switzerland, for the construction of the road through its
territories; and had sent engineers to explore the route and make an
estimate of the expense. He himself arranged all the details with the
greatest precision. He contemplated also, at the same time, with the
deepest interest and solicitude, the empire which England had gained on
the seas. To cripple the power of this formidable foe, he formed the
design of taking possession of the islands of the Mediterranean. "From
these different posts," he wrote to the Directory, "we shall command the
Mediterranean, we shall keep an eye upon the Ottoman empire, which is
crumbling to pieces, and we shall have it in our power to render the
dominion of the ocean almost useless to the English. They have
possession of the Cape of Good Hope. We can do without it. _Let us
occupy Egypt._ We shall be in the direct road for India. It will be easy
for us to found there one of the finest colonies in the world. _It is in
Egypt that we must attack England._"
It was in this way that Napoleon _rested_ after the toils of the most
arduous campaigns mortal man had ever passed through. The Austrians were
rapidly recruiting their forces from their vast empire, and now began to
throw many difficulties in the way of a final adjustment. The last
conference between the negotiating parties was held at Campo Formio, a
small village about ten miles east of the Tagliamento. The commissioners
were seated at an oblong table, the four Austrian negotiators upon one
side, Napoleon by himself upon the other. The Austrians demanded terms
to which Napoleon could not accede, threatening at the same time that
if Napoleon did not accept these terms, the armies of Russia would be
united with those of Austria, and France should be compelled to adopt
those less favorable. One of the Austrian commissioners concluded an
insulting apostrophe, by saying, "Austria desires peace, and she will
severely condemn the negotiator who sacrifices the interest and repose
of his country to military ambition." Napoleon, cool and collected, sat
in silence while these sentiments were uttered. Then rising from the
table he took from the sideboard a beautiful porcelain vase.
"Gentlemen," said he, "the truce is broken; war is declared. But
remember, in three months I will demolish your monarchy as I now shatter
this porcelain." With these words he dashed the vase into fragments upon
the floor, and bowing to the astounded negotiators, abruptly withdrew.
With his accustomed promptness of action he instantly dispatched an
officer to the Archduke, to inform him that hostilities would be
re-commenced in twenty-four hours; and entering his carriage, urged his
horses with the speed of the wind, toward the head-quarters of the army.
One of the conditions of this treaty upon which Napoleon insisted, was
the release of La Fayette, then imprisoned for his republican
sentiments, in the dungeons of Olmutz. The Austrian plenipotentiaries
were thunderstruck by this decision, and immediately agreed to the terms
which Napoleon demanded. The next day at five o'clock the treaty of
Campo Formio was signed.
[Illustration: THE CONFERENCE DISSOLVED.]
The terms which Napoleon offered the Austrians in this treaty, though
highly advantageous to France, were far more lenient to Austria, than
that government had any right to expect. The Directory in Paris, anxious
to strengthen itself against the monarchical governments of Europe by
revolutionizing the whole of Italy and founding there republican
governments, positively forbade Napoleon to make peace with Austria,
unless the freedom of the Republic of Venice was recognized. Napoleon
wrote to the Directory that if they insisted upon that ultimatum, the
renewal of the war would be inevitable. The Directory replied, "Austria
has long desired to swallow up Italy, and to acquire maritime power. It
is the interest of France to prevent both of these designs. It is
evident that if the Emperor acquires Venice, with its territorial
possessions, he will secure an entrance into the whole of Lombardy. We
should be treating as if we had been conquered. What would posterity say
of us if we surrender that great city with its naval arsenals to the
Emperor. The whole question comes to this: Shall we give up Italy to the
Austrians? The French government neither can nor will do so. It would
prefer all the hazards of war."
Napoleon wished for peace. He could only obtain it by disobeying the
orders of his government. The middle of October had now arrived. One
morning, at daybreak, he was informed that the mountains were covered
with snow. Leaping from his bed, he ran to the window, and saw that the
storms of winter had really commenced on the bleak heights. "What!
before the middle of October!" he exclaimed: "what a country is this!
Well, we must make peace." He shut himself up in his cabinet for an
hour, and carefully reviewed the returns of the army. "I can not have,"
said he to Bourrienne, "more than sixty thousand men in the field. Even
if victorious I must lose twenty thousand in killed and wounded. And
how, with forty thousand, can I withstand the whole force of the
Austrian monarchy, who will hasten to the relief of Vienna? The armies
of the Rhine could not advance to my succor before the middle of
November, and before that time arrives the Alps will be impassable from
snow. It is all over. I will sign the peace. The government and the
lawyers may say what they choose."
This treaty, extended France to the Rhine, recognized the Cisalpine
Republic, composed of the Cispadane Republic and Lombardy, and allowed
the Emperor of Austria to extend his sway over several of the states of
Venice. Napoleon was very desirous of securing republican liberty in
Venice. Most illustriously did he exhibit his anxiety for peace in
consenting to sacrifice that desire, and to disobey the positive
commands of his government, rather than renew the horrors of battle. He
did not think it his duty to keep Europe involved in war, that he might
secure republican liberty for Venice, when it was very doubtful whether
the Venetians were sufficiently enlightened to govern themselves, and
when, perhaps, one half of the nation were so ignorant as to prefer
despotism. The whole glory of this peace redounds to his honor. His
persistence in that demand which the Directory enjoined, would but have
kindled anew the flames of war.
During these discussions at Campo Formio, every possible endeavor was
made which the most delicate ingenuity could devise, to influence
Napoleon in his decisions by personal considerations. The wealth of
Europe was literally laid at his feet. Millions upon millions in gold
were proffered him. But his proud spirit could not be thus tarnished.
When some one alluded to the different course pursued by the Directors,
he replied, "You are not then aware, citizen, that there is not one of
those Directors whom I could not bring, for four thousand dollars, to
kiss my boot." The Venetians offered him a present of one million five
hundred thousand dollars. He smiled, and declined the offer. The Emperor
of Austria, professing the most profound admiration of his heroic
character, entreated him to accept a principality, to consist of at
least two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, for himself and his
heirs. This was indeed an alluring offer to a young man but twenty-five
years of age, and who had but just emerged from obscurity and poverty.
The young general transmitted his thanks to the Emperor for this proof
of his good-will, but added, that he could accept of no honors but such
as were conferred upon him by the French people, and that he should
always be satisfied with whatever they might be disposed to offer.
[Illustration: THE COURT AT MILAN.]
While at Montebello, transacting the affairs of his victorious army,
Josephine presided with most admirable propriety and grace, over the gay
circle of Milan. Napoleon, who well understood the imposing influence of
courtly pomp and splendor, while extremely simple in his personal
habiliments, dazzled the eyes of the Milanese with all the pageantry of
a court. The destinies of Europe were even then suspended upon his nod.
He was tracing out the lines of empire, and dukes, and princes, and
kings were soliciting his friendship. Josephine, by her surpassing
loveliness of person and of character, won universal admiration. Her
wonderful tact, her genius, and her amiability vastly strengthened the
influence of her husband. "I conquer provinces," said Napoleon, "but
Josephine wins hearts." She frequently, in after years, reverted to this
as the happiest period of her life. To them both it must have been as a
bewildering dream. But a few months before, Josephine was in prison,
awaiting her execution; and her children were literally begging bread in
the streets. Hardly a year had elapsed since Napoleon, a penniless
Corsican soldier, was studying in a garret in Paris, hardly knowing
where to obtain a single franc. Now the name of Napoleon was emblazoned
through Europe. He had become more powerful than the government of his
own country. He was overthrowing and uprearing dynasties. The question
of peace or war was suspended upon his lips. The proudest potentates of
Europe were ready, at any price, to purchase his favor. Josephine
reveled in the exuberance of her dreamlike prosperity and exaltation.
Her benevolent heart was gratified with the vast power she now possessed
of conferring happiness. She was beloved, adored. She had long cherished
the desire of visiting this land, so illustrious in the most lofty
reminiscences. Even Italy can hardly present a more delightful excursion
than the ride from Milan to the romantic, mountain-embowered lakes of
Como and Maggiore. It was a bright and sunny Italian morning when
Napoleon, with his blissful bride, drove along the luxuriant valleys and
the vine-clad hill-sides to Lake Maggiore. They were accompanied by a
numerous and glittering retinue. Here they embarked upon this beautiful
sheet of water, in a boat with silken awnings and gay banners, and the
rowers beat time to the most voluptuous music. They landed upon
Beautiful Island, which, like another Eden, emerges from the bosom of
the lake. This became the favorite retreat of Napoleon. Its monastic
palace, so sombre in its antique architecture, was in peculiar
accordance with that strange melancholy which, with but now and then a
ray of sunshine, ever overshadowed his spirit. On one of these occasions
Josephine was standing upon a terrace with several ladies, under a large
orange-tree, profusely laden with its golden treasures. As their
attention was all absorbed in admiring the beautiful landscape, Napoleon
slipped up unperceived, and, by a sudden shake, brought down a shower of
the rich fruit upon their heads. Josephine's companions screamed with
fright and ran; but she remained unmoved. Napoleon laughed heartily and
said: "Why, Josephine, you stand fire like one of my veterans." "And why
should I not?" she promptly replied, "am I not the wife of their
general?"
Every conceivable temptation was at this time presented to entice
Napoleon into habits of licentiousness. Purity was a virtue then and
there almost unknown. Some one speaking of Napoleon's universal talents,
compared him with Solomon. "Poh," exclaimed another, "What do you mean
by calling him wiser than Solomon. The Jewish king had seven hundred
wives and three hundred concubines, while Napoleon is contented with one
wife, and she older than himself." The corruption of those days of
infidelity was such, that the ladies were jealous of Josephine's
exclusive influence over her illustrious spouse, and they exerted all
their powers of fascination to lead him astray. The loftiness of
Napoleon's ambition, and those principles instilled so early by a
mother's lips as to be almost instincts, were his safeguard. Josephine
was exceedingly gratified, some of the ladies said, "insufferably
vain," that Napoleon clung so faithfully and confidingly to her.
"Truly," he said, "I have something else to think of than love. No man
wins triumphs in that way, without forfeiting some palms of glory. I
have traced out my plan, and the finest eyes in the world, and there are
some very fine eyes here, shall not make me deviate a hair's breadth
from it."
A lady of rank, after wearying him one day with a string of the most
fulsome compliments, exclaimed, among other things, "What is life worth,
if one can not be General Bonaparte," Napoleon fixed his eyes coldly
upon her, and said, "Madame! one may be a dutiful wife, and the good
mother of a family."
The jealousy which the Directory entertained of Napoleon's vast
accession of power induced them to fill his court with spies, who
watched all his movements and reported his words. Josephine, frank and
candid and a stranger to all artifice, could not easily conceal her
knowledge or her thoughts. Napoleon consequently seldom intrusted to her
any plans which he was unwilling to have made known. "A secret," he once
observed, "is burdensome to Josephine." He was careful that she should
not be thus encumbered. He would be indeed a shrewd man who could extort
any secret from the bosom of Napoleon. He could impress a marble-like
immovableness upon his features, which no scrutiny could penetrate. Said
Josephine in subsequent years, "I never once beheld Napoleon for a
moment perfectly at ease--not even with myself. He is constantly on the
alert. If at any time he appears to show a little confidence, it is
merely a feint to throw the person with whom he converses, off his
guard, and to draw forth his sentiments; but never does he himself
disclose his real thoughts."
The French Government remonstrated bitterly against the surrender of
Venice to Austria. Napoleon replied. "It costs nothing for a handful of
declaimers to rave about the establishment of _republics_ every where. I
wish these gentlemen would make a winter campaign. You little know the
people of Italy. You are laboring under a great delusion. You suppose
that liberty can do great things to a base, cowardly, and superstitious
people. You wish me to perform miracles. I have not the art of doing so.
Since coming into Italy I have derived little, if any, support from the
love of the Italian people for liberty and equality."
The treaty of peace signed at Campo Formio, Napoleon immediately sent to
Paris. Though he had disobeyed the positive commands of the Directory,
in thus making peace, the Directors did not dare to refuse its
ratification. The victorious young general was greatly applauded by the
people, for refusing the glory of a new campaign, in which they doubted
not that he would have obtained fresh laurels, that he might secure
peace for bleeding Europe. On the 17th of November Napoleon left Milan
for the Congress at Rastadt, to which he was appointed, with
plenipotentiary powers. At the moment of leaving he addressed the
following proclamation to the Cisalpine Republic: "We have given you
liberty. Take care to preserve it. To be worthy of your destiny make
only discreet and honorable laws, and cause them to be executed with
energy. Favor the diffusion of knowledge, and respect religion. Compose
your battalions not of disreputable men, but of citizens imbued with the
principles of the Republic, and closely linked with its prosperity. You
have need to impress yourselves with the feeling of your strength, and
with the dignity which befits the free man. Divided and bowed down by
ages of tyranny, you could not alone have achieved your independence. In
a few years, if true to yourselves, no nation will be strong enough to
wrest liberty from you. Till then the great nation will protect you."
Napoleon, leaving Josephine at Milan, traveled rapidly through Piedmont,
intending to proceed by the way of Switzerland to Rastadt. His journey
was an uninterrupted scene of triumph. Illuminations, processions,
bonfires, the ringing of bells, the explosions of artillery, the huzzas
of the populace, and above all the most cordial and warm-hearted
acclamations of ladies, accompanied him all the way. The enthusiasm was
indescribable. Napoleon had no fondness for such displays. He but
slightly regarded the applause of the populace.
[Illustration: THE TRIUMPHAL JOURNEY.]
"It must be delightful," said Bourrienne, "to be greeted with such
demonstrations of enthusiastic admiration." "Bah!" Napoleon replied;
"this same unthinking crowd, under a slight change of circumstances,
would follow me just as eagerly to the scaffold."
Traveling with great rapidity, he appeared and vanished like a meteor,
ever retaining the same calm, pensive, thoughtful aspect. A person, who
saw him upon this occasion, thus described his appearance: "I beheld
with deep interest and extreme attention that extraordinary man, who has
performed such great deeds, and about whom there is something which
seems to indicate that his career is not yet terminated. I found him
much like his portraits, small in stature, thin, pale, with an air of
fatigue, but not as has been reported in ill-health. He appeared to me
to listen with more abstraction than interest, as if occupied rather
with what he was thinking of, than with what was said to him. There is
great intelligence in his countenance, along with an expression of
habitual meditation, which reveals nothing of what is passing within. In
that thinking head, in that daring mind, it is impossible not to suppose
that some designs are engendering, which will have their influence on
the destinies of Europe." Napoleon did not remain long at Rastadt, for
all the questions of great political importance were already settled,
and he had no liking for those discussions of minor points which
engrossed the attention of the petty German princes, who were assembled
at that Congress. He accordingly prepared for his departure.
In taking leave of the army he thus bade adieu to his troops. "Soldiers!
I leave you to-morrow. In separating myself from the army I am consoled
with the thought that I shall soon meet you again, and engage with you
in new enterprises. Soldiers! when conversing among yourselves of the
kings you have vanquished, of the people upon whom you have conferred
liberty, of the victories you have won in two campaigns, say, '_In the
next two we will accomplish still more._'"
Napoleon's attention was already eagerly directed to the gorgeous East.
These vast kingdoms, enveloped in mystery, presented just the realm for
his exuberant imagination to range. It was the theatre, as he eloquently
said, "of mighty empires, where all the great revolutions of the earth
have arisen, where mind had its birth, and all religions their cradle,
and where six hundred millions of men still have their dwelling-place."
Napoleon left Rastadt, and traveling incognito through France, arrived
in Paris the 7th of December, 1797, having been absent but about
eighteen months. His arrival had been awaited with the most intense
impatience. The enthusiasm of that most enthusiastic capital had been
excited to the highest pitch. The whole population were burning with the
desire to see the youthful hero whose achievements seemed to surpass the
fictions of romance. But Napoleon was nowhere visible. A strange mystery
seemed to envelop him. He studiously avoided observation; very seldom
made his appearance at any place of public amusement; dressed like the
most unobtrusive private citizen, and glided unknown through the crowd,
whose enthusiasm was roused to the highest pitch to get a sight of the
hero. He took a small house in the Rue Chanteraine, which street
immediately received the name of Rue de la Victoire, in honor of
Napoleon. He sought only the society of men of high intellectual and
scientific attainments. In this course he displayed a profound knowledge
of human nature, and vastly enhanced public curiosity by avoiding its
gratification.
[Illustration: THE DELIVERY OF THE TREATY.]
The Directory, very jealous of Napoleon's popularity, yet impelled by
the voice of the people, now prepared a triumphal festival for the
delivery of the treaty of Campo Formio. The magnificent court of the
Luxembourg was arranged and decorated for this gorgeous show. At the
further end of the court a large platform was raised, where the five
Directors were seated, dressed in the costume of the Roman Senate, at
the foot of the altar of their country. Embassadors, ministers,
magistrates, and the members of the two councils were assembled on seats
ranged amphitheatrically around. Vast galleries were crowded with all
that was illustrious in rank, beauty, and character in the metropolis.
Magnificent trophies, composed of the banners taken from the enemy,
embellished the court, while the surrounding walls were draped with
festoons of tri-colored tapestry. Bands of music filled the air with
martial sounds, while the very walls of Paris were shaken by the
thunders of exploding artillery and by the acclamations of the countless
thousands who thronged the court.
It was the 10th of December, 1797. A bright sun shone through cloudless
skies upon the resplendent scene. Napoleon had been in Paris but five
days. Few of the citizens had as yet been favored with a sight of the
hero, whom all were impatient to behold. At last a great flourish of
trumpets announced his approach. He ascended the platform dressed in the
utmost simplicity of a civilian's costume, accompanied by Talleyrand,
and his aids-de-camp, all gorgeously dressed, and much taller men than
himself, but evidently regarding him with the most profound homage. The
contrast was most striking. Every eye was riveted upon Napoleon. The
thunder of the cannon was drowned in the still louder thunder of
enthusiastic acclamations which simultaneously arose from the whole
assemblage. The fountains of human emotion were never more deeply moved.
The graceful delicacy of his fragile figure, his remarkably youthful
appearance, his pale and wasted cheeks, the classic outline of his
finely moulded features, the indescribable air of pensiveness and
self-forgetfulness which he ever carried with him, and all associated
with his most extraordinary achievements, aroused an intensity of
enthusiastic emotion which has perhaps never been surpassed. No one who
witnessed the scenes of that day ever forgot them. Talleyrand introduced
the hero in a brief and eloquent speech. "For a moment," said he, in
conclusion, "I did feel on his account that disquietude which, in an
infant republic, arises from every thing which seems to destroy the
equality of the citizens. But I was wrong. Individual grandeur, far from
being dangerous to equality, is its highest triumph. And on this
occasion every Frenchman must feel himself elevated by the hero of his
country. And when I reflect upon all which he has done to shroud from
envy that light of glory; on that ancient love of simplicity which
distinguishes him in his favorite studies; his love for the abstract
sciences; his admiration for that sublime Ossian which seems to detach
him from the world; on his well known contempt for luxury, for pomp, for
all that constitutes the pride of ignoble minds, I am convinced that,
far from dreading his ambition, we shall one day have occasion to rouse
it anew to allure him from the sweets of studious retirement." Napoleon,
apparently quite unmoved by this unbounded applause, and as calm and
unembarrassed as if speaking to an under-officer in his tent, thus
briefly replied: "Citizens! The French people, in order to be free, had
kings to combat. To obtain a constitution founded on reason it had the
prejudices of eighteen centuries to overcome. Priestcraft, feudalism,
despotism, have successively, for two thousand years, governed Europe.
From the peace you have just concluded dates the era of representative
governments. You have succeeded in organizing the great nation, whose
vast territory is circumscribed only because nature herself has fixed
its limits. You have done more. The two finest countries in Europe,
formerly so renowned for the arts, the sciences, and the illustrious men
whose cradle they were, see with the greatest hopes genius and freedom
issuing from the tomb of their ancestors. I have the honor to deliver to
you the treaty signed at Campo Formio, and ratified by the emperor.
Peace secures the liberty, the prosperity, and the glory of the
Republic. As soon as the happiness of France is secured by the best
organic laws, the whole of Europe will be free."
The moment Napoleon began to speak the most profound silence reigned
throughout the assembly. The desire to hear his voice was so intense,
that hardly did the audience venture to move a limb or to breathe, while
in tones, calm and clear, he addressed them. The moment he ceased
speaking, a wild burst of enthusiasm filled the air. The most
unimpassioned lost their self-control. Shouts of "Live Napoleon the
conqueror of Italy, the pacificator of Europe, the saviour of France,"
resounded loud and long. Barras, in the name of the Directory, replied,
"Nature," exclaimed the orator in his enthusiasm, "has exhausted her
energies in the production of a Bonaparte. Go," said he turning to
Napoleon, "crown a life, so illustrious, by a conquest which the great
nation owes to its outraged dignity. Go, and by the punishment of the
cabinet of London, strike terror into the hearts of all who would
miscalculate the powers of a free people. Let the conquerors of the Po,
the Rhine, and the Tiber, march under your banners. The ocean will be
proud to bear them. It is a slave still indignant who blushes for his
fetters. Hardly will the tri-colored standard wave on the blood-stained
shores of the Thames, ere an unanimous cry will bless your arrival, and
that generous nation will receive you as its liberator." Chenier's
famous Hymn to Liberty was then sung in full chorus, accompanied by a
magnificent orchestra. In the ungovernable enthusiasm of the moment the
five Directors arose and encircled Napoleon in their arms. The blast of
trumpets, the peal of martial bands, the thunder of cannon, and the
acclamations of the countless multitude rent the air. Says Thiers, "All
heads were overcome with the intoxication. Thus it was that France threw
herself into the hands of an extraordinary man. Let us not censure the
weakness of our fathers. That glory reaches us only through the clouds
of time and adversity, and yet it transports us! Let us say with
AEschylus, 'How would it have been had we seen the monster himself!'"
Napoleon's powers of conversation were inimitable. There was a
peculiarity in every phrase he uttered which bore the impress of
originality and genius. He fascinated every one who approached him. He
never spoke of his own achievements, but in most lucid and dramatic
recitals often portrayed the bravery of the army and the heroic exploits
of his generals.
He was now elected a member of the celebrated Institute, a society
composed of the most illustrious literary and scientific men in France.
He eagerly accepted the invitation, and returned the following answer.
"The suffrages of the distinguished men who compose the Institute honor
me. I feel sensibly that before I can become their equal I must long be
their pupil. The only true conquests--those which awaken no regret--are
those obtained over ignorance. The most honorable, as the most useful
pursuit of nations, is that which contributes to the extension of human
intellect. The real greatness of the French Republic ought henceforth to
consist in the acquisition of the whole sum of human knowledge, and in
not allowing a single new idea to exist, which does not owe its birth to
their exertions." He laid aside entirely the dress of a soldier, and,
constantly attending the meetings of the Institute, as a philosopher and
a scholar became one of its brightest ornaments. His comprehensive mind
enabled him at once to grasp any subject to which he turned his
attention. In one hour he would make himself master of the accumulated
learning to which others had devoted the labor of years. He immediately,
as a literary man, assumed almost as marked a pre-eminence among these
distinguished scholars, as he had already acquired as a general on
fields of blood. Apparently forgetting the renown he had already
attained, with boundless ambition he pressed on to still greater
achievements, deeming nothing accomplished while any thing remained to
be done. Subsequently he referred to his course at this time and
remarked, "Mankind are in the end always governed by superiority of
intellectual qualities, and none are more sensible of this than the
military profession. When, on my return from Italy, I assumed the dress
of the Institute, and associated with men of science, I knew what I was
doing, I was sure of not being misunderstood by the lowest drummer in
the army."
A strong effort was made at this time, by the royalists, for the
restoration of the Bourbons. Napoleon, while he despised the inefficient
government of the Directory, was by no means willing that the despotic
Bourbons should crush the spirit of liberty in France. Napoleon was not
adverse to a monarchy. But he wished for a monarch who would consult the
interests of the _people_, and not merely pamper the luxury and pride of
the nobles. He formed the plan and guided the energies which discomfited
the royalists, and sustained the Directors. Thus twice had the strong
arm of this young man protected the government. The Directors, in their
multiplied perplexities, often urged his presence in their councils, to
advise with them on difficult questions. Quiet and reserved he would
take his seat at their table, and by that superiority of tact which ever
distinguished him, and by that intellectual pre-eminence which could not
be questioned, he assumed a moral position far above them all, and
guided those gray-haired diplomatists, as a father guides his children.
Whenever he entered their presence, he instinctively assumed the
supremacy, and it was instinctively recognized.
The altars of religion, overthrown by revolutionary violence, still
remained prostrate. The churches were closed, the Sabbath abolished, the
sacraments were unknown, the priests were in exile. A whole generation
had grown up in France without any knowledge of Christianity. Corruption
was universal. A new sect sprang up called Theophilanthropists, who
gleaned, as the basis of their system, some of the moral precepts of the
gospel, divested of the sublime sanctions of Christianity. They soon,
however, found that it is not by flowers of rhetoric, and smooth-flowing
verses, and poetic rhapsodies upon the beauty of love and charity, of
rivulets and skies, that the stern heart of man can be controlled.
Leviathan is not so tamed. Man, exposed to temptations which rive his
soul, trembling upon the brink of fearful calamities, and glowing with
irrepressible desires, can only be allured and overawed when the voice
of love and mercy, blends with Sinai's thunders. "There was frequently,"
says the Duchess of Abrantes, "so much truth in the moral virtues which
this new sect inculcated, that if the Evangelists had not said the same
things much better, eighteen hundred years before them, one might have
been tempted to embrace their opinions."
Napoleon took a correct view of these enthusiasts. "They can accomplish
nothing," said he, "they are merely actors." "How!" it was replied, "do
you thus stigmatize those whose tenets inculcate universal benevolence
and the moral virtues?" "All systems of morality," Napoleon rejoined,
"are fine. The gospel alone has exhibited a complete assemblage of the
principles of morality, divested of all absurdity. It is not composed,
like your creed, of a few common-place sentences put into bad verse. Do
you wish to see that which is really sublime? Repeat the Lord's Prayer.
Such enthusiasts are only to be encountered by the weapons of ridicule.
All their efforts will prove ineffectual."
Republican France was now at peace with all the world, England alone
excepted. The English government still waged unrelenting war against the
Republic, and strained every nerve to rouse the monarchies of Europe
again to combine to force a detested dynasty upon the French people. The
British navy, in its invincibility, had almost annihilated the commerce
of France. In their ocean-guarded isle, safe from the ravages of war
themselves, their fleet could extend those ravages to all shores. The
Directory raised an army for the invasion of England, and gave to
Napoleon the command. Drawing the sword, not of aggression but of
defense, he immediately proceeded to a survey of the French coast,
opposite to England, and to form his judgment respecting the feasibility
of the majestic enterprise. Taking three of his generals in his
carriage, he passed eight days in this tour of observation. With great
energy and tact he immediately made himself familiar with every thing
which could aid him in coming to a decision. He surveyed the coast,
examined the ships and the fortifications, selected the best points for
embarkation, and examined until midnight sailors, pilots, smugglers, and
fishermen. He made objections, and carefully weighed their answers. Upon
his return to Paris his friend Bourrienne said to him, "Well, general!
what do you think of the enterprise? Is it feasible?" "No!" he promptly
replied, shaking his head. "It is too hazardous. I will not undertake
it. I will not risk on such a stake the fate of our beautiful France."
At the same time that he was making this survey of the coast, with his
accustomed energy of mind, he was also studying another plan for
resisting the assaults of the British government. The idea of attacking
England, by the way of Egypt in her East Indian acquisitions, had taken
full possession of his imagination. He filled his carriage with all the
books he could find in the libraries of Paris, relating to Egypt. With
almost miraculous rapidity he explored the pages, treasuring up, in his
capacious and retentive memory, every idea of importance.
Interlineations and comments on the margin of these books, in his own
hand-writing, testify to the indefatigable energy of his mind.
Napoleon was now almost adored by the republicans all over Europe, as
the great champion of popular rights. The people looked to him as their
friend and advocate. In England, in particular, there was a large,
influential, and increasing party, dissatisfied with the prerogatives of
the crown, and with the exclusive privileges of the nobility, who were
never weary of proclaiming the praises of this champion of liberty and
equality. The brilliance of his intellect, the purity of his morals, the
stoical firmness of his self-endurance, his untiring energy, the glowing
eloquence of every sentence which fell from his lips, his youth and
feminine stature, and his wondrous achievements, all combined to invest
him with a fascination such as no mortal man ever exerted before. The
command of the army for the invasion of England was now assigned to
Napoleon. He became the prominent and dreaded foe of that great empire.
And yet the common people who were to fight the battles almost to a man
loved him. The throne trembled. The nobles were in consternation. "If we
deal fairly and justly with France," Lord Chatham is reported frankly to
have avowed, "the English government will not exist for four-and-twenty
hours." It was necessary to change public sentiment and to rouse
feelings of personal animosity against this powerful antagonist. To
render Napoleon unpopular, all the wealth and energies of the government
were called into requisition, opening upon him the batteries of
ceaseless invective. The English press teemed with the most atrocious
and absurd abuse. It is truly amusing, in glancing over the pamphlets of
that day, to contemplate the enormity of the vices attributed to him,
and their contradictory nature. He was represented as a perfect demon in
human form. He was a robber and a miser, plundering the treasuries of
nations that he might hoard his countless millions, and he was also a
profligate and a spendthrift, squandering upon his lusts the wealth of
empires. He was wallowing in licentiousness, his camp a harem of
pollution, ridding himself by poison of his concubines as his vagrant
desires wandered from them; at the same time he was _physically an
imbecile_--a monster--whom God in his displeasure had deprived of the
passions and the powers of healthy manhood. He was an idol whom the
entranced people bowed down before and worshiped, with more than
Oriental servility. He was also a sanguinary heartless, merciless
butcher, exulting in carnage, grinding the bones of his own wounded
soldiers into the dust beneath his chariot wheels, and finding congenial
music for his depraved and malignant spirit in the shrieks of the
mangled and the groans of the dying. To Catholic Ireland he was
represented as seizing the venerable Pope by his gray hairs, and thus
dragging him over the marble floor of his palace. To Protestant England,
on the contrary, he was exhibited as in league with the Pope, whom he
treated with the utmost adulation, endeavoring to strengthen the
despotism of the sword with the energies of superstition.
The philosophical composure with which Napoleon regarded this incessant
flow of invective was strikingly grand. "Of all the libels and
pamphlets," said Napoleon subsequently, "with which the English
ministers have inundated Europe, there is not one which will reach
posterity. When I have been asked to cause answers to be written to
them, I have uniformly replied, 'My victories and my works of public
improvement are the only response which it becomes me to make.' When
there shall not be a trace of these libels to be found, the great
monuments of utility which I have reared, and the code of laws that I
have formed, will descend to the most remote ages, and future historians
will avenge the wrongs done me by my contemporaries. There was a time,"
said he again, "when all crimes seemed to belong to me of right; thus I
poisoned Hoche,[5] I strangled Pichegru[6] in his cell, I caused
Kleber[7] to be assassinated in Egypt, I blew out Desaix's[8] brains at
Marengo, I cut the throats of persons who were confined in prison, I
dragged the Pope by the hair of his head, and a hundred similar
absurdities. As yet," he again said, "I have not seen one of those
libels which is worthy of an answer. Would you have me sit down and
reply to Goldsmith, Pichon, or the Quarterly Review? They are so
contemptible and so absurdly false, that they do not merit any other
notice, than to write _false_, _false_, on every page. The only truth I
have seen in them is, that I one day met an officer, General Rapp, I
believe, on the field of battle, with his face begrimed with smoke and
covered with blood, and that I exclaimed, 'Oh, comme il est beau! _O,
how beautiful the sight!_' This is true enough. And of it they have made
a crime. My commendation of the gallantry of a brave soldier, is
construed into a proof of my delighting in blood."
The revolutionary government were in the habit of celebrating the 21st
of January with great public rejoicing, as the anniversary of the
execution of the king. They urged Napoleon to honor the festival by his
presence, and to take a conspicuous part in the festivities. He
peremptorily declined. "This fete," said he, "commemorates a melancholy
event, a tragedy; and can be agreeable to but few people. It is proper
to celebrate victories; but victims left upon the field of battle are to
be lamented. To celebrate the anniversary of a man's death is an act
unworthy of a government; it creates more enemies than friends--it
estranges instead of conciliating; it irritates instead of calming; it
shakes the foundations of government instead of adding to their
strength." The ministry urged that it was the custom with all nations to
celebrate the downfall of tyrants; and that Napoleon's influence over
the public mind was so powerful, that his absence would be regarded as
indicative of hostility to the government, and would be highly
prejudicial to the interests of the Republic. At last Napoleon consented
to attend, as a private member of the Institute, taking no active part
in the ceremonies, but merely walking with the members of the class to
which he belonged. As soon as the procession entered the Church of St.
Sulpice, all eyes were searching for Napoleon. He was soon descried, and
every one else was immediately eclipsed. At the close of the ceremony,
the air was rent with the shouts, "Long live Napoleon!" The Directory
were made exceedingly uneasy by ominous exclamations in the streets, "We
will drive away these lawyers, and make the _Little Corporal_ king."
These cries wonderfully accelerated the zeal of the Directors, in
sending Napoleon to Egypt. And most devoutly did they hope that from
that distant land he would never return.
AN INDIAN PET.
The ichneumon, called in India the neulah, benjee, or mungoos, is known
all over that country. I have seen it on the banks of the Ganges, and
among the old walls of Jaunpore, Sirhind, and at Loodianah; for, like
others of the weasel kind, this little animal delights in places where
it can lurk and peep--such as heaps of stones and ruins; and there is no
lack of these in old Indian cities.
That the neulah is a fierce, terrible, blood-thirsty, destructive little
creature, I experienced to my cost; but notwithstanding all the
provocation I received, I was led to become his friend and protector,
and so finding him out to be the most charming and amiable pet in the
world.
In my military career (for I was for a long time attached to the army) I
was stationed at Jaunpore, and having a house with many conveniences, I
took pleasure in rearing poultry; but scarcely a single chicken could be
magnified to a hen: the rapacious neulahs, fond of tender meat,
waylaying all my young broods, sucking their blood, and feasting on
their brains. But such devastations could not be allowed to pass with
impunity; so we watched the enemy, and succeeded in shooting several of
the offenders, prowling among the hennah or mehendy hedges, where the
clucking-hens used to repose in the shade, surrounded by their progeny.
After one of these _battues_, my little daughter happened to go to the
fowl-house in the evening in search of eggs, and was greatly startled by
a melancholy squeaking which seemed to proceed from an old rat-hole in
one corner. Upon proper investigation this was suspected to be the nest
of one of the neulahs which had suffered the last sentence of the law;
but how to get at the young we did not know, unless by digging up the
floor, and of this I did not approve. So the little young ones would
have perished but for a childish freak of my young daughter. She seated
herself before the nest, and imitated the cry of the famished little
animals so well, that three wee, hairless, blind creatures crept out,
like newly-born rabbits, but with long tails, in the hope of meeting
with their lost mamma.
Our hearts immediately warmed toward the little helpless ones, and no
one wished to wreak the sins of the parents upon the orphans; and
knowing that neulahs were reared as pets, I proposed to my daughter that
she should select one for herself, and give the others to two of my
servants.
My daughter's protegee, however, was the only one that survived under
its new _regime_; and Jumnie, as she called her nursling, throve well,
and soon attained its full size, knowing its name, and endearing itself
to every body by its gambols and tricks. She was like the most
blithesome of little kittens, and played with our fingers, and frolicked
on the sofas, sleeping occasionally behind one of the cushions, and at
other times coiling herself up in her own little flannel bed.
In the course of time, however, Jumnie grew up to maturity, being one
year old, and formed an attachment for one of her own race--a wild,
roving bandit of a neulah, who committed such deeds of atrocity in the
fowl-house as to compel us to take up arms again. If she had only made
her mistress the confidante of her love!--but, alas! little did we
suspect _our_ neulah of a companionship with thieves and assassins; and
so leaving her, we thought, to her customary frolics, we marched upon
the stronghold of the enemy. Two neulahs appeared, we fired, and one
fell, the other running off unscathed. We all hastened to the wounded
and bleeding victim, and my little daughter first of all; but how shall
I describe her grief when she saw her little Jumnie writhing at her feet
in the agonies of death! If I had had the least idea of Jumnie's having
formed such an attachment, I should have spared the guilty for the sake
of the innocent, and Jumnie might long have lived a favorite pet; but
the deed was done.
The neulahs, like other of the weasel kind--and like some animals I know
of a loftier species--are very rapacious, slaying without reference to
their wants; and Jumnie, although fond of milk, used to delight in
livers and brains of fowls, which she relished even after they were
dressed for our table.
The natives of India never molest the neulah. They like to see it about
their dwellings, on account of its snake and rat-killing propensities;
and on a similar account it must have been that this creature was
deified by the Egyptians, whose country abounded with reptiles, and
would have been absolutely alive with crocodiles but for the havoc it
made among the numerous eggs, which it delighted to suck. For this
reason the ichneumons were embalmed as public benefactors, and their
bodies are still found lying in state in some of the pyramids. Among the
Hindoos, however, the neulah does not obtain quite such high honors,
although the elephant, monkey, lion, snake, rat, goose, &c., play a
prominent part in the religious myths, and are styled the Bahons, or
vehicles of the gods.
In Hindoostan the ichneumon is not supposed to kill the crocodile,
though it is in the mouth of every old woman that it possesses the
knowledge of a remedy against the bite of a poisonous snake, which its
instinct leads it to dig out of the ground; but this _on dit_ has never
been ascertained to be true, and my belief is that it is only based on
the great agility and dexterity of the neulah. Eye-witnesses say that
his battles with man's greatest enemy end generally in the death of the
snake, which the neulah seizes by the back of the neck, and after
frequent onsets at last kills and eats, rejecting nothing but the head.
The color of the Indian neulah is a grayish-brown; but its chief beauty
lies in its splendid squirrel-like tail, and lively, prominent,
dark-brown eyes. Like most of the weasel kind, however, it has rather a
disagreeable odor; and if it were not for this there would not be a
sweeter pet in existence.
* * * * *
So far the experience of an Old Indian; and we now turn to another
authority on the highly-curious subject just glanced at--the knowledge
of the ichneumon of a specific against the poison of the snake. Calder
Campbell, in his recent series of tales, "Winter Nights"--and capital
amusement for such nights they are--describes in almost a painfully
truthful manner the adventure of an officer in India, who was an
eye-witness, under very extraordinary circumstances, to the feat of the
ichneumon. The officer, through some accident, was wandering on foot,
and at night, through a desolate part of the country, and at length,
overcome with fatigue, threw himself down on the dry, crisp spear-grass,
and just as the faint edge of the dawn appeared, fell asleep.
"No doubt of it! I slept soundly, sweetly--no doubt of it! I have never
_since then_ slept in the open air either soundly or sweetly, for my
awaking was full of horror! Before I was fully awake, however, I had a
strange perception of danger, which tied me down to the earth, warning
me against all motion. I knew that there was a shadow creeping over me,
beneath which to lie in dumb inaction was the wisest resource. I felt
that my lower extremities were being invaded by the heavy coils of a
living chain; but as if a providential opiate had been infused into my
system, preventing all movement of thew or sinew, I knew not till I was
wide awake that an enormous serpent covered the whole of my nether
limbs, up to the knees!
"'My God! I am lost!' was the mental exclamation I made, as every drop
of blood in my veins seemed turned to ice; and anon I shook like an
aspen leaf, until the very fear that my sudden palsy might rouse the
reptile, occasioned a revulsion of feeling, and I again lay paralyzed.
"It slept, or at all events remained stirless; and how long it so
remained I know not, for time to the fear-struck is as the ring of
eternity. All at once the sky cleared up--the moon shone out--the stars
glanced over me; I could see them all, as I lay stretched on my side,
one hand under my head, whence I dared not remove it; neither dared I
looked downward at the loathsome bed-fellow which my evil stars had sent
me.
"Unexpectedly, a new object of terror supervened: a curious purring
sound behind me, followed by two smart taps on the ground, put the snake
on the alert, for it moved, and I felt that it was crawling upward to my
breast. At that moment, when I was almost maddened by insupportable
apprehension into starting up to meet, perhaps, certain destruction,
something sprang upon my shoulder--upon the reptile! There was a shrill
cry from the new assailant, a loud, appalling hiss from the serpent. For
an instant I could feel them wrestling, as it were, on my body; in the
next, they were beside me on the turf; in another, a few paces off,
struggling, twisting round each other, fighting furiously, I beheld
them--a _mungoos_ or ichneumon and a _cobra di capello_!
"I started up; I watched that most singular combat, for all was now
clear as day. I saw them stand aloof for a moment--the deep, venomous
fascination of the snaky glance powerless against the keen, quick,
restless orbs of its opponent: I saw this duel of the eye exchange once
more for closer conflict: I saw that the mungoos was bitten; that it
darted away, doubtless in search of that still unknown plant whose
juices are its alleged antidote against snake-bite; that it returned
with fresh vigor to the attack; and then, glad sight! I saw the cobra di
capello, maimed from hooded head to scaly tail, fall lifeless from its
hitherto demi-erect position with a baffled hiss; while the wonderful
victor, indulging itself in a series of leaps upon the body of its
antagonist, danced and bounded about, purring and spitting like an
enraged cat!
"Little graceful creature! I have ever since kept a pet mungoos--the
most attached, the most playful, and the most frog-devouring of all
animals."
* * * * *
Many other authors refer to the alleged antidote against a snake-bite,
known only to the ichneumon, and there are about as many different
opinions as there are authors; but, on the whole, our Old Indian appears
to us to be on the strongest side.
KOSSUTH--A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
[Illustration: KOSSUTH, AS GOVERNOR OF HUNGARY IN 1849.]
Louis Kossuth[9] was born at Monok, in Zemplin, one of the northern
counties of Hungary, on the 27th of April, 1806. His family was ancient,
but impoverished; his father served in the Austrian army during the wars
against Napoleon; his mother, who still survives to exult in the glory
of her son, is represented to be a woman of extraordinary force of mind
and character. Kossuth thus adds another to the long list of great men
who seem to have inherited their genius from their mothers. As a boy he
was remarkable for the winning gentleness of his disposition, and for an
earnest enthusiasm, which gave promise of future eminence, could he but
break the bonds imposed by low birth and iron fortune. A young clergyman
was attracted by the character of the boy, and voluntarily took upon
himself the office of his tutor, and thus first opened before his mind
visions of a broader world than that of the miserable village of his
residence. But these serene days of powers expanding under genial
guidance soon passed away. His father died, his tutor was translated to
another post, and the walls of his prison-house seemed again to close
upon the boy. But by the aid of members of his family, themselves in
humble circumstances, he was enabled to attend such schools as the
district furnished. Little worth knowing was taught there; but among
that little was the Latin language; and through that door the young
dreamer was introduced into the broad domains of history, where,
abandoning the mean present, he could range at will through the immortal
past. History relates nothing so spirit-stirring as the struggles of
some bold patriot to overthrow or resist arbitrary power. Hence the
young student of history is always a republican; but, unlike many
others, Kossuth never changed from that faith.
The annals of Hungary contain nothing so brilliant as the series of
desperate conflicts which were waged at intervals for more than two
centuries to maintain the elective character of the Hungarian monarchy,
in opposition to the attempts of the House of Austria to make the crown
hereditary in the Hapsburg line. In these wars, from 1527 to 1715,
seventeen of the family of Kossuth had been attainted for high treason
against Austria. The last, most desperate, and decisively unsuccessful
struggle was that waged by Rakozky, at the beginning of the last
century. Kossuth pored over the chronicles and annals which narrate the
incidents of this contest, till he was master of all the minutest
details. It might then have been predicted that he would one day write
the history of that fruitless struggle, and the biography of its hero;
but no one would have dared to prophesy that he would so closely
reproduce it in deeds.
In times of peace, the law offers to an aspiring youth the readiest
means of ascent from a low degree to lofty stations. Kossuth, therefore,
when just entering upon manhood, made his way to Pesth, the capital, to
study the legal profession. Here he entered the office of a notary, and
began gradually to make himself known by his liberal opinions, and the
fervid eloquence with which he set forth and maintained them; and men
began to see in him the promise of a powerful public writer, orator, and
debater.
The man and the hour were alike preparing. In 1825, the year before
Kossuth arrived at Pesth, the critical state of her Italian possessions
compelled Austria to provide extraordinary revenues. The Hungarian Diet
was then assembled, after an interval of thirteen years. This Diet at
once demanded certain measures of reform before they would make the
desired pecuniary grants. The court was obliged to concede these
demands. Kossuth, having completed his legal studies, and finding no
favorable opening in the capital, returned, in 1830, to his native
district, and commenced the practice of the law, with marked success. He
also began to make his way toward public life by his assiduous
attendance and intelligent action in the local assemblies. A new Diet
was assembled in 1832, and he received a commission as the
representative, in the Diet, of a magnate who was absent. As proxy for
an absentee, he was only charged, by the Hungarian Constitution, with a
very subordinate part, his functions being more those of a counsel than
of a delegate. This, however, was a post much sought for by young and
aspiring lawyers, as giving them an opportunity of mastering legal
forms, displaying their abilities, and forming advantageous connections.
This Diet renewed the Liberal struggle with increased vigor. By far the
best talent of Hungary was ranged upon the Liberal side. Kossuth early
made himself known as a debater, and gradually won his way upward, and
became associated with the leading men of the Liberal party, many of
whom were among the proudest and richest of the Hungarian magnates. He
soon undertook to publish a report of the debates and proceedings of the
Diet. This attempt was opposed by the Palatine, and a law hunted up
which forbade the "printing and publishing" of these reports. He for a
while evaded the law by having his sheet lithographed. It increased in
its development of democratic tendencies, and in popularity, until
finally the lithographic press was seized by Government. Kossuth,
determined not to be baffled, still issued his journal, every copy being
written out by scribes, of whom he employed a large number. To avoid
seizure at the post-office, they were circulated through the local
authorities, who were almost invariably on the Liberal side. This was a
period of intense activity on the part of Kossuth. He attended the
meetings of the Diet, and the conferences of the deputies, edited his
paper, read almost all new works on politics and political economy, and
studied French and English for the sake of reading the debates in the
French Chambers and the British Parliament; allowing himself, we are
told, but three hours' sleep in the twenty-four. His periodical
penetrated into every part of the kingdom, and men saw with wonder a
young and almost unknown public writer boldly pitting himself against
Metternich and the whole Austrian Cabinet. Kossuth might well, at this
period declare that he "felt within himself something nameless."
In the succeeding Diets the Opposition grew still more determined.
Kossuth, though twice admonished by Government, still continued his
journal; and no longer confined himself to simple reports of the
proceedings of the Diet, but added political remarks of the keenest
satire and most bitter denunciation. He was aware that his course was a
perilous one. He was once found by a friend walking in deep reverie in
the fortress of Buda, and in reply to a question as to the subject of
his meditations, he said, "I was looking at the casemates, for I fear
that I shall soon be quartered there." Government finally determined to
use arguments more cogent than discussion could furnish. Baron
Wesselenyi, the leader of the Liberal party, and the most prominent
advocate of the removal of urbarial burdens, was arrested, together with
a number of his adherents. Kossuth was of course a person of too much
note to be overlooked, and on the 4th of May, 1837, to use the words of
an Austrian partisan, "it happened that as he was promenading in the
vicinity of Buda, he was seized by the myrmidons of the law, and
confined in the lower walls of the fortress, there to consider, in
darkness and solitude, how dangerous it is to defy a powerful
government, and to swerve from the path of law and of prudence."
Kossuth became at once sanctified in the popular mind as a martyr.
Liberal subscriptions were raised through the country for the benefit of
his mother and sisters, whom he had supported by his exertions, and who
were now left without protection. Wesselenyi became blind in prison;
Lovassi, an intimate friend of Kossuth, lost his reason; and Kossuth
himself, as was certified by his physicians, was in imminent risk of
falling a victim to a serious disease. The rigor of his confinement was
mitigated; he was allowed books, newspapers, and writing materials, and
suffered to walk daily upon the bastions of the fortress, in charge of
an officer. Among those who were inspired with admiration for his
political efforts, and with sympathy for his fate, was Teresa Mezlenyi,
the young daughter of a nobleman. She sent him books, and corresponded
with him during his imprisonment; and they were married in 1841, soon
after his liberation.
The action of the drama went on, though Kossuth was for a while
withdrawn from the stage. His connection with Wesselenyi procured for
him a degree of influence among the higher magnates which he could
probably in no other way have attained. Their aid was as essential to
the early success of the Liberals, as was the support of Essex and
Manchester to the Parliament of England at the commencement of the
contest with Charles I.
In the second year of Kossuth's imprisonment, Austria again needed
Hungarian assistance. The threatening aspect of affairs in the East,
growing out of the relations between Turkey and Egypt, determined all
the great powers to increase their armaments. A demand was made upon the
Hungarian Diet for an additional levy of 18,000 troops. A large body of
delegates was chosen pledged to oppose this grant except upon condition
of certain concessions, among which was a general amnesty, with a
special reference to the cases of Wesselenyi and Kossuth. The most
sagacious of the Conservative party advised Government to liberate all
the prisoners, with the exception of Kossuth; and to do this before the
meeting of the Diet, in order that their liberation might not be made a
condition of granting the levy; which must be the occasion of great
excitement. The Cabinet temporized, and did nothing. The Diet was
opened, and the contest was waged during six months. The Opposition had
a majority of two in the Chamber of Deputies, but were in a meagre
minority in the Chamber of Magnates. But Metternich and the Cabinet grew
alarmed at the struggle, and were eager to obtain the grant of men, and
to close the refractory Diet. In 1840 a royal rescript suddenly made its
appearance, granting the amnesty, accompanied also with conciliatory
remarks, and the demands of the Government for men and money were at
once complied with. This action of Government weakened the ranks of its
supporters among the Hungarian magnates, who thus found themselves
exposed to the charge of being more despotic than the Cabinet of
Metternich itself.
Kossuth issued from prison in 1840, after an imprisonment of three
years, bearing in his debilitated frame, his pallid face, and glassy
eyes, traces of severe sufferings, both of mind and body. He repaired
for a time to a watering-place among the mountains to recruit his
shattered health. His imprisonment had done more for his influence than
he could have effected if at liberty. The visitors at the watering-place
treated with silent respect the man who moved about among them in
dressing-gown and slippers, and whose slow steps, and languid features
disfigured with yellow spots, proclaimed him an invalid. Abundant
subscriptions had been made for his benefit and that of his family, and
he now stood on an equality with the proudest magnates. These had so
often used the name of the "Martyr of the liberty of the press" in
pointing their speeches, that they now had no choice but to accept the
popular verdict as their own. Kossuth, in the meanwhile mingled little
with the society at the watering-place; but preferred, as his health
improved, to wander among the forest-clad hills and lonely valleys,
where, says one who there became acquainted with him, and was his
frequent companion, "the song of birds, a group of trees, and even the
most insignificant phenomena of nature furnished occasions for
conversation." But now and then flashes would burst forth which showed
that he was revolving other things in his mind. Sometimes a chord would
be casually struck which awoke deeper feelings, then his rare eloquence
would burst forth with the fearful earnestness of conviction, and he
hurled forth sentences instinct with life and passion. The wife of the
Lord-Lieutenant, the daughter of a great magnate, was attracted by his
appearance, and desired this companion of Kossuth to introduce him to
her house. When this desire was made known to Kossuth, the mysterious
and nervous expression passed over his face, which characterizes it when
excited. "No," he exclaimed, "I will not go to that woman's house; her
father subscribed four-pence to buy a rope to hang me with!"
Soon after his liberation, he came forward as the principal editor of
the "Pesth Gazette" (_Pesthi Hirlap_), which a bookseller, who enjoyed
the protection of the Government, had received permission to establish.
The name of the editor was now sufficient to electrify the country; and
Kossuth at once stood forth as the advocate of the rights of the lower
and middle classes against the inordinate privileges and immunities
enjoyed by the magnates. But when he went to the extent of demanding
that the house-tax should be paid by all classes in the community, not
even excepting the highest nobility, a party was raised up against him
among the nobles, who established a paper to combat so disorganizing a
doctrine. This party, backed by the influence of Government, succeeded
in defeating the election of Kossuth as member from Pesth for the Diet
of 1843. He was, however, very active in the local Assembly of the
capital.
Kossuth was not altogether without support among the higher nobles. The
blind old Wesselenyi traversed the country, advocating rural freedom and
the abolition of the urbarial burdens. Among his supporters at this
period also, was Count Louis Batthyanyi, one of the most considerable of
the Magyar magnates, subsequently President of the Hungarian Ministry,
and the most illustrious martyr of the Hungarian cause. Aided by his
powerful support, Kossuth was again brought forward, in 1847, as one of
the two candidates from Pesth. The Government party, aware that they
were in a decided minority, limited their efforts to an attempt to
defeat the election of Kossuth. This they endeavored to effect by
stratagem. The Liberal party nominated Szentkiraly and Kossuth. The
Government party also named the former. The Royal Administrator, who
presided at the election, decided that Szentkiraly was chosen by
acclamation; but that a poll must be held for the other member. Before
the intention of Kossuth to present himself as a candidate was known,
the Liberals had proposed M. Balla as second delegate. He at once
resigned in favor of Kossuth. The Government party cast their votes for
him, in hopes of drawing off a portion of the Liberal party from the
support of Kossuth. M. Balla loudly but unavailingly protested against
this stratagem; and when after a scrutiny of twelve hours, Kossuth was
declared elected, Balla was the first to applaud. That night Kossuth,
Balla, and Szentkiraly were serenaded by the citizens of Pesth; they
descended together to the street, and walked arm-in-arm among the crowd.
The Royal Administrator was severely reprimanded for not having found
means to prevent the election of Kossuth.
Kossuth no sooner took his seat in the Diet than the foremost place was
at once conceded to him. At the opening of the session he moved an
address to the king, concluding with the petition that "liberal
institutions, similar to those of the Hungarian Constitution, might be
accorded to all the hereditary states, that thus might be created a
united Austrian monarchy, based upon broad and constitutional
principles." During the early months of the session Kossuth showed
himself a most accomplished parliamentary orator and debater; and
carried on a series of attacks upon the policy of the Austrian Cabinet,
which for skill and power have few parallels in the annals of
parliamentary warfare. Those form a very inadequate conception of its
scope and power, whose ideas of the eloquence of Kossuth are derived
solely from the impassioned and exclamatory harangues which he flung out
during the war. These were addressed to men wrought up to the utmost
tension, and can be judged fairly only by men in a state of high
excitement. He adapted his matter and manner to the occasion and the
audience. Some of his speeches are marked by a stringency of logic
worthy of Webster or Calhoun:--but it was what all eloquence of a high
order must ever be--"Logic red-hot."
Now came the French Revolution of February, 1848. The news of it reached
Vienna on the 1st of March, and was received at Pressburg on the 2d. On
the following day Kossuth delivered his famous speech on the finances
and the state of the monarchy generally, concluding with a proposed
"Address to the Throne," urging a series of reformatory measures. Among
the foremost of these was the emancipation of the country from feudal
burdens--the proprietors of the soil to be indemnified by the state;
equalizing taxation; a faithful administration of the revenue to be
satisfactorily guaranteed; the further development of the representative
system; and the establishment of a government representing the voice of,
and responsible to the nation.[10] The speech produced an effect almost
without parallel in the annals of debate. Not a word was uttered in
reply, and the motion was unanimously carried. On the 13th of March took
place the revolution in Vienna which overthrew the Metternich Cabinet.
On the 15th, the Constitution granted by the Emperor to all the nations
within the Empire was solemnly proclaimed, amidst the wildest transports
of joy. Henceforth there were to be no more Germans or Sclavonians,
Magyars or Italians; strangers embraced and kissed each other in the
streets, for all the heterogeneous races of the Empire were now
brothers:--as likewise were all the nations of the earth at Anacharsis
Klootz's "Feast of Pikes" in Paris, on that 14th day of July in the year
of grace 1790--and yet, notwithstanding, came the "Reign of Terror."
Among the demands made by the Hungarian Diet was that of a separate and
responsible Ministry for Hungary. The Palatine, Archduke Stephen, to
whom the conduct of affairs in Hungary had been intrusted, persuaded the
Emperor to accede to this demand, and on the following day Batthyanyi,
who with Kossuth and a deputation of delegates of the Diet was in
Vienna, was named President of the Hungarian Ministry. It was, however,
understood that Kossuth was the life and soul of the new Ministry.
Kossuth assumed the department of Finance, then, as long before and now,
the post of difficulty under Austrian administration. The Diet meanwhile
went on to consummate the series of reforms which Kossuth had so long
and steadfastly advocated. The remnants of feudalism were swept
away--the landed proprietors being indemnified by the state for the loss
they sustained. The civil and political rights which had heretofore been
in the exclusive possession of the nobles, were extended to the burghers
and the peasants. A new electoral law was framed, according the right of
suffrage to every possessor of property to the amount of about one
hundred and fifty dollars. The whole series of bills received the royal
signature on the 11th of April; the Diet having previously adjourned to
meet on the 2d of July.
Up to this time there had been indeed a vigorous and decided opposition,
but no insurrection. The true cause of the Hungarian war was the
hostility of the Austrian Government to the whole series of reformatory
measures which had been effected through the instrumentality of Kossuth;
but its immediate occasion was the jealousy which sprung up among the
Serbian and Croatian dependencies of Hungary against the Hungarian
Ministry. This soon broke out into an open revolt, headed by Baron
Jellachich, who had just been appointed Ban or Lord of Croatia. How far
the Serbs and Croats had occasion for jealousy, is of little consequence
to our present purpose to inquire; though we may say, in passing, that
the proceedings of the Magyars toward the other Hungarian races was
marked by a far more just and generous feeling and conduct than could
have been possibly expected; and that the whole ground of hostility was
sheer misrepresentation; and this, if we may credit the latest and best
authorities, is now admitted by the Sclavic races themselves. But
however the case may have been as between the Magyars and Croats, as
between the Hungarians and Austria, the hostile course of the latter is
without excuse or palliation. The Emperor had solemnly sanctioned the
action of the Diet, and did as solemnly denounce the proceedings of
Jellachich. On the 29th of May the Ban was summoned to present himself
at Innspruck, to answer for his conduct; and as he did not make his
appearance, an Imperial manifesto was issued on the 10th of June,
depriving him of all his dignities, and commanding the authorities at
once to break off all intercourse with him. He, however, still continued
his operations, and levied an army for the invasion of Hungary, and a
fierce and bloody war of races broke out, marked on both sides by the
most fearful atrocities.
The Hungarian Diet was opened on the 5th of July, when the Palatine,
Archduke Stephen, in the name of the king, solemnly denounced the
conduct of the insurgent Croats. A few days after, Kossuth, in a speech
in the Diet, set forth the perilous state of affairs, and concluded by
asking for authority to raise an army of 200,000 men, and a large amount
of money. These proposals were adopted by acclamation, the enthusiasm in
the Diet rendering any debate impossible and superfluous.
The Imperial forces having been victorious in Italy, and one pressing
danger being thus averted from the Empire, the Austrian Cabinet began
openly to display its hostility to the Hungarian movement. Jellachich
repaired to Innspruck, and was openly acknowledged by the court, and the
decree of deposition was revoked. Early in September Hungary and Austria
stood in an attitude of undisguised hostility. On the 5th of that month,
Kossuth, though enfeebled by illness, was carried to the hall of the
Diet where he delivered a speech, declaring that so formidable were the
dangers that surrounded the nation, that the Ministers might soon be
forced to call upon the Diet to name a Dictator, clothed with unlimited
powers, to save the country; but before taking this final step they
would recommend a last appeal to the Imperial government. A large
deputation was thereupon dispatched to the Emperor, to lay before him
the demands of the Hungarian nation. No satisfactory answer was
returned, and the deputation left the Imperial presence in silence. On
their return, they plucked from their caps the plumes of the united
colors of Austria and Hungary, and replaced them with red feathers, and
hoisted a flag of the same color on the steamer which conveyed them to
Pesth. Their report produced the most intense agitation in the Diet, and
at the capital, but it was finally resolved to make one more attempt for
a pacific settlement of the question. In order that no obstacle might be
interposed by their presence, Kossuth and his colleagues resigned, and a
new Ministry was appointed. A deputation was sent to the National
Assembly at Vienna, which refused to receive it. Jellachich had in the
mean time entered Hungary with a large army, not as yet, however, openly
sanctioned by Imperial authority. The Diet seeing the imminent peril of
the country, conferred dictatorial powers upon Kossuth. The Palatine
resigned his post, and left the kingdom. The Emperor appointed Count
Lemberg to take the entire command of the Hungarian army. The Diet
declared the appointment illegal, and the Count, arriving at Pesth
without escort, was slain in the streets of the capital by the populace,
in a sudden outbreak. The Emperor forthwith placed the kingdom under
martial law, giving the supreme civil and military power to Jellachich.
The Diet at once revolted; declared itself permanent, and appointed
Kossuth Governor, and President of the Committee of Safety.
There was now but one course left for the Hungarians: to maintain by
force of arms the position they had assumed. We can not detail the
events of the war which followed, but merely touch upon the most salient
points. Jellachich was speedily driven out of Hungary, toward Vienna. In
October, the Austrian forces were concentrated under command of
Windischgraetz, to the number of 120,000 veterans, and were put on the
march for Hungary. To oppose them, the only forces under the command of
the new Government of Hungary, were 20,000 regular infantry, 7000
cavalry, and 14,000 recruits, who received the name of Honveds, or
"protectors of home." Of all the movements that followed, Kossuth was
the soul and chief. His burning and passionate appeals stirred up the
souls of the peasants, and sent them by thousands to the camp. He
kindled enthusiasm, he organized that enthusiasm, and transformed those
raw recruits into soldiers more than a match for the veteran troops of
Austria. Though himself not a soldier, he discovered and drew about him
soldiers and generals of a high order. The result was that Windischgraetz
was driven back from Hungary, and of the 120,000 troops which he led
into that kingdom in October, one half were killed, disabled, or taken
prisoners at the end of April. The state of the war on the 1st of May,
may be gathered from the Imperial manifesto of that date, which
announced that "the insurrection in Hungary had grown to such an
extent," that the Imperial Government "had been induced to appeal to the
assistance of his Majesty the Czar of all the Russias, who generously
and readily granted it to a most satisfactory extent." The issue of the
contest could no longer be doubtful, when the immense weight of Russia
was thrown into the scale. Had all power, civil and military been
concentrated in one person, and had he displayed the brilliant
generalship and desperate courage which Napoleon manifested in 1814,
when the overwhelming forces of the allies were marching upon Paris, the
fall of Hungary might have been delayed for a few weeks, perhaps to
another campaign; but it could not have been averted. In modern warfare
there is a limit beyond which devotion and enthusiasm can not supply the
place of numbers and material force. And that limit was overpassed when
Russia and Austria were pitted against Hungary.
The chronology of the Hungarian struggle may be thus stated: On the 9th
of September, 1848, Jellachich crossed the Drave and invaded Hungary;
and was driven back at the close of that month toward Vienna. In
October, Windischgraetz advanced into Hungary, and took possession of
Pesth, the capital. On the 14th of April, 1849, the Declaration of
Hungarian Independence was promulgated. At the close of that month, the
Austrians were driven out at every point, and the issue of the contest,
as between Hungary and Austria, was settled. On the 1st of May the
Russian intervention was announced. On the 11th of August Kossuth
resigned his dictatorship into the hands of Goergey who, two days after,
in effect closed the war by surrendering to the Russians.
The Hungarian war thus lasted a little more than eleven months; during
which time there was but one ruling and directing spirit; and that was
Kossuth, to whose immediate career we now return.
Early in January it was found advisable to remove the seat of government
from Pesth to the town of Debreczin, situated in the interior. Pesth was
altogether indefensible, and the Austrian army were close upon it; but
here the Hungarians had collected a vast amount of stores and
ammunition, the preservation of which was of the utmost importance. In
saving these the administrative power of Kossuth was strikingly
manifested. For three days and three nights he labored uninterruptedly
in superintending the removal, which was successfully effected. From the
heaviest locomotive engine down to a shot-belt, all the stores were
packed up and carried away, so that when the Austrians took possession
of Pesth, they only gained the eclat of occupying the Hungarian capital,
without acquiring the least solid advantage.
Debreczin was the scene where Kossuth displayed his transcendent
abilities as an administrator, a statesman, and an orator. The
population of the town was about 50,000, which was at once almost
doubled, so that every one was forced to put up with such accommodations
as he could find, and occupy the least possible amount of space. Kossuth
himself occupied the Town Hall. On the first floor was a spacious
ante-room, constantly filled with persons waiting for an interview,
which was, necessarily, a matter of delay, as each one was admitted in
his turn; the only exception being in cases where public business
required an immediate audience.
This ante-room opened into two spacious apartments, in one of which the
secretaries of the Governor were always at work. Here Kossuth received
strangers. At these audiences he spoke but little, but listened
attentively, occasionally taking notes of any thing that seemed of
importance. His secretaries were continually coming to him to receive
directions, to present a report, or some document to receive his
signature. These he never omitted to examine carefully, before affixing
his signature, even amidst the greatest pressure of business; at the
same time listening to the speaker. "Be brief," he used to say, "but for
that very reason forget nothing." These hours of audience were also his
hours of work, and here it was that he wrote those stirring appeals
which aroused and kept alive the spirit of his countrymen. It was only
when he had some document of extraordinary importance to prepare, that
he retired to his closet. These audiences usually continued until far
into the night, the ante-room being often as full at midnight as in the
morning. Although of a delicate constitution, broken also by his
imprisonment, the excitement bore him up under the immense mental and
bodily exertion, and while there was work to do he was never ill.
He usually allowed himself an hour for rest or relaxation, from two till
three o'clock, when he was accustomed to take a drive with his wife and
children to a little wood at a short distance, where he would seek out
some retired spot, and play upon the grass with his children, and for a
moment forget the pressing cares of state.
At three o'clock he dined; and at the conclusion of his simple meal, was
again at his post. This round of audiences was frequently interrupted by
a council of war, a conference of ministers, or the review of a regiment
just on the point of setting out for the seat of hostilities. New
battalions seemed to spring from the earth at his command, and he made a
point of reviewing each, and delivering to them a brief address, which
was always received with a burst of "_eljens_."
At Debreczin the sittings of the House of Assembly were held in what had
been the chapel of the Protestant College. Kossuth attended these
sittings only when he had some important communications to make. Then he
always walked over from the Town Hall. Entering the Assembly, he
ascended the rostrum, if it was not occupied; if it was, he took his
place in any vacant seat, none being specially set apart for the
Governor. He was a monarch, but with an invisible throne, the hearts of
his subjects. When the rostrum was vacant, he would ascend it, and lay
before the Assembly his propositions, or sway all hearts by his burning
and fervent eloquence.
Such was the daily life of Kossuth at the temporary seat of government,
bearing upon his shoulders the affairs of state, calling up, as if by
magic, regiment after regiment, providing for their arming, equipment,
and maintenance, while the Hungarian generals were contending on the
field, with various fortunes; triumphantly against the Austrians,
desperately and hopelessly when Russia was added to the enemy.
The defeat of Bem at Temesvar, on the 9th of August gave the death-blow
to the cause. Two days afterward, Kossuth and Goergey stood alone in the
bow-window of a small chamber in the fortress of Arad. What passed
between them no man knows; but from that room Goergey went forth Dictator
of Hungary; and Kossuth followed him to set out on his journey of exile.
On the same day the new Dictator announced to the Russians his intention
to surrender the forces under his command. The following day he marched
to the place designated, where the Russian General Rudiger arrived on
the 13th, and Goergey's army, numbering 24,000 men, with 144 pieces of
artillery, laid down their arms.
Nothing remained for Kossuth and his companions but flight. They gained
the Turkish frontier, and threw themselves on the hospitality of the
Sultan, who promised them a safe asylum. Russia and Austria demanded
that the fugitives should be given up; and for some months it was
uncertain whether the Turkish Government would dare to refuse. At first
a decided negative was returned; then the Porte wavered; and it was
officially announced to Kossuth and his companions that the only means
for them to avoid surrendry would be to abjure the faith of their
fathers; and thus take advantage of the fundamental Moslem law, that any
fugitive embracing the Mohammedan faith can claim the protection of the
Government. Kossuth refused to purchase his life at such a price. And
finally Austria and Russia were induced to modify their demand, and
merely to insist upon the detention of the fugitives. On the other hand,
the Turkish Government was urged to allow them to depart. Early in the
present year, Mr. Webster, as Secretary of State, directed our Minister
at Constantinople to urge the Porte to suffer the exiles to come to the
United States. A similar course was pursued by the British Government.
It was promised that these representations should be complied with; but
so late as in March of the present year, Kossuth addressed a letter to
our Charge at Constantinople, despairing of his release being granted.
But happily his fears were groundless; and our Government was notified
that on the 1st of September, the day on which terminated the period of
detention agreed upon by the Sultan, Kossuth and his companions would be
free to depart to any part of the world. The United States steam-frigate
Mississippi, was at once placed at his disposal. The offer was accepted.
On the 12th of September the steamer reached Smyrna, with the
illustrious exile and his family and suite on board, bound to our
shores, after a short visit in England. The Government of France, in the
meanwhile, denied him the privilege of passing through their territory.
While this sheet is passing through the press, we are in daily
expectation of the arrival of Kossuth in our country, where a welcome
awaits him warmer and more enthusiastic than has greeted any man who has
ever approached our shores, saving only the time when LA FAYETTE was our
nation's honored guest.
It is right and fitting that it should be so. When a monarch is
dethroned it is appropriate that neighboring monarchies should accord a
hearty and hospitable reception to him, as the representative of the
monarchical principle, even though his own personal character should
present no claims upon esteem or regard. Kossuth comes to us as the
exiled representative of those fundamental principles upon which our
political institutions are based. He is the representative of these
principles, not by the accident of birth, but by deliberate choice. He
has maintained them at a fearful hazard. It is therefore our duty and
our privilege to greet him with a hearty, "Well done!"
Kossuth occupies a position peculiarly his own, whether we regard the
circumstances of his rise, or the feelings which have followed him in
his fall. Born in the middle ranks of life, he raised himself by sheer
force of intellect to the loftiest place among the proudest nobles on
earth, without ever deserting or being deserted by the class from which
he sprung. He effected a sweeping reform without appealing to any sordid
or sanguinary motive. No soldier himself, he transformed a country into
a camp, and a nation into an army. He transmuted his words into
batteries, and his thoughts into soldiers. Without ever having looked
upon a stricken field, he organized the most complete system of
resistance to despotism that the history of revolutions has furnished.
It failed, but only failed where nothing could have succeeded.
Not less peculiar are the feelings which have followed him in his fall.
Men who have saved a state have received the unbounded love and
gratitude of their countrymen. Those who have fallen in the lost battle
for popular rights, or who have sealed their devotion on the scaffold or
in the dungeon, are reverenced as martyrs forevermore. But Kossuth's
endeavors have been sanctified and hallowed neither by success nor by
martyrdom. He is the living leader of a lost cause. His country is
ruined, its nationality destroyed, and through his efforts. Yet no
Hungarian lays this ruin to his charge; and the first lesson taught the
infant Magyar is a blessing upon his name. Yet whatever the future may
have in store, his efforts have not been lost efforts. The tree which he
planted in blood and agony and tears, though its tender shoots have been
trampled down by the Russian bear, will yet spring up again to gladden,
if not his heart, yet those of his children or his children's children.
The man may perish, but the cause endures.
THE LEGEND OF THE LOST WELL.
In ancient times there existed in the desert that lies to the west of
Egypt--somewhere between the sun at its setting and the city of Siout--a
tribe of Arabs that called themselves Waled Allah, or The Children of
God. They professed Mohammedanism, but were in every other respect
different from their neighbors to the north and south, and from the
inhabitants of the land of Egypt. It was their custom during the months
of summer to draw near to the confines of the cultivated country and
hold intercourse with its people, selling camels and wool, and other
desert productions; but when winter came they drew off toward the
interior of the wilderness, and it was not known where they abode. They
were by no means great in numbers; but such was their skill in arms, and
their reputation for courage, that no tribe ever ventured to trespass on
their limits, and all caravans eagerly paid to them the tribute of
safe-conduct.
Such was the case for many years; but at length it came to pass that the
Waled Allah, after departing as usual for the winter, returned in great
disorder and distress toward the neighborhood of the Nile. Those who saw
them on that occasion reported that their sufferings must have been
tremendous. More than two-thirds of their cattle, a great number of the
women and children, and several of the less hardy men, were missing; but
they would not at first confess what had happened to them. When,
however, they asked permission to settle temporarily on some unoccupied
lands, the curious and inquisitive went among them, and by degrees the
truth came out.
It appeared that many centuries ago one of their tribe, following the
track of some camels that had strayed, had ventured to a great distance
in the desert, and had discovered a pass in the mountains leading into a
spacious valley, in the midst of which was a well of the purest water,
that overflowed and fertilized the land around. As the man at once
understood the importance of his discovery, he devoted himself for his
tribe, and returned slowly, piling up stones here and there that the way
might not again be lost. When he arrived at the station he had only
sufficient strength to relate what he had seen before he died of
fatigue and thirst. So they called the well after him--Bir Hassan.
It was found that the valley was only habitable during the winter; for
being surrounded with perpendicular rocks it became like a furnace in
the hot season--the vegetation withered into dust, and the waters hid
themselves within the bowels of the earth. They resolved, therefore, to
spend one half of their time in that spot, where they built a city; and
during the other half of their time they dwelt, as I have said, on the
confines of the land of Egypt.
But it was found that only by a miracle had the well of Hassan been
discovered. Those who tried without the aid of the road-marks to make
their way to it invariably failed. So it became an institution of the
tribe that two men should be left, with a sufficient supply of water and
food, in a large cave overlooking the desert near the entrance of the
valley; and that they should watch for the coming of the tribe, and when
a great fire was lighted on a certain hill, should answer by another
fire, and thus guide their people. This being settled, the piles of
stones were dispersed, lest the greedy Egyptians, hearing by chance of
this valley, should make their way to it.
How long matters continued in this state is not recorded, but at length,
when the tribe set out to return to their winter quarters, and reached
the accustomed station and lighted the fire, no answering fire appeared.
They passed the first night in expectation, and the next day, and the
next night, saying: "Probably the men are negligent;" but at length they
began to despair. They had brought but just sufficient water with them
for the journey, and death began to menace them. In vain they endeavored
to find the road. A retreat became necessary; and, as I have said, they
returned and settled on the borders of the land of Egypt. Many men,
however, went back many times year after year to endeavor to find the
lost well; but some were never heard of more, and some returned, saying
that the search was in vain.
Nearly a hundred years passed away, and the well became forgotten, and
the condition of the tribe had undergone a sad change. It never
recovered its great disaster: wealth and courage disappeared; and the
governors of Egypt, seeing the people dependent and humble-spirited,
began, as is their wont, to oppress them, and lay on taxes and insults.
Many times a bold man of their number would propose that they should go
and join some of the other tribes of Arabs, and solicit to be
incorporated with them; but the idea was laughed at as extravagant, and
they continued to live on in misery and degradation.
It happened that the chief of the tribe at the time of which I now speak
was a man of gentle character and meek disposition, named Abdallah the
Good, and that he had a son, like one of the olden time, stout, and
brave as a lion, named Ali. This youth could not brook the subjection in
which his people were kept, nor the wrongs daily heaped upon them, and
was constantly revolving in his mind the means of escape and revenge.
When he gave utterance to these sentiments, however, his father,
Abdallah, severely rebuked him; for he feared the power of the lords of
Egypt, and dreaded lest mischief might befall his family or his tribe.
Now contemporary with Abdallah the Good there was a governor of Siout
named Omar the Evil. He had gained a great reputation in the country by
his cruelties and oppressions, and was feared by high and low. Several
times had he treated the Waled Allah with violence and indignity,
bestowing upon them the name of Waled Sheitan, or Children of the Devil,
and otherwise vexing and annoying them, besides levying heavy tribute,
and punishing with extreme severity the slightest offense. One day he
happened to be riding along in the neighborhood of their encampment when
he observed Ali trying the paces of a handsome horse which he had
purchased. Covetousness entered his mind, and calling to the youth, he
said, "What is the price of thy horse?"
"It is not for sale," was the reply.
No sooner were the words uttered than Omar made a signal to his men, who
rushed forward, threw the young man to the ground in spite of his
resistance, and leaving him there, returned leading the horse. Omar
commanded them to bring it with them, and rode away, laughing heartily
at his exploit.
But Ali was not the man to submit tamely to such injustice. He
endeavored at first to rouse the passions of his tribe, but not
succeeding, resolved to revenge himself or die in the attempt. One
night, therefore, he took a sharp dagger, disguised himself, and lurking
about the governor's palace, contrived to introduce himself without
being seen, and to reach the garden, where he had heard it was the
custom of Omar to repose awhile as he waited for his supper. A light
guided him to the kiosque where the tyrant slept alone, not knowing that
vengeance was nigh. Ali paused a moment, doubting whether it was just to
strike an unprepared foe; but he remembered all his tribe had suffered
as well as himself, and raising his dagger, advanced stealthily toward
the couch where the huge form of the governor lay.
A slight figure suddenly interposed between him and the sleeping man. It
was that of a young girl, who, with terror in her looks, waved him back.
"What wouldst thou, youth?" she inquired.
"I come to slay that enemy," replied Ali, endeavoring to pass her and
effect his purpose while there was yet time.
"It is my father," said she, still standing in the way and awing him by
the power of her beauty.
"Thy father is a tyrant, and deserves to die."
"If he be a tyrant he is still my father; and thou, why shouldst thou
condemn him?"
"He has injured me and my tribe."
"Let injuries be forgiven, as we are commanded. I will speak for thee
and thy tribe. Is not thy life valuable to thee? Retire ere it be too
late; and by my mother, who is dead, I swear to thee that I will cause
justice to be done."
"Not from any hopes of justice, but as a homage to God for having
created such marvelous beauty, do I retire and spare the life of that
man which I hold in my hands."
So saying Ali sprang away, and effected his escape. No sooner was he out
of sight than Omar, who had been awakened by the sound of voices, but
who had feigned sleep when he heard what turn affairs were taking, arose
and laughed, saying: "Well done, Amina! thou art worthy of thy father.
How thou didst cajole that son of a dog by false promises?"
"Nay, father; what I have promised must be performed."
"Ay, ay. Thou didst promise justice, and, by the beards of my ancestors,
justice shall assuredly be done!"
Next day Ali was seized and conducted to the prison adjoining the
governor's palace. Amina, when she heard of this, in vain sought to
obtain his release. Her father laughed at her scruples, and avowed his
intention of putting the young man to death in the cruelest possible
manner. He had him brought before him, bound and manacled, and amused
himself by reviling and taunting him--calling him a fool for having
yielded to the persuasions of a foolish girl! Ali, in spite of all, did
not reply; for he now thought more of Amina than of the indignities to
which he was subjected; and instead of replying with imprudent courage,
as under other circumstances he might have done, he took care not to
exasperate the tyrant, and meanwhile revolved in his mind the means of
escape. If he expected that his mildness would disarm the fury of Omar,
never was mistake greater; for almost in the same breath with the order
for his being conducted back to prison was given that for public
proclamation of his execution to take place on the next day.
There came, however, a saviour during the night: it was the young Amina,
who, partly moved by generous indignation that her word should have been
given in vain, partly by another feeling, bribed the jailers, and
leading forth the young man, placed him by the side of his trusty steed
which had been stolen from him, and bade him fly for his life. He
lingered to thank her and enjoy her society. They talked long and more
and more confidentially. At length the first streaks of dawn began to
show themselves; and Amina, as she urged him to begone, clung to the
skirts of his garments. He hesitated a moment, a few hurried words
passed, and presently she was behind him on the horse, clasping his
waist, and away they went toward the mountains, into the midst of which
they soon penetrated by a rugged defile.
Amina had been prudent enough to prepare a small supply of provisions,
and Ali knew where at that season water was to be found in small
quantities. His intention was to penetrate to a certain distance in the
desert, and then turning south, to seek the encampment of a tribe with
some of whose members he was acquainted. Their prospects were not very
discouraging; for even if pursuit were attempted, Ali justly confided in
his superior knowledge of the desert: he expected in five days to reach
the tents toward which he directed his course, and he calculated that
the small bag of flour which Amina had provided would prevent them at
least from dying of hunger during that time.
The first stage was a long one. For seven hours he proceeded in a direct
line from the rising sun, the uncomplaining Amina clinging still to him;
but at length the horse began to exhibit symptoms of fatigue, and its
male rider of anxiety. They had traversed an almost uninterrupted
succession of rocky valleys, but now reached an elevated undulating
plain covered with huge black boulders that seemed to stretch like a
petrified sea to the distant horizon. Now and then they had seen during
their morning's ride, in certain little sheltered nooks, small patches
of a stunted vegetation; but now all was bleak and barren, and grim like
the crater of a volcano. And yet it was here that Ali expected evidently
to find water--most necessary to them; for all three were feeling the
symptoms of burning thirst. He paused every now and then, checking his
steed, and rising in his stirrups to gaze ahead or on one side; but each
time his search was in vain. At length he said: "Possibly I have, in the
hurry of my thoughts, taken the wrong defile, in which case nothing but
death awaits us. We shall not have strength to retrace our footsteps,
and must die here in this horrible place. Stand upon the saddlebow,
Amina, while I support thee: if thou seest any thing like a white
shining cloud upon the ground, we are saved."
Amina did as she was told, and gazed for a few moments around. Suddenly
she cried: "I see, as it were a mist of silver far, far away to the
left."
"It is the first well," replied Ali; and he urged his stumbling steed in
that direction.
It soon appeared that they were approaching a mound of dazzling
whiteness. Close by was a little hollow, apparently dry. But Ali soon
scraped away a quantity of the clayey earth, and presently the water
began to collect, trickling in from the sides. In a couple of hours they
procured enough for themselves and for the horse, and ate some flour
diluted in a wooden bowl; after which they lay down to rest beneath a
ledge of rock that threw a little shade. Toward evening, after Ali had
carefully choked up the well, lest it might be dried by the sun, they
resumed their journey, and arrived about midnight at a lofty rock in the
midst of the plain, visible at a distance of many hours in the
moonlight. In a crevice near the summit of this they found a fair supply
of water, and having refreshed themselves, reposed until dawn. Then
Amina prepared their simple meal, and soon afterward off they went again
over the burning plain.
This time, as Ali knew beforehand, there was no prospect of well or
water for twenty-four hours; and unfortunately they had not been able to
procure a skin. However, they carried some flour well moistened in their
wooden bowl, which they covered with a large piece of wet linen, and
studied to keep from the sun. They traveled almost without intermission
the whole of that day and a great part of the night. Ali now saw that it
was necessary to rest, and they remained where they were until near
morning.
"Dearest Amina," said he, returning to the young girl after having
climbed to the top of a lofty rock and gazed anxiously ahead, "I think I
see the mountain where the next water is to be found. If thou art strong
enough, we will push on at once."
Though faint and weary, Amina said: "Let us be going;" and now it was
necessary for Ali to walk, the horse refusing to carry any longer a
double burden. They advanced, however, rapidly; and at length reached
the foot of a lofty range of mountains, all white, and shining in the
sun like silver. In one of the gorges near the summit Ali knew there was
usually a small reservoir of water; but he had only been there once in
his boyhood, when on his way to visit the tribe with which he now
expected to find a shelter. However, he thought he recognized various
landmarks, and began to ascend with confidence. The sun beat furiously
down on the barren and glistering ground; and the horse exhausted, more
than once refused to proceed. He had not eaten once since their
departure, and Ali knew that he must perish ere the journey was
concluded.
As they neared the summit of the ridge, the young man recognized with
joy a rock in the shape of a crouching camel that had formerly been
pointed out to him as indicating the neighborhood of the reservoir, and
pressed on with renewed confidence. What was his horror, however, on
reaching the place he sought, at beholding it quite dry! dry, and hot as
an oven! The water had all escaped by a crevice recently formed. Ali now
believed that death was inevitable; and folding the fainting Amina in
his arms, sat down and bewailed his lot in a loud voice.
Suddenly a strange sight presented itself. A small caravan appeared
coming down the ravine--not of camels, nor of horses, nor asses, but of
goats and a species of wild antelope. They moved slowly, and behind them
walked with tottering steps a man of great age with a vast white beard,
supporting himself with a long stick. Ali rushed forward to a goat which
bore a water-skin, seized it, and without asking permission carried it
to Amina. Both drank with eagerness; and it was not until they were well
satisfied that they noticed the strange old man looking at them with
interest and curiosity. Then they told their story; and the owner of the
caravan in his turn told his, which was equally wonderful.
"And what was the old man's story?" inquired the listeners in one
breath.
"It shall be related to-morrow. The time for sleep has come."
I was not fortunate enough to hear the conclusion of this legend, told
in the simple matter-of-fact words of Wahsa; but one of our attendants
gave me the substance. The old man of the caravan was stated to be the
younger of the two watchers left behind more than a hundred years before
at Bir Hassan. His companion had been killed, and he himself wounded by
some wild beast, which had prevented the necessary signals from being
made. He understood that some terrible disaster had occurred, and dared
not brave the vengeance which he thought menaced him from the survivors.
So he resolved to stay in the valley, and had accordingly remained for a
hundred years, at the expiration of which period he had resolved to set
out on a pilgrimage to the Nile, in order to ascertain if any members of
the tribes still remained, that he might communicate the secret of the
valley before he perished. Like the first discoverer, he had marked the
way by heaps of stones, and died when his narrative was concluded. Ali
and Amina made their way to the valley, where, according to the
narrative, they found a large city, scarcely if at all ruined, and took
up their abode in one of the palaces. Shortly afterward Ali returned to
Egypt, and led off his father, Abdallah the Good, and the remnants of
his tribe in secret. Omar was furious, and following them, endeavored to
discover the valley, of which the tradition was well known. Not
succeeding, he resolved to wait for the summer; but the tribe never
reappeared in Egypt, and is said to have passed the hot months in the
oasis of Farafreh, to which they subsequently removed on the destruction
of their favorite valley by an earthquake.
This tradition, though containing some improbable incidents, may
nevertheless be founded on fact, and may contain, under a legendary
form, the history of the peopling of the oases of the desert. It is,
however, chiefly interesting from the manner in which it illustrates the
important influence which the discovery or destruction of a copious well
of pure water may exercise on the fortunes of a people. It may
sometimes, in fact, as represented in this instance, be a matter of life
and death; and no doubt the Waled Allah are not the only tribe who have
been raised to an enviable prosperity, or sunk into the depths of
misery, by the fluctuating supply of water in the desert.
THE BOW-WINDOW.
AN ENGLISH TALE.
There is something so English, so redolent of home, of flowers in large
antique stands, about a bow-window, that we are always pleased when we
catch a glimpse of one, even if it be when but forming the front of an
inn. It gives a picturesque look too, to a home, that is quite
refreshing to gaze on, and when journeying in foreign lands, fond
recollections of dear England come flooding o'er us, if we happen, in
some out-of-the-way village, on such a memory of the land from whence we
came. I have not, from absence from my country, seen such a thing for
some few years; but there is one fresh in my memory, with its green
short Venetian blinds, its large chintz curtains, its comfortable view
up and down the terrace where we lived, to say nothing of its
associations in connection with my childhood. But it is not of this
bow-window that I would speak, it is of one connected with the fortunes
of my friend Maria Walker, and which had a considerable influence on her
happiness.
Maria Walker was usually allowed to be the beauty of one of the small
towns round London in the direction of Greenwich, of which ancient place
she was a native. Her father had originally practiced as a physician in
that place, but circumstances had caused his removal to another
locality, which promised more profitable returns. The house they
occupied was an ancient red brick mansion in the centre of the town,
with a large bow-window, always celebrated for its geraniums, myrtles,
and roses that, with a couple of small orange-trees, were the admiration
of the neighborhood. Not that Thomas Walker, Esq. had any horticultural
tastes--on the contrary, he was very severe on our sex for devoting
their minds to such trifles as music, flowers, and fancy work; but then
blue-eyed Maria Walker differed with him in opinion, and plainly told
him so--saucy, pert girl, as even I thought her, though several years my
senior. Not that she neglected any more serious duties for those lighter
amusements; the poorer patients of her father ever found in her a
friend. Mr. Walker strongly objected to giving any thing away, it was a
bad example, he said, and people never valued what they got for nothing;
but many was the box of pills and vial of medicine which Maria smuggled
under her father's very nose, to poor people who could not afford to
pay; of course he knew nothing about it, good, easy man, though it would
have puzzled a philosopher to have told how the girl could have prepared
them. She was an active member, too, of a charitable coal club, made
flannel for the poor, and even distributed tracts upon occasion. When
this was done, then she would turn to her pleasures, which were her
little world. She was twenty, and I was not sixteen at the time of which
I speak, but yet we were the best friends in the world. I used to go and
sit in the bow-window; while she would play the piano for hours
together, I had some fancy-work on my lap; but my chief amusement was to
watch the passers-by. I don't think that I am changed by half-a-dozen
more years of experience, for I still like a lively street, and dislike
nothing more than a look out upon a square French court in this great
city of Paris, where houses are more like prisons than pleasant
residences. But to return to my bow-window.
In front of the house of the Walkers, had been, a few years before, an
open space, but which now, thanks to the rapid march of improvement, was
being changed into a row of very good houses. There were a dozen of
them, and they were dignified with the name of Beauchamp Terrace. They
were, about the time I speak of, all to let; the last finishing touch
had been put to them, the railings had been painted, the rubbish all
removed, and they wanted nothing, save furniture and human beings to
make them assume a civilized and respectable appearance. I called one
morning on Maria Walker, her father was out, she had been playing the
piano till she was tired, so we sat down in the bow-window and talked.
"So the houses are letting?" said I, who took an interest in the terrace
which I had seen grow under my eyes.
"Two are let," replied she, "and both to private families; papa is
pleased, he looks upon these twelve houses as twelve new patients."
"But," said I, laughing, "have you not read the advertisement: 'Healthy
and airy situation, rising neighborhood, and yet only one medical man.'"
"Oh! yes," smiled Maria; "but sickness, I am sorry to say, is very apt
to run about at some time or other, even in airy situations."
"But, Maria, you are mistaken, there are three houses let," said I,
suddenly, "the bill is taken down opposite, it has been let since
yesterday."
"Oh, yes, I recollect a very nice young man driving up there yesterday,
and looking over the house for an hour; I suppose he has taken it."
"A nice young man," said I, "that is very interesting--I suppose a young
couple just married."
"Very likely," replied Maria Walker, laughing; but whether at the fact
of my making up my mind to its being an interesting case of matrimony,
or what else, I know not.
It was a week before I saw Maria again, and when I did, she caught me by
the hand, drew me rapidly to the window, and with a semi-tragic
expression, pointed to the house over the way. I looked. What was my
astonishment when, on the door in large letters, I read these words,
"Mr. Edward Radstock, M. D."
"A rival," cried I, clapping my hands, thoughtless girl that I was;
"another feud of Montague and Capulet. Maria, could not a Romeo and
Juliet be found to terminate it?"
"Don't laugh," replied Maria, gravely; "papa is quite ill with vexation;
imagine, in a small town like this, two doctors! it's all the fault of
that advertisement. Some scheming young man has seen it, and finding no
hope of practice elsewhere, has come here. I suppose he is as poor as a
rat."
At this instant the sound of horses' footsteps was heard, and then three
vans full of furniture appeared in sight. They were coming our way. We
looked anxiously to see before which house they stopped. I must confess
that what Maria said interested me in the young doctor, and I really
hoped all this was for him. Maria said nothing, but, with a frown on her
brow, she waited the progress of events. As I expected, the vans stopped
before the young doctor's house, and in a few minutes the men began to
unload. My friend turned pale as she saw that the vehicles were full of
elegant furniture.
"The wretch has got a young wife, too," she exclaimed, as a piano and
harp came to view, and then she added, rising, "this will never do;
they must be put down at once; _they_ are strangers in the neighborhood,
_we_ are well known. Sit down at that desk, my dear girl, and help me to
make out a list of all the persons _we_ can invite to a ball and evening
party. I look upon them as impertinent interlopers, and they must be
crushed."
I laughingly acquiesced, and aided by her, soon wrote out a list of
invitations to be given.
"But now," said Miss Walker, after a few moments of deep reflection,
"one name more must be added, _they_ must be invited."
"Who?" exclaimed I, in a tone of genuine surprise.
"Mr. and Mrs. Edward Radstock," replied Maria, triumphantly, while I
could scarcely speak from astonishment.
The rest of my narrative I collected from the lips of my friend, a
little more than a year later.
The ball took place to the admiration of all C----. It was a splendid
affair: a select band came down from London, in which two foreigners,
with dreadfully un-euphonic names, played upon two unknown instruments,
that deafened nearly every sensitive person in the room, and would have
driven every body away, had not they been removed into the drawing-room
balcony; then there was a noble Italian, reduced to a tenor-singer, who
astonished the company, equally by the extraordinary number of strange
songs that he sang, and the number of ices and jellies which he ate;
then there were one or two literary men, who wrote anonymously, but
might have been celebrated, only they scorned to put their names forward
among the common herd, the [Greek: hoi polloi] already known to the
public; there was a young poet too, who thought Alfred Tennyson
infinitely superior to Shakspeare, and by the air with which he read a
poem, seemed to insinuate that he himself was greater than either; and
then there was a funny gentleman, who could imitate Henry Russell, John
Parry, Buckstone, or any body, only he had a cold and could not get
beyond a negro recitation, which might have been Chinese poetry for all
the company understood of it. In fact it was the greatest affair of the
kind which C---- had seen for many a long day. Mr. and _Miss_ Radstock
came, and were received with cold politeness by both father and
daughter. The young man was good-looking, with an intelligent eye, a
pleasing address, and none of that pertness of manner which usually
belongs to those who have just thrown off the medical student to become
the doctor. Miss Radstock, his sister, who kept house for him, until he
found a wife, was a charming girl of about twenty. She smiled at the
manner of both Mr. and Miss Walker, but said nothing. Young Radstock's
only revenge for the lady of the house's coldness and stateliness of
tone, was asking her to dance at the first opportunity, which certainly
was vexatious, for his tone was so pleasing, his manner so courteous,
that my friend Maria could not but feel pleased--when she wanted to be
irate, distant, and haughty.
They danced together several times, and to the astonishment of many
friends of the young lady, of myself in particular, they went down to
supper the best friends in the world, laughing and joking like old
acquaintances.
Next day, however, she resumed her original coldness of manner when the
brother and sister called to pay their respects. She was simply polite,
and no more, and after two or three words they retired, Emily Radstock
becoming as stiff and formal as her new acquaintance. From that day
Maria became very miserable. She was not avaricious, and did not fear
her father losing his practice from any pecuniary motives, but it was
pride that influenced her. Her father had for some years monopolized the
parish, as his predecessor had for forty years before him; and now to
behold a young unfledged physician setting up exactly opposite, and
threatening to divide in time the business of the town, was dreadful.
_The_ physician of the town, sounded better, too, than one of the
doctors, and altogether it was a most unpleasant affair.
Maria's place was now always the bow-window. She had no amusement but to
watch the opposite house, to see if patients came, or if Edward Radstock
made any attempt to call about and introduce himself. But for some time
she had the satisfaction of remarking, that not a soul called at the
house, save the butcher, the baker, and other contributors to the
interior comforts of man, and Maria began to feel the hope that Edward
Radstock would totally fail in his endeavors to introduce himself. She
remarked, however, that the young man took it very quietly; he sat by
his sister's side while she played the piano, or with a book and a cigar
at the open window, or took Emily a drive in his gig; always, when he
remarked Maria at the open window, bowing with provoking courtesy,
nothing daunted by her coldness of manner, or her pretense of not
noticing his politeness.
One day Mr. Walker was out, he had been called to a distance to see a
patient, who was very seriously ill, when Maria sat at the bow-window
looking up the street. Suddenly she saw a boy come running down on their
side of the way; she knew him by his bright buttons, light jacket, and
gold lace. It was the page of the Perkinses, a family with a host of
little children, who, from constant colds, indigestions, and fits of
illness, caused by too great a liking for the pleasures of the table,
which a fond mother had not the heart to restrain, were continually on
Mr. Walker's books.
The boy rang violently at the bell, and Maria opened the parlor-door and
listened.
"Is Mr. Walker at home?" said the boy, scarcely able to speak from want
of breath.
"No," replied the maid who had opened the door.
"He will be home directly," said Maria, advancing.
"Oh! but missus can't wait, there's little Peter been and swallowed a
marble, and the baby's took with fits," and away rushed the boy across
the road to the hated rival's house.
Maria retreated into her room and sank down upon a sofa. The enemy had
gained an entrance into the camp, it was quite clear. In a moment more
she rose, just in time to see Mr. Edward Radstock hurrying down the
street beside the little page, without waiting to order his gig. This
was a severe blow to the doctor's daughter. The Perkinses were a leading
family in the town, and one to whom her father was called almost every
day in the year. They had a large circle of acquaintances, and if young
Radstock became their medical adviser, others would surely follow. In
about an hour, the young man returned and joined his sister in the
drawing-room, as if nothing had happened. This was more provoking than
his success. If he had assumed an air of importance and bustle, and had
hurried up to inform his sister with an air of joy and triumph of what
had happened, she might have been tempted to pity him, but he did every
thing in such a quiet, gentlemanly way, that she felt considerable alarm
for the future.
Maria was in the habit of spending most of her evenings from home, her
father being generally out, and that large house in consequence lonely.
The town of C---- was famous for its tea and whist-parties, and though
Maria was not of an age to play cards, except to please others, she,
however, sometimes condescended to do so. One evening she was invited to
the house of a Mrs. Brunton, who announced her intention of receiving
company every Thursday. She went, and found the circle very pleasant and
agreeable, but, horror of horrors--there was Mr. Edward Radstock and his
sister Emily; and worse than that, when a lady present volunteered to
play a quadrille, and the ladies accepted eagerly, up he came, of all
others, to invite her to dance! Mrs. Brunton the instant before had
asked her to play at whist, to oblige three regular players, who could
not find a fourth.
"I am afraid," she said, quietly, but in rather distant tones, "I am
engaged"--the young man looked surprised, even hurt, for no gentleman
had spoken to her since she had entered the room--"to make a fourth at
the whist-table, but--"
"Oh, go and dance, Miss Walker," exclaimed Mrs. Brunton, "I did not know
dancing was going to begin, when I asked you to make up a rubber."
Maria offered her hand to the young man, and walked away to the
dancing-room. Despite herself, that evening she was very much pleased
with him. He was well informed, had traveled, was full of taste and
feeling, and conversed with animation and originality; he sought every
opportunity of addressing himself to her, and found these opportunities
without much difficulty. For several Thursdays the same thing occurred.
The young man began to find a little practice. He was popular wherever
he went, and whenever he was called in was quite sure of keeping up the
connection. He was asked out to all the principal parties in the town;
and had Mr. Walker been not very much liked, would have proved a very
serious rival.
One morning the father and daughter were at breakfast. Maria, who began
to like her bow-window better than ever, sat near it to scent the
fragrance of her flowers. When the young doctor came out, she always now
returned his bow, and a young lady opposite declared in confidence to
her dressmaker that she had even kissed her hand to him once. However
this may be, Maria sat at the bow-window, pouring out tea for her father
in a very abstracted mood. Mr. Walker had been called out at an early
hour, and returned late. He was not in the best of humors, having waited
four hours beyond his time for his tea.
"I shall die in the workhouse," said he, as he buttered his toast with
an irritability of manner quite alarming. "This Radstock is getting all
the practice. I heard of two new patients yesterday."
"Oh, papa," replied Maria, gently. "I don't think he has got a dozen
altogether."
"A dozen--but that's a dozen lost to me, miss. It's a proof that people
think me old--worn out--useless."
"Nonsense, papa; C---- is increasing in population every day, and for
every one he gets, you get two."
"My dear," replied Mr. Walker, with considerable animation, "I think you
are beginning to side with my rival."
A loud knocking came this instant to the door, and the man-servant
immediately after announced "Dr. Radstock."
Mr. Walker had no time to make any remark, ere the young man entered the
room, bowing most politely to the old gentleman and his daughter; both
looked confused, and the father much surprised. He was in elegant
morning costume, and looked both handsome and happy--the old doctor
thought, triumphant.
"Pardon me, sir," said he, "for disturbing you at this early hour; but
your numerous calls take you so much out, that one must take you when
one can find you. My errand will doubtless surprise you, but I am very
frank and open; my object in visiting you is to ask permission to pay my
addresses to your daughter."
"To do what, sir?" thundered the old doctor in a towering passion. "Are
you not satisfied with trying to take from me my practice, but you must
ask me for my child? I tell you, sir, nothing on earth would make me
consent to your marriage with my daughter."
"But, sir," said Edward Radstock, turning to Maria, "I have your
daughter's permission to make this request. I told her of my intentions
last night, and she authorized me to say that she approved of them."
"Maria," exclaimed the father, almost choking with rage, "is this true?"
"My dear papa, I am in no hurry to get married, but if I did, I must
say, that I should never think of marrying any one but Edward Radstock.
I will not get married against your will, but I will never marry any one
else; nothing will make me."
"Ungrateful girl," muttered Mr. Thomas Walker, and next minute he sank
back in his chair in a fit of apoplexy.
"Open the window, raise the blinds," said the young man, preparing with
promptitude and earnestness to take the necessary remedies, "be not
alarmed. It is not a dangerous attack."
Maria quietly obeyed her lover, quite aware of the necessity of
self-possession and presence of mind in a case like the present. In half
an hour Mr. Walker was lying in a large, airy bedroom, and the young man
had left, at the request of Maria, to attend a patient of her father's.
It was late at night before Edward was able to take a moment's rest.
What with his own patients, and those of his rival, he was overwhelmed
with business; but at eleven o'clock he approached the bedside of the
father of Maria, who, with her dear Emily now by her side, sat watching.
"He sleeps soundly," said Maria in a low tone, as Edward entered.
"Yes, and is doing well," replied Radstock. "I answer for his being up
and stirring to-morrow, if he desires it."
"But it will be better for him to rest some days," said Maria.
"But, my dear Miss Walker," continued the young doctor, "what will his
patients do?"
"You can attend to them as you have done to-day," replied Maria.
"My dear Miss Walker, you, who know me, could trust me with your
father's patients; you know, that when he was able to go about, I would
hand them all back to him without hesitation. But you must be aware,
that for your father to discover me attending to his patients, would
retard his recovery. If I do as you ask me, I must retire from C----
immediately on his convalescence."
"No, sir," said Dr. Walker, in a faint voice, "I shall not be about for
a month; after making me take to my bed, the least you can do is to
attend to my patients."
"If you wish it, sir--?"
"I insist upon it; and to prevent any opposition, you can say we are
going into partnership."
"But--" said Edward.
"If you want my daughter," continued Dr. Walker, gruffly, "you must do
as I tell you. If you wish to be my son-in-law, you must be my partner,
work like a horse, slave day and night, while I smoke my pipe and drink
my grog."
"My dear sir," exclaimed the young man, "you overwhelm me."
"Dear papa!" said Maria.
"Yes, dear papa!" muttered old Walker; "pretty girl you are; give a
party to crush the interloper; faint when he gets his first patient;
watch him from your bow-window like a cat watches a mouse, and
then--marry him."
"But, my dear papa, is not this the surest way to destroy the
opposition?" said happy Maria.
"Yes! because we can not crush him, we take him as a partner," grumbled
old Walker; "never heard of such a thing; nice thing it is to have
children who take part with your enemies."
Nobody made any reply, and after a little more faint attempts at
fault-finding, the old doctor fell asleep.
About six months later, after a journey to Scotland, which made me lose
sight of Maria, I drove up the streets of C----, after my return to my
native Greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its Blackheath, its
splendid and glorious monument of English greatness, its historic
associations, I dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never
stopped until I was in her arms.
"How you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile.
"Grown! indeed; do you take me for a child?" cried I, laughing. "And
you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; I saw
you as I came up."
"I am very seldom there now," said she, with a strange smile.
"Why?"
"Because I live over the way," replied she, still smiling.
"Over the way?" said I.
"Yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things--Maria
Walker is now Mrs. Radstock."
I could not help it; I laughed heartily. I was very glad. I had been
interested in the young man, and the _denouement_ was delightful.
The firm of Walker and Radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry,
despite a great increase in the neighborhood; but the experience of the
old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all
opposition. They proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength.
Young Radstock was a very good husband. He told me privately that he had
fallen in love with Maria the very first day he saw her; and every time
I hear from them I am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces
that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a
visit, shows himself first at the Bow-window.
THE FRENCH FLOWER GIRL.
I was lingering listlessly over a cup of coffee on the Boulevard des
Italiens, in June. At that moment I had neither profound nor useful
resources of thought. I sate simply conscious of the cool air, the blue
sky, the white houses, the lights, and the lions, which combine to
render that universally pleasant period known as "after dinner," so
peculiarly agreeable in Paris.
In this mood my eyes fell upon a pair of orbs fixed intently upon me.
Whether the process was effected by the eyes, or by some pretty little
fingers, simply, I can not say; but, at the same moment, a rose was
insinuated into my button-hole, a gentle voice addressed me, and I
beheld, in connection with the eyes, the fingers, and the voice, a girl.
She carried on her arm a basket of flowers, and was, literally, nothing
more nor less than one of the _Bouquetieres_ who fly along the
Boulevards like butterflies, with the difference that they turn their
favorite flowers to a more practical account.
Following the example of some other distracted _decores_, who I found
were sharing my honors, I placed a piece of money--I believe, in my
case, it was silver--in the hand of the girl; and, receiving about five
hundred times its value, in the shape of a smile and a "_Merci bien,
monsieur!_" was again left alone--("desolate," a Frenchman would have
said)--in the crowded and carousing Boulevard.
To meet a perambulating and persuasive _Bouquetiere_, who places a
flower in your coat and waits for a pecuniary acknowledgment, is
scarcely a rare adventure in Paris; but I was interested--unaccountably
so--in this young girl: her whole manner and bearing was so different
and distinct from all others of her calling. Without any of that
appearance which, in England, we are accustomed to call "theatrical,"
she was such a being as we can scarcely believe in out of a ballet. Not,
however, that her attire departed--except, perhaps, in a certain
coquetish simplicity--from the conventional mode: its only decorations
seemed to be ribbons, which also gave a character to the little cap that
perched itself with such apparent insecurity upon her head. Living a
life that seemed one long summer's day--one floral _fete_--with a means
of existence that seemed so frail and immaterial--she conveyed an
impression of _unreality_. She might be likened to a Nymph, or a Naiad,
but for the certain something that brought you back to the theatre,
intoxicating the senses, at once, with the strange, indescribable
fascinations of hot chandeliers--close and perfumed air--foot-lights,
and fiddlers.
Evening after evening I saw the same girl--generally at the same
place--and, it may be readily imagined, became one of the most constant
of her _clientelle_. I learned, too, as many facts relating to her as
could be learned where most was mystery. Her peculiar and persuasive
mode of disposing of her flowers (a mode which has since become worse
than vulgarized by bad imitators) was originally her own graceful
instinct--or whim, if you will. It was something new and natural, and
amused many, while it displeased none. The sternest of stockbrokers,
even, could not choose but be decorated. Accordingly, this new Nydia of
Thessaly went out with her basket one day, awoke next morning, and found
herself famous.
Meantime there was much discussion, and more mystification, as to who
this Queen of Flowers could be--where she lived--and so forth. Nothing
was known of her except her name--Hermance. More than one adventurous
student--you may guess I am stating the number within bounds--traced her
steps for hour after hour, till night set in--in vain. Her flowers
disposed of, she was generally joined by an old man, respectably clad,
whose arm she took with a certain confidence, that sufficiently marked
him as a parent or protector; and the two always contrived sooner or
later, in some mysterious manner, to disappear.
After all stratagems have failed, it generally occurs to people to ask a
direct question. But this in the present case was impossible. Hermance
was never seen except in very public places--often in crowds--and to
exchange twenty consecutive words with her, was considered a most
fortunate feat. Notwithstanding, too, her strange, wild way of gaining
her livelihood, there was a certain dignity in her manner which sufficed
to cool the too curious.
As for the directors of the theatres, they exhibited a most appropriate
amount of madness on her account; and I believe that at several of the
theatres, Hermance might have commanded her own terms. But only one of
these miserable men succeeded in making a tangible proposal, and he was
treated with most glorious contempt. There was, indeed, something doubly
dramatic in the _Bouquetiere's_ disdain of the drama. She who _lived_ a
romance could never descend to act one. She would rather be Rosalind
than Rachel. She refused the part of Cerito, and chose to be an Alma on
her own account.
It may be supposed that where there was so much mystery, imagination
would not be idle. To have believed all the conflicting stories about
Hermance, would be to come to the conclusion that she was the stolen
child of noble parents, brought up by an _ouvrier_: but that somehow her
father was a tailor of dissolute habits, who lived a contented life of
continual drunkenness, on the profits of his daughter's industry;--that
her mother was a deceased duchess--but, on the other hand, was alive,
and carried on the flourishing business of a _blanchisseuse_. As for the
private life of the young lady herself, it was reflected in such a magic
mirror of such contradictory impossibilities, in the delicate
discussions held upon the subject, that one had no choice but to
disbelieve every thing.
One day a new impulse was given to this gossip by the appearance of the
_Bouquetiere_ in a startling hat of some expensive straw, and of a make
bordering on the ostentatious. It could not be doubted that the profits
of her light labors were sufficient to enable her to multiply such
finery to almost any extent, had she chosen; but in Paris the adoption
of a bonnet or a hat, in contradistinction to the little cap of the
_grisette_, is considered an assumption of a superior grade, and unless
warranted by the "position" of the wearer, is resented as an
impertinence. In Paris, indeed, there are only two classes of
women--those with bonnets, and those without; and these stand in the
same relation to one another, as the two great classes into which the
world may be divided--the powers that be, and the powers that want to
be. Under these circumstances, it may be supposed that the surmises were
many and marvelous. The little _Bouquetiere_ was becoming
proud--becoming a lady;--but how? why? and above all--where? Curiosity
was never more rampant, and scandal never more inventive.
For my part, I saw nothing in any of these appearances worthy, in
themselves, of a second thought; nothing could have destroyed the
strong and strange interest which I had taken in the girl; and it would
have required something more potent than a straw hat--however coquettish
in crown, and audacious in brim--to have shaken my belief in her truth
and goodness. Her presence, for the accustomed few minutes, in the
afternoon or evening, became to me--I will not say a necessity, but
certainly a habit;--and a habit is sufficiently despotic when
"A fair face and a tender voice have made me--"
I will not say "mad and blind," as the remainder of the line would
insinuate--but most deliciously in my senses, and most luxuriously wide
awake!
But to come to the catastrophe--
"One morn we missed _her_ in the accustomed spot--"
Not only, indeed, from "accustomed" and probable spots, but from
unaccustomed, improbable, and even impossible spots--all of which were
duly searched--was she missed. In short, she was not to be found at all.
All was amazement on the Boulevards. Hardened old _flaneurs_ turned pale
under their rouge, and some of the younger ones went about with drooping
mustaches, which, for want of the _cire_, had fallen into the "yellow
leaf."
A few days sufficed, however, for the cure of these sentimentalities. A
clever little monkey at the Hippodrome, and a gentleman who stood on his
head while he ate his dinner, became the immediate objects of interest,
and Hermance seemed to be forgotten. I was one of the few who retained
any hope of finding her, and my wanderings for that purpose, without any
guide, clew, information, or indication, seem to me now something
absurd. In the course of my walks, I met an old man, who was pointed out
to me as her father--met him frequently, alone. The expression of his
face was quite sufficient to assure me that he was on the same
mission--and with about as much chance of success as myself. Once I
tried to speak to him; but he turned aside, and avoided me with a manner
that there could be no mistaking. This surprised me, for I had no reason
to suppose that he had ever seen my face before.
A paragraph in one of the newspapers at last threw some light on the
matter. The _Bouquetiere_ had never been so friendless or unprotected as
people had supposed. In all her wanderings she was accompanied, or
rather followed, by her father; whenever she stopped, then he stopped
also; and never was he distant more than a dozen yards, I wonder that he
was not recognized by hundreds, but I conclude he made some change in
his attire or appearance, from time to time. One morning this strange
pair were proceeding on their ramble as usual, when, passing through a
rather secluded street, the _Bouquetiere_ made a sudden bound from the
pavement, sprung into a post-chaise, the door of which stood open, and
was immediately whirled away, as fast as four horses could tear--leaving
the old man alone with his despair, and the basket of flowers.
Three months have passed away since the disappearance of the
_Bouquetiere_; but only a few days since I found myself one evening very
dull at one of those "brilliant receptions," for which Paris is so
famous. I was making for the door, with a view to an early departure,
when my hostess detained me, for the purpose of presenting me to a lady
who was monopolizing all the admiration of the evening--she was the
newly-married bride of a young German baron of great wealth, and noted
for a certain wild kind of genius, and utter scorn of conventionalities.
The next instant I found myself introduced to a pair of eyes that could
never be mistaken. I dropped into a vacant chair by their side, and
entered into conversation. The baronne observed that she had met me
before, but could not remember where, and in the same breath asked me if
I was a lover of flowers.
I muttered something about loving beauty in any shape, and admired a
bouquet which she held in her hand.
The baronne selected a flower, and asked me if it was not a peculiarly
fine specimen. I assented; and the flower, not being re-demanded, I did
not return it. The conversation changed to other subjects, and, shortly
afterward the baronne took her leave with her husband. They left Paris
next day for the baron's family estate, and I have never seen them
since.
I learned subsequently that some strange stories had obtained
circulation respecting the previous life of the baronne. Whatever they
were, it is very certain that this or some other reason has made the
profession of _Bouquetiere_ most inconveniently popular in Paris. Young
ladies of all ages that can, with any degree of courtesy, be included in
that category, and of all degrees of beauty short of the hunch-back, may
be seen in all directions intruding their flowers with fatal pertinacity
upon inoffensive loungers, and making war upon button-holes that never
did them any harm. The youngest of young girls, I find, are being
trained to the calling, who are all destined, I suppose, to marry
distinguished foreigners from some distant and facetious country.
I should have mentioned before, that a friend calling upon me the
morning after my meeting with the baronne, saw the flower which she had
placed in my hand standing in a glass of water on the table. An idea
struck me: "Do you know any thing of the language of flowers?" I asked.
"Something," was the reply.
"What, then, is the meaning of this?"
"SECRECY."
DIFFICULTY.
There is an aim which all Nature seeks; the flower that opens from the
bud--the light that breaks the cloud into a thousand forms of beauty--is
calmly striving to assume the perfect glory of its power; and the child,
whose proud laugh heralds the mastery of a new lesson, unconsciously
develops the same life-impulse seeking to prove the power it has felt
its own.
This is the real goal of life shining dimly from afar; for as our
fullest power was never yet attained, it is a treasure which must be
sought, its extent and distance being unknown. No man can tell what he
can do, or suffer, until tried; his path of action broadens out before
him; and, while a path appears, there is power to traverse it. It is
like the fabled hill of Genius, that ever presented a loftier elevation
above the one attained. It is like the glory of the stars, which shine
by borrowed light, each seeming source of which is tributary to one more
distant, until the view is lost to us; yet we only know there must be a
life-giving centre, and, to the steady mind, though the goal of life be
dim and distant, its light is fixed and certain, while all lesser aims
are but reflections of this glory in myriad-descending shades, which
must be passed, one by one, as the steps of the ladder on which he
mounts to Heaven.
Man has an unfortunate predilection to pervert whatever God throws in
his way to aid him, and thus turn good to evil. The minor hopes which
spur to action are mistaken for the final one; and we often look no
higher than some mean wish, allowing that to rule us which should have
been our servant. From this false view rises little exertion, for it is
impossible for man to believe in something better and be content with
worse. We all aim at self-control and independence while in the shadow
of a power which controls us, whispering innerly, "Thus far shalt thou
go, and no farther;" but how apt is self-indulgence to suit this limit
to its own measure, and suffer veneration and doubt to overgrow and
suppress the rising hope of independent thought. "I am not permitted to
know this, or to do this," is the excuse of the weak and trivial; but
the question should be, "_Can_ I know or do this?" for what is not
permitted we can not do. We may not know the events of the future, or
the period of a thought, or the Great First Cause, but we may hope to
see and combine the atoms of things--pierce the realms of space--make
the wilderness a garden--attain perfection of soul and body; and for
this our end we may master all things needful.
There is nothing possible that faith and striving can not do; take the
road, and it must lead you to the goal, though strewn with difficulties,
and cast through pain and shade. If each would strain his energies to
gain what he has dared to hope for, he would succeed, for since that
which we love and honor is in our nature, it is to be drawn forth, and
what is not there we can not wish.
Our greatest drawback is, not that we expect too much, but that we do
too little; we set our worship low, and let our higher powers lie
dormant; thus are we never masters, but blind men stumbling in each
other's way. As maturity means self-controlling power, so he who gains
not this is childish, and must submit, infant-like, to be controlled by
others. This guidance we must feel in our upward course, and be grateful
for the check; but as we have each a work to do, we must look beyond
help to independence. The school-boy receives aid in learning that he
may one day strive with his own power, for if he always depends on help
he can never be a useful man.
He who seeks for himself no path, but merely follows where others have
been before, covering his own want with another's industry, may find the
road not long or thickly set, but he does and gains nothing. He who bows
to difficulty, settling at the foot of the hill instead of struggling to
its top, may get a sheltered place--a snug retreat, but the world in its
glory he can never see, and the pestilence from the low ground he must
imbibe. We may rest in perfect comfort, but the health that comes of
labor will fade away. The trees of the forest were not planted that man
might pass round and live between them, but that he might cut them down
and use them. The savage has little toil before him, but the civilized
man has greater power of happiness.
Would a man be powerful, and bid his genius rule his fellow-men? he must
toil to gain means; while his thought reads the hearts that he would
sway, he must be led into temptation, and pass through pain and danger,
ere he can know what another may endure. Would he pour golden truth upon
the page of life? he must seek it from every source, weigh the relations
of life, and concede to its taste, that he may best apply it, for the
proverb must be written in fair round hand, that common men may read it.
Would he picture the life of man or nature? he must go forth with heart
and eye alive, nor turn from the sorest notes of human woe, or the
coarsest tones of vice; he must watch the finest ray of light, and mark
the falling of the last withered leaf. Would he be actively benevolent?
winter cold, nor summer lassitude must not appall him; in season and out
of season he must be ready; injured pride, wounded feeling must not
unstring his energy, while stooping to learn from the simplest lips the
nature of those wants to which he would minister.
In all accomplishment there is difficulty; the greater the work, the
greater the pains. There is no such thing as sudden inspiration or
grace, for the steps of life are slow, and what is not thus attained is
nothing worth. In darkness the eyes must be accustomed to the gloom when
objects appear, one by one, until the most distant is perceived; but, in
a sudden light the eyes are pained, and blinded, and left weak.
At school, we found that when one difficulty was surmounted another was
presented; mastering "Addition" would not do--we must learn
"Subtraction;" so it is in life. A finished work is a glory won, but a
mind content with one accomplishment is childish, and its weakness
renders it incapable of applying that--"From him that hath not shall be
taken away even that he hath;" his one talent shall rise up to him as a
shame. A little sphere insures but little happiness.
There is a time of youth for all; but youth has a sphere of hope that,
embracing the whole aim which man must work for, gives unbounded
happiness. Thus God would equalize the lot of all where necessity would
create difference; it is only when states are forced unnaturally that
misery ensues. When those who would seem to be men are children in
endeavor, we see that God's will is not done, but a falsehood. The
greatest of us have asked and taken guidance in their rising course, and
owned inferiority without shame; but his is a poor heart that looks to
be inferior ever; and shameful indeed it is, when those who are thus
poor imagine or assume a right to respect as self-supporting men. How
painfully ridiculous it is to see the lazy man look down on his
struggling wife as the "weaker vessel," or the idle sinecurist hold
contempt for the tradesman who is working his way to higher wealth by
honest toil. Were the aims of living truly seen, no man would be
dishonored because useful. But wait awhile; the world is drawing near
the real point, and we shall find that the self-denying, fearless
energy, that works its will in spite of pettiness, must gain its end,
and become richest; that the man who begins with a penny in the hope of
thousands will grow wealthier than his aimless brother of the snug
annuity; for while the largest wealth that is not earned is limited, the
result of ceaseless toil is incalculable, since the progress of the soul
is infinite!
MAURICE TIERNAY,
THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[11]
CHAPTER XLVI.
A GLANCE AT THE "PREFECTURE DE POLICE."
Poor Mahon's melancholy story made a deep impression upon me, and I
returned to Paris execrating the whole race of spies and "Mouchards,"
and despising, with a most hearty contempt, a government compelled to
use such agencies for its existence. It seemed to me so utterly
impossible to escape the snares of a system so artfully interwoven, and
so vain to rely on innocence as a protection, that I felt a kind of
reckless hardihood as to whatever might betide me, and rode into the
Cour of the Prefecture with a bold indifference as to my fate that I
have often wondered at since.
The horse on which I was mounted was immediately recognized as I
entered; and the obsequious salutations that met me showed that I was
regarded as one of the trusty followers of the Minister; and in this
capacity was I ushered into a large waiting-room, where a considerable
number of persons were assembled, whose air and appearance, now that
necessity for disguise was over, unmistakably pronounced them to be
spies of the police. Some, indeed, were occupied in taking off their
false whiskers and mustaches; others were removing shades from their
eyes; and one was carefully opening what had been the hump on his back,
in search of a paper he was anxious to discover.
I had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the
very lowest order of "Mouchards," whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond
the Fauxbourg or the Battyriolles, and indeed soon saw that my own
appearance among them led to no little surprise and astonishment.
"You are looking for Nicquard, monsieur?" said one, "but he has not come
yet."
"No; monsieur wants to see Boule-de-Fer," said another.
"Here's Jose can fetch him," cried a third.
"He'll have to carry him, then," growled out another, "for I saw him in
the Morgue this morning!"
"What! dead?" exclaimed several together.
"As dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! He must
have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a
lace ruffle found in his fingers."
"Ah, voila!" cried another, "that comes of mixing in high society."
I did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away,
as the disputants were waxing warm. Instead of turning into the Cour
again, however, I passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a
door of green cloth. Pushing open this, I found myself in a chamber,
where a single clerk was writing at a table.
"You're late to-day, and he's not in a good humor," said he, scarcely
looking up from his paper, "go in!"
Resolving to see my adventure to the end, I asked no further questions,
but passed on to the room beyond. A person who stood within the door-way
withdrew as I entered, and I found myself standing face to face with the
Marquis de Maurepas, or, to speak more properly, the Minister Fouche. He
was standing at the fire-place as I came in, reading a newspaper, but no
sooner had he caught sight of me than he laid it down, and, with his
hands crossed behind his back, continued steadily staring at me.
"Diable!" exclaimed he, at last, "how came you here?"
"Nothing more naturally, sir, than from the wish to restore what you
were so good as to lend me, and express my sincere gratitude for a most
hospitable reception."
"But who admitted you?"
"I fancy your saddle-cloth was my introduction, sir, for it was speedily
recognized. Gesler's cap was never held in greater honor."
"You are a very courageous young gentleman, I must say--very courageous,
indeed," said he, with a sardonic grin that was any thing but
encouraging.
"The better chance that I may find favor with Monsieur de Fouche,"
replied I.
"That remains to be seen, sir," said he, seating himself in his chair,
and motioning me to a spot in front of it. "Who are you?"
"A lieutenant of the 9th Hussars, sir; by name Maurice Tiernay."
"I don't care for that," said he, impatiently; "what's your
occupation?--how do you live?--with whom do you associate?"
"I have neither means nor associates. I have been liberated from the
Temple but a few days back; and what is to be my future, and where, are
facts of which I know as little as does Monsieur de Fouche of my past
history."
"It would seem that every adventurer, every fellow destitute of home,
family, fortune, and position, thinks that his natural refuge lies in
this Ministry, and that I must be his guardian."
"I never thought so, sir."
"Then why are you here? What other than personal reasons procures me the
honor of this visit?"
"As Monsieur de Fouche will not believe in my sense of gratitude,
perhaps he may put some faith in my curiosity, and excuse the natural
anxiety I feel to know if Monsieur de Maurepas has really benefited by
the pleasure of my society."
"Hardi, monsieur, bien hardi," said the Minister, with a peculiar
expression of irony about the mouth that made me almost shudder. He rang
a little hand-bell as he spoke, and a servant made his appearance.
"You have forgotten to leave me my snuff-box, Geoffroy," said he,
mildly, to the valet, who at once left the room, and speedily returned
with a magnificently-chased gold box, on which the initials of the First
Consul were embossed in diamonds.
"Arrange those papers, and place those books on the shelves," said the
Minister. And then turning to me, as if resuming a previous
conversation, went on--
"As to that memoir of which we were speaking t'other night, monsieur, it
would be exceedingly interesting just now; and I have no doubt that you
will see the propriety of confiding to me what you already promised to
Monsieur de Maurepas. That will do, Geoffroy; leave us."
The servant retired, and we were once more alone.
"I possess no secrets, sir, worthy the notice of the Minister of
Police," said I boldly.
"Of that I may presume to be the better judge," said Fouche calmly. "But
waiving this question, there is another of some importance. You have,
partly by accident, partly by a boldness not devoid of peril, obtained
some little insight into the habits and details of this Ministry; at
least, you have seen enough to suspect more, and misrepresent what you
can not comprehend. Now, sir, there is an almost universal custom in all
secret societies, of making those who intrude surreptitiously within
their limits, to take every oath and pledge of that society, and to
assume every responsibility that attaches to its voluntary members--"
"Excuse my interrupting you, sir; but my intrusion was purely
involuntary; I was made the dupe of a police spy."
"Having ascertained which," resumed he, coldly, "your wisest policy
would have been to have kept the whole incident for yourself alone, and
neither have uttered one syllable about it, nor ventured to come here,
as you have done, to display what you fancy to be your power over the
Minister of Police. You are a very young man, and the lesson may
possibly be of service to you; and never forget that to attempt a
contest of address with those whose habits have taught them every wile
and subtlety of their fellow-men, will always be a failure. This
Ministry would be a sorry engine of government if men of your stamp
could out-wit it."
I stood abashed and confused under a rebuke which, at the same time, I
felt to be but half deserved.
"Do you understand Spanish?" asked he suddenly.
"No, sir, not a word."
"I'm sorry for it; you should learn that language without loss of time.
Leave your address with my secretary, and call here by Monday or Tuesday
next."
"If I may presume so far, sir," said I, with a great effort to seem
collected, "I would infer that your intention is to employ me in some
capacity or other. It is, therefore, better I should say at once, I have
neither the ability nor the desire for such occupation. I have always
been a soldier. Whatever reverses of fortune I may meet with, I would
wish still to continue in the same career. At all events, I could never
become a--a--"
"Spy. Say the word out; its meaning conveys nothing offensive to my
ears, young man. I may grieve over the corruption that requires such a
system; but I do not confound the remedy with the disease."
"My sentiments are different, sir," said I resolutely, as I moved toward
the door. "I have the honor to wish you a good morning."
"Stay a moment, Tiernay," said he, looking for something among his
papers; "there are, probably, situations where all your scruples could
find accommodation, and even be serviceable, too."
"I would rather not place them in peril, Mons. Le Ministre."
"There are people in this city of Paris who would not despise my
protection, young man; some of them to the full as well supplied with
the gifts of fortune as Mons. Tiernay."
"And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it!" said I, sarcastically; for
every moment now rendered me more courageous.
"And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it," repeated he after me, with
a wave of the hand in token of adieu.
I bowed respectfully, and was retiring, when he called out in a low and
gentle voice--
"Before you go, Mons. de Tiernay, I will thank you to restore my
snuff-box."
"Your snuff-box, sir!" cried I, indignantly, "what do I know of it?"
"In a moment of inadvertence, you may, probably, have placed it in your
pocket," said he, smiling; "do me the favor to search there."
"This is unnecessary insult, sir," said I fiercely; "and you forget that
I am a French officer!"
"It is of more consequence that you should remember it," said he calmly;
"and now, sir, do as I have told you."
"It is well, sir, that this scene has no witness," said I, boiling over
with passion, "or, by Heaven, all the dignity of your station should not
save you."
"Your observation is most just," said he, with the same coolness. "It
is as well that we are quite alone; and for this reason I beg to repeat
my request. If you persist in a refusal, and force me to ring that
bell--"
"You would not dare to offer me such an indignity," said I, trembling
with rage.
"You leave me no alternative, sir," said he, rising, and taking the bell
in his hand. "My honor is also engaged in this question. I have
preferred a charge--"
"You have," cried I, interrupting, "and for whose falsehood I am
resolved to hold you responsible."
"To prove which, you must show your innocence."
"There, then--there are my pockets; here are the few things I possess.
This is my pocket-book--my purse. Oh, heavens, what is this?" cried I,
as I drew forth the gold box, along with the other contents of my
pocket; and then staggering back, I fell, overwhelmed with shame and
sickness, against the wall. For some seconds I neither saw nor heard any
thing; a vague sense of ineffable disgrace--of some ignominy that made
life a misery, was over me, and I closed my eyes with the wish never to
open them more.
"The box has a peculiar value in my eyes, sir," said he; "it was a
present from the First Consul, otherwise I might have hesitated--"
"Oh, sir, you can not, you dare not, suppose me guilty of a theft. You
seem bent on being my ruin; but, for mercy's sake, let your hatred of me
take some other shape than this. Involve me in what snares, what
conspiracies you will, give me what share you please in any guilt, but
spare me the degradation of such a shame."
He seemed to enjoy the torments I was suffering, and actually revel in
the contemplation of my misery; for he never spoke a word, but continued
steadily to stare me in the face.
"Sit down here, monsieur," said he, at length, while he pointed to a
chair near him; "I wish to say a few words to you, in all seriousness,
and in good faith, also."
I seated myself, and he went on.
"The events of the last two days must have made such an impression on
your mind that even the most remarkable incidents of your life could not
compete with. You fancied yourself a great discoverer, and that, by the
happy conjuncture of intelligence and accident, you had actually
fathomed the depths of that wonderful system of police, which, more
powerful than armies or councils, is the real government of France! I
will not stop now to convince you that you have not wandered out of the
very shallowest channels of this system. It is enough that you have been
admitted to an audience with me, to suggest an opposite conviction, and
give to your recital, when you repeat the tale, a species of importance.
Now, sir, my counsel to you is, never to repeat it, and for this reason;
nobody possessed of common powers of judgment will ever believe you! not
one, sir! No one would ever believe that Monsieur Fouche had made so
grave a mistake, no more than he would believe that a man of good name
and birth, a French officer, could have stolen a snuff-box. You see,
Monsieur de Tiernay, that I acquit you of this shameful act. Imitate my
generosity, sir, and forget all that you have witnessed since Tuesday
last. I have given you good advice, sir; if I find that you profit by
it, we may see more of each other."
Scarcely appreciating the force of his parable, and thinking of nothing
save the vindication of my honor, I muttered a few unmeaning words, and
withdrew, glad to escape a presence which had assumed, to my terrified
senses, all the diabolical subtlety of satanic influence. Trusting that
no future accident of my life should ever bring me within such
precincts, I hurried from the place as though it were contaminated and
plague-stricken.
CHAPTER XLVII.
"THE VILLAGE OF SCHWARTZ-ACH."
I was destitute enough when I quitted the "Temple," a few days back; but
my condition now was sadder still, for in addition to my poverty and
friendlessness, I had imbibed a degree of distrust and suspicion that
made me shun my fellow-men, and actually shrink from the contact of a
stranger. The commonest show of courtesy, the most ordinary exercise of
politeness, struck me as the secret wiles of that police, whose
machinations, I fancied, were still spread around me. I had conceived a
most intense hatred of civilization, or, at least, of what I rashly
supposed to be the inherent vices of civilized life. I longed for what I
deemed must be the glorious independence of a savage. If I could but
discover this Paradise beyond seas, of which the marquise raved so much;
if I only could find out that glorious land which neither knew secret
intrigues nor conspiracies, I should leave France forever, taking any
condition, or braving any mischances fate might have in store for me.
There was something peculiarly offensive in the treatment I had met
with. Imprisoned on suspicion, I was liberated without any "amende;"
neither punished like a guilty man, nor absolved as an innocent one. I
was sent out upon the world as though the state would not own nor
acknowledge me; a dangerous practice, as I often thought, if only
adopted on a large scale. It was some days before I could summon
resolution to ascertain exactly my position: at last I did muster up
courage, and under pretense of wishing to address a letter to myself, I
applied at the Ministry of War for the address of Lieutenant Tiernay, of
the 9th Hussars. I was one of a large crowd similarly engaged, some
inquiring for sons that had fallen in battle, or husbands or fathers in
far away countries. The office was only open each morning for two hours,
and consequently, as the expiration of the time drew nigh, the eagerness
of the inquirers became far greater, and the contrast with the cold
apathy of the clerks the more strongly marked. I had given way to many,
who were weaker than myself, and less able to buffet with the crowd
about them; and at last, when, wearied by waiting, I was drawing nigh
the table, my attention was struck by an old, a very old man, who, with
a beard white as snow, and long mustaches of the same color, was making
great efforts to gain the front rank. I stretched out my hand, and
caught his, and by considerable exertion, at last succeeded in placing
him in front of me.
He thanked me fervently, in a strange kind of German, a _patois_ I had
never heard before, and kissed my hand three or four times over in his
gratitude; indeed, so absorbed was he for the time in his desire to
thank me, that I had to recall him to the more pressing reason of his
presence, and warn him that but a few minutes more of the hour remained
free.
"Speak up," cried the clerk, as the old man muttered something in a low
and very indistinct voice; "speak up; and remember, my friend, that we
do not profess to give information further back than the times of 'Louis
Quatorze.'"
This allusion to the years of the old man was loudly applauded by his
colleagues, who drew nigh to stare at the cause of it.
"Sacre bleu! he is talking Hebrew," said another, "and asking for a
friend who fell at Ramoth Gilead."
"He is speaking German," said I, peremptorily, "and asking for a
relative whom he believes to have embarked with the expedition to
Egypt."
"Are you a sworn interpreter, young man?" asked an older and more
consequential-looking personage.
I was about to return a hasty reply to this impertinence, but I thought
of the old man, and the few seconds that still remained for his inquiry,
and I smothered my anger, and was silent.
"What rank did he hold?" inquired one of the clerks, who had listened
with rather more patience to the old man. I translated the question for
the peasant, who, in reply, confessed that he could not tell. The youth
was his only son, and had left home many years before, and never
written. A neighbor, however, who had traveled in foreign parts, had
brought tidings that he had gone with the expedition to Egypt, and was
already high in the French army.
"You are not quite certain that he did not command the army of Egypt?"
said one of the clerks in mockery of the old man's story.
"It is not unlikely," said the peasant gravely, "he was a brave and bold
youth, and could have lifted two such as you with one hand and hurled
you out of that window."
"Let us hear his name once more," said the elder clerk; "it is worth
remembering."
"I have told you already. It was Karl Kleber."
"The General--General Kleber!" cried three or four in a breath.
"Mayhap," was all the reply.
"And are you the father of the great general of Egypt?" asked the elder,
with an air of deep respect.
"Kleber is my son; and so that he is alive and well, I care little if a
general or simple soldier."
Not a word was said in answer to this speech, and each seemed to feel
reluctant to tell the sad tidings. At last the elder clerk said, "You
have lost a good son, and France one of her greatest captains. The
General Kleber is dead."
"Dead!" said the old man, slowly.
"In the very moment of his greatest glory, too, when he had won the
country of the Pyramids, and made Egypt a colony of France."
"When did he die? said the peasant.
"The last accounts from the East brought the news; and this very day the
Council of State has accorded a pension to his family of ten thousand
livres."
"They may keep their money. I am all that remains, and have no want of
it; and I should be poorer still before I'd take it."
These words he uttered in a low, harsh tone, and pushed his way back
though the crowd.
One moment more was enough for _my_ inquiry.
"Maurice Tiernay, of the 9th--_destitue_," was the short and stunning
answer I received.
"Is there any reason alleged--is there any charge imputed to him?" asked
I, timidly.
"Ma foi! you must go to the Minister of War with that question. Perhaps
he was pay-master, and embezzled the funds of the regiment; perhaps he
liked royalist gold better than republican silver; or perhaps he
preferred the company of the baggage-train and the 'ambulances,' when he
should have been at the head of his squadron."
I did not care to listen longer to this impertinence, and making my way
out I gained the street. The old peasant was still standing there, like
one stunned and overwhelmed by some great shock, and neither heeding the
crowd that passed, nor the groups that halted occasionally to stare at
him.
"Come along with _me_," said I, taking his hand in mine. "_Your_
calamity is a heavy one, but _mine_ is harder to bear up against."
He suffered himself to be led away like a child, and never spoke a word
as we walked along toward the "barriere," beyond which, at a short
distance, was a little ordinary, where I used to dine. There we had our
dinner together, and as the evening wore on the old man rallied enough
to tell me of his son's early life, and his departure for the army. Of
his great career _I_ could speak freely, for Kleber's name was, in
soldier esteem, scarcely second to that of Bonaparte himself. Not all
the praises I could bestow, however, were sufficient to turn the old man
from his stern conviction, that a peasant in the "Lech Thal" was a more
noble and independent man than the greatest general that ever marched to
victory.
"We have been some centuries there," said he, "and none of our name has
incurred a shadow of disgrace. Why should not Karl have lived like his
ancestors?"
It was useless to appeal to the glory his son had gained--the noble
reputation he had left behind him. The peasant saw in the soldier but
one who hired out his courage and his blood, and deemed the calling a
low and unworthy one. I suppose I was not the first who, in the effort
to convince another, found himself shaken in his own convictions; for I
own before I lay down that night many of the old man's arguments assumed
a force and power that I could not resist, and held possession of my
mind even after I fell asleep. In my dreams I was once more beside the
American lake, and that little colony of simple people, where I had seen
all that was best of my life, and learned the few lessons I had ever
received of charity and good-nature.
From what the peasant said, the primitive habits of the Lech Thal must
be almost like those of that little colony, and I willingly assented to
his offer to accompany him in his journey homeward. He seemed to feel a
kind of satisfaction in turning my thoughts away from a career that he
held so cheaply, and talked enthusiastically of the tranquil life of the
Bregenzer-wald.
We left Paris the following morning, and, partly by diligence, partly on
foot, reached Strassburg in a few days; thence we proceeded by Kehel to
Freyburg, and, crossing the Lake of Constance at Rorsbach, we entered
the Bregenzer-wald on the twelfth morning of our journey. I suppose that
most men preserve fresher memory of the stirring and turbulent scenes of
their lives than of the more peaceful and tranquil ones, and I shall not
be deemed singular when I say, that some years passed over me in this
quiet spot and seemed as but a few weeks. The old peasant was the
"Vorsteher," or ruler of the village, by whom all disputes were settled,
and all litigation of an humble kind decided--a species of voluntary
jurisdiction maintained to this very day in that primitive region. My
occupation there was as a species of secretary to the court, an office
quite new to the villagers, but which served to impress them more
reverentially than ever in favor of this rude justice. My legal duties
over, I became a vine-dresser, a wood-cutter, or a deer-stalker, as
season and weather dictated. My evenings being always devoted to the
task of a schoolmaster. A curious seminary was it, too, embracing every
class from childhood to advanced age, all eager for knowledge, and all
submitting to the most patient discipline to attain it. There was much
to make me happy in that humble lot. I had the love and esteem of all
around me; there was neither a harassing doubt for the future, nor the
rich man's contumely to oppress me; my life was made up of occupations
which alternately engaged mind and body, and, above all and worth all
besides, I had a sense of duty, a feeling that I was doing that which
was useful to my fellow-men; and however great may be a man's station in
life, if it want this element, the humblest peasant that rises to his
daily toil has a nobler and a better part.
As I trace these lines how many memories of the spot are rising before
me! Scenes I had long forgotten--faces I had ceased to remember! And
now I see the little wooden bridge--a giant tree, guarded by a single
rail, that crossed the torrent in front of our cottage; and I behold
once more the little waxen image of the Virgin over the door, in whose
glass shrine at nightfall a candle ever burned! and I hear the low hum
of the villagers' prayer as the Angelus is singing, and see on every
crag or cliff the homebound hunter kneeling in his deep devotion!
Happy people, and not less good than happy! Your bold and barren
mountains have been the safeguard of your virtue and your innocence!
Long may they prove so, and long may the waves of the world's ambition
be staid at their rocky feet!
I was beginning to forget all that I had seen of life, or, if not
forget, at least to regard it as a wild and troubled dream, when an
accident, one of those things we always regard as the merest chances,
once more opened the flood-gates of memory, and sent the whole past in a
strong current through my brain.
In this mountain region the transition from winter to summer is effected
in a few days. Some hours of a scorching sun and south wind swell the
torrents with melted snow; the icebergs fall thundering from cliff and
crag, and the sporting waterfall once more dashes over the precipice.
The trees burst into leaf, and the grass springs up green and fresh from
its wintry covering; and from the dreary aspect of snow-capped hills and
leaden clouds, nature changes to fertile plains and hills, and a sky of
almost unbroken blue.
It was on a glorious evening in April, when all these changes were
passing, that I was descending the mountain above our village after a
hard day's chamois hunting. Anxious to reach the plain before nightfall,
I could not, however, help stopping from time to time to watch the
golden and ruby tints of the sun upon the snow, or see the turquoise
blue which occasionally marked the course of a rivulet through the
glaciers. The Alp-horn was sounding from every cliff and height, and the
lowing of the cattle swelled into a rich and mellow chorus. It was a
beautiful picture, realizing in every tint and hue, in every sound and
cadence, all that one can fancy of romantic simplicity, and I surveyed
it with a swelling and a grateful heart.
As I turned to resume my way, I was struck by the sound of voices
speaking, as I fancied, in French, and before I could settle the doubt
with myself, I saw in front of me a party of some six or seven soldiers,
who, with their muskets slung behind them, were descending the steep
path by the aid of sticks.
Weary-looking and foot-sore as they were, their dress, their bearing,
and their soldier-like air, struck me forcibly, and sent into my heart a
thrill I had not known for many a day before. I came up quickly behind
them, and could overhear their complaints at having mistaken the road,
and their maledictions, muttered in no gentle spirit, on the stupid
mountaineers who could not understand French.
"Here comes another fellow, let us try _him_," said one, as he turned
and saw me near. "Schwartz-Ach, Schwartz-Ach," added he, addressing me,
and reading the name from a slip of paper in his hand.
"I am going to the village," said I, in French, "and will show the way
with pleasure."
"How! what! are you a Frenchman, then?" cried the corporal, in
amazement.
"Even so," said I.
"Then by what chance are you living in this wild spot? How, in the name
of wonder, can you exist here?"
"With venison like this," said I, pointing to a chamois buck on my
shoulder, "and the red wine of the Lech Thal, a man may manage to forget
Veray's and the "Dragon Vert," particularly as they are not associated
with a bill and a waiter!"
"And perhaps you are a royalist," cried another, "and don't like how
matters are going on at home?"
"I have not that excuse for my exile," said I, coldly.
"Have you served, then?"
I nodded.
"Ah, I see," said the corporal, "you grew weary of parade and guard
mounting."
"If you mean that I deserted," said I, "you are wrong there also; and
now let it be my turn to ask a few questions. What is France about? Is
the Republic still as great and victorious as ever?"
"Sacre bleu, man, what are you thinking of? We are an Empire some years
back, and Napoleon has made as many kings as he has got brothers and
cousins to crown."
"And the army, where is it?"
"Ask for some half dozen armies, and you'll still be short of the mark.
We have one in Hamburg, and another in the far North, holding the
Russians in check; we have garrisons in every fortress of Prussia and
the Rhine Land; we have some eighty thousand fellows in Poland and
Gallicia; double as many more in Spain; Italy is our own, and so will be
Austria ere many days go over."
Boastfully as all this was spoken, I found it to be not far from truth,
and learned, as we walked along, that the emperor was, at that very
moment, on the march to meet the Archduke Charles, who, with a numerous
army, was advancing on Ratisbon, the little party of soldiers being
portion of a force dispatched to explore the passes of the "Voralberg,"
and report on how far they might be practicable for the transmission of
troops to act on the left flank and rear of the Austrian army. Their
success had up to this time been very slight, and the corporal was
making for Schwartz-Ach, as a spot where he hoped to rendezvous with
some of his comrades. They were much disappointed on my telling them
that I had quitted the village that morning, and that not a soldier had
been seen there. There was, however, no other spot to pass the night in,
and they willingly accepted the offer I made them of a shelter and a
supper in our cottage.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
VAGARIES OF THE IMAGINATION.
"Fancy it burgundy," said Boniface of his ale, "only fancy it, and it is
worth a guinea a quart!" Boniface was a philosopher: fancy can do much
more than that. Those who fancy themselves laboring under an affection
of the heart are not slow in verifying the apprehension: the uneasy and
constant watching of its pulsations soon disturbs the circulation, and
malady may ensue beyond the power of medicine. Some physicians believe
that inflammation can be induced in any part of the body by a fearful
attention being continually directed toward it; indeed it has been a
question with some whether the stigmata (the marks of the wounds of our
Saviour) may not have been produced on the devotee by the influences of
an excited imagination. The hypochondriac has been known to expire when
forced to pass through a door which he fancied too narrow to admit his
person. The story of the criminal who, unconscious of the arrival of the
reprieve, died under the stroke of a wet handkerchief, believing it to
be the ax, is well known. Paracelsus held, "that there is in man an
imagination which really effects and brings to pass the things that did
not before exist; for a man by imagination willing to move his body
moves it in fact, and by his imagination and the commerce of invisible
powers he may also move another body." Paracelsus would not have been
surprised at the feats of electro-biology. He exhorts his patients to
have "a good faith, a strong imagination, and they shall find the
effects. All doubt," he says, "destroys work, and leaves it imperfect in
the wise designs of nature; it is from faith that imagination draws its
strength, it is by faith it becomes complete and realized; he who
believeth in nature will obtain from nature to the extent of his faith,
and let the object of this faith be real or imaginary, he nevertheless
reaps similar results--and hence the cause of superstition."
So early as 1462, Pomponatus of Mantua came to the conclusion, in his
work on incantation, that all the arts of sorcery and witchcraft were
the result of natural operations. He conceived that it was not
improbable that external means, called into action by the soul, might
relieve our sufferings, and that there did, moreover, exist individuals
endowed with salutary properties; so it might, therefore, be easily
conceived that marvelous effects should be produced by the imagination
and by confidence, more especially when these are reciprocal between the
patient and the person who assists his recovery. Two years after, the
same opinion was advanced by Agrippa in Cologne. "The soul," he said,
"if inflamed by a fervent imagination, could dispense health and
disease, not only in the individual himself, but in other bodies."
However absurd these opinions may have been considered, or looked on as
enthusiastic, the time has come when they will be gravely examined.
That medical professors have at all times believed the imagination to
possess a strange and powerful influence over mind and body is proved
by their writings, by some of their prescriptions, and by their
oft-repeated direction in the sick-chamber to divert the patient's mind
from dwelling on his own state and from attending to the symptoms of his
complaint. They consider the reading of medical books which accurately
describe the symptoms of various complaints as likely to have an
injurious effect, not only on the delicate but on persons in full
health; and they are conscious how many died during the time of the
plague and cholera, not only of these diseases but from the dread of
them, which brought on all the fatal symptoms. So evident was the effect
produced by the detailed accounts of the cholera in the public papers in
the year 1849, that it was found absolutely necessary to restrain the
publications on the subject. The illusions under which vast numbers
acted and suffered have gone, indeed, to the most extravagant extent:
individuals, not merely singly but in communities, have actually
believed in their own transformation. A nobleman of the court of Louis
XIV. fancied himself a dog, and would pop his head out of the window to
bark at the passengers; while the barking disease at the camp-meetings
of the Methodists of North America has been described as "extravagant
beyond belief." Rollin and Hecquet have recorded a malady by which the
inmates of an extensive convent near Paris were attacked simultaneously
every day at the same hour, when they believed themselves transformed
into cats, and a universal mewing was kept up throughout the convent for
some hours. But of all dreadful forms which this strange hallucination
took, none was so terrible as that of the lycanthropy, which at one
period spread through Europe; in which the unhappy sufferers, believing
themselves wolves, went prowling about the forests, uttering the most
terrific howlings, carrying off lambs from the flocks, and gnawing dead
bodies in their graves.
While every day's experience adds some new proof of the influence
possessed by the imagination over the body, the supposed effect of
contagion has become a question of doubt. Lately, at a meeting in
Edinburgh, Professor Dick gave it as his opinion that there was no such
thing as hydrophobia in the lower animals: "what went properly by that
name was simply an inflammation of the brain; and the disease, in the
case of human beings, was caused by an over-excited imagination, worked
upon by the popular delusion on the effects of a bite by rabid animals."
The following paragraph from the "Curiosities of Medicine" appears to
justify this now common enough opinion:--"Several persons had been
bitten by a rabid dog in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and three of them had
died in our hospital. A report, however, was prevalent that we kept a
mixture which would effectually prevent the fatal termination; and no
less than six applicants who had been bitten were served with a draught
of colored water, and in no one instance did hydrophobia ensue."
A remarkable cure through a similar aid of the imagination took place in
a patient of Dr. Beddoes, who was at the time very sanguine about the
effect of nitrous acid gas in paralytic cases. Anxious that it should be
imbibed by one of his patients, he sent an invalid to Sir Humphry Davy,
with a request that he would administer the gas. Sir Humphry put the
bulb of the thermometer under the tongue of the paralytic, to ascertain
the temperature of the body, that he might be sure whether it would be
affected at all by the inhalation of the gas. The patient, full of faith
from what the enthusiastic physician had assured him would be the
result, and believing that the thermometer was what was to effect the
cure, exclaimed at once that he felt better. Sir Humphry, anxious to see
what imagination would do in such a case, did not attempt to undeceive
the man, but saying that he had done enough for him that day, desired
him to be with him the next morning. The thermometer was then applied as
it had been the day before, and for every day during a fortnight--at the
end of which time the patient was perfectly cured.
Perhaps there is nothing on record more curious of this kind than the
cures unwittingly performed by Chief-justice Holt. It seems that for a
youthful frolic he and his companions had put up at a country inn; they,
however, found themselves without the means of defraying their expenses,
and were at a loss to know what they should do in such an emergency.
Holt, however, perceived that the innkeeper's daughter looked very ill,
and on inquiring what was the matter, learned that she had the ague;
when, passing himself off for a medical student, he said that he had an
infallible cure for the complaint. He then collected a number of plants,
mixed them up with various ceremonies, and inclosed them in parchment,
on which he scrawled divers cabalistic characters. When all was
completed, he suspended the amulet round the neck of the young woman,
and, strange to say, the ague left her and never returned. The landlord,
grateful for the restoration of his daughter, not only declined
receiving any payment from the youths, but pressed them to remain as
long as they pleased. Many years after, when Holt was on the bench, a
woman was brought before him, charged with witchcraft: she was accused
of curing the ague by charms. All she said in defense was, that she did
possess a ball which was a sovereign remedy in the complaint. The charm
was produced and handed to the judge, who recognized the very ball which
he had himself compounded in his boyish days, when out of mere fun he
had assumed the character of a medical practitioner.
Many distinguished physicians have candidly confessed that they
preferred confidence to art. Faith in the remedy is often not only half
the cure, but the whole cure. Madame de Genlis tells of a girl who had
lost the use of her leg for five years, and could only move with the
help of crutches, while her back had to be supported: she was in such a
pitiable state of weakness, the physicians had pronounced her case
incurable. She, however, took it into her head that if she was taken to
Notre Dame de Liesse she would certainly recover. It was fifteen
leagues from Carlepont where she lived. She was placed in a cart which
her father drove, while her sister sat by her supporting her back. The
moment the steeple of Notre Dame de Liesse was in sight she uttered an
exclamation, and said that her leg was getting well. She alighted from
the car without assistance, and no longer requiring the help of her
crutches, she ran into the church. When she returned home the villagers
gathered about her, scarcely believing that it was indeed the girl who
had left them in such a wretched state, now they saw her running and
bounding along, no longer a cripple, but as active as any among them.
Not less extraordinary are the cures which are effected by some sudden
agitation. An alarm of fire has been known to restore a patient entirely
or for a time, from a tedious illness: it is no uncommon thing to hear
of the victim of a severe fit of the gout, whose feet have been utterly
powerless, running nimbly away from some approaching danger. Poor
Grimaldi in his declining years had almost quite lost the use of his
limbs owing to the most hopeless debility. As he sat one day by the bed
side of his wife, who was ill, word was brought to him that a friend
waited below to see him. He got down to the parlor with extreme
difficulty. His friend was the bearer of heavy news which he dreaded to
communicate: it was the death of Grimaldi's son, who, though reckless
and worthless, was fondly loved by the poor father. The intelligence was
broken as gently as such a sad event could be: but in an instant
Grimaldi sprung from his chair--his lassitude and debility were gone,
his breathing, which had for a long time been difficult, became
perfectly easy--he was hardly a moment in bounding up the stairs which
but a quarter of an hour before he had passed with extreme difficulty in
ten minutes; he reached the bed-side, and told his wife that their son
was dead; and as she burst into an agony of grief he flung himself into
a chair, and became again instantaneously, as it has been touchingly
described, "an enfeebled and crippled old man."
The imagination, which is remarkable for its ungovernable influence,
comes into action on some occasions periodically with the most precise
regularity. A friend once told us of a young relation who was subject to
nervous attacks: she was spending some time at the sea-side for change
of air, but the evening-gun, fired from the vessel in the bay at eight
o'clock, was always the signal for a nervous attack: the instant the
report was heard she fell back insensible, as if she had been shot.
Those about her endeavored if possible to withdraw her thoughts from the
expected moment: at length one evening they succeeded, and while she was
engaged in an interesting conversation the evening-gun was unnoticed.
By-and-by she asked the hour, and appeared uneasy when she found the
time had passed. The next evening it was evident that she would not let
her attention be withdrawn: the gun fired, and she swooned away: and
when revived, another fainting fit succeeded, as if it were to make up
for the omission of the preceding evening! It is told of the great
tragic actress Clairon, who had been the innocent cause of the suicide
of a man who destroyed himself by a pistol-shot, that ever after, at the
exact moment when the fatal deed had been perpetrated--one o'clock in
the morning--she heard the shot. If asleep, it awakened her; if engaged
in conversation, it interrupted her; in solitude or in company, at home
or traveling, in the midst of revelry or at her devotions, she was sure
to hear it to the very moment.
The same indelible impression has been made in hundreds of cases, and on
persons of every variety of temperament and every pursuit, whether
engaged in business, science, or art, or rapt in holy contemplation. On
one occasion Pascal had been thrown down on a bridge which had no
parapet, and his imagination was so haunted forever after by the danger,
that he always fancied himself on the brink of a steep precipice
overhanging an abyss ready to engulf him. This illusion had taken such
possession of his mind that the friends who came to converse with him
were obliged to place the chairs on which they seated themselves between
him and the fancied danger. But the effects of terror are the best known
of all the vagaries of imagination.
A very remarkable case of the influence of imagination occurred between
sixty and seventy years since in Dublin, connected with the celebrated
frolics of Dalkey Island. It is said Curran and his gay companions
delighted to spend a day there, and that with them originated the frolic
of electing "a king of Dalkey and the adjacent islands," and appointing
his chancellor and all the officers of state. A man in the middle rank
of life, universally respected, and remarkable alike for kindly and
generous feelings and a convivial spirit, was unanimously elected to
fill the throne. He entered with his whole heart into all the humors of
the pastime, in which the citizens of Dublin so long delighted. A
journal was kept, called the "Dalkey Gazette," in which all public
proceedings were inserted, and it afforded great amusement to its
conductors. But the mock pageantry, the affected loyalty, and the
pretended homage of his subjects, at length began to excite the
imagination of "King John," as he was called. Fiction at length became
with him reality, and he fancied himself "every inch a king." His family
and friends perceived with dismay and deep sorrow the strange delusion
which nothing could shake: he would speak on no subject save the kingdom
of Dalkey and its government, and he loved to dwell on the various
projects he had in contemplation for the benefit of his people, and
boasted of his high prerogative: he never could conceive himself
divested for one moment of his royal powers, and exacted the most
profound deference to his kingly authority. The last year and a half of
his life were spent in Swift's hospital for lunatics. He felt his last
hours approaching, but no gleam of returning reason marked the parting
scene: to the very last instant he believed himself a king, and all his
cares and anxieties were for his people. He spoke in high terms of his
chancellor, his attorney-general, and all his officers of state, and of
the dignitaries of the church: he recommended them to his kingdom, and
trusted they might all retain the high offices which they now held. He
spoke on the subject with a dignified calmness well becoming the solemn
leave-taking of a monarch; but when he came to speak of the crown he was
about to relinquish forever his feelings were quite overcome, and the
tears rolled down his cheeks: "I leave it," said he, "to my people, and
to him whom they may elect as my successor!" This remarkable scene is
recorded in some of the notices of deaths for the year 1788. The
delusion, though most painful to his friends, was far from an unhappy
one to its victim: his feelings were gratified to the last while
thinking he was occupied with the good of his fellow-creatures--an
occupation best suited to his benevolent disposition.
MYSTERIES!
"I believe nothing that I do not understand," is the favorite saying of
Mr. Pettipo Dapperling, a gentleman who very much prides himself on his
intellectual perspicacity. Yet ask Mr. Pettipo if he understands how it
is that he wags his little finger, and he can give you no reasonable
account of it. He will tell you (for he has read books and "studied"
anatomy), that the little finger consists of so many jointed bones, that
there are tendons attached to them before and behind, which belong to
certain muscles, and that when these muscles are made to contract, the
finger wags. And this is nearly all that Mr. Pettipo knows about it! How
it is that the volition acts on the muscles, what volition is, what the
will is--Mr. Pettipo knows not. He knows quite as little about the
Sensation which resides in the skin of that little finger--how it is
that it feels and appreciates forms and surfaces--why it detects heat
and cold--in what way its papillae erect themselves, and its pores open
and close--about all this he is entirely in the dark. And yet Mr.
Pettipo is under the necessity of believing that his little finger wags,
and that it is endowed with the gift of sensation, though he in fact
knows nothing whatever of the why or the wherefore.
We must believe a thousand things that we can not understand. Matter and
its combinations are a grand mystery--how much more so, Life and its
manifestations. Look at those far-off worlds majestically wheeling in
their appointed orbits, millions of miles off: or, look at this earth on
which we live, performing its diurnal motion upon its own axis, and its
annual circle round the sun! What do we understand of the causes of such
motions? what can we ever know about them, beyond the facts that such
things are so? To discover and apprehend facts is much, and it is nearly
our limit. To ultimate causes we can never ascend. But to have an eye
open to receive facts and apprehend their relative value--that is a
great deal--that is our duty; and not to reject, suspect, or refuse to
accept them, because they happen to clash with our preconceived notions,
or, like Mr. Pettipo Dapperling, because we "can not understand" them.
"O, my dear Kepler!" writes Galileo to his friend, "how I wish that we
could have one hearty laugh together! Here at Padua is the principal
Professor of Philosophy, whom I have repeatedly and urgently requested
to look at the moon and planets through my glass, which he
pertinaciously refuses to do. Why are you not here? What shouts of
laughter we should have at this glorious folly! And to hear the
Professor of Philosophy at Pisa lecturing before the Grand Duke with
logical arguments, as if with magical incantations to charm the new
planets out of the sky!"
Rub a stick of wax against your coat-sleeve, and it emits sparks: hold
it near to light, fleecy particles of wool or cotton, and it first
attracts, then it repels them. What do you understand about that, Mr.
Pettipo, except merely that it is so? Stroke the cat's back before the
fire, and you will observe the same phenomena. Your own body will, in
like manner, emit sparks in certain states, but you know nothing about
why it is so.
Pour a solution of muriate of lime into one of sulphate of potash--both
clear fluids; but no sooner are they mixed together than they become
nearly solid. How is that? You tell me that an ingredient of the one
solution combines with an ingredient of the other, and an insoluble
sulphate of lime is produced. Well! you tell me a fact; but you do not
account for it by saying that the lime has a greater attraction for the
sulphuric acid than the potash has: you do not _understand_ how it
is--you merely see that it is so. You must believe it.
But when you come to Life, and its wonderful manifestations, you are
more in the dark than ever. You understand less about this than you do
even of dead matter. Take an ordinary every-day fact: you drop two
seeds, whose component parts are the same, into the same soil. They grow
up so close together that their roots mingle and their stalks
intertwine. The one plant produces a long slender leaf, the other a
short flat leaf--the one brings forth a beautiful flower, the other an
ugly scruff--the one sheds abroad a delicious fragrance, the other is
entirely inodorous. The hemlock, the wheatstalk, and the rose-tree, out
of the same chemical ingredients contained in the soil, educe, the one
deadly poison, the other wholesome food, the third a bright consummate
flower. Can you tell me, Mr. Pettipo, how is this? Do you understand the
secret by which the roots of these plants accomplish so much more than
all your science can do, and so infinitely excel the most skillful
combinations of the philosopher? You can only recognize the fact--but
you can not unravel the mystery. Your saying that it is the "nature" of
the plants, does not in the slightest degree clear up the difficulty.
You can not get at the ultimate fact--only the proximate one is seen by
you.
But lo! here is a wonderful little plant--touch it, and the leaves
shrink on the instant: one leaf seeming to be in intimate sympathy with
the rest, and the whole leaves in its neighborhood shrinking up at the
touch of a foreign object. Or, take the simple pimpernel, which closes
its eye as the sun goes down, and opens as he rises again--shrinks at
the approach of rain, and expands in fair weather. The hop twines round
the pole in the direction of the sun, and--
"The sunflower turns on her god when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose."
Do we know any thing about these things, further than they are so?
A partridge chick breaks its shell and steps forth into its new world.
Instantly it runs about and picks up the seeds lying about on the
ground. It had never learned to run, or to see, or to select its food;
but it does all these on the instant. The lamb of a few hours' old
frisks about full of life, and sucks its dam's teat with as much
accuracy as if it had studied the principle of the air-pump. Instinct
comes full-grown into the world at once, and we know nothing about it,
neither does the Mr. Dapperling above named.
When we ascend to the higher orders of animated being--to man
himself--we are as much in the dark as before--perhaps more so. Here we
have matter arranged in its most highly-organized forms--moving,
feeling, and thinking. In man the animal powers are concentrated; and
the thinking powers are brought to their highest point. How, by the
various arrangements of matter in man's body, one portion of the nervous
system should convey volitions from the brain to the limbs and the outer
organs--how another part should convey sensations with the suddenness of
lightning--and how, finally, a third portion should collect these
sensations, react upon them, store them up by a process called Memory,
reproduce them in thought, compare them, philosophize upon them, embody
them in books--is a great and unfathomable mystery!
Life itself! how wonderful it is! Who can understand it, or unravel its
secret! From a tiny vesicle, at first almost imperceptible to the eye,
but gradually growing and accumulating about it fresh materials, which
are in turns organized and laid down, each in their set places, at
length a body is formed, becomes developed--passing through various
inferior stages of being--those of polype, fish, frog, and
animal--until, at length, the human being rises above all these forms,
and the law of the human animal life is fulfilled. First, he is merely
instinctive, then sensitive, then reflective--the last the greatest, the
crowning work of man's development. But what do we _know_ of it all? Do
we not merely see that it is so, and turn aside from the great mystery
in despair of ever unraveling it?
The body sleeps? Volition, sensation, and thought, become suspended for
a time, while the animal powers live on; capillary arteries working,
heart beating, lungs playing, all without an effort--voluntarily and
spontaneously. The shadow of some recent thought agitates the brain,
and the sleeper dreams. Or, his volition may awake, while sensation is
still profoundly asleep, and then we have the somnambule, walking in his
sleep. Or, volition may be profoundly asleep, while the senses are
preternaturally excited, as in the abnormal mesmeric state. Here we have
a new class of phenomena, more wonderful because less usual, but not a
whit more mysterious than the most ordinary manifestations of life.
We are astonished to hear men refusing to credit the evidence of their
senses as to mesmeric phenomena, on the ground that they can not
"understand" them. When they can not understand the commonest
manifestations of life--the causation of volition, sensation, or
thought--why should they refuse belief on such a ground? Are the facts
real? Are these things so? This should be the chief consideration with
us. Mysteries they may be; but all life, all matter, all that is, are
mysteries too. Do we refuse to believe in the electric telegraph,
because the instantaneous transmission of intelligence between points a
thousand miles apart seems at first sight fabulous, and, to the
uninitiated, profoundly mysterious? Why should not thought--the most
wonderful and subtle of known agencies--manifest itself in equally
extraordinary ways?
We do not know that what the mesmerists call _clairvoyance_ is yet to be
held as established by sufficient evidence. Numerous strongly
authenticated cases have certainly been adduced by persons whose
evidence is above suspicion--as, for instance, by Swedenborg (attested
by many impartial witnesses), by Goethe, by Zschokke, by Townshend, by
Martineau, and others; but the evidence seems still to want
confirmation. Only, we say, let us not prejudge the case--let us wait
patiently for all sorts of evidence. We can not argue _a priori_ that
_clairvoyance_ is not true, any more than the Professor at Padua could
argue, with justice, that the worlds which Galileo's telescope revealed
in the depths of space, were all a sham. That truth was established by
extended observation. Let us wait and see whether this may not yet be
established, too, by similar means.
Some of the things which the mesmerists, who go the length of
_clairvoyance_, tell us, certainly have a very mysterious look; and were
not sensation, thought, and all the manifestations of Life (not yet half
investigated) all alike mysterious, we might be disposed to shut our
eyes with the rest, and say we refused to believe, because we "did not
understand."
But equally extraordinary relations to the same effect have been made by
men who were neither mesmerists nor clairvoyantes. For instance, Kant,
the German writer, relates that Swedenborg once, when living at
Gottenburg, some three hundred miles from Stockholm, suddenly rose up
and went out, when at the house of one Kostel, in the company of fifteen
persons. After a few minutes he returned, pale and alarmed, and informed
the party that a dangerous fire had just broken out in Stockholm, in
Sudermalm, and that the fire was spreading fast. He was restless, and
went out often; he said that the house of one of his friends, whom he
named, was already in ashes, and that his own was in danger. At eight
o'clock, after he had been out again, he joyfully exclaimed, "Thank God,
the fire is extinguished the third door from my house." This statement
of Swedenborg's spread through the town, and occasioned consternation
and wonder. The governor heard of it, and sent for Swedenborg, who
described the particulars of the fire--where and how it had begun, in
what manner it had ceased, and how long it had continued. On the Monday
evening, two days after the fire, a messenger arrived from Gottenburg,
who had been dispatched during the time of the fire, and the
intelligence he brought confirmed all that Swedenborg had said as to its
commencement: and on the following morning the royal courier arrived at
the governor's with full intelligence of the calamity, which did not
differ in the least from the relation which Swedenborg had given
immediately after the fire had ceased on the Saturday evening.
A circumstance has occurred while the writer was engaged in the
preparation of this paper, which is of an equally curious character, to
say the least of it. The lady who is the subject of it is a relation of
the writer, and is no believer in the "Mysteries of Mesmerism." It may
be remarked, however, that she is of a very sensitive and excitable
nervous temperament. It happened, that on the night of the 30th of
April, a frightful accident occurred on the Birkenhead, Lancashire, and
Cheshire Railway, in consequence of first one train, and then another,
running into the trains preceding. A frightful scene of tumult,
mutilation, and death ensued. It happened that the husband of the lady
in question was a passenger in the first train; though she did not know
that he intended to go to the Chester races, having been in Liverpool
that day on other business. But she had scarcely fallen asleep, ere,
half-dozing, half-awake, she _saw_ the accident occur--the terror, the
alarm, and the death. She walked up and down her chamber in terror and
alarm the whole night, and imparted her fears to others in the morning.
Her husband was not injured, though greatly shaken by the collision, and
much alarmed; and when he returned home in the course of the following
day, he could scarcely believe his wife when she informed him of the
circumstances which had been so mysteriously revealed to her in
connection with his journey of the preceding day!
Zschokke, an estimable man, well known as a philosopher, statesman, and
author, possessed, according to his own and contemporary accounts, the
most extraordinary power of divination of the characters and lives of
other men with whom he came in contact. He called it his "inward sight,"
and at first he was himself quite as much astonished at it as others
were. Writing of this feature himself, he says: "It has happened to me,
sometimes, on my first meeting with strangers, as I listened silently
to their discourse, that their former life, with many trifling
circumstances therewith connected, or frequently some particular scene
in that life, has passed quite involuntarily, and, as it were,
dream-like, yet perfectly distinct, before me. During this time, I
usually feel so entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the stranger
life, that at last I no longer see clearly the face of the unknown,
wherein I undesignedly read, nor distinctly hear the voices of the
speakers, which before served in some measure as a commentary to the
text of their features. For a long time I held such visions as delusions
of the fancy, and the more so as they showed me even the dress and
motions of the actors, rooms, furniture, and other accessories. By way
of jest, I once, in a family circle at Kirchberg, related the secret
history of a seamstress who had just left the room and the house. I had
never seen her before in my life; people were astonished and laughed,
but were not to be persuaded that I did not previously know the
relations of which I spoke, for what I had uttered was the _literal_
truth; I, on my part, was no less astonished that my dream-pictures were
confirmed by the reality. I became more attentive to the subject, and
when propriety admitted it, I would relate to those whose life thus
passed before me, the subject of my vision, that I might thereby obtain
confirmation or refutation of it. It was invariably ratified, not
without consideration on their part. I myself had less confidence than
any one in this mental jugglery. So often as I revealed my visionary
gifts to any new person, I regularly expected to hear the answer: 'It
was not so.' I felt a secret shudder when my auditors replied that it
was _true_, or when their astonishment betrayed my accuracy before they
spoke."[12] Zschokke gives numerous instances of this extraordinary power
of divination or waking clairvoyance, and mentions other persons whom he
met, who possessed the same marvelous power.
The "Posthumous Memoirs of La Harpe" contain equally extraordinary
revelations, looking _forward_, instead of backward, as in Zschokke's
case, into the frightful events of the great French Revolution, the
sightseer being Cazove, a well-known novel writer, who lived previous to
the frightful outbreak. Mary Howitt, in her account of the extraordinary
"Preaching Epidemic of Sweden," recites circumstances of the same kind,
equally wonderful; and the Rev. Mr. Sandy and Mr. Townshend's books on
mesmerism are full of similar marvels. Among the various statements, the
grand point is, how much of them is true? What are the _facts_ of
mesmerism? To quote the great Bacon: "He who hath not first, and before
all, intimately explained the movements of the human mind, and therein
most accurately distinguished the course of knowledge and the seats of
error, shall find all things masked, and, as it were, enchanted; and,
until he undo the charm, shall be unable to interpret." How few of us
have yet arrived at this enviable position.
CLARA CORSINI.--A TALE OF NAPLES.
A young French traveler, named Ernest Leroy, on arriving at Naples,
found himself during the first few days quite confused by the multitude
of his impressions. Now as it was in search of impressions that he had
left his beloved Paris, there was nothing, it should seem, very grievous
in this; and yet in the midst of his excitement there occurred intervals
of intolerable weariness of spirit--moments when he looked upon the
Strada Toledo with disgust, wished himself any where but in San Carlos,
sneered at Posilippo, pooh-poohed Vesuvius, and was generally skeptical
as to the superiority of _the Bay_ over the Bosphorus, which he had not
seen. All this came to pass because he had set out on the principle of
traveling in a hurry, or, as he expressed it, making the most of his
time. Every night before going to bed he made out and wrote down a
programme of next day's duties--assigning so many hours to each sight,
and so many minutes to each meal, but forgetting altogether to allow
himself any opportunity for repose or digestion.
Thus he had come from Paris _via_ Milan, Florence, and Rome, to
Naples--the whole in the space of three weeks, during which, as will be
easily imagined, he had visited an incredible number of churches,
galleries, temples, and ruins of every description. In order to profit
as much as possible by his travels he had arranged beforehand five or
six series of ideas, or meditations as he called them: one on the
assistance afforded by the fine arts to the progress of civilization,
another consisting of a string of sublime commonplaces on the fall of
empires and the moral value of monumental history; and so on. Each of
these meditations he endeavored to recall on appropriate occasions; and
he never had leisure to reflect, that for any instruction he was
deriving from what he saw he might as well have stopped at home.
However, having some imagination and talent, he frequently found himself
carried away by thoughts born of the occasion, and so irresistibly, that
once or twice he went through a whole gallery or church before he had
done with the train of ideas suggested by some previous sight, and was
only made aware that he had seen some unique painting or celebrated
windows of stained-glass by the guide claiming payment for his trouble,
and asking him to sign a testimonial doing justice to his civility and
great store of valuable information. It is only just to state that M.
Ernest never failed to comply with either of these demands.
When, however, as we have said, he had been two or three days in Naples,
and had rushed over the ground generally traversed by tourists, our
young traveler began to feel weary and disgusted. For some time he did
not understand what was the matter, and upbraided himself with the lack
of industry and decline of enthusiasm, which made him look forward with
horror to the summons of Giacomo, his guide, to be up and doing. At
length, however, during one sleepless night the truth flashed upon him,
and in the morning, to his own surprise and delight, he mustered up
courage to dismiss Giacomo with a handsome present, and to declare that
that day at least he was resolved to see nothing.
What a delightful stroll he took along the seashore that morning with
his eyes half-closed lest he might be tempted to look around for
information! He went toward Portici, but he saw nothing except the sand
and pebbles at his feet, and the white-headed surf that broke near at
hand. For the first time since his departure from Paris he felt
light-minded and at ease; and the only incident that occurred to disturb
his equanimity was, when his eyes rested for half a second on a broken
pillar in a vine-garden, and he was obliged to make an effort to pass by
without ascertaining whether it was of Roman date. But this feat once
accomplished, he threw up his cap for joy, shouted "_Victoire!_" and
really felt independent.
He was much mistaken, however, if he supposed it to be possible to
remain long in the enjoyment of that _dolce far niente_, the first savor
of which so captivated him. One day, two days passed, at the end of
which he found that while he had supposed himself to be doing nothing,
he had in reality made the great and only discovery of his
travels--namely, that the new country in which he found himself was
inhabited, and that, too, by people who, though not quite so different
from his countrymen as the savages of the South Sea Islands, possessed
yet a very marked character of their own, worthy of study and
observation. Thenceforward his journal began to be filled with notes on
costume, manners, &c.; and in three weeks, with wonderful modesty, after
combining the results of all his researches, he came to the conclusion
that he understood nothing at all of the character of the Italians.
In this humble state of mind he wandered forth one morning in the
direction of the Castle of St. Elmo, to enjoy the cool breeze that came
wafting from the sea, and mingled with and tempered the early sunbeams
as they streamed over the eastern hills. Having reached a broad, silent
street, bordered only by a few houses and gardens, he resolved not to
extend his walk further, but sat down on an old wooden bench under the
shade of a platane-tree that drooped over a lofty wall. Here he remained
some time watching the few passengers that occasionally turned a distant
corner and advanced toward him. He noticed that they all stopped at some
one of the houses further down the street, and that none reached as far
as where he sat; which led him first to observe that beyond his position
were only two large houses, both apparently uninhabited. One, indeed,
was quite ruined--many of the windows were built up or covered with old
boards; but the other showed fewer symptoms of decay, and might be
imagined to belong to some family at that time absent in the country.
He had just come to this very important conclusion when his attention
was diverted by the near approach of two ladies elegantly dressed,
followed by an elderly serving-man in plain livery, carrying a couple of
mass-books. They passed him rather hurriedly, but not before he had time
to set them down as mother and daughter, and to be struck with the great
beauty and grace of the latter. Indeed, so susceptible in that idle mood
was he of new impressions, that before the young lady had gone on more
than twenty paces he determined that he was in love with her, and by an
instinctive impulse rose to follow. At this moment the serving-man
turned round, and threw a calm but inquisitive glance toward him. He
checked himself, and affected to look the other way for a while, then
prepared to carry out his original intention. To his great surprise,
however, both ladies and follower had disappeared.
An ordinary man would have guessed at once that they had gone into one
of the houses previously supposed to be uninhabited, but M. Ernest Leroy
must needs fancy, first, that he had seen a vision, and then that the
objects of his interest had been snatched away by some evil spirit.
Mechanically, however, he hurried to the end of the street, which he
found terminated in an open piece of ground, which there had not been
time for any one to traverse. At length the rational explanation of the
matter occurred to him, and he felt for a moment inclined to knock at
the door of the house that was in best preservation, and complain of
what he persisted in considering a mysterious disappearance. However,
not being quite mad, he checked himself, and returning to his wooden
bench, sat down, and endeavored to be very miserable.
But this would have been out of character. Instead thereof he began to
feel a new interest in life, and to look back with some contempt on the
two previous phases of his travels. With youthful romance and French
confidence he resolved to follow up this adventure, never doubting for a
moment of the possibility of ultimate success, nor of the excellence of
the object of his hopes. What means to adopt did not, it is true,
immediately suggest themselves; and he remained sitting for more than an
hour gazing at the great silent house opposite, until the unpleasant
consciousness that he had not breakfasted forced him to beat a retreat.
We have not space to develop--luckily it is not necessary--all the wild
imaginings that fluttered through the brain of our susceptible traveler
on his return to his lodgings, and especially after a nourishing
breakfast had imparted to him new strength and vivacity. Under their
influence he repaired again to his post on the old wooden bench under
the platane-tree, and even had the perseverance to make a third visit in
the evening; for--probably, because he expected the adventure to draw
out to a considerable length--he did not imitate the foolish fantasy of
some lovers, and deprive himself of his regular meals. He saw nothing
that day; but next morning he had the inexpressible satisfaction of
again beholding the two ladies approach, followed by their
respectable-looking servant. They passed without casting a glance toward
him; but their attendant this time not only turned round, but stopped,
and gazed at him in a manner he would have thought impertinent on
another occasion. For the moment, however, this was precisely what he
wanted, and without thinking much of the consequences that might ensue,
he hastily made a sign requesting an interview. The man only stared the
more, and then turning on his heel, gravely followed the two ladies, who
had just arrived at the gateway of their house.
"I do not know what to make of that rascally valet," thought Ernest. "He
seems at once respectable and hypocritical. Probably my appearance does
not strike him as representing sufficient wealth, otherwise the hopes of
a fair bribe would have induced him at any rate to come out and ask me
what I meant."
He was, of course, once more at his post in the afternoon; and this time
he had the satisfaction of seeing the door open, and the elderly
serving-man saunter slowly out, as if disposed to enjoy the air. First
he stopped on the steps, cracking pistachio-nuts, and jerking the shells
into the road with his thumb; then took two or three steps gently toward
the other end of the street; and at last, just as Ernest was about to
follow him, veered round and began to stroll quietly across the road,
still cracking his nuts, in the direction of the old wooden bench.
"The villain has at length made up his mind," soliloquized our lover.
"He pretends to come out quite by accident, and will express great
surprise when I accost him in the way I intend."
The elderly serving-man still came on, seemingly not at all in a hurry
to arrive, and gave ample time for an examination of his person. His
face was handsome, though lined by age and care, and was adorned by a
short grizzled beard. There was something very remarkable in the
keenness of his large gray eyes, as there was indeed about his whole
demeanor. His dress was a plain suit of black, that might have suited a
gentleman; and if Ernest had been less occupied with one idea he would
not have failed to see in this respectable domestic a prince reduced by
misfortune to live on wages, or a hero who had never had an opportunity
of exhibiting his worth.
When this interesting person had reached the corner of the bench he set
himself down with a slight nod of apology or recognition--it was
difficult to say which--and went on eating his nuts quite unconcernedly.
As often happens in such cases, Ernest felt rather puzzled how to enter
upon business, and was trying to muster up an appearance of
condescending familiarity--suitable, he thought, to the occasion--when
the old man, very affably holding out his paper-bag that he might take
some nuts, saved him the trouble by observing: "You are a stranger, sir,
I believe?"
"Yes, my good fellow," was the reply of Ernest, in academical Italian;
"and I have come to this county--"
"I thought so," interrupted the serving-man, persisting in his offer of
nuts, but showing very little interest about Ernest's views in visiting
Italy--"by your behavior."
"My behavior!" exclaimed the young man, a little nettled.
"Precisely. But your quality of stranger has hitherto protected you from
any disagreeable consequences."
This was said so quietly, so amiably, that the warning or menace wrapped
up in the words lost much of its bitter savor; yet our traveler could
not refrain from a haughty glance toward this audacious domestic, on
whom, however, it was lost, for he was deeply intent on his pistachios.
After a moment Ernest recovered his self-possession, remembered his
schemes, and drawing a little nearer the serving-man, laid his hand
confidentially on the sleeve of his coat, and said: "My good man, I have
a word or two for your private ear."
Not expressing the least surprise or interest, the other replied: "I am
ready to hear what you have to say, provided you will not call me any
more your good man. I am not a good man, nor am I your man, without
offense be it spoken. My name is Alfonso."
"Well, Alfonso, you are an original person, and I will not call you a
good man, though honesty and candor be written on your countenance.
(Alfonso smiled, but said nothing). But listen to me attentively,
remembering that though neither am I a good man, yet am I a generous
one. I passionately love your mistress."
"Ah!" said Alfonso, with any thing but a benevolent expression of
countenance. Ernest, who was no physiognomist, noticed nothing; and
being mounted on his new hobby-horse, proceeded at once to give a
history of his impressions since the previous morning. When he had
concluded, the old man, who seemed all benevolence again, simply
observed: "Then it is the younger of the two ladies that captivated your
affections in this unaccountable manner!"
"Of course," cried Ernest; "and I beseech you, my amiable Alfonso, to
put me in the way of declaring what I experience."
"You are an extraordinary young man," was the grave reply; "an
extraordinary, an imprudent, and, I will add, a reckless person. You
fall in love with a person of whom you know nothing--not even the name.
This, however, is, I believe, according to rule among a certain class of
minds. Not satisfied with this, you can find no better way of
introducing yourself to her notice than endeavoring to corrupt one whom
you must have divined to be a confidential servant. Others would have
sought an introduction to the family; you dream at once of a clandestine
intercourse--"
"I assure you--" interrupted Ernest, feeling both ashamed and indignant
at these remarks proceeding from one so inferior in station.
"Assure me nothing, sir, as to your intentions, for you do not know them
yourself. I understand you perfectly, because I was once young and
thoughtless like you. Now listen to me: in that house dwells the
Contessa Corsini, with her daughter Clara; and if these two persons had
no one to protect them but themselves and a foolish old servitor, whom
the first comer judges capable of corruption, they would ere this have
been much molested; but it happens that the Count Corsini is not dead,
and inhabiteth with them, although seldom coming forth into the public
streets. What say you, young man, does not this a little disturb your
plans?"
"In the first place," replied Ernest, "I am offended that you will
persist in implying--more, it is true, by your manner than your
words--that my views are not perfectly avowable."
"Then why, in the name of Heaven, do you not make yourself known to the
count, stating your object, and asking formally for his daughter's
hand?"
"Not so fast, Alfonso. It was necessary for me to learn, as a beginning,
that there was a count in the case."
"And what do you know now? Perhaps those women are two adventurers, and
I a rascal playing a virtuous part, in order the better to deceive you."
"You do not look like a rascal," said Ernest, quite innocently. At which
observation the old man condescended to laugh heartily, and seemed from
that moment to take quite a liking to his new acquaintance. After a
little while, indeed, he began to give some information about the young
Clara, who, he said, was only sixteen years of age, though quite a woman
in appearance, and not unaccomplished. As to her dowry--Ernest
interrupted him by saying, that he wished for no information on that
point, being himself rich. The old man smiled amiably, and ended the
conversation by requesting another interview next day at the same hour,
by which time, he said, he might have some news to tell.
Ernest returned home in high spirits, which sank by degrees, however,
when he reflected that as Alfonso declined favoring any clandestine
correspondence, there was little in reality to be expected from him.
True, he had given him some information, and he might now, by means of
his letters of introduction, contrive to make acquaintance with the
count. But though he spent the whole evening and next morning in making
inquiries, he could not meet with any one who had ever even heard of
such a person. "Possibly," he thought, "the old sinner may have been
laughing at me all the time, and entered into conversation simply with
the object of getting up a story to divert the other domestics of the
house. If such be the case, he may be sure I shall wreak vengeance upon
him."
In spite of these reflections, he was at his post at the hour appointed,
and felt quite overjoyed when Alfonso made his appearance. The old man
said that a plan had suggested itself by which he might be introduced
into the house--namely, that he should pretend to be a professor of
drawing, and offer his services. Ernest did not inquire how Alfonso came
to know that he was an amateur artist, but eagerly complied with the
plan, and was instructed to call on the following morning, and to say
that he had heard that a drawing-master was wanted.
He went accordingly, not very boldly, it is true, and looking very much
in reality like a poor professor anxious to obtain employment. The
contessa, who was yet young and beautiful, received him politely,
listened to his proposals, and made no difficulty in accepting them. The
preliminaries arranged, Clara was called, and, to Ernest's astonishment,
came bouncing into the room like a great school-girl, looked him very
hard in the face, and among the first things she said, asked him if he
was not the man she had seen two mornings following sitting opposite the
house on the bench under the platane tree.
Now Ernest had imagined to himself something so refined, so delicate, so
fairy-like, instead of this plain reality, that he all at once began to
feel disgusted, and to wish he had acted more prudently. And yet there
was Clara, exactly as he had seen her, except that she had exchanged the
demure, conventional step adopted by ladies in the street for the free
motions of youth; and except that, instead of casting her eyes to the
earth, or glancing at him sideways, she now looked toward him with a
frank and free gaze, and spoke what came uppermost in her mind. Certes,
most men would have chosen that moment to fall in love with so charming
a creature; for charming she was beyond all doubt, with large, rich,
black eyes, pouting ruby lips, fine oval cheeks, and a mass of ebony
hair; but Ernest's first impression was disappointment, and he began to
criticise both her and every thing by which she was surrounded.
He saw at once that there was poverty in the house. The furniture was
neat, but scanty; and the door had been opened by a female servant, who
had evidently been disturbed from some domestic avocations. The contessa
and her daughter were dressed very plainly--far differently from what
they had been in the street; and it was an easy matter to see that this
plainness was not adopted from choice but from necessity. Had Clara come
into the room with a slow, creeping step, keeping her eyes modestly
fixed on the chipped marble floor, not one of these observations would
have been made: the large, dreary house would have been a palace in
Ernest's eyes; but his taste was a morbid one, and in five minutes after
he had begun to give his lesson, he began to fear that the conquest he
had so ardently desired would be only too easy.
There was something, however, so cheerful and fascinating in Clara's
manner that he could not but soon learn to feel pleasure in her society:
and when he went away he determined, instead of starting off for Sicily,
as he had at first thought of doing, to pay at least one more visit to
the house in the character of drawing master. Alfonso joined him as he
walked slowly homeward, and asked him how things had passed. He related
frankly his first impressions, to which the old man listened very
attentively without making any remark. At parting, however, he shook his
head, saying that young men were of all animals the most difficult to
content.
Next day, when Ernest went to give his lesson, he was told by Alfonso
that the contessa, being indisposed, had remained in bed, but that he
should find Clara in the garden. There was something romantic in the
sound of this, so he hurried to the spot indicated, impatient to have
the commonplace impressions of the previous day effaced. This time his
disgust was complete. He found Clara engaged in assisting the servant
maid to wring and hang out some clothes they had just finished washing.
She seemed not at all put out by being caught thus humbly employed; but
begging him to wait a little, finished her work, ran away, dressed
somewhat carefully, and returning begged he would return to the house.
He followed with cheeks burning with shame: he felt the utmost contempt
for himself because he had fallen in love with this little housewife,
and the greatest indignation against her for having presumed, very
innocently, to excite so poetical a sentiment; and, in the stupidity of
his offended self-love, resolved to avenge himself by making some
spiteful remark ere he escaped from a house into which he considered
that he had been regularly entrapped. Accordingly, when she took the
pencil in hand, he observed that probably she imagined that contact with
soap-suds would improve the delicacy of her touch. Clara did not reply,
but began to sketch in a manner that proved she had listened to the
pedantic rules he had laid down on occasion of the previous lesson more
from modesty than because she was in want of them. Then suddenly rising
without attending to some cavil he thought it his duty to make, she went
to the piano, and beginning to play, drew forth such ravishing notes,
that Ernest, who was himself no contemptible musician, could not refrain
from applauding enthusiastically. She received his compliments with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, and commenced a song that enabled her to
display with full effect the capabilities of her magnificent voice. The
soap-suds were forgotten; and Ernest's romance was coming back upon him:
he began to chide himself for his foolish prejudices; and thought that,
after all, with a little training, Clara might be made quite a lady.
Suddenly, however, she broke off her song, and turning toward him with
an ironical smile, said: "Not bad for a housemaid, Mr. Professor--is
it?"
He attempted to excuse himself, but he was evidently judged; and, what
was more--not as an obscure drawing-master, but as M. Ernest Leroy. His
identity was evidently no secret; and she even called him by his name.
He endeavored in vain to make a fine speech to apologize for his
ill-behavior; but she interrupted him keenly, though good-humoredly, and
the entrance of Alfonso was fatal to a fine scene of despair he was
about to enact. Clara upon this retired with a profound salute; and
Alfonso spoke with more of dignity than usual in his manner, and said:
"My young friend, you must excuse a little deception which has been
practiced on you, or rather which you have practiced upon yourself. I am
going to be very free and frank with you to-day. I am not what you take
me for. I am the Count Corsini, a Roman; and because I have not the
means of keeping a man-servant, when the women of my family go to church
I follow them, as you saw. This is not unusual among my countrymen. It
is a foolish pride I know; but so it is. However, the matter interests
you not. You saw my daughter Clara, and thought you loved her. I was
willing, as on inquiry I found you to be a respectable person, to see
how you could agree together; but your pride--I managed and overheard
all--has destroyed your chance. My daughter will seek another husband."
There was a cold friendliness in Alfonso's tone which roused the pride
of Ernest. He affected to laugh, called himself a foolish madcap, but
hinted that a splendid marriage awaited him, if he chose, on his return
to Paris; and went away endeavoring to look unconcerned. The following
morning he was on board a vessel bound for Palermo, very sea-sick it is
true, but thinking at the same time a great deal more of Clara than he
could have thought possible had it been predicted.
Some few years afterward Ernest Leroy was in one of the _salons_ of the
Fauxbourg St. Germain. Still a bachelor, he no longer felt those sudden
emotions to which he had been subject in his earlier youth. He was
beginning to talk less of sentiments present and more of sentiments
passed. In confidential moods he would lay his hand upon his
waistcoat--curved out at its lower extremity, by the by, by a notable
increase of substance--and allude to a certain divine Clara who had
illuminated a moment of his existence. But he was too discreet to enter
into details.
Well, being in that _salon_, as we have said, pretending to amuse
himself, his attention was suddenly drawn by the announcement of Lady
D----. He turned round, probably to quiz _la belle Anglaise_ he expected
to behold. What was his astonishment on recognizing in the superb woman
who leaned on the arm of a tall, military-looking Englishman, the
identical Clara Corsini of his youthful memories. He felt at first sick
at heart; but, taking courage, soon went up and spoke to her. She
remembered him with some little difficulty, smiled, and holding out her
alabaster hand, said gently: "Do you see any trace of the soap-suds?"
She never imagined he had any feeling in him, and only knew the truth
when a large, round tear fell on the diamond of her ring. "Charles,"
said Ernest awhile afterward to a friend, "it is stifling hot and
dreadfully stupid here. Let us go and have a game of billiards."
OUR SCHOOL.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
We went to look at it, only this last Midsummer, and found that the
Railway had cut it up root and branch. A great trunk-line had swallowed
the play-ground, sliced away the school-room, and pared off the corner
of the house: which, thus curtailed of its proportions, presented
itself, in a green stage of stucco, profile-wise toward the road, like a
forlorn flat-iron without a handle, standing on end.
It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We
have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-School, which we have
sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new
street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a
belief, that it was over a dyer's shop. We know that you went up steps
to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you
generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off
a very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the Establishment holds no
place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal
entry, long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity
toward us, who triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful Pug, a
certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the
ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and the
insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and
flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a
fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and his name
_Fidele_. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back-parlor,
whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and in
wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he would sit up and balance cake
upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted. To the best
of our belief, we were once called in to witness this performance; when,
unable, even in his milder moments, to endure our presence, he instantly
made at us, cake and all.
Why a something in mourning, called "Miss Frost," should still connect
itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. We retain no
impression of the beauty of Miss Frost--if she were beautiful; or of the
mental fascinations of Miss Frost--if she were accomplished; yet her
name and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance. An
equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself
unalterably into "Master Mawls," is not to be dislodged from our brain.
Retaining no vindictive feeling toward Mawls--no feeling whatever,
indeed--we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost. Our
first impression of Death and Burial is associated with this formless
pair. We all three nestled awfully in a corner one wintry day, when the
wind was blowing shrill, with Miss Frost's pinafore over our heads; and
Miss Frost told us in a whisper about somebody being "screwed down." It
is the only distinct recollection we preserve of these impalpable
creatures, except a suspicion that the manners of Master Mawls were
susceptible of much improvement. Generally speaking, we may observe that
whenever we see a child intently occupied with its nose, to the
exclusion of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts in a flash
to Master Mawls.
But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came and
overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old enough to be
put into Virgil when we went there, and to get Prizes for a variety of
polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It was a School of
some celebrity in its neighborhood--nobody could have said why--and we
had the honor to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. The
master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was
supposed to know every thing. We are still inclined to think the
first-named supposition perfectly correct.
We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade,
and had bought us--meaning our School--of another proprietor, who was
immensely learned. Whether this belief had any real foundation, we are
not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which
he showed the least acquaintance, were, ruling, and corporally
punishing. He was always ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany
ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical
instrument, or viciously drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of
his large hands, and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt
whatever that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence.
A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, of course,
derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic, goggle-eyed boy, with a
big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared as a
parlor-boarder, and was rumored to have come by sea from some mysterious
part of the earth where his parents rolled in gold. He was usually
called "Mr." by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlor on steaks
and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly stated that if
rolls and coffee were ever denied him at breakfast, he would write home
to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and cause
himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no form
or class, but learnt alone, as little as he liked--and he liked very
little--and there was a belief among us that this was because he was too
wealthy to be "taken down." His special treatment, and our vague
association of him with the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and coral
reefs, occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. A
tragedy in blank verse was written on the subject--if our memory does
not deceive us, by the hand that now chronicles these recollections--in
which his father figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous
catalogue of atrocities: first imparting to his wife the secret of the
cave in which his wealth was stored, and from which his only son's
half-crowns now issued. Dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented as
"yet unborn," when his brave father met his fate; and the despair and
grief of Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth as
having weakened the parlor-boarder's mind. This production was received
with great favor, and was twice performed with closed doors in the
dining-room. But, it got wind, and was seized as libelous, and brought
the unlucky poet into severe affliction. Some two years afterward, all
of a sudden one day, Dumbledon vanished. It was whispered that the
Chief himself had taken him down to the Docks, and reshipped him for the
Spanish Main; but nothing certain was ever known about his
disappearance. At this hour, we can not thoroughly disconnect him from
California.
Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There was another--a
heavy young man, with a large double-cased silver watch, and a fat
knife, the handle of which was a perfect tool-box--who unaccountably
appeared one day at a special desk of his own, erected close to that of
the Chief, with whom he held familiar converse. He lived in the parlor,
and went out for walks, and never took the least notice of us--even of
us, the first boy--unless to give us a depreciatory kick, or grimly to
take our hat off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors:
which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed--not even
condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us believed that the
classical attainments of this phenomenon were terrific, but that his
penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend
them; others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the
Chief "twenty-five pound down," for leave to see Our School at work. The
gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy _us_; against which
contingency conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and
running away. However, he never did that. After staying for a quarter,
during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to do
any thing but make pens out of quills, write small-hand in a secret
portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his knife into
his desk, all over it, he, too, disappeared, and his place knew him no
more.
There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and
rich curling hair, who, we found out, or thought we found out (we have
no idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was
confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a Viscount
who had deserted his lovely mother. It was understood that if he had his
rights, he would be worth twenty thousand a year. And that if his mother
ever met his father, she would shoot him with a silver pistol which she
carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was a very
suggestive topic. So was a young Mulatto, who was always believed
(though very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. But, we
think they were both outshone, upon the whole, by another boy who
claimed to have been born on the twenty-ninth of February, and to have
only one birthday in five years. We suspect this to have been a
fiction--but he lived upon it all the time he was at Our School.
The principal currency of Our School was slate-pencil. It had some
inexplicable value, that was never ascertained, never reduced to a
standard. To have a great hoard of it, was somehow to be rich. We used
to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our
chosen friends. When the holidays were coming, contributions were
solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in India, and who were
appealed for under the generic name of "Holiday-stoppers"--appropriate
marks of remembrance that should enliven and cheer them in their
homeless state. Personally, we always contributed these tokens of
sympathy in the form of slate-pencil, and always felt that it would be a
comfort and a treasure to them.
Our School was remarkable for white mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even
canaries, were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other strange
refuges for birds; but white mice were the favorite stock. The boys
trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the boys. We
recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a Latin dictionary,
who ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned
wheels, and even made a very creditable appearance on the stage as the
Dog of Montargis. He might have achieved greater things, but for having
the misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal procession to the
Capitol, when he fell into a deep inkstand, and was dyed black, and
drowned. The mice were the occasion of some most ingenious engineering,
in the construction of their houses and instruments of performance. The
famous one belonged to a Company of proprietors, some of whom have since
made Railroads, Engines, and Telegraphs; the chairman has erected mills
and bridges in New Zealand.
The usher at our school, who was considered to know every thing as
opposed to the Chief who was considered to know nothing, was a bony,
gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man in rusty black. It was
whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby's sisters (Maxby lived
close by, and was a day pupil), and further that he "favored Maxby." As
we remember, he taught Italian to Maxby's sisters on half-holidays. He
once went to the play with them, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose:
which was considered among us equivalent to a declaration. We were of
opinion on that occasion that to the last moment he expected Maxby's
father to ask him to dinner at five o'clock, and therefore neglected his
own dinner at half-past one, and finally got none. We exaggerated in our
imaginations the extent to which he punished Maxby's father's cold meat
at supper; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and
water when he came home. But, we all liked him; for he had a good
knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if he had
had more power. He was writing-master, mathematical-master, English
master, made out the bills, mended the pens, and did all sorts of
things. He divided the little boys with the Latin master (they were
smuggled through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there was
nothing else to do), and he always called at parents' houses to inquire
after sick boys, because he had gentlemanly manners. He was rather
musical, and on some remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone; but
a bit of it was lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he
sometimes tried to play it of an evening. His holidays never began (on
account of the bills) until long after ours; but in the summer-vacations
he used to take pedestrian excursions with a knapsack; and at
Christmas-time he went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who we all
said (on no authority) was a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. Poor fellow! He was
very low all day on Maxby's sister's wedding-day, and afterward was
thought to favor Maxby more than ever, though he had been expected to
spite him. He has been dead these twenty years. Poor fellow!
Our remembrance of Our School, presents the Latin master as a colorless,
doubled-up, near-sighted man with a crutch, who was always cold, and
always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always disclosing
ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a
ball of pocket-handkerchief to some part of his face with a screwing
action round and round. He was a very good scholar, and took great pains
where he saw intelligence and a desire to learn; otherwise, perhaps not.
Our memory presents him (unless teased into a passion) with as little
energy as color--as having been worried and tormented into monotonous
feebleness--as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in
a mill of boys. We remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry
afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not when
the footstep of the Chief fell heavy on the floor; how the Chief aroused
him, in the midst of a dread silence, and said, "Mr. Blinkins, are you
ill, sir?" how he blushingly replied, "Sir, rather so;" how the Chief
retorted with severity, "Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to be ill in"
(which was very, very true), and walked back, solemn as the ghost in
Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he caned that boy for
inattention, and happily expressed his feelings toward the Latin master
through the medium of a substitute.
There was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in a gig, and
taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as an accomplishment in
great social demand in after-life); and there was a brisk little French
master who used to come in the sunniest weather with a handleless
umbrella, and to whom the Chief was always polite, because (as we
believed), if the Chief offended him, he would instantly address the
Chief in French, and forever confound him before the boys with his
inability to understand or reply.
There was, besides, a serving man, whose name was Phil. Our
retrospective glance presents Phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast away
upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an
ingenious inkling of many trades. He mended whatever was broken, and
made whatever was wanted. He was general glazier, among other things,
and mended all the broken windows--at the prime cost (as was darkly
rumored among us) of ninepence for every square charged three-and-six to
parents. We had a high opinion of his mechanical genius, and generally
held that the Chief "knew something bad of him," and on pain of
divulgence enforced Phil to be his bondsman. We particularly remember
that Phil had a sovereign contempt for learning; which engenders in us a
respect for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation of the
relative positions of the Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable
man, who waited at table between whiles, and, throughout "the half" kept
the boxes in severe custody. He was morose, even to the Chief, and never
smiled, except at breaking-up, when, in acknowledgment of the toast,
"Success to Phil! Hooray!" he would slowly carve a grin out of his
wooden face, where it would remain until we were all gone. Nevertheless,
one time when we had the scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all
the sick boys of his own accord, and was like a mother to them.
There was another school not far off, and of course our school could
have nothing to say to that school. It is mostly the way with schools,
whether of boys or men. Well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the
locomotives now run smoothly over its ashes.
So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of,
and is not proud of, too. It had little reason to be proud of Our
School, and has done much better since in that way, and will do far
better yet.
A STORY OF ORIENTAL LOVE.
Poets have complained in all countries and in all ages, that true love
ever meets with obstacles and hindrances, and the highest efforts of
their art have been exhausted in commemorating the sufferings or the
triumphs of affection. Will the theme ever cease to interest? Will the
hopes, the fears, the joys, the vows of lovers, ever be deemed matters
of light moment, unworthy to be embalmed and preserved in those immortal
caskets which genius knows how to frame out of words? If that dreary
time be destined to come--if victory decide in favor of those mechanical
philosophers who would drive sentiment out of the world--sad will be the
lot of mortals; for it is better to die with a heart full of love, than
live for an age without feeling one vibration of that divine passion.
I am almost ashamed to translate into this level English, the sublime
rhapsody with which the worthy Sheikh Ibrahim introduced the simple
story about to be repeated. The truth is, I do not remember much of what
he said, and at times he left me far behind, as he soared up through the
cloudy heaven of his enthusiasm. I could only occasionally discern his
meaning as it flashed along; but a solemn, rapturous murmur of
inarticulate sounds swept over my soul, and prepared it to receive with
devout faith and respect, what else might have appeared to me a silly
tale of truth and constancy and passionate devotion. I forgot the
thousand musquitoes that were whirling with threatening buzz around; the
bubbling of the water-pipe grew gradually less frequent, and at length
died away; and the sides of the kiosque overlooking the river, with its
flitting sails and palm-fringed shores dimming in the twilight, seemed
to open and throw back a long vista into the past. I listened, and the
Sheikh continued to speak:
I will relate the story of Gadallah, the son of the sword-maker, and of
Hosneh, the daughter of the merchant. It is handed down to us by
tradition, and the fathers of some yet living, remember to have heard it
told by eye-witnesses. Not that any great weight of testimony is
required to exact belief. No extraordinary incident befell the lovers;
and the pure-hearted, when they hear these things, will say within
themselves, "This must be so; we would have done likewise."
Gadallah was a youth of wonderful beauty; his like is only to be seen
once in a long summer's day, by the favor of God. All Cairo spoke of
him, and mothers envied his mother, and fathers his father; and maidens
who beheld him grew faint with admiration, and loved as hopelessly as if
he had been the brightest star of heaven. For he did not incline to such
thoughts, and had been taught to despise women, and to believe that they
were all wicked and designing--full of craft and falsehood. Such
instructions had his mother given him, for she knew the snares that
would beset so beautiful a youth, and feared for him, lest he might be
led into danger and misfortune.
Gadallah worked with his father in the shop, and being a cunning
artificer, assisted to support the family. He had many brothers and
sisters, all younger than he; but there were times when money was scarce
with them, and they were compelled to borrow for their daily expenses of
their neighbors, and to trust to Providence for the means of repayment.
Thus time passed, and they became neither richer nor poorer, as is the
common lot of men who labor for their bread; but neither Gadallah nor
his father repined. When Allah gave good fortune they blessed him, and
when no good fortune was bestowed, they blessed him for not taking away
that which they had. They who spend their lives in industry and in
praise of God, can not be unhappy.
It came to pass one day, that a man richly dressed, riding on a mule,
and followed by servants, stopped opposite the shop, and calling to the
father of Gadallah, said to him: "O Sheikh, I have a sword, the hilt of
which is broken, and I desire thee to come to my house and mend it; for
it is of much value, and there is a word of power written on it, and I
can not allow it to leave the shelter of my roof." The sword-maker
answered: "O master, it will be better that my son should accompany
thee; for he is young, and his eyes are sharp, and his hand is clever,
while I am growing old, and not fit for the finer work." The customer
replied that it was well, and having given Gadallah time to take his
tools, rode slowly away, the youth following him at a modest distance.
They proceeded to a distant quarter, where the streets were silent and
the houses large and lofty, surrounded by gardens with tall trees that
trembled overhead in the sun-light. At length they stopped before a
mansion fit for a prince, and Gadallah entered along with the owner. A
spacious court, with fountains playing in the shade of two large
sycamores, and surrounded by light colonnades, so struck the young
sword-maker with astonishment, that he exclaimed: "Blessed be God, whose
creatures are permitted to rear palaces so beautiful!" These words
caused the master to smile with benignity, for who is insensible to the
praise of his own house? And he said: "Young man, thou seest only a
portion of that which has been bestowed upon me--extolled be the Lord
and his Prophet; follow me." So they passed through halls of surprising
magnificence, until they came to a lofty door, over which swept long
crimson curtains, and which was guarded by a black slave with a sword in
his hand. He looked at Gadallah with surprise when the master said
"open," but obeying, admitted them to a spacious saloon--more splendid
than any that had preceded.
Now Gadallah having never seen the interior of any house better than
that of his neighbor the barber, who was a relation by the mother's
side, and highly respected as a man of wealth and condition, was lost in
amazement and wonder at all he beheld, not knowing that he was the most
beautiful thing in that saloon, and scarcely ventured to walk, lest he
might stain the polished marble or the costly carpets. His conductor,
who was evidently a good man, from the delight he honestly showed at
this artless tribute to his magnificence, took him to a small cabinet
containing a chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. This he opened, and
producing a sword, the like of which never came from Damascus, bade him
observe where the hilt was broken, and ordered him to mend it carefully.
Then he left him, saying he would return in an hour.
Gadallah began his work with the intention of being very industrious;
but he soon paused to admire at leisure the splendor of the saloon; when
he had fed his eyes with this, he turned to a window that looked upon a
garden, and saw that it was adorned with lovely trees, bright flowers,
elegant kiosques, and running fountains. An aviary hard by was filled
with singing-birds, which warbled the praises of the Creator. His mind
soon became a wilderness of delight, in which leaf-laden branches waved,
and roses, and anemones, and pinks, and fifty more of the bright
daughters of spring, blushed and glittered; and melody wandered with
hesitating steps, like a spirit seeking the coolest and sweetest place
of rest. This was like an exquisite dream; but presently, straying in a
path nigh at hand, he beheld an unvailed maiden and her attendant. It
was but for a moment she appeared, yet her image was so brightly thrown
in upon his heart, that he loved her ever afterward with a love as
unchangeable as the purity of the heavens. When she was gone, he sat
himself down beside the broken sword and wept.
The master of the house came back, and gently chid him for his idleness.
"Go," said he, "and return to-morrow at the same hour. Thou hast now
sufficiently fed thine eyes--go; but remember, envy me not the wealth
which God hath bestowed." Gadallah went his way, having first
ascertained from the servants, that his employer was the Arabian
merchant Zen-ed-din, whose daughter Hosneh was said to surpass in beauty
all the maidens of the land of Egypt. On reaching the house, he repaired
to his mother's side, and sitting down, told her of all he had seen and
all he felt, beseeching her to advise him and predict good fortune to
him.
Fatoumeh, the mother of Gadallah, was a wise woman, and understood that
his case was hopeless, unless his desires received accomplishment. But
it seemed to her impossible that the son of the poor sword-maker should
ever be acceptable to the daughter of the wealthy merchant. She wept
plentifully at the prospect of misery that unfolded itself, and when her
husband came in, he also wept; and all three mingled their tears
together until a late hour of the night.
Next day Gadallah went at the appointed hour to the merchant's house,
and being kindly received, finished the work set to him; but saw no more
of the maiden who had disturbed his mind. Zen-ed-din paid him handsomely
for his trouble, and added some words of good advice. This done, he
gently dismissed him, promising he would recall him shortly for other
work; and the youth returned home despairing of all future happiness.
The strength of his love was so great, that it shook him like a mighty
fever, and he remained ill upon his couch that day, and the next, and
the next, until he approached the margin of the grave; but his hour was
not yet come, and he recovered.
In the mean time, the Angel of Death received permission from the
Almighty to smite thirty thousand of the inhabitants of Cairo; and he
sent a great plague, that introduced sorrow into every house. It flew
rapidly from quarter to quarter, and from street to street, smiting the
chosen of the tomb--the young, the old, the bad, the good, the rich, the
poor--here, there, every where; in the palace, the hovel, the shop, the
market-place, the deewan. All day and all night the shriek of sorrow
resounded in the air; and the thoroughfares were filled with people
following corpses to the cemetery. Many fled into other cities and other
lands; but the plague followed those who were doomed, and struck them
down by the wayside, or in the midst of their new friends.
It happened that the merchant Zen-ed-din had gone upon a journey, and
had left his house, and his harem, and his lovely daughter, under the
care of Providence, so that when Gadallah recovered, before the
pestilence reached its height, he waited in vain in the shop, expecting
that the merchant would pass, and invite him again to his house. At
length the affliction of the city reached so great a degree of
intensity, that all business was put a stop to, the bazaars were
deserted, and men waited beneath their own roofs the inevitable decrees
of fate.
Gadallah, who had confidence in God, spent part of his time walking in
the streets; but every day went and sat on a stone bench opposite to
Zen-ed-din's house, expecting to see some one come forth who might tell
him that all were well within. But the doors remained closed, and not a
sound ever proceeded from the interior of the vast mansion. At length,
however, when he came at the usual hour, he perceived that the great
entrance-gate was left half-open, and he mustered up courage to enter.
He found the Bawab dead on his bench, and two black slaves by the side
of the fountain. His heart smote him with a presentiment of evil. He
advanced into the inner halls without seeing a sign of life. Behind the
great crimson curtains that swept over the doorway of the saloon where
he had worked, lay the guardian with his sword still in his hand. He
pressed forward, finding every place deserted. Raising his voice at
length, he called aloud, and asked if any living thing remained within
those walls. No reply came but the echo that sounded dismally along the
roof; with a heart oppressed by fear, he entered what he knew to be the
ladies' private apartments; and here he found the attendant of Hosneh
dying. She looked amazed at beholding a stranger, and, at first, refused
to reply to his questions. But, at length, in a faint voice, she said
that the plague had entered the house the day before like a raging lion,
that many fell victims almost instantly, and that the women of the harem
in a state of wild alarm had fled. "And Hosneh?" inquired Gadallah. "She
is laid out in the kiosque, in the garden," replied the girl, who almost
immediately afterward breathed her last.
Gadallah remained for some time gazing at her, and still listening, as
if to ascertain that he had heard correctly. Then he made his way to the
garden, and searched the kiosques, without finding what he sought, until
he came to one raised on a light terrace, amid a grove of waving trees.
Here beneath a canopy of white silk, on pillows of white silk, and all
clothed in white silk, lay the form that had so long dwelt in his heart.
Without fear of the infection, having first asked pardon of God, he
stooped over her, and kissed those lips that had never even spoken to a
man except her father; and he wished that death might come to him
likewise; and he ventured to lie down by her side, that the two whom
life could never have brought together, might be found united at least
under one shroud.
A rustling close by attracted his attention. It was a dove fluttering
down to her accustomed place on a bough, which once gained, she rolled
forth from her swelling throat a cooing challenge to her partner in a
distant tree. On reverting his look to the face of Hosneh, Gadallah
thought he saw a faint red tint upon the lips he had pressed, like the
first blush of the dawn in a cold sky. He gazed with wonder and delight,
and became convinced he was not mistaken. He ran to a fountain and
brought water in a large hollow leaf, partly poured it between the
pearly teeth, which he parted timidly with his little finger, and partly
sprinkled it over the maiden's face and bosom. At length a sigh shook
her frame--so soft, so gentle that a lover's senses alone could have
discerned it; and then, after an interval of perfect tranquillity, her
eyes opened, gazed for a moment at the youth, and closed not in
weakness, but as if dazzled by his beauty. Gadallah bent over her,
watching for the least motion, the least indication of returning
consciousness; listening for the first word, the first murmur that might
break from those lips which he had tasted without warrant. He waited
long, but not in vain; for at last there came a sweet smile, and a
small, low voice cried, "Sabrea! where is Sabrea?" Gadallah now cast
more water, and succeeded in restoring Hosneh to perfect consciousness,
and to modest fear.
He sat at her feet and told her what had happened, omitting no one
thing--not even the love which he had conceived for her; and he
promised, in the absence of her friends, to attend upon her with respect
and devotion, until her strength and health should return. She was but a
child in years, and innocent as are the angels; and hearing the
frankness of his speech, consented to what he proposed. And he attended
her that day and the next, until she was able to rise upon her couch,
and sit and talk in a low voice with him of love. He found every thing
that was required in the way of food amply stored in the house, the
gates of which he closed, lest robbers might enter; but he did not often
go into it, for fear of the infection, and this was his excuse for not
returning once to his parents' house, lest he might carry death with
him.
On the fourth day Hosneh was well enough to walk a little in the garden,
supported by the arms of Gadallah, who now wished that he might spend
his life in this manner. But the decrees of fate were not yet
accomplished. On the fifth day the young man became ill; he had sucked
the disease from the lips of Hosneh in that only kiss which he had
ventured; and before the sun went down, Hosneh was attending on him in
despair, as he had attended on her in hope. She, too, brought water to
bathe his forehead and his lips; she, too, watched for the signs of
returning life, and as she passed the night by his side, gazing on his
face, often mistook the sickly play of the moonbeams, as they fell
between the trees, for the smile which she would have given her life to
purchase.
Praise be to God, it was not written that either of them should die; and
not many days afterward, toward the hour of evening, they were sitting
in another kiosque beside a fountain, pale and wan it is true, looking
more like pensive angels than mortal beings, but still with hearts full
of happiness that broke out from time to time in bright smiles, which
were reflected from one to the other as surely as were their forms in
the clear water by which they reclined. Gadallah held the hand of Hosneh
in his, and listened as she told how her mother had long ago been dead,
how her father loved her, and how he would surely have died had any harm
befallen her. She praised the courage, and the modesty, and the
gentleness of Gadallah--for he had spoken despondingly about the chances
of their future union, and said that when Zen-ed-din returned, she would
relate all that had happened, and fall at his knees and say, "Father,
give me to Gadallah."
The sun had just set, the golden streams that had been pouring into the
garden seemed now sporting with the clouds overhead; solid shadows were
thickening around; the flowers and the blossoms breathed forth their
most fragrant perfumes; the last cooing of the drowsy doves was
trembling on all sides; the nightingale was trying her voice in a few
short, melancholy snatches: it was an hour for delight and joy; and the
two lovers bent their heads closer together; closer, until their
ringlets mingled, and their sighs, and the glances of their eyes. Then
Gadallah suddenly arose, and said, "Daughter of my master, let there be
a sword placed betwixt me and thee." And as he spoke, a bright blade
gleamed betwixt him and the abashed maiden; and they were both seized
with strong hands and hurried away.
Zen-ed-din had returned from his journey, and finding the great gate
closed, had come round with his followers to the garden entrance, which
he easily opened. Struck by the silence of the whole place, he advanced
cautiously until he heard voices talking in the kiosque. Then he drew
near, and overheard the whole of what had passed, and admired the
modesty and virtue of Gadallah. He caused him to be seized and thrown
that night into a dark room, that he might show his power; and he spoke
harshly to his daughter, because of her too great trustfulness, and her
unpermitted love. But when he understood all that had happened, and had
sufficiently admired the wonderful workings of God's Providence, he said
to himself, "Surely this youth and this maiden were created one for the
other, and the decrees of fate must be accomplished." So he took
Gadallah forth from his prison, and embraced him, calling him his son,
and sent for his parents, and told them what had happened, and they all
rejoiced; and in due time the marriage took place, and it was blessed,
and the children's children of Hosneh and Gadallah still live among us.
While the excellent sheikh was rapidly running over the concluding
statements of his narrative, I remember having read the chief incident
in some European tradition--possibly borrowed, as so many of our
traditions are, from the East--and then a single line of one of our
poets, who has versified the story, came unbidden to my memory; but I
could not recollect the poet's name, nor understand how the train of
association could be so abruptly broken. The line doubtless describes
the first interview of the lover with the plague-stricken maiden--it is
as follows:
"And folds the bright infection to his breast."
A BIRD-HUNTING SPIDER.
When the veracity of any person has been impugned, it is a duty which we
owe to society, if it lies in our power, to endeavor to establish it;
and when that person is a lady gallantry redoubles the obligation. Our
chivalry is, on the present occasion, excited in favor of Madame Merian,
who, toward the latter end of the seventeenth century, and during a two
years' residence in Surinam, employed her leisure in studying the many
interesting forms of winged and vegetable life indigenous to that
prolific country. After her return to Holland, her native land, she
published the results of her researches. Her writings, although
abounding in many inaccuracies and seeming fables, contained much
curious and new information; all the more valuable from the objects of
her study having been, at that period, either entirely unknown to the
naturalists of Europe, or vaguely reported by stray seafaring visitants;
who, with the usual license of travelers, were more anxious to strike
their hearers with astonishment than to extend their knowledge.
These works were rendered still more attractive by numerous plates--the
result of Madame Merian's artistic skill--with which they were profusely
embellished. It is one of these which, with the description accompanying
it, has caused her truth to be called into question by subsequent
writers; who, we must conclude, had either not the good fortune or the
good eyesight to verify her statements by their own experience. The
illustration to which I allude represents a large spider carrying off in
its jaws a humming-bird, whose nest appears close at hand, and who had
apparently been seized while sitting on its eggs.
Linnaeus, however, did not doubt the lady, and called the spider (which
belongs to the genus _Mygale_), "avicularia" (bird-eating). Whether this
ferocious-looking hunter does occasionally capture small birds; or
whether he subsists entirely on the wasps, bees, ants, and beetles which
every where abound, what I chanced myself to see in the forest will help
to determine.
Shortly after daybreak, one morning in 1848, while staying at a
wood-cutting establishment on the Essequibo, a short distance above the
confluence of that river and the Magaruni, we--a tall Yorkshireman and
myself--started in our "wood-skin" to examine some spring hooks which we
had set during the previous evening, in the embouchure of a neighboring
creek. Our breakfast that morning depended on our success. Our chagrin
may be imagined on finding all the baits untouched save one; and from
that, some lurking cayman had snapped the body of the captured fish,
leaving nothing but the useless head dangling in the air. After mentally
dispatching our spoiler--who had not tricked us for the first time--to a
place very far distant, we paddled further up the creek in search of a
maam, or maroudi; or, indeed, of any thing eatable--bird, beast, or
reptile. We had not proceeded far, when my companion, Blottle, who was
sitting, gun in hand, prepared to deal destruction on the first living
creature we might chance to encounter--suddenly fired at some object
moving rapidly along the topmost branch of a tree which overhung the
sluggish stream a short way in advance. For a moment or two the success
of his aim seemed doubtful; then something came tumbling through the
intervening foliage, and I guided the canoe beneath, lest the prey
should be lost in the water. Our surprise was not unmingled, I must
confess, with vexation at first, on finding that the strange character
of our game removed our morning's repast as far off as ever. A huge
spider and a half-fledged bird lay in the bottom of our canoe--the one
with disjointed limbs and mutilated carcass; the other uninjured by the
shot, but nearly dead, though still faintly palpitating. The remains of
the spider showed him larger than any I had previously seen--smaller,
however, than one from Brazil, before me while I write--and may have
measured some two-and-half inches in the body, with limbs about twice
that length. He was rough and shaggy, with a thick covering of hair or
bristles; which, besides giving him an additional appearance of
strength, considerably increased the fierceness of his aspect. The hairs
were in some parts fully an inch long, of a dark brown color, inclining
to black. His powerful jaws and sturdy arms seemed never adapted for the
death-struggle of prey less noble than this small member of the
feathered race, for whom our succor had unhappily arrived too late. The
victim had been snatched from the nest while the mother was probably
assisting to collect a morning's meal for her offspring. It had been
clutched by the neck immediately above the shoulders: the marks of the
murderer's talons still remained; and, although no blood had escaped
from the wounds, they were much inflamed and swollen.
The few greenish-brown feathers sparingly scattered among the down in
the wings, were insufficient to furnish me with a clew toward a
knowledge of its species. That it was a humming-bird, however, or one of
an allied genus, seemed apparent from the length of its bill. The king
of the humming-birds, as the Creoles call the topaz-throat (_Trochilus
pella_ of naturalists), is the almost exclusive frequenter of Marabella
Creek, where the overspreading foliage--here and there admitting stray
gleams of sunshine--forms a cool and shady, though sombre retreat,
peculiarly adapted to his disposition; and I strongly suspect that it
was the nest of this species which the spider had favored with a visit.
After making a minute inspection of the two bodies, we consigned them to
a watery grave; both of us convinced that, whatever the detractors of
Madame Merian may urge, that lady was correct in assigning to the
bush-spider an ambition which often soars above the insect, and
occasionally tempts him to make a meal of some stray feathered denizen
of the forest. This conclusion, I may add, was fully confirmed some few
weeks after, by my witnessing a still more interesting rencontre between
members of the several races. "Eat the eater," is one of Nature's laws;
and, after preventing its accomplishment by depriving the spider of his
food, strict justice would probably have balked us of ours. Fortunately
not--one of the heartiest breakfasts I ever made, and one of the
tenderest and most succulent of meat, was that very morning. Well I
remember exclaiming, at that time, "_Haec olim meminisse juvabit!_"--it
was my first dish of stewed monkey and yams.
PROMISE UNFULFILLED.--A TALE OF THE COAST-GUARD.
The _Rose_ had been becalmed for several days in Cowes Harbor, and
utterly at a loss how else to cheat the time, I employed myself one
afternoon in sauntering up and down the quay, whistling for a breeze,
and listlessly watching the slow approach of a row-boat, bringing the
mail and a few passengers from Southampton, the packet-cutter to which
the boat belonged being as hopelessly immovable, except for such drift
as the tide gave her, as the _Rose_. The slowness of its approach--for I
expected a messenger with letters--added to my impatient weariness; and
as, according to my reckoning, it would be at least an hour before the
boat reached the landing-steps, I returned to the Fountain Inn in the
High-street, called for a glass of negus, and as I lazily sipped it,
once more turned over the newspapers lying on the table, though with
scarcely a hope of coming athwart a line that I had not read half a
dozen times before. I was mistaken. There was a "Cornwall Gazette" among
them which I had not before seen, and in one corner of it I lit upon
this, to me in all respects new and extremely interesting paragraph: "We
copy the following statement from a contemporary, solely for the purpose
of contradicting it: 'It is said that the leader of the smugglers in the
late desperate affray with the coast guard in St. Michael's Bay, was no
other than Mr. George Polwhele Hendrick, of Lostwithiel, formerly, as
our readers are aware, a lieutenant in the royal navy, and dismissed the
king's service by sentence of court-martial at the close of the war.'
There is no foundation for this imputation. Mrs. Hendrick, of Lostwithiel,
requests us to state that her son, from whom she heard but about ten
days since, commands a first-class ship in the merchant navy of the
United States."
I was exceedingly astonished. The court-martial I had not heard of, and
having never overhauled the Navy List for such a purpose, the absence of
the name of G. P. Hendrick had escaped my notice. What could have been
his offense? Some hasty, passionate act, no doubt; for of misbehavior
before the enemy, or of the commission of deliberate wrong, it was
impossible to suspect him. He was, I personally knew, as eager as flame
in combat; and his frank, perhaps heedless generosity of temperament,
was abundantly apparent to every one acquainted with him. I had known
him for a short time only; but the few days of our acquaintance were
passed under circumstances which bring out the true nature of a man more
prominently and unmistakably than might twenty years of humdrum,
every-day life. The varnish of pretension falls quickly off in presence
of sudden and extreme peril--peril especially requiring presence of mind
and energy to beat it back. It was in such a position that I recognized
some of the high qualities of Lieutenant Hendrick. The two sloops of war
in which we respectively served, were consorts for awhile on the South
African coast, during which time we fell in with a Franco-Italian
privateer or pirate--for the distinction between the two is much more
technical than real. She was to leeward when we sighted her, and not
very distant from the shore, and so quickly did she shoal her water,
that pursuit by either of the sloops was out of the question. Being a
stout vessel of her class, and full of men, four boats--three of the
_Scorpion's_ and one of her consort's--were detached in pursuit. The
breeze gradually failed, and we were fast coming up with our friend when
he vanished behind a head-land, on rounding which we found he had
disappeared up a narrow, winding river, of no great depth of water. We
of course followed, and, after about a quarter of an hour's hard pull,
found, on suddenly turning a sharp elbow of the stream, that we had
caught a Tartar. We had, in fact, come upon a complete nest of
privateers--a rendezvous or depot they termed it. The vessel was already
anchored across the channel, and we were flanked on each shore by a
crowd of desperadoes, well provided with small arms, and with two or
three pieces of light ordnance among them. The shouts of defiance with
which they greeted us as we swept into the deadly trap were instantly
followed by a general and murderous discharge of both musketry and
artillery; and as the smoke cleared away I saw that the leading pinnace,
commanded by Hendrick, had been literally knocked to pieces, and that
the little living portion of the crew were splashing about in the river.
There was time but for one look, for if we allowed the rascals time to
reload their guns our own fate would inevitably be a similar one. The
men understood this, and with a loud cheer swept eagerly on toward the
privateer, while the two remaining boats engaged the flanking shore
forces, and I was soon involved in about the fiercest _melee_ I ever had
the honor to assist at. The furious struggle on the deck of the
privateer lasted but about five minutes only, at the end of which all
that remained of us were thrust over the side. Some tumbled into the
boat, others, like myself, were pitched into the river. As soon as I
came to the surface, and had time to shake my ears and look about me, I
saw Lieutenant Hendrick, who, the instant the pinnace he commanded was
destroyed, had, with equal daring and presence of mind, swam toward a
boat at the privateer's stern, cut the rope that held her, with the
sword he carried between his teeth, and forthwith began picking up his
half-drowned boat's crew. This was already accomplished, and he now
performed the same service for me and mine. This done, we again sprang
at our ugly customer, he at the bow, and I about midships. Hendrick was
the first to leap on the enemy's deck; and so fierce and well-sustained
was the assault this time, that in less than ten minutes we were
undisputed victors so far as the vessel was concerned. The fight on the
shore continued obstinate and bloody, and it was not till we had twice
discharged the privateer's guns among the desperate rascals that they
broke and fled. The dashing, yet cool and skillful bravery evinced by
Lieutenant Hendrick in this brief but tumultuous and sanguinary affair
was admiringly remarked upon by all who witnessed it, few of whom while
gazing at the sinewy, active form, the fine, pale, flashing countenance,
and the dark, thunderous eyes of the young officer--if I may use such a
term, for in their calmest aspect a latent volcano appeared to slumber
in their gleaming depths--could refuse to subscribe to the opinion of a
distinguished admiral, who more than once observed that there was no
more promising officer in the British naval service than Lieutenant
Hendrick.
Well, all this, which has taken me so many words to relate, flashed
before me like a scene in a theatre, as I read the paragraph in the
Cornish paper. The _Scorpion_ and her consort parted company a few days
after this fight, and I had not since then seen or heard of Hendrick
till now. I was losing myself in conjecture as to the probable or
possible cause of so disgraceful a termination to a career that promised
so brilliantly, when the striking of the bar-clock warned me that the
mail-boat was by this time arrived. I sallied forth and reached the
pier-steps just a minute or so before the boat arrived there. The
messenger I expected was in her, and I was turning away with the parcel
he handed me, when my attention was arrested by a stout, unwieldy
fellow, who stumbled awkwardly out of the boat, and hurriedly came up
the steps. The face of the man was pale, thin, hatchet-shaped, and
anxious, and the gray, ferrety eyes were restless and perturbed; while
the stout round body was that of a yeoman of the bulkiest class, but so
awkwardly made up that it did not require any very lengthened scrutiny
to perceive that the shrunken carcass appropriate to such a lanky and
dismal visage occupied but a small space within the thick casing of
padding and extra garments in which it was swathed. His light-brown wig,
too, surmounted by a broad-brimmer, had got a little awry, dangerously
revealing the scanty locks of iron-gray beneath. It was not difficult to
run up these little items to a pretty accurate sum total, and I had
little doubt that the hasting and nervous traveler was fleeing either
from a constable or a sheriff's officer. It was, however, no affair of
mine, and I was soon busy with the letters just brought me.
The most important tidings they contained was that Captain Pickard--the
master of a smuggling craft of some celebrity, called _Les Trois
Freres_, in which for the last twelve months or more he had been
carrying on a daring and successful trade throughout the whole line of
the southern and western coasts--was likely to be found at this
particular time near a particular spot in the back of the Wight. This
information was from a sure source in the enemy's camp, and it was
consequently with great satisfaction that I observed indications of the
coming on of a breeze, and in all probability a stiff one. I was not
disappointed; and in less than an hour the _Rose_ was stretching her
white wings beneath a brisk northwester over to Portsmouth, where I had
some slight official business to transact previous to looking after
friend Pickard. This was speedily dispatched, and I was stepping into
the boat on my return to the cutter, when a panting messenger informed
me that the port-admiral desired to see me instantly.
"The telegraph has just announced," said the admiral, "that Sparkes, the
defaulter, who has for some time successfully avoided capture, will
attempt to leave the kingdom from the Wight, as he is known to have been
in communication with some of the smuggling gentry there. He is supposed
to have a large amount of government moneys in his possession; you will
therefore, Lieutenant Warneford, exert yourself vigilantly to secure
him."
"What is his description?"
"Mr. James," replied the admiral, addressing one of the telegraph
clerks, "give Lieutenant Warneford the description transmitted." Mr.
James did so, and I read: "Is said to have disguised himself as a stout
countryman; wears a blue coat with bright buttons, buff waistcoat, a
brown wig, and a Quaker's hat. He is of a slight, lanky figure, five
feet nine inches in height. He has two pock-marks on his forehead, and
lisps in his speech."
"By Jove, sir," I exclaimed, "I saw this fellow only about two hours
ago!" I then briefly related what had occurred, and was directed not to
lose a moment in hastening to secure the fugitive.
The wind had considerably increased by this time, and the _Rose_ was
soon again off Cowes, where Mr. Roberts, the first mate, and six men,
were sent on shore with orders to make the best of his way to
Bonchurch--about which spot I knew, if any where, the brown-wigged
gentleman would endeavor to embark--while the _Rose_ went round to
intercept him seaward; which she did at a spanking rate, for it was now
blowing half a gale of wind. Evening had fallen before we reached our
destination, but so clear and bright with moon and stars that distant
objects were as visible as by day. I had rightly guessed how it would
be, for we had no sooner opened up Bonchurch shore or beach than Roberts
signaled us that our man was on board the cutter running off at about a
league from us in the direction of Cape La Hogue. I knew, too, from the
cutter's build, and the cut and set of her sails, that she was no other
than Captain Pickard's boasted craft, so that there was a chance of
killing two birds with one stone. We evidently gained, though slowly,
upon _Les Trois Freres_; and this, after about a quarter of an hour's
run, appeared to be her captain's own opinion, for he suddenly changed
his course, and stood toward the Channel Islands, in the hope, I doubted
not, that I should not follow him in such weather as was likely to come
on through the dangerous intricacies of the iron-bound coast about
Guernsey and the adjacent islets. Master Pickard was mistaken; for
knowing the extreme probability of being led such a dance, I had brought
a pilot with me from Cowes, as well acquainted with Channel navigation
as the smuggler himself could be. _Les Trois Freres_, it was soon
evident, was now upon her best point of sailing, and it was all that we
could do to hold our own with her. This was vexatious; but the aspect of
the heavens forbade me showing more canvas, greatly as I was tempted to
do so.
It was lucky I did not. The stars were still shining over our heads from
an expanse of blue without a cloud, and the full moon also as yet held
her course unobscured, but there had gathered round her a glittering
halo-like ring, and away to windward huge masses of black cloud, piled
confusedly on each other, were fast spreading over the heavens. The
thick darkness had spread over about half the visible sky, presenting a
singular contrast to the silver brightness of the other portion, when
suddenly a sheet of vivid flame broke out of the blackness, instantly
followed by deafening explosions, as if a thousand cannons were bursting
immediately over our heads. At the same moment the tempest came leaping
and hissing along the white-crested waves, and struck the _Rose_ abeam
with such terrible force, that for one startling moment I doubted if she
would right again. It was a vain fear; and in a second or two she was
tearing through the water at a tremendous rate. _Les Trois Freres_ had
not been so lucky: she had carried away her topmast, and sustained other
damage; but so well and boldly was she handled, and so perfectly under
command appeared her crew, that these accidents were, so far as it was
possible to do so, promptly repaired; and so little was she crippled in
comparative speed, that, although it was clear enough after a time, that
the _Rose_ gained something on her, it was so slowly that the issue of
the chase continued extremely doubtful. The race was an exciting one:
the Caskets, Alderney, were swiftly past, and at about two o'clock in
the morning we made the Guernsey lights. We were, by this time, within a
mile of _Les Trois Freres_; and she, determined at all risks to get rid
of her pursuer, ventured upon passing through a narrow opening between
the small islets of Herm and Jethon, abreast of Guernsey--the same
passage, I believe, by which Captain, afterward Admiral Lord Saumarez,
escaped with his frigate from a French squadron in the early days of the
last war.
Fine and light as the night had again become, the attempt, blowing as it
did, was a perilous, and proved to be a fatal one. _Les Trois Freres_
struck upon a reef on the side of Jethon--a rock with then but one poor
habitation upon it, which one might throw a biscuit over; and by the
time the _Rose_ had brought up in the Guernsey Roads, the smuggler, as
far as could be ascertained by our night-glasses, had entirely
disappeared. What had become of the crew and the important passenger was
the next point to be ascertained; but although the wind had by this time
somewhat abated, it was not, under the pilot's advice, till near eight
o'clock that the _Rose's_ boat, with myself and a stout crew, pulled off
for the scene of the catastrophe. We needed not to have hurried
ourselves. The half-drowned smugglers, all but three of whom had escaped
with life, were in a truly sorry plight, every one of them being more or
less maimed, bruised, and bleeding. _Les Trois Freres_ had gone entirely
to pieces, and as there was no possible means of escape from the
desolate place, our arrival, with the supplies we brought, was looked
upon rather as a deliverance than otherwise. To my inquiries respecting
their passenger, the men answered by saying he was in the house with the
captain. I immediately proceeded thither, and found one of the two rooms
on the ground-floor occupied by four or five of the worst injured of the
contrabandists, and the gentleman I was chiefly in pursuit of, Mr.
Samuel Sparkes. There was no mistaking Mr. Sparkes, notwithstanding he
had substituted the disguise of a sailor for that of a jolly
agriculturist.
"You are, I believe, sir, the Mr. Samuel Sparkes for whose presence
certain personages in London are just now rather anxious?"
His deathy face grew more corpse-like as I spoke, but he nevertheless
managed to stammer out, "No; Jamth Edward, thir."
"At all events, that pretty lisp, and those two marks on the forehead,
belong to Samuel Sparkes, Esquire, and you must be detained till you
satisfactorily explain how you came by them. Stevens, take this person
into close custody, and have him searched at once. And now, gentlemen
smugglers," I continued, "pray, inform me where I may see your renowned
captain?"
"He is in the next room," replied a decent-tongued chap sitting near the
fire; "and he desired me to give his compliments to Lieutenant
Warneford, and say he wished to see him _alone_."
"Very civil and considerate, upon my word! In this room, do you say?"
"Yes, sir; in that room." I pushed open a rickety door, and found myself
in a dingy hole of a room, little more than about a couple of yards
square, at the further side of which stood a lithe, sinewy man in a blue
pea-jacket, and with a fur-cap on his head. His back was toward me; and
as my entrance did not cause him to change his position, I said, "You
are Captain Pickard, I am informed?"
He swung sharply round as I spoke, threw off his cap, and said, briefly
and sternly, "Yes, Warneford, I _am_ Captain Pickard."
The sudden unmasking of a loaded battery immediately in my front could
not have so confounded and startled me as these words did, as they
issued from the lips of the man before me. The curling black hair, the
dark flashing eyes, the marble features, were those of Lieutenant
Hendrick--of the gallant seaman whose vigorous arm I had seen turn the
tide of battle against desperate odds on the deck of a privateer!
"Hendrick!" I at length exclaimed, for the sudden inrush of painful
emotion choked my speech for a time--"can it indeed be you?"
"Ay, truly, Warneford. The Hendrick of whom Collingwood prophesied high
things is fallen thus low; and worse remains behind. There is a price
set upon my capture, as you know; and escape is, I take it, out of the
question." I comprehended the slow, meaning tone in which the last
sentence was spoken, and the keen glance that accompanied it. Hendrick,
too, instantly read the decisive though unspoken reply.
"Of course it is out of the question," he went on. "I was but a fool to
even seem to doubt that it was. You must do your duty, Warneford, I
know; and since this fatal mishap was to occur, I am glad for many
reasons that I have fallen into your hands."
"So am not I; and I wish with all my soul you had successfully threaded
the passage you essayed."
"The fellow who undertook to pilot us failed in nerve at the critical
moment. Had he not done so, _Les Trois Freres_ would have been long
since beyond your reach. But the past is past, and the future of dark
and bitter time will be swift and brief."
"What have you especially to dread? I know a reward has been offered for
your apprehension, but not for what precise offense."
"The unfortunate business in St. Michael's Bay."
"Good God! The newspaper was right, then! But neither of the wounded men
have died, I hear, so that--that--"
"The _mercy_ of transportation may, you think, be substituted for the
capital penalty." He laughed bitterly.
"Or--or," I hesitatingly suggested, "you may not be identified--that is,
legally so."
"Easily, easily, Warneford. I must not trust to that rotten cable.
Neither the coast-guard nor the fellows with me know me indeed as
Hendrick, ex-lieutenant of the royal navy; and that is a secret you
will, I know, religiously respect."
I promised to do so: the painful interview terminated; and in about two
hours the captain and surviving crew of _Les Trois Freres_, and Mr.
Samuel Sparkes, were safely on board the _Rose_. Hendrick had papers to
arrange; and as the security of his person was all I was responsible
for, he was accommodated in my cabin, where I left him to confer with
the Guernsey authorities, in whose bailiwick Jethon is situated. The
matter of jurisdiction--the offenses with which the prisoners were
charged having been committed in England--was soon arranged; and by five
o'clock in the evening the _Rose_ was on her way to England, under an
eight-knot breeze from the southwest.
As soon as we were fairly underweigh, I went below to have a last
conference with unfortunate Hendrick. There was a parcel on the table
directed to "Mrs. Hendrick, Lostwithiel, Cornwall, care of Lieutenant
Warneford." Placing it in my hands, he entreated me to see it securely
conveyed to its address unexamined and unopened. I assured him that I
would do so; and tears, roughly dashed away, sprang to his eyes as he
grasped and shook my hand. I felt half-choked; and when he again
solemnly adjured me, under no circumstances, to disclose the identity of
Captain Pickard and Lieutenant Hendrick, I could only reply by a
seaman's hand-grip, requiring no additional pledge of words.
We sat silently down, and I ordered some wine to be brought in. "You
promised to tell me," I said, "how all this unhappy business came
about."
"I am about to do so," he answered. "It is an old tale, of which the
last black chapter owes its color, let me frankly own, to my own hot and
impatient temper as much as to a complication of adverse circumstances."
He poured out a glass of wine, and proceeded at first slowly and calmly,
but gradually, as passion gathered strength and way upon him, with
flushed and impetuous eagerness to the close:
"I was born near Lostwithiel, Cornwall. My father, a younger and needy
son of no profession, died when I was eight years of age. My mother has
about eighty pounds a year in her own right, and with that pittance,
helped by self-privation, unfelt because endured for her darling boy,
she gave me a sufficient education, and fitted me out respectably; when,
thanks to Pellew, I obtained a midshipman's warrant in the British
service. This occurred in my sixteenth year. Dr. Redstone, at whose
'High School' I acquired what slight classical learning, long since
forgotten, I once possessed, was married in second nuptials to a virago
of a wife, who brought him, besides her precious self, a red-headed cub
by a former marriage. His, the son's, name was Kershaw. The doctor had
one child about my own age, a daughter, Ellen Redstone. I am not about
to prate to you of the bread-and-butter sentiment of mere children, nor
of Ellen's wonderful graces of mind and person: I doubt, indeed, if I
thought her very pretty at the time; but she was meekness itself, and my
boy's heart used, I well remember, to leap as if it would burst my bosom
at witnessing her patient submission to the tyranny of her
mother-in-law; and one of the greatest pleasures I ever experienced was
giving young Kershaw, a much bigger fellow than myself, a good thrashing
for some brutality toward her--an exploit that of course rendered me a
remarkable favorite with the great bumpkin's mother.
"Well, I went to sea, and did not again see Ellen till seven years
afterward, when, during absence on sick leave, I met her at Penzance, in
the neighborhood of which place the doctor had for some time resided.
She was vastly improved in person, but was still meek, dove-eyed, gentle
Ellen, and pretty nearly as much dominated by her mother-in-law as
formerly. Our child-acquaintance was renewed; and, suffice it to say,
that I soon came to love her with a fervency surprising even to myself.
My affection was reciprocated: we pledged faith with each other; and it
was agreed that at the close of the war, whenever that should be, we
were to marry, and dwell together like turtle-doves in the pretty
hermitage that Ellen's fancy loved to conjure up, and with her voice of
music untiringly dilate upon. I was again at sea, and the answer to my
first letter brought the surprising intelligence that Mrs. Redstone had
become quite reconciled to our future union, and that I might
consequently send my letters direct to the High School. Ellen's letter
was prettily expressed enough, but somehow I did not like its tone. It
did not read like her spoken language, at all events. This, however,
must, I concluded, be mere fancy; and our correspondence continued for a
couple of years--till the peace, in fact--when the frigate, of which I
was now second-lieutenant, arrived at Plymouth to be paid off. We were
awaiting the admiral's inspection, which for some reason or other was
unusually delayed, when a bag of letters was brought on board, with one
for me bearing the Penzance postmark. I tore it open, and found that it
was subscribed by an old and intimate friend. He had accidentally met
with Ellen Redstone for the first time since I left. She looked thin and
ill, and in answer to his persistent questioning, had told him she had
only heard once from me since I went to sea, and that was to renounce
our engagement; and she added that she was going to be married in a day
or two to the Rev. Mr. Williams, a dissenting minister of fair means and
respectable character. My friend assured her there must be some mistake,
but she shook her head incredulously; and with eyes brimful of tears,
and shaking voice, bade him, when he saw me, say that she freely forgave
me, but that her heart was broken. This was the substance, and as I
read, a hurricane of dismay and rage possessed me. There was not, I
felt, a moment to be lost. Unfortunately the captain was absent, and the
frigate temporarily under the command of the first-lieutenant. You knew
Lieutenant ----?"
"I did, for one of the most cold-blooded martinets that ever trod a
quarter-deck."
"Well, him I sought, and asked temporary leave of absence. He refused. I
explained, hurriedly, imploringly explained the circumstances in which I
was placed. He sneeringly replied, that sentimental nonsense of that
kind could not be permitted to interfere with the king's service. You
know, Warneford, how naturally hot and impetuous is my temper, and at
that moment my brain seemed literally aflame: high words followed, and
in a transport of rage I struck the taunting coward a violent blow in
the face--following up the outrage by drawing my sword, and challenging
him to instant combat. You may guess the sequel. I was immediately
arrested by the guard, and tried a few days afterward by court-martial.
Exmouth stood my friend, or I know not what sentence might have been
passed, and I was dismissed the service."
"I was laid up for several weeks by fever about that time," I remarked;
"and it thus happened, doubtless, that I did not see any report of the
trial."
"The moment I was liberated I hastened, literally almost in a state of
madness, to Penzance. It was all true, and I was too late! Ellen had
been married something more than a week. It was Kershaw and his mother's
doings. Him I half-killed; but it is needless to go into details of the
frantic violence with which I conducted myself. I broke madly into the
presence of the newly-married couple: Ellen swooned with terror, and her
husband, white with consternation, and trembling in every limb, had
barely, I remember, sufficient power to stammer out, 'that he would pray
for me.' The next six months is a blank. I went to London; fell
into evil courses, drank, gambled; heard after a while that
Ellen was dead--the shock of which partially checked my downward
progress--partially only. I left off drinking, but not gambling, and
ultimately I became connected with a number of disreputable persons,
among whom was your prisoner Sparkes. He found part of the capital with
which I have been carrying on the contraband trade for the last two
years. I had, however, fully determined to withdraw myself from the
dangerous though exciting pursuit. This was to have been my last trip;
but you know," he added, bitterly, "it is always upon the last turn of
the dice that the devil wins his victim."
He ceased speaking, and we both remained silent for several minutes.
What on my part _could_ be said or suggested?
"You hinted just now," I remarked, after a while, "that all your
remaining property was in this parcel. You have, however, of course,
reserved sufficient for your defense?"
A strange smile curled his lip, and a wild, brief flash of light broke
from his dark eyes, as he answered, "O yes; more than enough--more, much
more than will be required."
"I am glad of that." We were again silent, and I presently exclaimed,
"Suppose we take a turn on deck--the heat here stifles one."
"With all my heart," he answered; and we both left the cabin.
We continued to pace the deck side by side for some time without
interchanging a syllable. The night was beautifully clear and fine, and
the cool breeze that swept over the star and moon-lit waters gradually
allayed the feverish nervousness which the unfortunate lieutenant's
narrative had excited.
"A beautiful, however illusive world," he by-and-by sadly resumed; "this
Death--now so close at my heels--wrenches us from. And yet you and I,
Warneford, have seen men rush to encounter the King of Terrors, as he is
called, as readily as if summoned to a bridal."
"A sense of duty and a habit of discipline will always overpower, in men
of our race and profession, the vulgar fear of death."
"Is it not also, think you, the greater fear of disgrace, dishonor in
the eyes of the world, which outweighs the lesser dread?"
"No doubt that has an immense influence. What would our sweethearts,
sisters, mothers, say if they heard we had turned craven? What would
they say in England? Nelson well understood this feeling, and appealed
to it in his last great signal."
"Ay, to be sure," he musingly replied; "what would our mothers say--feel
rather--at witnessing their sons' dishonor? That is the master-chord."
We once more relapsed into silence; and after another dozen or so turns
on the deck, Hendrick seated himself on the combings of the main
hatchway. His countenance, I observed, was still pale as marble, but a
livelier, more resolute expression had gradually kindled in his
brilliant eyes. He was, I concluded, nerving himself to meet the chances
of his position with constancy and fortitude.
"I shall go below again," I said. "Come; it may be some weeks before we
have another glass of wine together."
"I will be with you directly," he answered, and I went down. He did not,
however, follow, and I was about calling him, when I heard his step on
the stairs. He stopped at the threshold of the cabin, and there was a
flushing intensity of expression about his face which quite startled me.
As if moved by second thoughts, he stepped in. "One last glass with you,
Warneford: God bless you!" He drained and set the glass on the table.
"The lights at the corner of the Wight are just made," he hurriedly went
on. "It is not likely I shall have an opportunity of again speaking with
you; and let me again hear you say that you will under any circumstances
keep secret from all the world--my mother especially--that Captain
Pickard and Lieutenant Hendrick were one person."
"I will; but why--"
"God bless you!" he broke in. "I must go on deck again."
He vanished as he spoke, and a dim suspicion of his purpose arose in my
mind; but before I could act upon it, a loud, confused outcry arose on
the deck, and as I rushed up the cabin stairs, I heard amid the hurrying
to and fro of feet, the cries of "Man overboard!"--"Bout ship!"--"Down
with the helm!" The cause of the commotion was soon explained: Hendrick
had sprung overboard; and looking in the direction pointed out by the
man at the wheel, I plainly discerned him already considerably astern of
the cutter. His face was turned toward us, and the instant I appeared he
waved one arm wildly in the air: I could hear the words, "Your promise!"
distinctly, and the next instant the moonlight played upon the spot
where he had vanished. Boats were lowered, and we passed and repassed
over and near the place for nearly half an hour. Vainly: he did not
reappear.
I have only further to add, that the parcel intrusted to me was safely
delivered, and that I have reason to believe Mrs. Hendrick remained to
her last hour ignorant of the sad fate of her son. It was her
impression, induced by his last letter, that he was about to enter the
South-American service under Cochrane, and she ultimately resigned
herself to a belief that he had there met a brave man's death. My
promise was scrupulously kept, nor is it by this publication in the
slightest degree broken; for both the names of Hendrick and Pickard are
fictitious, and so is the place assigned as that of the lieutenant's
birth. That rascal Sparkes, I am glad to be able to say--chasing whom
made me an actor in the melancholy affair--was sent over the herring
pond for life.
THE TUB SCHOOL.
Speaking without passion, we are bound to state, in broad terms, that
the founder of the Diogenic philosophy was emphatically a humbug. Some
people might call him by a harsher name; we content ourselves with the
popular vernacular. Formidable as he was--this unwashed
dog-baptized--with a kind of savage grandeur, too, about his
independence and his fearlessness--still was he a humbug; setting forth
fancies for facts, and judging all men by the measure of one. Manifestly
afflicted with a liver complaint, his physical disorders wore the mask
of mental power, and a state of body that required a course of calomel
or a dose of purifying powders, passed current in the world for
intellectual superiority; not a rare case in times when madness was
accounted potent inspiration, and when the exhibition of mesmeric
phenomena formed the title of the Pythoness to her mystic tripod.
Diogenes is not the only man whose disturbed digestion has led
multitudes, like an _ignis fatuus_, into the bogs and marshes of
falsehood. Abundance of sects are about, which their respective
followers class under one generic head of inspiration, but which have
sprung from the same hepatic inaction, or epigrastic inflammation, as
that which made the cynic believe in the divinity of dirt, and see in a
tub the fittest temple to virtue. All that narrows the sympathies--all
that makes a man think better of himself than of his "neighbors"--all
that compresses the illimitable mercy of God into a small talisman which
you and your followers alone possess--all that creates condemnation--is
of the Diogenic Tub School; corrupt in the core, and rotten in the
root--fruit, leaves, and flowers, the heritage of death.
A superstitious reverence for a bilious condition of body, and an
abhorrence of soap and water, as savoring of idolatry or of
luxury--according to the dress and nation of the Cynic--made up the
fundamental ideas of his school; and to this day they are the cabala of
one division of the sect. We confess not to be able to see much beauty
in either of these conditions, and are rather proud than otherwise of
our state of disbelief; holding health and cleanliness in high honor,
and hoping much of moral improvement from their better preservation. But
to the Tub School, good digestive powers, and their consequence, good
temper, were evidences of lax principles, and cleanliness was
ungodliness or effeminacy; as the unpurified denouncer prayed to St.
Giles, or sacrificed to Venus Cloacina. Take the old monks as an
example. Not that we are about to condemn the whole Catholic Church
under a cowled mask. She has valuable men among her sons; but, in such a
large body, there must of necessity be some members weaker than the
rest; and the mendicant friars, and do-nothing monks, were about the
weakest and the worst that ever appeared by the Catholic altar. They
were essentially of the Tub School, as false to the best purposes of
mankind as the famous old savage of Alexander's time. Dirt and vanity,
bile and condemnation, were the paternosters of their litany; and what
else lay in the tub which the king over-shadowed from the sun? All the
accounts of which we read, of pious horror of baths and washhouses--all
the frantic renunciation of laundresses, and the belief in hair shirts,
to the prejudice of honest linen--all the religious zeal against
small-tooth combs, and the sin which lay in razors and nail-brushes--all
the holy preference given to coarse cobbling of skins of beasts, over
civilized tailoring of seemly garments--all the superiority of bare
feet, which never knew the meaning of a pediluvium, over those which
shoes and hose kept warm, and foot-baths rendered clean--all the hatred
of madness against the refinements of life, and the cultivation of the
beautiful: these were the evidences of the Diogenic philosophy; and of
Monachism too; and of other forms of faith, which we could name in the
same breath. And how much good was in them? What natural divinity lies
in fur, which the cotton plant does not possess? Wherein consists the
holiness of mud, and the ungodliness of alkali? wherein the purity of a
matted beard, and the impiety of Metcalfe's brushes, and Mechi's magic
strop? It may be so; and we all the while may be mentally blind; and
yet, if we lived in a charnel-house, whose horrors the stony core of a
cataract concealed, we could not wish to be couched, that seeing, we
might understand the frightful conditions of which blindness kept us
ignorant.
But bating the baths and wash-houses, hempen girdles, and hairy
garments, we quarrel still with the _animus_ of Diogenes and his train.
Its social savageness was bad enough--its spiritual insolence was worse.
The separatism--the "stand off, for I am holier than thou"--the
condemnation of a whole world, if walking apart from _his_ way--the
substitution of solitary exaltation for the activity of charity--the
proud judgment of GOD'S world, and the presumptuous division into good
and evil of the Eternal; all this was and is of the Cynic's philosophy;
and all this is what we abjure with heart and soul, as the main link of
the chain which binds men to cruelty, to ignorance, and to sin; for the
unloosing of which we must wait before we see them fairly in the way of
progress.
How false the religion of condemnation!--how hardening to the
heart!--how narrowing to the sympathies! We take a section for the
whole, and swear that the illimitable All must be according to the form
of the unit I; we make ourselves gods, and judge of the infinite
universe by the teaching of our finite senses. They who do this most are
they whom men call "zealous for God's glory," "stern sticklers for the
truth," and "haters of latitudinarianism." And if all the social
charities are swept down in their course, they are mourned over gently;
but only so much as if they were sparrows lying dead beneath the blast
that slew the enemy. "'Tis a pity," say they, "that men must be firm to
the truth, yet cruel to their fellows; but if it must be so, why, let
them fall fast as snow-flakes. What is human life, compared to the
preservation of the truth?" Ah! friends and brothers--is not the
necessity of cruelty the warrantry of falsehood? The truth of life is
LOVE, and all which negatives love is false; and every drop of blood
that ever flowed in the preservation of any dogma, bore in its necessity
the condemnation of that dogma.
Turn where we will, and as far backward as we will, we ever find the
spirit of the Diogenic philosophy; and clothed, too, in much the same
garb and unseemly disorder as that in vogue among the dog-baptized.
Ancient East gives us many parallels; and to this day, dirty, lazy
fakirs of Hindostan assault the olfactories, and call for curses on the
effeminacy of the cleanly and the sane. Sometimes, though, the
Diogenites assume the scrupulosity of the Pharisee, and then they retain
only the crimes of the Inquisition, not the habits and apparel of the
Bosjesmen. Take the sincere Pharisee, for instance; regard his holy
horror of the Samaritan (the Independent of his day) for failing in the
strict letter of the law; hear his stern denunciations against all
sinners, be they moral or be they doctrinal, mark the unpitying "Crucify
him! crucify him!" against Him who taught novel doctrines of equality
and brotherhood, and the nullity of form; see the purity of his own
Pharisaic life, and grant him his proud curse on all that are not like
unto him. He is a Cynic in his heart, one who judges of universal
humanity by the individualism of one. Then, the hoary, hairy,
dog-baptized, who scoffed at all the decencies of life, not to speak of
its amenities, and had no gentle Plato's pride of refinement, with all
the brutal pride of coarseness--did Diogenes worthily represent the best
functions of manhood? Again, the monks and friars of the dark ages, and
the hermits of old, they who left the world of man "made in the image of
God," because they were holier than their brethren, and might have
naught in common with the likeness of the Elohim; they who gave up the
deeds of charity for the endless repetition of masses and vespers, and
who thought to do God better service by mumbling masses in a cowl, than
by living among their fellows, loving, aiding, and improving--were not
all these followers in the train of Diogenes?--if not in the dirt, then
in the bile; if not in the garb, then in the heart. Denouncers,
condemners; narrowing, not enlarging; hating, not loving; they were
traitors to the virtue of life, while dreaming that they alone held it
sacred.
And now, have we no snarling Cynics, no Pharisee, no Inquisitor? Have we
taken to good heart the divine record of love, of faith, which an
aesthetic age has sublimated into credos, and left actions as a _caput
mortuum_? Have we looked into the meaning of the practical lesson which
the Master taught when he forgave the adulteress, and sat at meat with
the sinners? or have we not rather cherished the spiritual pride which
shapes out bitter words of censure for our fellows, and lays such stress
on likeness that it overlooks unity? The question is worthy of an
answer.
The world is wide. Beasts and fishes, birds and reptiles, weeds and
flowers--which _here_ are weeds, and _there_ are flowers, according to
local fancy--the dwarfed shrub of the Alpine steeps, and the monster
palm of the tropical plains; the world is wide enough to contain them
all, and man is wise enough to love them all, each in its sphere, and
its degree. But what we do for Nature, we refuse to Humanity. To her we
allow diversity; to him we prescribe sameness; in her we see the
loveliness of unlikeness, the symmetry of variation; in him we must have
multitudes shaped by one universal rule; and what we do not look for in
the senseless tree, we attempt on the immortal soul. Religion,
philosophy, and social politics, must be of the same form with all men,
else woe to the wight who thinks out of the straight line! Diagonal
minds are never popular, and the hand which draws one radius smites him
who lines another equal to it in all its parts, and from the same
centre-point. The Catholic denies the Protestant; the Episcopalian
contemns the Presbyterian; the Free Kirk is shed like a branching horn;
the Independent denounces the Swedenborgian; the Mormonite is persecuted
by the Unitarian. It is one unvarying round; the same thing called by
different names. Now all this is the very soul of Diogenism. Cowl,
mitre, or band--distinctive signs to each party--all are lost in the
shadow of the tub, and jumbled up into a strange form, which hath the
name of Him of Sinope engraved on its forehead. Separatism and
denunciation against him who is not with thee in all matters of faith,
make thee, my friend, a Cynic in thy heart; and, though thou mayst wear
Nicoll's paletots and Medwin's boots, and mayst prank thyself in all
imaginable coxcombries, thou art still but a Diogenite, a Cynic, and a
Pharisee; washing the outside of the platter, but leaving the inside
encrusted still, believing falsely, that thou hast naught to do with a
cause, because thou hast not worn its cockade.
Yet, are we going past the Tub School, though it lingers still in high
places. We see it in party squabbles, not so much of politics to-day, as
of the most esoteric doctrines of faith. We hear great men discussing
the question of "prevenient grace," as they would discuss the
composition of milk punch, and we hear them mutually anathematize each
other on this plain and demonstrable proposition. We call this
Diogenism, and of a virulent sort, too. We know that certain men are
tabooed by certain other men; that a churchman refuses communion with
him who is of no church, or of a different church; and that one Arian
thinks dreadful things of another Arian. We call these men Pharisees,
who deny kindred with the Samaritans--but we remember who it was that
befriended the Samaritans. We know that monks still exist, whose duty to
man consists in endless prayers to GOD (in using vain repetitions as
the Heathens do); who open their mouths wide, and expect that Heaven
will fill them; who hold the active duties of life in no esteem; and
separate themselves from their fellows in all the grandeur of religious
superiority. We can not see much difference between these men, the
Hindoo fakirs, and the unsavory gentlemen of the Grecian tub. They are
all of the same genus; but, Heaven be praised! they are dying out from
the world of man, as leprosy, and the black plague, and other evils are
dying out. True enlightenment will extirpate them, as well as other
malaria. If Sanitary Commissions sweep out the cholera, acknowledged
Love will sweep out all this idleness and solitary hatred, and make men
at last confess that Love and Recognition are grander things than
contempt and intolerance; in a word, that real Christianity is better
than any form whatsoever of the Diogenic philosophy of hatred.
GOLD--WHAT IT IS AND WHERE IT COMES FROM.
Road-mending is pretty general at this time of the year, and upon roads
now being newly macadamized we may pick up a good many differing
specimens of granite. On the newly-broken surface of one of them, four
substances of which it is composed can be perceived with great
distinctness. The more earthy-looking rock, in which the others seem to
be embedded, is called felspar; the little hard white stones are bits of
quartz; the dark specks are specks of hornblende, and the shining scales
are mica. Felspar, quartz, hornblende, and mica are the four
constituents of granite. These are among the rocks of the most ancient
times, which form a complete barrier to the power of the geologist in
turning back the pages which relate the story of our globe. Layer under
layer--leaf behind leaf--we find printed the characters of life in all
past ages, till at last we come to rocks--greenstone, porphyry, quartz,
granite, and others--which contain no trace of life; which do not show,
as rocks above them do, that they have been deposited by water; but
which have a crystalline form, and set our minds to think of heat and
pressure. These lowest rocks are frequently called "igneous," in
contradistinction to the stratified rocks nearer the surface, which have
been obviously deposited under water. Between the two there is not an
abrupt transition; for above the igneous, and below the aqueous, are
rocks which belong to the set above them, insomuch as they are
stratified; while they belong to the set below them--insomuch as they
are crystalline, contain no traces of life, and lead us by their
characters to think of heat and pressure. These rocks, on account of
their equivocal position, are called metamorphic.
Under the influence of air, combined with that of water--water
potent in streams, lakes, and seas, but not less potent as a
vapor in our atmosphere, when aided by alternations in the
temperature--granite decomposes. We noticed that one of the constituents
of granite--felspar--was a comparatively earthy-looking mass, in which
the other matters seemed to be embedded. In the decomposition of
granite, this felspar is the first thing to give way; it becomes
friable, and rains or rivers wash it down. Capital soil it makes. When
the constituents of granite part in this way, quartz is the heaviest,
and settles. Felspar and the others may run with the stream, more or
less; quartz is not moved so easily. Now, as our neighbors in America
would put it, "that's a fact;" and it concerns our gossip about gold.
Below the oldest rocks there lie hidden the sources of that volcanic
action which is not yet very correctly understood. Fortunately, we are
not now called upon for any explanation of it: it is enough for us that
such a force exists; and thrusting below, forces granite and such rocks
(which ought to lie quite at the bottom), through a rent made in the
upper layers, and still up into the air, until, in some places, they
form the summit of considerable mountains. Such changes are not often,
if ever, the results of a single, mighty heave, which generates a great
catastrophe upon the surface of the earth; they are the products of a
force constantly applied through ages in a given manner. In all geologic
reasoning we are apt to err grossly when we leave out of our calculation
the important element of time. These lower rocks, then--these
greenstones, porphyries and granites, sienites and serpentines--thrust
themselves in many places through the upper strata of the earth's crust,
in such a way as to form mountain ranges. Now, it is a fact, that
wherever the oldest of the aqueous deposits--such as those called
clay-slates, limestones, and greywacke sandstones--happen to be
superficial, so as to be broken through by pressure from below, and
intruded upon by the igneous rocks (especially if the said igneous rocks
form ranges tending at all from north to south), there gold may be
looked for. Gold, it is true, may be found combined with much newer
formations; but it is under the peculiar circumstances just now
mentioned that gold may be expected to be found in any great and
valuable store.
In Australia, the gold discoveries, so new and surprising to the public,
are not new to the scientific world. More than two years ago, in an
"Essay on the Distribution of Gold Ore," read before the British
Association, to which our readers will be indebted for some of the facts
contained in the present gossip, Sir Roderick Murchison "reminded his
geological auditors that, in considering the composition of the chief,
or eastern ridge of Australia, and its direction from north to south, he
had foretold (as well as Colonel Helmersen, of the Russian Imperial
Mines) that gold would be found in it; and he stated that, in the last
year, one gentleman resident in Sydney, who had read what he had written
and spoken on this point, had sent him specimens of gold ore found in
the Blue Mountains; while, from another source, he had learnt that the
parallel north and south ridge in the Adelaide region, which had yielded
so much copper, had also given undoubted signs of gold ore. The
operation of English laws, by which noble metals lapse to the crown, had
induced Sir Roderick Murchison to represent to Her Majesty's Secretary
of State that no colonists would bestir themselves in gold-mining, if
some clear declaration on the subject were not made; but, as no measures
on this head seemed to be in contemplation, he inferred that the
government may be of opinion, that the discovery of any notable quantity
of gold might derange the stability and regular industry of a great
colony, which eventually must depend upon its agricultural products."
That was the language used by Sir Roderick Murchison in September, 1849;
and in September, 1851, we are all startled by the fact which brings
emphatic confirmation of his prophecy.
But it is not only about the Blue Mountains, and in other districts,
where the gold is now sought, that the geologic conditions under which
gold may be sought reasonably are fulfilled. Take, for example, the Ural
Mountains. In very ancient times the Scythian natives supplied gold from
thence; and gold was supplied also by European tribes in Germany and
elsewhere. Most of those sources were worked out, or forgotten. Russia
for centuries possessed the Ural, and forgot its gold. Many of us were
boys when that was rediscovered. The mountains had been worked for their
iron and copper by German miners, who accidentally hit upon a vein of
gold. The solid vein was worked near Ekatrinburg--a process expensive
and, comparatively, unproductive, as we shall presently explain. Then
gold being discovered accidentally in the superficial drift, the more
profitable work commenced. It is only within the last very few years
that Russia has discovered gold in another portion of her soil, among
the spurs of the Altai Mountains, between the Jena and the Lenisei, and
along the shores of Lake Baikal. This district has been enormously
productive, and, for about four years before the discovery of gold in
California, had been adding largely to the gross amount of that metal
annually supplied for the uses of society. The extent of this new
district now worked is equal to the whole area of France; but all the
gold-bearing land in Russia is not yet by any means discovered. The
whole area of country in Russia which fulfills the conditions of a
gold-bearing district is immense. Eastward of the Ural Chain it includes
a large part of Siberia; and also in Russian America there is nearly
equal reason for believing that hereafter gold will be discovered.
Before we quit Asia, we may observe, that the Chinese produce gold out
of their soil; and although many of the mountain ranges in that country
tend from east to west, yet the conditions of the surface, and the
meridional directions of the mountains too, would indicate in China some
extensive districts over which gold would probably be found in tolerable
abundance. Gold exists also in Lydia and Hindostan.
Now to pass over to America, where, as we have already said, the
Russians have a district in which gold may some day be discovered. In
many districts along the line of the Rocky Mountains, especially in that
part of them which is included in the British territory, gold may be
looked for. The gold region of California has been recently discovered.
Gold in Mexico, where the conditions are again fulfilled, is not a new
discovery. Gold in Central America lies neglected, on account of the sad
political condition of the little states there. There is gold to be
found, perhaps, in the United States, some distance eastward of the
Rocky Mountains. Certainly gold districts will be found about the
Alleghanies. Gold has been found in Georgia, North and South Carolina,
and Virginia; it exists also in Canada, and may, probably, be found not
very far north, on the British side of the St. Lawrence. In the frozen
regions, which shut in those straits and bays of the North Pole, to
which early adventurers were sent from England on the search for gold,
gold districts most probably exist, although the shining matter was not
gold which first excited the cupidity of our forefathers. Passing now to
South America, New Granada, Peru, Brazil, La Plata, Chili, even
Patagonia, contain districts which say, "Look for gold." There are one
or two districts in Africa where gold exists; certainly in more
districts than that which is called the Gold Coast, between the Niger
and Cape Verd; also between Darfur and Abyssinia; and on the Mozambique
Coast, opposite Madagascar. In Australia, the full extent of our gold
treasure is not yet discovered. In Europe, out of Russia, Hungary
supplies yearly one or two hundred thousand pounds worth; there is gold
in Transylvania and Bohemia; the Rhine washes gold down into its sands
from the crystalline rocks of the high Alps. The Danube, Rhone, and
Tagus, yield gold also in small quantities. There are neglected mines of
gold in Spain.
To come nearer home. In the mining fields of Leadhills, in Scotland,
gold was washed for busily in the time of Queen Elizabeth. It is found
also in Glen Turret, in Perthshire, and at Cumberhead, in Lanarkshire.
Attempts have been made to turn to account the gold existing in North
Wales and Cornwall. About sixty years ago, gold was found accidentally
in the bed of streams which run from a mountain on the confines of
Wicklow and Wexford, by name, Croghan Kinshela. A good deal of gold was
collected by the people, who, having the first pick, had soon earned
about ten thousand pounds among them by their findings. Government then
established works, and having realized in two years three thousand six
hundred and seventy-five pounds by the sale of gold, which it cost them
more than that amount to get, they let the matter drop, judiciously.
Let nobody be dazzled, however, by this enumeration of gold districts,
which is not by any means complete. It is quite true that there is no
metal diffused so widely over the world's surface as gold is, with a
single exception, that of iron. But with regard to gold, there is this
important fact to be taken into account, that it is not often to be
obtained from veins, but is found sprinkled--in many cases sprinkled
very sparingly; it is found mixed with quartz and broken rock, or sand
and alluvial deposit, often in quantities extremely small, so that the
time lost in its separation--even though it be the time of slaves--is of
more value than the gold; and so the gold does not repay the labor of
extraction. It is only where a gold district does not fall below a
certain limit in its richness, that it yields a profit to the laborer.
Pure gold in lumps, or grains, or flakes, is to be found only at the
surface. Where, as is here and there the case, a vein of it is found
deep in connection with the quartz, it is combined with other minerals,
from which it can be separated only by an expensive process; so that a
gold vein, when found, generally yields less profit than a field. As for
gold-hunting in general, the history of every gold district unites to
prove that the trade is bad. It is a lottery in which, to be sure, there
are some prizes, but there is quite the usual preponderance of blanks.
The villages of gold-seekers about Accra and elsewhere, on the Gold
Coast, are the villages of negroes more squalid and wretched than free
negroes usually are. The wretchedness of gold-hunters in the rich field
of California is by this time a hackneyed theme. Take, now, the picture
of a tolerably prosperous gold-seeker in Brazil. He goes into the river
with a leathern jacket on, having a leathern bag fastened before him. In
his hand he carries a round bowl, of fig-tree wood, about four or five
feet in circumference, and one foot deep. He goes into the river at a
part where it is not rapid, where it makes a bend, and where it has deep
holes. Be pleased to remember that, and do not yet lose sight of what
was before said about the heaviness of quartz. The gold-seeker, then,
standing in the water, scrapes away with his feet the large stones and
the upper layers of sand, and fishes up a bowlful of the older gravel.
This he shakes and washes, and removes the upper layer; the gold being
the heaviest thing in the bowl, sinks, and when he has got rid of all
the other matter, which is after a quarter of an hour's work, or more,
he puts into his pouch the residual treasure, which is worth twopence
farthing, on an average. He may earn in this way about sevenpence an
hour--not bad wages, but, taken in connection with the nature of the
work, they do not look exceedingly attractive. Here is a safe income, at
any rate--no lottery. A lump of gold, combined with quartz, like that
which has been dragged from California by its lucky finder--a lump worth
more than three thousand pounds--is not a prize attainable in river
washing. That lump, its owner says, he got out of a vein, which vein he
comes to Europe to seek aid in working. Veins of quartz containing gold,
when they occur, directly they cease to be superficial, cease generally
to be very profitable to their owners. But of that we shall have to say
more presently.
By this time we have had occasion to observe more than once that gold
and quartz are very friendly neighbors. Now, we will make use of the
fact which we have been saving up so long, that when granite
decomposes, quartz, the heaviest material is least easily carried away,
and when carried away is first to be deposited by currents. Gold also,
is very heavy; in its lightest compound, it is twelve times heavier than
water, and pure gold is nineteen times heavier; gold, therefore, when
stirred out of its place by water, will soon settle to the bottom. Very
often gold will not be moved at all, nor even quartz; so gold and quartz
remain, while substances which formerly existed in their neighborhood
are washed away. Or when the whole is swept away together, after the
gold has begun sinking, quartz will soon be sinking too; and so, even in
shingle or alluvial deposits, gold and quartz are apt to occur as
exceedingly close neighbors to each other.
How the gold forms in those old rocks, we have no right to say. Be it
remembered, that in newer formations it occurs, although more sparingly.
How the gold forms, we do not know. In fact, we have no right to say of
gold that it is formed at all. In the present state of chemistry, gold
is considered as an element, a simple substance, of which other things
are formed, not being itself compounded out of others. In the present
state of our knowledge, therefore--and the metals _may_ really be
elements--we have nothing to trouble ourselves about. Gold being one of
the elements (there are somewhere about forty in all) of which the earth
is built, of course existed from the beginning, and will be found in the
oldest rocks. It exists, like other elements, in combination. It is
combined with iron, antimony, manganese, copper, arsenic, and other
things. But it is one great peculiarity of gold that it is not easily
oxydized or rusted; rust being caused in metals by the action of oxygen
contained in our air. When, therefore, gold, in a compound state, comes
to be superficial, the air acting on the mass will generally oxydize the
other metals, and so act upon them, more especially where water helps,
that in the lapse of time this superficial gold will have been purified
in the laboratory of nature, and may be finally picked up in the pure,
or nearly pure, state; or else it may be washed, equally pure, from the
superficial earth, as is now done in the majority of gold districts. But
deep below the surface, in quartz veins contained within the bowels of a
mountain--though, to be sure, it is not often found in such
positions--gold exists generally in a condition far from pure; the
chemistry of the artisan must do what the chemistry of nature had
effected in the other case; and this involves rather an expensive
process.
Surface gold is found, comparatively pure, in lumps of very various
sizes, or in rounded grains, or in small scales. In this state it is
found in the Ural district, contained in a mass of coarse gravel, like
that found in the neighborhood of London; elsewhere, it is contained in
a rough shingle, with much quartz; and elsewhere, in a more mud-like
alluvial deposit. The water that has washed it out of its first bed has
not been always a mere mountain torrent, or a river, or a succession of
rains. Gold shingle and sand have been accumulated in many districts, by
the same causes which produced our local drifts, in which the bones of
the mammoth, the rhinoceros, and other extinct quadrupeds occur.
The nearly pure gold thus deposited in very superficial layers, may be
readily distinguished from all other things that have external
resemblance to it. Gold in this state has always, more or less, its
well-known color, and the little action of the air upon it causes its
particles to glitter, though they be distributed only in minute scales
through a bed of sand. But there are other things that glitter. Scales
of mica, to the eye only, very much resemble gold. But gold is extremely
heavy; twelve or nineteen times heavier than that same bulk of water;
mica is very light: sand itself being but three times heavier than
water. Let, therefore, sand, with glittering scales in it, be shaken
with water, and let us watch the order of the settling. If the scales be
gold they will sink first, and quickly, to the bottom; if they be mica,
they will take their time, and be among the last to sink. It is this
property of gold--its weight--which enables us to obtain it by the
process called gold-washing. Earth containing gold, being agitated in
water, the gold falls to the bottom. Turbid water containing gold, being
poured over a skin, the gold falls and becomes entangled in the hairs;
or such water being poured over a board with transverse grooves, the
gold is caught in the depressions. This is the reason why the Brazilian
searcher looks for a depression in the bottom of the river, and this is
also the origin of those peculiar rich bits occasionally found in the
alluvium of a large gold-field. Where there has been a hollow, as the
water passed it, gold continually was arrested there, forming those
valuable deposits which the Brazilians call Caldeiraos. Sometimes, where
the waters have been arrested in the hollow of a mountain, they have, in
the same way, dropped an excessive store of gold. This quality of
weight, therefore, is of prime importance in the history of gold; it
determined the character of its deposits in the first instance; it
enables us now to extract it easily from its surrounding matter, and
enables us to detect it in a piece of rock, where it may not be
distinctly visible. There are two substances which look exceedingly like
gold;--copper and iron pyrites, substances familiar to most of us. We
need never be puzzled to distinguish them. Gold is a soft metal, softer
than iron, copper, and silver, although harder than tin or lead. It will
scratch tin or lead; but it will be scratched with the other metals.
That is to say, you can scratch gold with a common knife. Now, iron
pyrites is harder than steel, and therefore a knife will fail to scratch
it. Gold and iron pyrites, therefore, need never be mistaken for each
other by any man who has a piece of steel about him. Copper pyrites can
be scratched with steel. But then there is another very familiar
property of gold, by which, in this case, it can be distinguished. Gold
is very malleable; beat on it with a stone, and it will flatten, but not
break; and when it breaks, it shows that it is torn asunder, by the
thready, fibrous nature of its fracture. Beat with a stone on copper
pyrites, and it immediately begins to crumble. No acid, by itself, can
affect gold; but a mixture of one part nitric, and four parts muriatic
acid, is called Aqua Regia, because in this mixture gold does dissolve.
A common test for gold, in commerce, is to put nitric acid over it,
which has no action if the gold be true. There is, also, a hard smooth
stone, called Lydian stone, or flinty jasper, by the mineralogists, and
_touchstone_ by the jewelers, on which gold makes a certain mark; and
the character of the streak made on such a stone will indicate pretty
well the purity or value of the gold that makes it.
We have said that when the gold occurs in a deep-seated vein, combined
with other minerals, its extraction becomes no longer a simple process.
Let us now point out generally what the nature of this process is, and
then we shall conclude our brief discussion; for what else we might say,
either lies beyond our present purpose, or has been made, by the talking
and writing of the last two years, sufficiently familiar to all
listeners or readers. Mr. Gardner, superintendent of the Royal Botanic
Garden of Ceylon, thus describes the process of extracting gold out of
the mine of Morro Velho. This mine, when St. Hilaire visited it, was
considered as exhausted; it is now one of the richest in Brazil. Thus
Mr. Gardner writes of it:
"The ore is first removed from its bed by blasting, and it is afterward
broken, by female slaves, into small pieces; after which it is conveyed
to the stamping-machine, to be reduced to powder. A small stream of
water, constantly made to run through them, carries away the pulverized
matter to what is called the Strakes--a wooden platform, slightly
inclined, and divided into a number of very shallow compartments, of
fourteen inches in width, the length being about twenty-six feet. The
floor of each of these compartments is covered with pieces of tanned
hide, about three feet long, and sixteen inches wide, which have the
hair on. The particles of gold are deposited among the hairs, while the
earthy matter, being lighter, is washed away. The greater part of the
gold dust is collected on the three upper, or head skins, which are
changed every four hours, while the lower skins are changed every six or
eight hours, according to the richness of the ore. The sand which is
washed from the head skins is collected together, and amalgamated with
quicksilver, in barrels; while that from the lower skins is conveyed to
the washing-house, and concentrated over strakes of similar construction
to those of the stamping-mill, till it be rich enough to be amalgamated
with that from the head-skins. The barrels into which this rich sand is
put, together with the quicksilver, are turned by water; and the process
of amalgamation is generally completed in the course of forty-eight
hours. When taken out, the amalgam is separated from the sand by
washing. It is then pressed on chamois skins, and the quicksilver is
separated from the gold by sublimation."
Let us explain those latter processes in more detail. If you dip a gold
ring or a sovereign into quicksilver, it will be silvered by it, and the
silvering will not come off. This union of theirs is called an amalgam.
On a ring or sovereign it is mere silvering; but when the gold is in a
state of powder, and the amalgamation takes place on a complete scale,
it forms a white, doughy mass, in which there is included much loose
quicksilver. This doughy mass is presently washed clear of all
impurities, and is then squeezed in skins or cloths, through the
pores of which loose quicksilver is forced, and saved for future
operations. The rest of the quicksilver is burnt out. Under a
moderately strong heat, quicksilver evaporates, or--to speak more
scientifically--sublimes; and gold does not. The amalgam, therefore,
being subjected to heat, the quicksilver escapes by sublimation, leaving
the gold pure. The quicksilver escapes by sublimation; but its owner
does not wish it quite to escape out of his premises, because it is an
expensive article. Chambers are therefore made over the ovens, in which
the mercury may once again condense, and whence it may be collected
again afterward. But, with all precaution, a considerable waste always
takes place. Other processes are also in use for the separation of gold
from its various alloys. We have described that which is of most
universal application. Let us not omit noting the significance of the
fact, that a quicksilver mine exists in California.
EYES MADE TO ORDER.
Contradictory opinions prevail as to the limits that should be assigned
to the privilege of calling Art to the aid of Nature. To some persons a
wig is the type of a false and hollow age; an emblem of deceit; a device
of ingenious vanity, covering the wearer with gross and unpardonable
deceit. In like manner, a crusade has been waged against the skill of
the dentist--against certain artificial "extents in aid" of symmetry
effected by the milliner.
The other side argues, in favor of the wig, that, in the social
intercourse of men, it is a laudable object for any individual to
propose to himself, by making an agreeable appearance, to please, rather
than repel his associates. On the simple ground that he would rather
please than offend, an individual, not having the proper complement of
hair and countenance, places a cunningly-fashioned wig upon his head,
artificial teeth in his mouth, and an artificial nose upon his face. A
certain money-lender, it is urged, acknowledged the elevating power of
beauty when he drew a vail before the portrait of his favorite picture,
that he might not see the semblance of a noble countenance, while he
extorted his crushing interest from desperate customers. It is late in
the age, say the pro-wig party, to be called upon to urge the refining
power that dwells in the beautiful; and, on the other hand, the
depression and the coarseness which often attend the constant
contemplation of things unsightly. The consciousness of giving
unpleasant sensations to spectators, haunts all people who are visibly
disfigured. The bald man of five-and-twenty is an unpleasant object;
because premature baldness is unnatural and ugly. Argue the question
according to the strictest rules of formal logic, and you will arrive at
nothing more than that the thing is undoubtedly unpleasant to behold,
and that therefore some reason exists that should urge men to remove it,
or hide it. Undoubtedly, a wig is a counterfeit of natural hair; but is
it not a counterfeit worn in deference to the sense of the world, and
with the view of presenting an agreeable, instead of a disagreeable
object? Certainly. A pinch of philosophy is therefore sprinkled about a
wig, and the wearer is not necessarily a coxcomb. As regards artificial
teeth, stronger pleas--even than those which support wigs--may be
entered. Digestion demands that food should be masticated. Shall, then,
a toothless person be forced to live upon spoon-meat, because artificial
ivories are denounced as sinful? These questions are fast coming to
issue, for Science has so far come to the aid of human nature, that
according to an enthusiastic professor, it will be difficult, in the
course of another century, to tell how or where any man or woman is
deficient. A millennium for Deformity is, it seems, not far distant. M.
Boissonneau of Paris, constructs eyes with such extraordinary precision,
that the artificial eye, we are told, is not distinguishable from the
natural eye. The report of his pretensions will, it is to be feared,
spread consternation among those who hold in abhorrence, and consider
artificial teeth incompatible with Christianity; yet the fact must be
honestly declared, that it is no longer safe for poets to write sonnets
about the eyes of their mistresses, since those eyes may be M.
Boissonneau's.
The old, rude, artificial eyes are simply oval shells, all made from one
pattern, and differing only in size and in color. No pretension to
artistic or scientific skill has been claimed by the artificial-eye
manufacturer--he has made a certain number of deep blues, light blues,
hazels, and others, according to the state of the eye-market. These rude
shells were constructed mainly with the view of giving the wearer an
almond-shaped eye, and with little regard to its matching the eye in
sound and active service. Artificial eyes were not made to order: but
the patient was left to pick out the eye he would prefer to wear, as he
would pick out a glove. The manufacture was kept a profound mystery, and
few medical men had access to its secrets. The manufacturers sold eyes
by the gross, to retail-dealers, at a low price; and these supplied
patients. Under this system, artificial eyes were only applicable in the
very rare cases of atrophy of the globe; and the effect produced was
even more repulsive than that of the diseased eye. The disease was
hidden by an unnatural and repulsive expression, which it is difficult
to describe. While one eye was gazing intently in your face, the other
was fixed in another direction--immovable, the more hideous because at
first you mistook it for a natural eye. A smile may over spread the
face, animate the lip, and lighten up the natural eye; but there was the
glass eye--fixed, lustreless, and dead. It had other disadvantages: it
interfered with the lachrymal functions, and sometimes caused a tear to
drop in the happiest moments.
The new artificial eye is nothing more than a plastic skullcap, set
accurately upon the bulb of the diseased eye, so that it moves with the
bulb as freely as the sound eye. The lids play freely over it; the
lachrymal functions continue their healthy action; and the bulb is
effectually protected from currents of cold air and particles of dust.
But these effects can be gained only by modeling each artificial eye
upon the particular bulb it is destined to cover; thus removing the
manufacture of artificial eyes from the hands of clumsy mechanics, to
the superintendence of the scientific artist. Every individual case,
according to the condition of the bulb, requires an artificial eye of a
different model from all previously made. In no two cases are the bulbs
found in precisely the same condition; and, therefore, only the
scientific workman, proceeding on well-grounded principles, can pretend
to practice ocular prothesis with success. The newly-invented shell is
of metallic enamel, which may be fitted like an outer cuticle to the
bulb--the cornea of which is destroyed--and restores to the patient his
natural appearance. The invention, however, will, we fear, increase our
skepticism. We shall begin to look in people's eyes, as we have been
accustomed to examine a luxuriant head of hair, when it suddenly shoots
upon a surface hitherto remarkable only for a very straggling crop. Yet,
it would be well to abate the spirit of sarcasm with which wigs and
artificial teeth have been treated. Undoubtedly, it is more pleasant to
owe one's hair to nature than to Truefit; to be indebted to natural
causes for pearly teeth; and to have sparkling eyes with light in them.
Every man and woman would rather have an aquiline nose than the most
playful pug; no one would exchange eyes agreeing to turn in one
direction, for the pertest squint; or legs observing something
approaching to a straight line, for undecided legs, with contradictory
bends. Hence dumb-bells, shoulder-boards, gymnastic exercises, the
consumption of sugar steeped in Eau-de-Cologne (a French recipe for
imparting brightness to the eyes), ingenious padding, kalydors, odontos,
Columbian balms, bandolines, and a thousand other ingenious devices.
Devices with an object, surely--that object, the production of a
pleasing _personnel_. It is a wise policy to remove from sight the
calamities which horrify or sadden; and, as far as possible, to
cultivate all that pleases from its beauty or its grace. Therefore, let
us shake our friend with the cork-leg by the hand, and, acknowledging
that the imitation is worn in deference to our senses, receive it as a
veritable flesh-and-blood limb; let us accept the wig of our unfortunate
young companion, as the hair which he has lost; let us shut our eyes to
the gold work that fastens the brilliantly white teeth of a young lady,
whose natural dentition has been replaced; and, above all, let us never
show, by sign or word, that the appearance of our friend (who has
suffered tortures, and lost the sight of one eye) is changed after the
treatment invented by M. Boissonneau.
THE EXPECTANT.--A TALE OF LIFE.
When a boy I was sent to school in a country village in one of the
midland counties. Midvale lay on a gentle slope at the foot of a lofty
hill, round which the turnpike-road wound scientifically to diminish the
steepness of the declivity; and the London coach, as it smoked along the
white road regularly at half-past four o'clock, with one wheel dragged,
might be tracked for two good miles before it crossed the bridge over
the brook below and disappeared from sight. We generally rushed out of
the afternoon school as the twanging horn of the guard woke up our quiet
one street; and a fortunate fellow I always thought was Griffith
Maclean, our only day-boarder, who on such occasions would often chase
the flying mail, and seizing the hand of the guard, an old servant of
his uncle's, mount on the roof, and ride as far as he chose for the mere
trouble of walking back again. Our school consisted of between twenty
and thirty boys, under the care of a master who knew little and taught
still less; for having three sermons to preach every Sunday, besides two
on week-days, he had but little leisure to spare for the duties of the
school; and the only usher he could afford to keep was a needy,
hard-working lad, whose poverty and time-worn habiliments deprived him
of any moral control over the boys. This state of things, coupled with
the nervous and irascible temper of the pedagogue, naturally produced a
good deal of delinquency, which was duly scored off on the backs of the
offenders every morning before breakfast. Thus what we wanted in tuition
was made up in flogging; and if the master was rarely in the school, he
made amends for his absence by a vigorous use of his prerogative while
he was there. Griffith Maclean, who was never present on these
occasions, coming only at nine o'clock, was yet our common benefactor.
One by one he had taken all our jackets to a cobbling tailor in the
village, and got them for a trifling cost so well lined with old
remnants of a kind of felt or serge, for the manufacture of which the
place was famous, that we could afford to stand up without wincing, and
even to laugh through our wry faces under the matutinal ceremony of
caning. Further, Griffith was the sole means of communication with the
shopkeepers, and bought our cakes, fruit, and playthings, when we had
money to spend, and would generally contrive to convey a hunch of bread
and cheese from home, to any starving victim who was condemned to
fasting for his transgressions. In return for all this sympathy we could
do no less than relieve Griffith, as far as possible, from the trouble
and 'bother,' as he called it, of study. We worked his sums regularly
for days beforehand, translated his Latin, and read over his lessons
with our fingers as he stood up to repeat them before the master.
Griffith's mother was the daughter of a gentleman residing in the
neighborhood of Midvale. Fifteen years ago she had eloped with a young
Irish officer--an unprincipled fortune-hunter--who, finding himself
mistaken in his venture, the offended father having refused any portion,
had at first neglected and finally deserted his wife, who had returned
home with Griffith, her only child, to seek a reconciliation with her
parents. This had never been cordially granted. The old man had other
children who had not disobeyed him, and to them, at his death, he
bequeathed the bulk of his property, allotting to Griffith's mother only
a life-interest in a small estate which brought her something less than
a hundred pounds a year. But the family were wealthy, and the fond
mother hoped, indeed fully expected, that they would make a gentlemanly
provision for her only child. In this expectation Griffith was nurtured
and bred; and being reminded every day that he was born a gentleman,
grew up with the notion that application and labor of any sort were
unbecoming the character he would have to sustain. He was a boy of
average natural abilities, and with industry might have cultivated them
to advantage: but industry was a plebeian virtue, which his silly mother
altogether discountenanced, and withstood the attempts, not very
vigorous, of the schoolmaster to enforce. Thus he was never punished,
seldom reproved; and the fact that he was the sole individual so
privileged in a school where both reproof and punishment were so
plentiful, could not fail of impressing him with a great idea of his own
importance. Schoolboys are fond of speculating on their future
prospects, and of dilating on the fancied pleasures of manhood and
independence, and the delights of some particular trade or profession
upon which they have set their hearts; the farm, the forge, the loom,
the counter, the press, the desk, have as eager partisans among the
knucklers at _taw_ as among older children; and while crouching round
the dim spark of fire on a wet winter day, we were wont to chalk out for
ourselves a future course of life when released from the drudgery, as we
thought it, of school. Some declared for building, carpentering,
farming, milling, or cattle-breeding; some were panting for life in the
great city; some longed for the sea and travel to foreign countries; and
some for a quiet life at home amid rural sports and the old family
faces. Above all, Griffith Maclean towered in unapproachable greatness.
"I shall be a gentleman," said he; "if I don't have a commission in the
army--which I am not sure I should like, because it's a bore to be
ordered off where you don't want to go--I shall have an official
situation under government, with next to nothing to do but to see life
and enjoy myself." Poor Griffith!
Time wore on. One fine morning I was packed, along with a couple of
boxes, on the top of the London coach; and before forty-eight hours had
elapsed, found myself bound apprentice to a hard-working master and a
laborious profession in the heart of London. Seven years I served and
wrought in acquiring the art and mystery, as my indentures termed it, of
my trade. Seven times in the course of this period it was my pleasant
privilege to visit Midvale, where some of my relations dwelt, and at
each visit I renewed the intimacy with my old school-fellow, Griffith.
He was qualifying himself for the life of a gentleman by leading one of
idleness; and I envied him not a little his proficiency in the use of
the angle and the gun, and the opportunity he occasionally enjoyed of
following the hounds upon a borrowed horse. At my last visit, at the end
of my term of apprenticeship, I felt rather hurt at the cold reception
his mother gave me, and at the very haughty, off-hand bearing of
Griffith himself; and I resolved to be as independent as he by giving
him an opportunity of dropping the acquaintance if he chose. I
understood, however, that both he and his mother were still feeding upon
expectation, and that they hoped every thing from General ----, to whom
application had been made on Griffith's behalf, as the son of an
officer, and that they confidently expected a cadetship that would open
up the road to promotion and fortune. The wished-for appointment did not
arrive. Poor Griffith's father had died without leaving that reputation
behind him which might have paved the way for his son's advancement, and
the application was not complied with. This was a mortifying blow to the
mother, whose pride it painfully crushed. Griffith, now of age, proposed
that they should remove to London, where, living in the very source and
centre of official appointments, they might bring their influence to
bear upon any suitable berth that might be vacant. They accordingly left
Midvale and came to town, where they lived in complete retirement upon a
very limited income. I met Griffith accidentally after he had been in
London about a year. He shook me heartily by the hand, was in high
spirits, and informed me that he had at length secured the promise of an
appointment to a situation in S----House, in case T----, the sitting
member, should be again returned for the county. His mother had three
tenants, each with a vote, at her command; and he was going down to
Midvale, as the election was shortly coming off, and would bag a hundred
votes, at least, he felt sure, before polling-day. I could not help
thinking as he rattled away, that this was just the one thing he was fit
for. With much of the air, gait, and manners of a gentleman, he combined
a perfection in the details of fiddle-faddle and small talk rarely to be
met with; and from having no independent opinion of his own upon any
subject whatever, was so much the better qualified to secure the voices
of those who had. He went down to Midvale, canvassed the whole district
with astonishing success, and had the honor of dining with his patron,
the triumphant candidate, at the conclusion of the poll. On his return
to town, in the overflowings of his joy, he wrote a note to me
expressive of his improved prospects, and glorying in the certainty of
at length obtaining an official appointment. I was very glad to hear the
good news, but still more surprised at the terms in which it was
conveyed; the little that Griffith had learned at school he had almost
contrived to lose altogether in the eight or nine years that had elapsed
since he had left it. He seemed to ignore the very existence of such
contrivances as syntax and orthography; and I really had grave doubts as
to whether he was competent to undertake even an official situation in
S---- House.
These doubts were not immediately resolved. Members of parliament,
secure in their seats, are not precisely so anxious to perform as they
sometimes are ready to promise when their seats seem sliding from under
them. It was very nearly two years before Griffith received any fruit
from his electioneering labors, during which time he had been leading a
life of lounging, do-nothing, dreamy semi-consciousness, occasionally
varied by a suddenly-conceived and indignant remonstrance, hurled in
foolscap at the head of the defalcating member for the county. During
all this time fortune used him but scurvily: his mother's tenants at
Midvale clamored for a reduction of rent; one decamped without payment
of arrears; repairs were necessary, and had to be done and paid for.
These drawbacks reduced the small income upon which they lived, and
sensibly affected the outward man of the gentlemanly Griffith: he began
to look seedy, and occasionally borrowed a few shillings of me when we
casually met, which he forgot to pay. I must do him the credit to say
that he never avoided me on account of these trifling debts, but with an
innate frankness characteristic of his boyhood, continued his friendship
and his confidences. At length the happy day arrived. He received his
appointment, bearing the remuneration of L200 a year, which he devoutly
believed was to lead to something infinitely greater, and called on me
on his way to the office where he was to be installed and indoctrinated
into his function.
The grand object of her life--the settlement of her son--thus
accomplished, the mother returned to Midvale, where she shortly after
died, in the full conviction that Griffith was on the road to preferment
and fortune. The little estate--upon the proceeds of which she had
frugally maintained herself and son--passed, at her death, into the
hands of one of her brothers, none of whom took any further notice of
Griffith, who had mortally offended them by his instrumentality in
returning the old member for the county, whom it was their endeavor to
unseat. There is a mystery connected with Griffith's tenure of office
which I could never succeed in fathoming. He held it but for six months,
when, probably not being competent to keep it, he sold it to an
advertising applicant, who offered a douceur of L300 for such a berth.
How the transfer was arranged I can not tell, not knowing the recondite
formula in use upon these occasions. Suffice it to say that Griffith had
his L300, paid his little debts, renewed his wardrobe and his
expectations, and began to cast about for a new patron. He was now a
gentleman about town, and exceedingly well he both looked and acted the
character: he had prudence enough to do it upon an economical scale, and
though living upon his capital, doled it out with a sparing hand. As
long as his money lasted he did very well; but before the end of the
third year the bloom of his gentility had worn off, and it was plain
that he was painfully economizing the remnant of his funds.
About this time I happened to remove to a different quarter of the
metropolis, and lost sight of him for more than a year. One morning,
expecting a letter of some importance, I waited for the postman before
walking to business. What was my astonishment on responding personally
to his convulsive "b'bang," to recognize under the gold-banded hat and
red-collared coat of that peripatetic official the gentlemanly figure
and features of my old schoolfellow Griffith Maclean!
"What! Griff?" I exclaimed: "is it possible?--can this be you?"
"Well," said he, "I am inclined to think it is. You see, old fellow, a
man must do something or starve. This is all I could get out of that
shabby fellow T---- and I should not have got this had I not well
worried him. He knows I have no longer a vote for the county. However, I
shan't wear this livery long: there are good berths enough in the
post-office. If they don't pretty soon give me something fit for a
gentleman to do, I shall take myself off as soon as any thing better
offers. But, by George? there is not much time allowed for talking: I
must be off--farewell!"
Soon after this meeting the fourpenny deliveries commenced; and these
were before long followed by the establishment of the universal
Penny-post. This was too much for Griffith. He swore he was walked off
his legs; that people did nothing upon earth but write letters; that he
was jaded to death by lugging them about; that he had no intention of
walking into his coffin for the charge of one penny; and, finally, that
he would have no more of it. Accordingly he made application for
promotion on the strength of his recommendation, was refused as a matter
of course, and vacated his post for the pleasure of a week's rest, which
he declared was more than it was honestly worth.
By this time destiny had made me a housekeeper in "merry Islington;" and
poor Griff, now reduced to his shifts, waited on me one morning with a
document to which he wanted my signature, the object of which was to get
him into the police force. Though doubting his perseverance in any
thing, I could not but comply with his desire, especially as many of my
neighbors had done the same. The paper testified only as to character;
and as Griff was sobriety itself, and as it would have required
considerable ingenuity to fasten any vice upon him, I might have been
hardly justified in refusing. I represented to him as I wrote my name,
that should he be successful, he would really have an opportunity of
rising by perseverance in good conduct to an upper grade. "Of course,"
said he, "that is my object; it would never do for a gentleman to sit
down contented as a policeman. I intend to rise from the ranks, and I
trust you will live to see me one day at the head of the force."
He succeeded in his application; and not long after signing his paper I
saw him indued with the long coat, oil-cape, and glazed hat of the
brotherhood, marching off in Indian file for night-duty to his beat in
the H---- Road. Whether the night air disagreed with his stomach, or
whether his previous duty as a postman had made him doubly drowsy, I can
not say, but he was found by the inspector on going his rounds in a
position too near the horizontal for the regulations of the force, and
suspended, after repeated trangression, for sleeping upon a bench under
a covered doorway while a robbery was going on in the neighborhood. He
soon found that the profession was not at all adapted to his habits, and
had not power enough over them to subdue them to his vocation. He
lingered on for a few weeks under the suspicious eye of authority, and
at length took the advice of the inspector, and withdrew from the force.
He did not make his appearance before me as I expected, and I lost sight
of him for a long while. What new shifts and contrivances he had
recourse to--what various phases of poverty and deprivation he became
acquainted with during the two years that he was absent from my sight,
are secrets which no man can fathom. I was standing at the foot of
Blackfriar's Bridge one morning waiting for a clear passage to cross the
road, and began mechanically reading a printed board, offering to all
the sons of Adam--whom, for the especial profit of the slopsellers,
Heaven sends naked into the world--garments of the choicest broadcloth
for next to nothing, and had just mastered the whole of the
large-printed lie, when my eye fell full upon the bearer of the board,
whose haggard but still gentlemanly face revealed to me the lineaments
of my old friend Griff. He laughed in spite of his rags as our eyes met,
and seized my proffered hand.
"And what," said I, not daring to be silent, "do they pay you for this?"
"Six shillings a week," said Griff, "and that's better than nothing."
"Six shillings and your board of course?"
"Yes, this board" (tapping the placarded timber); "and a confounded
heavy board it is. Sometimes when the wind takes it, though, I'm
thinking it will fly away with me into the river, heavy as it is."
"And do you stand here all day?"
"No, not when it rains: the wet spoils the print, and we have orders to
run under cover. After one o'clock I walk about with it wherever I like,
and stretch my legs a bit. There's no great hardship in it if the pay
was better."
I left my old playmate better resigned to his lowly lot than I thought
to have found him. It was clear that he had at length found a function
for which he was at least qualified; that he knew the fact; and that the
knowledge imparted some small spice of satisfaction to his mind. I am
happy to have to state that this was the deepest depth to which he has
fallen. He has never been a _sandwich_--I am sure indeed he would never
have borne it. With his heavy board mounted on a stout staff, he could
imagine himself, as no doubt he often did, a standard-bearer on the
battle-field, determined to defend his colors with his last breath; and
his tall, gentlemanly, and somewhat officer-like figure, might well
suggest the comparison to a casual spectator. But to encase his genteel
proportions in a surtout of papered planks, or hang a huge wooden
extinguisher over his shoulders labeled with colored stripes--it would
never have done: it would have blotted out the gentleman, and therefore
have worn away the heart of one whose shapely gentility was all that was
left to him.
One might have thought, after all the vicissitudes he had passed
through, that the soul of Griffith Maclean was dead to the voice of
ambition. Not so, however. On the first establishment of the
street-orderlies, that chord in his nature spontaneously vibrated once
again. If he could only get an appointment it would be a rise in the
social scale--leading by degrees--who can tell?--to the resumption of
his original status, or even something beyond.... I hear a gentle knock,
a modest, low-toned single dab, at the street-door as I am sitting down
to supper on my return home after the fatigues of business. Betty is in
no hurry to go to the door, as she is poaching a couple of eggs, and
prides herself upon performing that delicate operation in irreproachable
style. "Squilsh!" they go one after another into the saucepan--I hear it
as plainly as though I were in the kitchen. Now the plates clatter; the
tray is loading; and now the eggs are walking up stairs, steaming under
Betty's face, when "dab" again--a thought, only a thought louder than
before--at the street-door. The spirit of patience is outside; and now
Betty runs with an apology for keeping him waiting. "Here's a man wants
to speak to master; says he'll wait if you are engaged, sir; he ain't in
no hurry." "Show him in;" and in walks Griff, again armed with a
document--a petition for employment as a street-orderly, with
testimonials of good character, honesty, and all that. Of course I again
append my signature, without any allusion to the police force. I wish
him all success, and have a long talk over past fun and follies, and
present hopes and future prospects, and the philosophy of poverty and
the deceitfulness of wealth. We part at midnight, and Griff next day
gets the desiderated appointment.
It is raining hard while I write, and by the same token I know that at
this precise moment Griffith in his glazed hat, and short blouse, and
ponderous mud-shoes, is clearing a channel for the diluted muck of C----
street, city, and directing the black, oozy current by the shortest cut
to the open grating connected with the common sewer. I am as sure as
though I were superintending the operation, that he handles his peculiar
instrument--a sort of hybrid between a hoe and a rake--with the grace
and air of a gentleman--a grace and an air proclaiming to the world
that though _in_ the profession, whatever it may be called, which he has
assumed, he is not _of_ it, and vindicating the workmanship of nature,
who, whatever circumstances may have compelled him to become, cast him
in the mould of a gentleman. It is said that in London every man finds
his level. Whether Griffith Maclean, after all his vicissitudes, has
found his, I do not pretend to say. Happily for him, he thinks that
fortune has done her worst, and that he is bound to rise on her
revolving wheel as high at least as he has fallen low. May the hope
stick by him, and give birth to energies productive of its realization!
THE PLEASURES AND PERILS OF BALLOONING.
It would appear that, in almost every age, from time immemorial, there
has been a strong feeling in certain ambitious mortals to ascend among
the clouds. They have felt with Hecate--
"Oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis
To sail in the air!"
So many, besides those who have actually indulged in it, have felt
desirous of tasting the "dainty pleasure" of a perilous flight, that we
are compelled to believe that the attraction is not only much greater
than the inducement held out would leave one to expect, but that it is
far more extensive than generally supposed. Eccentric ambition, daring,
vanity, and the love of excitement and novelty, have been quite as
strong impulses as the love of science, and of making new discoveries in
man's mastery over physical nature. Nevertheless, the latter feeling
has, no doubt, been the main-stay, if not the forerunner and father of
these attempts, and has held it in public respect, notwithstanding the
many follies that have been committed.
To master the physical elements, has always been the great aim of man.
He commenced with earth, his own natural, obvious, and immediate
element, and he has succeeded to a prodigious extent, being able to do
(so far as he knows) almost whatever he wills with the surface; and,
though reminded every now and then by some terrible disaster that he is
getting "out of bounds" has effected great conquests amidst the dark
depths beneath the surface. Water and fire came next in requisition; and
by the process of ages, man may fairly congratulate himself on the
extraordinary extent, both in kind and degree, to which he has subjected
them to his designs--designs which have become complicated and
stupendous in the means by which they are carried out, and having
commensurate results both of abstract knowledge and practical utility.
But the element of air has hitherto been too subtle for all his
projects, and defied his attempts at conquest. That element which
permeates all earthly bodies, and without breathing which the animal
machine can not continue its vital functions--into that grand natural
reservoir of breath, there is every physical indication that it is not
intended man should ascend as its lord. Traveling and voyaging man must
be content with earth and ocean;--the sublime highways of air, are, to
all appearance, denied to his wanderings.
Wild and daring as was the act, it is no less true that men's first
attempts at a flight through the air were literally with wings. They
conjectured that by elongating their arms with a broad mechanical
covering, they could convert them into wings; and forgetting that birds
possess air-cells, which they can inflate, that their bones are full of
air instead of marrow, and, also, that they possess enormous strength of
sinews expressly for this purpose, these desperate half-theorists have
launched themselves from towers and other high places, and floundered
down to the demolition of their necks, or limbs, according to the
obvious laws and penalties of nature. We do not allude to the Icarus of
old, or any fabulous or remote aspirants, but to modern times. Wonderful
as it may seem, there are some instances in which they escaped with only
a few broken bones. Milton tells a story of this kind in his "History of
Britain;" the flying man being a monk of Malmsbury, "in his youth." He
lived to be impudent and jocose on the subject, and attributed his
failure entirely to his having forgotten to wear a broad tail of
feathers. In 1742 the Marquis de Bacqueville announced that he would fly
with wings from the top of his own house on the _Quai des Theatins_ to
the garden of the _Tuileries_. He actually accomplished half the
distance, when, being exhausted with his efforts, the wings no longer
beat the air, and he came down into the Seine, and would have escaped
unhurt, but that he fell against one of the floating machines of the
Parisian laundresses, and thereby fractured his leg. But the most
successful of all these instances of the extraordinary, however
misapplied, force of human energies and daring, was that of a certain
citizen of Bologna, in the thirteenth century, who actually managed,
with some kind of wing contrivance, to fly from the mountain of Bologna
to the River Reno, without injury. "Wonderful! admirable!" cried all the
citizens of Bologna. "Stop a little!" said the officers of the Holy
Inquisition; "this must be looked into." They sat in sacred conclave. If
the man had been killed, said they, or even mutilated shockingly, our
religious scruples would have been satisfied; but, as he has escaped
unhurt, it is clear that he must be in league with the devil. The poor
"successful" man was therefore condemned to be burnt alive; and the
sentence of the Holy Catholic Church was carried into Christian
execution.
That flying, however, could be effected by the assistance of some more
elaborate sort of machinery, or with the aid of chemistry, was believed
at an early period. Friar Bacon suggested it; so did Bishop Wilkins, and
the Marquis of Worcester; it was likewise projected by Fleyder, by the
Jesuit Lana, and many other speculative men of ability. So far, however,
as we can see, the first real discoverer of the balloon was Dr. Black,
who, in 1767, proposed to inflate a large skin with hydrogen gas; and
the first who brought theory into practice were the brothers
Montgolfier. But their theory was that of the "fire-balloon," or the
formation of an artificial cloud, of smoke, by means of heat from a
lighted brazier placed beneath an enormous bag, or balloon, and fed with
fuel while up in the air. The Academy of Sciences immediately gave the
invention every encouragement, and two gentlemen volunteered to risk an
ascent in this alarming machine.
The first of these was Pilatre de Rosier, a gentleman of scientific
attainments, who was to conduct the machine, and he was accompanied by
the Marquis d'Arlandes, an officer in the Guards. They ascended in the
presence of the Court of France, and all the scientific men in Paris.
They had several narrow escapes of the whole machine taking fire, but
eventually returned to the ground in safety. Both these courageous men
came to untimely ends subsequently. Pilatre de Rosier, admiring the
success of the balloon afterward made by Professor Charles, and others,
(_viz._, a balloon filled with hydrogen gas), conceived the idea of
uniting the two systems, and accordingly ascended with a large balloon
of that kind, having a small fire-balloon beneath it--the upper one to
sustain the greater portion of the weight, the lower one to enable him
to alter his specific gravity as occasion might require, and thus to
avoid the usual expenditure of gas and ballast. Right in theory--but he
had forgotten one thing. Ascending too high, confident in his theory,
the upper balloon became distended too much, and poured down a stream of
hydrogen gas, in self-relief, which reached the little furnace of the
fire-balloon, and the whole machine became presently one mass of flame.
It was consumed in the air, as it descended, and with it of course, the
unfortunate Pilatre de Rosier. The untimely fate of the Marquis
d'Arlandes, his companion in the first ascent ever made in a balloon,
was hastened by one of those circumstances which display the curious
anomalies in human nature;--he was broken for cowardice in the execution
of his military duties, and is supposed to have committed suicide.
If we consider the shape, structure, appurtenances, and capabilities of
a ship of early ages, and one of the present time, we must be struck
with admiration at the great improvement that has been made, and the
advantages that have been obtained; but balloons are very nearly what
they were from the first, and are as much at the mercy of the wind for
the direction they will take. Neither is there at present any certain
prospect of an alteration in this condition. Their so-called "voyage" is
little more than "drifting," and can be no more, except by certain
manoeuvres which obtain precarious exceptions, such as rising to take
the chance of different currents, or lowering a long and weighty rope
upon the earth (an ingenious invention of Mr. Green's, called the "guide
rope"), to be trailed along the ground. If, however, man is ever to be a
flying animal, and to travel in the air whither he listeth, it must be
by other means than wings, balloons, paddle-machines, and aerial
ships--several of which are now building in America, in Paris, and in
London. We do not doubt the mechanical genius of inventors--but the
motive power. We will offer a few remarks on these projects before we
conclude.
But let us, at all events, ascend into the sky! Taking balloons as they
are, "for better, for worse," as Mr. Green would say--let us for once
have a flight in the air.
The first thing you naturally expect is some extraordinary sensation in
springing high up into the air, which takes away your breath for a time.
But no such matter occurs. The extraordinary thing is, that you
experience no sensation at all, so far as motion is concerned. So true
is this, that on one occasion, when Mr. Green wished to rise a little
above a dense crowd, in order to get out of the extreme heat and
pressure that surrounded his balloon, those who held the ropes,
misunderstanding his direction, let go entirely, and the balloon
instantly rose, while the aeronaut remained calmly seated, wiping his
forehead with a handkerchief, after the exertions he had undergone in
preparing for the flight, and totally unconscious of what had happened.
He declares that he only became aware of the circumstance, when, on
reaching a considerable elevation (a few seconds are often quite enough
for that), he heard the shouts of the multitude becoming fainter and
fainter, which caused him to start up, and look over the edge of the
car.
A similar unconsciousness of the time of their departure from earth has
often happened to "passengers." A very amusing illustration of this is
given in a letter published by Mr. Poole, the well-known author, shortly
after his ascent. "I do not despise you," says he, "for talking about a
balloon going up, for it is an error which you share in common with some
millions of our fellow-creatures; and I, in the days of my ignorance,
thought with the rest of you. I know better now. The fact is, we do not
_go up_ at all; but at about five minutes past six on the evening of
Friday, the 14th of September, 1838--at about that time, Vauxhall
Gardens, with all the people in them, _went down_!" What follows is
excellent. "I can not have been deceived," says he; "I speak from the
evidence of my senses, founded upon repetition of the fact. Upon each of
the three or four experimental trials of the powers of the balloon to
enable the people to glide away from us with safety to themselves--down
they all went about thirty feet?--then, up they came again, and so on.
There we sat quietly all the while, in our wicker buck-basket, utterly
unconscious of motion; till, at length, Mr. Green snapping a little
iron, and thus letting loose the rope by which _the earth was suspended
to us_--like Atropos, cutting the connection between us with a pair of
shears--down it went, with every thing on it; and your poor, paltry,
little Dutch toy of a town, (your Great Metropolis, as you insolently
call it), having been placed on casters for the occasion--I am satisfied
of _that_--was gently rolled away from under us."[13]
Feeling nothing of the ascending motion, the first impression that takes
possession of you in "going up" in a balloon, is the quietude--the
silence, that grows more and more entire. The restless heaving to and
fro of the huge inflated sphere above your head (to say nothing of the
noise of the crowd), the flapping of ropes, the rustling of silk, and
the creaking of the basketwork of the car--all has ceased. There is a
total cessation of all atmospheric resistance. You sit in a silence
which becomes more perfect every second. After the bustle of many moving
objects, you stare before you into blank air. We make no observations on
other sensations--to wit, the very natural one of a certain increased
pulse, at being so high up, with a chance of coming down so suddenly, if
any little matter went wrong. As all this will differ with different
individuals, according to their nervous systems and imaginations, we
will leave each person to his own impressions.
So much for what you first feel; and now what is the first thing you do?
In this case every body is alike. We all do the same thing. We look over
the side of the car. We do this very cautiously--keeping a firm seat, as
though we clung to our seat by a certain attraction of cohesion--and
then, holding on by the edge, we carefully protrude the peak of our
traveling-cap, and then the tip of the nose, over the edge of the car,
upon which we rest our mouth. Every thing below is seen in so
new a form, so flat, compressed and simultaneously--so much
too-much-at-a-time--that the first look is hardly so satisfactory as
could be desired. But soon we thrust the chin fairly over the edge, and
take a good stare downward; and this repays us much better. Objects
appear under very novel circumstances from this vertical position, and
ascending retreat from them (though it is _they_ that appear to sink and
retreat from us). They are stunted and foreshortened, and rapidly
flattened to a map-like appearance; they get smaller and smaller, and
clearer and clearer. "An idea," says Monck Mason, "involuntarily seizes
upon the mind, that the earth with all its inhabitants had, by some
unaccountable effort of nature, been suddenly precipitated from its
hold, and was in the act of slipping away from beneath the aeronaut's
feet into the murky recesses of some unfathomable abyss below. Every
thing, in fact, but himself, seems to have been suddenly endowed with
motion." Away goes the earth, with all its objects--sinking lower and
lower, and every thing becoming less and less, but getting more and more
distinct and defined as they diminish in size. But, besides the retreat
toward minuteness, the phantasmagoria flattens as it lessens--men and
women are of five inches high, then of four, three, two, one inch--and
now a speck; the Great Western is a narrow strip of parchment, and upon
it you see a number of little trunks "running away with each other,"
while the Great Metropolis itself is a board set out with toys; its
public edifices turned into "baby-houses, and pepper-casters, and
extinguishers, and chess-men, with here and there a dish-cover--things
which are called domes, and spires, and steeples!" As for the Father of
Rivers, he becomes a dusky-gray, winding streamlet, and his largest
ships are no more than flat pale decks, all the masts and rigging being
foreshortened to nothing. We soon come now to the shadowy, the
indistinct--and then all is lost in air. Floating clouds fill up all the
space beneath. Lovely colors outspread themselves, ever-varying in tone,
and in their forms or outlines--now sweeping in broad lines--now rolling
and heaving in huge, richly, yet softly-tinted billows--while sometimes,
through a great opening, rift, or break, you see a level expanse of gray
or blue fields at an indefinite depth below. And all this time there is
a noiseless cataract of snowy cloud-rocks falling around you--falling
swiftly on all sides of the car, in great fleecy masses--in small
snow-white and glistening fragments--and immense compound masses--all
white, and soft, and swiftly rushing past you, giddily, and incessantly
down, down, and all with the silence of a dream--strange, lustrous,
majestic, incomprehensible.
Aeronauts, of late years, have become, in many instances, respectable
and business-like, and not given to extravagant fictions about their
voyages, which now, more generally, take the form of a not very lively
log. But it used to be very different when the art was in its infancy,
some thirty or forty years ago, and young balloonists indulged in
romantic fancies. We do not believe that there was a direct intention to
tell falsehoods, but that they often deceived themselves very amusingly.
Thus, it has been asserted, that when you attained a great elevation,
the air became so rarefied that you could not breathe, and that small
objects, being thrown out of the balloon, could not fall, and stuck
against the side of the car. Also, that wild birds, being taken up and
suddenly let loose, could not fly properly, but returned immediately to
the car for an explanation. One aeronaut declared that his head became
so contracted by his great elevation, that his hat tumbled over his
eyes, and persisted in resting on the bridge of his nose. This assertion
was indignantly rebutted by another aeronaut of the same period, who
declared that, on the contrary, the head expanded in proportion to the
elevation; in proof of which he stated, that on his last ascent he went
so high that his hat burst. Another of these romantic personages
described a wonderful feat of skill and daring which he had performed up
in the air. At an elevation of two miles, his balloon burst several
degrees above "the equator" (meaning, above the middle region of the
balloon), whereupon he crept up the lines that attached the car, until
he reached the netting that inclosed the balloon; and up this netting he
clambered, until he reached the aperture, into which he thrust--not his
head--but his pocket handkerchief! Mr. Monck Mason, to whose
"Aeronautica" we are indebted for the anecdote, gives eight different
reasons to show the impossibility of any such feat having ever been
performed in the air. One of these is highly graphic. The "performer"
would change the line of gravitation by such an attempt: he would never
be able to mount the sides, and would only be like the squirrel in its
revolving cage. He would, however, pull the netting round--the spot
where he clung to, ever remaining the lowest--until having reversed the
machine, the balloon would probably make its _escape_, in an elongated
shape, through the large interstices of that portion of the net-work
which is just above the car, when the balloon is in its proper position!
But the richest of all these romances is the following brief
statement:--A scientific gentleman, well advanced in years (who had
"probably witnessed the experiment of the restoration of a withered pear
beneath the exhausted receiver of a pneumatic machine") was impressed
with a conviction, on ascending to a considerable height in a balloon,
that every line and wrinkle of his face had totally disappeared, owing,
as he said, to the preternatural distension of his skin; and that, to
the astonishment of his companion, he rapidly began to assume the
delicate aspect and blooming appearance of his early youth!
These things are all self-delusions. A bit of paper or a handkerchief
might cling to the outside of the car, but a penny-piece would,
undoubtedly, fall direct to the earth. Wild birds do not return to the
car, but descend in circles, till, passing through the clouds, they see
whereabouts to go, and then they fly downward as usual. We have no
difficulty in breathing; on the contrary, being "called upon," we sing a
song. Our head does not contract, so as to cause our hat to extinguish
our eyes and nose; neither does it expand to the size of a prize
pumpkin. We see that it is impossible to climb up the netting of the
balloon over-head, and so do not think of attempting it; neither do we
find all the lines in our face getting filled up, and the loveliness of
our "blushing morning" taking the place of a marked maturity. These
fancies are not less ingenious and comical than that of the sailor who
hit upon the means of using a balloon to make a rapid voyage to any part
of the earth. "The earth spins round," said he, "at a great rate, don't
it? Well, I'd go up two or three miles high in my balloon, and then 'lay
to,' and when any place on the globe I wished to touch at, passed
underneath me, down I'd drop upon it."
But we are still floating high in air. How do we feel all this time?
"Calm, sir--calm and resigned." Yes, and more than this. After a little
while, when you find nothing happens, and see nothing likely to happen
(and you will more especially feel this under the careful conduct of the
veteran Green), a delightful serenity takes the place of all other
sensations--to which the extraordinary silence, as well as the pale
beauty and floating hues that surround you, is chiefly attributable. The
silence is perfect--a wonder and a rapture. We hear the ticking of our
watches. Tick! tick!--or is it the beat of our own hearts? We are sure
of the watch; and now we think we can hear both.
Two other sensations must, by no means, be forgotten. You become very
cold, and desperately hungry. But you have got a warm outer coat, and
traveling boots, and other valuable things, and you have not left behind
you the pigeon-pie, the ham, cold beef, bottled ale and brandy.
Of the increased coldness which you feel on passing from a bright cloud
into a dark one, the balloon is quite as sensitive as you can be; and,
probably, much more so, for it produces an immediate change of altitude.
The expansion and contraction which romantic gentlemen fancied took
place in the size of their heads, does really take place in the balloon,
according as it passes from a cloud of one temperature into that of
another.
We are now nearly three miles high. Nothing is to be seen but pale air
above--around--on all sides, with floating clouds beneath. How should
you like to descend in a parachute?--to be dangled by a long line from
the bottom of the car, and suddenly to be "let go," and to dip at once
clean down through those gray-blue and softly rose-tinted clouds,
skimming so gently beneath us? Not at all: oh, by no manner of
means--thank you! Ah, you are thinking of the fate of poor Cocking, the
enthusiast in parachutes, concerning whom, and his fatal "improvement,"
the public is satisfied that it knows every thing, from the one final
fact--that he was killed. But there is something more than that in it,
as we fancy.
Two words against parachutes. In the first place, there is no use to
which, at present, they can be applied; and, in the second, they are so
unsafe as to be likely, in all cases, to cost a life for each descent.
In the concise words of Mr. Green, we should say--"the best parachute is
a balloon; the others are bad things to have to deal with."
Mr. Cocking, as we have said, was an enthusiast in parachutes. He felt
sure he had discovered a new, and the true, principle. All parachutes,
before his day, had been constructed to descend in a concave form, like
that of an open umbrella; the consequence of which was, that the
parachute descended with a violent swinging from side to side, which
sometimes threw the man in the basket in almost a horizontal position.
Mr. Cocking conceived that the converse form; viz., an inverted cone (of
large dimensions), would remedy this evil; and becoming convinced, we
suppose, by some private experiments with models, he agreed to descend
on a certain day. The time was barely adequate to his construction of
the parachute, and did not admit of such actual experiments with a
sheep, or pig, or other animal, as prudence would naturally have
suggested. Besides the want of time, however, Cocking equally wanted
prudence; he felt sure of his new principle; this new form of parachute
was the hobby of his life, and up he went on the appointed day (for what
aeronaut shall dare to "disappoint the Public?")--dangling by a rope,
fifty feet long, from the bottom of the car of Mr. Green's great Nassau
Balloon.
The large upper rim of the parachute, in imitation, we suppose, of the
hollow bones of a bird, was made of hollow tin--a most inapplicable and
brittle material; and besides this, it had two fractures. But Mr.
Cocking was not to be deterred; convinced of the truth of his discovery,
up he would go. Mr. Green was not equally at ease, and positively
refused to touch the latch of the "liberating iron," which was to detach
the parachute from the balloon. Mr. Cocking arranged to do this himself,
for which means he procured a piece of new cord of upward of fifty feet
in length, which was fastened to the latch above in the car, and led
down to his hand in the basket of the parachute. Up they went to a great
height, and disappeared among the clouds.
Mr. Green had taken up one friend with him in the car; and, knowing well
what would happen the instant so great a weight as the parachute and man
were detached, he had provided a small balloon inside the car, filled
with atmospheric air, with two mouth-pieces. They were now upward of a
mile high.
"How do you feel, Mr. Cocking?" called out Green. "Never better, or more
delighted in my life," answered Cocking. Though hanging at fifty feet
distance, in the utter silence of that region, every accent was easily
heard. "But, perhaps you will alter your mind?" suggested Green. "By no
means," cried Cocking; "but, how high are we?"--"Upward of a mile."--"I
must go higher, Mr. Green--I must be taken up two miles before I
liberate the parachute." Now, Mr. Green, having some regard for himself
and his friend, as well as for poor Cocking, was determined not to do
any such thing. After some further colloquy, therefore, during which Mr.
Green threw out a little more ballast, and gained a little more
elevation, he finally announced that he could go no higher, as he now
needed all the ballast he had for their own safety in the balloon. "Very
well," said Cocking, "if you really will not take me any higher, I shall
say good-by."
At this juncture Green called out, "Now, Mr. Cocking, if your mind at
all misgives you about your parachute, I have provided a tackle up here,
which I can lower down to you, and then wind you up into the car by my
little grapnel-iron windlass, and nobody need be the wiser."--"Certainly
not," cried Cocking; "thank you all the same. I shall now make ready to
pull the latch-cord." Finding he was determined, Green and his friend
both crouched down in the car, and took hold of the mouth-pieces of
their little air-balloon. "All ready?" called out Cocking. "All
ready!" answered the veteran aeronaut above. "Good-night, Mr.
Green!"--"Good-night, Mr. Cocking!"--"A pleasant voyage to you, Mr.
Green--good-night!"
There was a perfect silence--a few seconds of intense suspense--and then
the aeronauts in the car felt a jerk upon the latch. It had not been
forcible enough to open the liberating iron. Cocking had failed to
detach the parachute. Another pause of horrid silence ensued.
Then came a strong jerk upon the latch, and in an instant, the great
balloon shot upward with a side-long swirl, like a wounded serpent. They
saw their flag clinging flat down against the flag-staff, while a
torrent of gas rushed down upon them through the aperture in the balloon
above their heads, and continued to pour down into the car for a length
of time that would have suffocated them but for the judgmatic provision
of the little balloon of atmospheric air, to the mouth-pieces of which
their own mouths were fixed, as they crouched down at the bottom of the
car. Of Mr. Cocking's fate, or the result of his experiment, they had
not the remotest knowledge. They only knew the parachute was gone!
The termination of Mr. Cocking's experiment is well known. For a few
seconds he descended quickly, but steadily, and without swinging--as he
had designed, and insisted would be the result--when, suddenly, those
who were watching with glasses below, saw the parachute lean on one
side--then give a lurch to the other--then the large upper circle
collapsed (the disastrous hollow tin-tubing having evidently broken up),
and the machine entered the upper part of a cloud: in a few more seconds
it was seen to emerge from the lower part of the cloud--the whole thing
turned over--and then, like a closed-up broken umbrella, it shot
straight down to the earth. The unfortunate, and, as most people regard
him, the foolish enthusiast, was found still in the basket in which he
reached the earth. He was quite insensible, but uttered a moan; and in
ten minutes he was dead.
Half a word in favor of parachutes. True, they are of no use "at
present;" but who knows of what use such things may one day be? As to
Mr. Cocking's invention, the disaster seems to be attributable to errors
of detail, rather than of principle. Mr. Green is of opinion, from an
examination of the _broken_ latch-cord, combined with other
circumstances, which would require diagrams to describe satisfactorily,
that after Mr. Cocking had failed to liberate himself the first time, he
twisted the cord round his hand to give a good jerk, forgetting that in
doing so, he united himself to the balloon above, as it would be
impossible to disengage his hand in time. By this means he was violently
jerked into his parachute, which broke the latch-cord; but the tin tube
was not able to bear such a shock, and this caused so serious a
fracture, in addition to its previous unsound condition, that it soon
afterward collapsed. This leads one to conjecture that had the outer rim
been made of strong wicker-work, or whale-bone, so as to be somewhat
pliable, and that Mr. Green had liberated the parachute, instead of Mr.
Cocking, it would have descended to the earth with perfect
safety--skimming the air, instead of the violent oscillations of the old
form of this machine. We conclude, however, with Mr. Green's
laconic--that the safest parachute is a balloon.
But here we are--still above the clouds! We may assume that you would
not like to be "let off" in a parachute, even on the improved principle;
we will therefore prepare for descending with the balloon. This is a
work requiring great skill and care to effect safely, so as to alight on
a suitable piece of ground, and without any detriment to the voyagers,
the balloon, gardens, crops, &c.
The valve-line is pulled!--out rushes the gas from the top of the
balloon--you see the flag fly upward--down through the clouds you sink
faster and faster--lower and lower. Now you begin to see dark masses
below--there's the Old Earth again!--the dark masses now discover
themselves to be little forests, little towns, tree-tops,
house-tops--out goes a shower of sand from the ballast-bags, and our
descent becomes slower--another shower, and up we mount again, in search
of a better spot to alight upon. Our guardian aeronaut gives each of us
a bag of ballast, and directs us to throw out its contents when he calls
each of us by name, and in such quantities only as he specifies.
Moreover, no one is suddenly to leap out of the balloon, when it touches
the earth; partly because it may cost him his own life or limbs, and
partly because it would cause the balloon to shoot up again with those
who remained, and so make them lose the advantage of the good descent
already gained, if nothing worse happened. Meantime, the grapnel-iron
has been lowered, and dangling down at the end of a strong rope of a
hundred and fifty feet long. It is now trailing over the ground. Three
bricklayers' laborers are in chase of it. It catches upon a bank--it
tears its way through. Now the three bricklayers are joined by a couple
of fellows in smock-frocks, a policeman, five boys, followed by three
little girls, and, last of all, a woman with a child in her arms, all
running, shouting, screaming, and yelling, as the grapnel-iron and rope
go trailing and bobbing over the ground before them. At last the iron
catches upon a hedge--grapples with its roots; the balloon is arrested,
but struggles hard; three or four men seize the rope, and down we are
hauled, and held fast till the aerial Monster, with many a gigantic
heave and pant, surrenders at discretion, and begins to resign its
inflated robust proportions. It subsides in irregular waves--sinks,
puffs, flattens--dies to a mere shriveled skin; and being folded up,
like Peter Schlemil's shadow, is put into a bag, and stowed away at the
bottom of the little car it so recently overshadowed with its buoyant
enormity.
We are glad it is all over; delighted, and edified as we have been, we
are very glad to take our supper at the solid, firmly-fixed oak table of
a country inn, with a brick wall and a barn-door for our only prospect,
as the evening closes in. Of etherial currents, and the scenery of
infinite space, we have had enough for the present.
Touching the accidents which occur to balloons, we feel persuaded that
in the great majority of cases they are caused by inexperience,
ignorance, rashness, folly, or--more commonly than all--the necessities
attending a "show." Once "announced" for a certain day, or _night_ (an
abominable practice, which ought to be prevented)--and, whatever the
state of the wind and weather, and whatever science and the good sense
of an experienced aeronaut may know and suggest of imprudence--up the
poor man must go, simply because the public have paid their money to
see him do it. He must go, or he will be ruined.
But nothing can more strikingly display the comparative safety which is
attained by great knowledge, foresight, and care, than the fact of the
veteran, Charles Green, being now in the four hundred and eighty-ninth
year of his balloonical age; having made that number of ascents, and
taken up one thousand four hundred and thirteen persons, with no fatal
accident to himself, or to them, and seldom with any damage to his
balloons.
Nevertheless, from causes over which he had no control, our veteran has
had two or three "close shaves." On one occasion he was blown out to sea
with the Great Nassau balloon. Observing some vessels, from which he
knew he should obtain assistance, he commenced a rapid descent in the
direction of the Nore. The valve was opened, and the car first struck
the water some two miles north of Sheerness. But the wind was blowing
fresh, and, by reason of the buoyancy of the balloon, added to the
enormous surface it presented to the wind, they were drawn through the
water at a speed which set defiance to all the vessels and boats that
were now out on the chase. It should be mentioned, that the speed was so
vehement, and the car so un-boat-like, that the aeronauts (Mr. Green and
Mr. Rush, of Elsenham Hall, Essex) were dragged through, that is
_under_, every wave they encountered, and had a good prospect of being
drowned upon the surface. Seeing that the balloon could not be
overtaken, Mr. Green managed to let go his large grapnel-iron, which
shortly afterward took effect at the bottom, where, by a fortunate
circumstance (for them) there was a sunken wreck, in which the iron took
hold. The progress of the balloon being thus arrested, a boat soon came
up, and relieved the aeronauts; but no boat could venture to approach
the monster balloon, which still continued to struggle, and toss, and
bound from side to side. It would have capsized any boat that came near
it, in an instant. It was impossible to do any thing with it till Mr.
Green obtained assistance from a revenue cutter, from which he solicited
the services of an armed boat, and the crew fired muskets with
ball-cartridge into the rolling Monster, until she gradually sank down
flat upon the waves, but not until she had been riddled with sixty-two
bullet holes.
So much for perils by sea; but the greatest of all the veteran's dangers
was caused by a diabolical trick, the perpetrator of which was never
discovered. It was as follows:
In the year 1832, on ascending from Cheltenham, one of those malicious
wretches who may be regarded as half fool and half devil, contrived
partially to sever the ropes of the car, in such a manner as not to be
perceived before the balloon had quited the ground; when receiving, for
the first time, the whole weight of the contents, they suddenly gave
way. Every thing fell out of the car, the aeronauts just having time to
secure a painful and precarious attachment to the hoop. Lightened of its
load, the balloon, with frightful velocity, immediately commenced its
upward course, and ere Mr. Green could obtain possession of the
valve-string, which the first violence of the accident had placed beyond
his reach, attained an altitude of upward of ten thousand feet. Their
situation was terrific. Clinging to the hoop with desperate retention,
not daring to trust any portion of their weight upon the margin of the
car, that still remained suspended by a single cord beneath their feet,
lest that also might give way, and they should be deprived of their only
remaining counterpoise, all they could do was to resign themselves to
chance, and endeavor to retain their hold until the exhaustion of the
gas should have determined the career of the balloon. To complete the
horrors of their situation, the net-work, drawn awry by the awkward and
unequal disposition of the weight, began to break about the upper part
of the machine--mesh after mesh giving way, with a succession of reports
like those of a pistol; while, through the opening thus created, the
balloon began rapidly to ooze out, and swelling as it escaped beyond the
fissure, presented the singular appearance of a huge hour-glass floating
in the upper regions of the sky. After having continued for a
considerable length of time in this condition, every moment expecting to
be precipitated to the earth by the final detachment of the balloon, at
length they began slowly to descend. When they had arrived within about
a hundred feet from the ground, the event they had anticipated at length
occurred; the balloon, rushing through the opening in the net-work with
a tremendous explosion, suddenly made its escape, and they fell to the
earth in a state of insensibility, from which with great difficulty,
they were eventually recovered.
Apart from the question of dangers, which science, as we have seen, can
reduce to a minimum--and apart also from the question of practical
utility, of which we do not see much at present, yet of which we know
not what may be derived in future--what are the probabilities of
improvement in the art of ballooning, aerostation, or the means of
traveling through the air in a given direction?
The conditions seem to be these. In order to fly in the air, and steer
in a given direction during a given period, it is requisite to take up a
buoyancy and a power which shall be greater (and continuously so during
the voyage) than needful to sustain its own mechanical weight, together
with that of the aeronauts and their various appurtenances; and as much
also in excess of these requisitions as shall overcome the adverse
action of the wind upon the resisting surface presented by the machine.
At present no such power is known which can be used in combination with
a balloon, or other gas machine. If we could condense electricity, then
the thing might be done; other subtle powers may also be discovered with
the progress of science, but we must wait for them before we can fairly
make definite voyages in the air, and reduce human flying to a practical
utility, or a safe and rational pleasure.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[14]
BOOK VIII.--INITIAL CHAPTER.
THE ABUSE OF INTELLECT.
There is at present so vehement a flourish of trumpets, and so
prodigious a roll of the drum, whenever we are called upon to throw up
our hats, and cry "Huzza" to the "March of Enlightenment," that, out of
that very spirit of contradiction natural to all rational animals, one
is tempted to stop one's ears, and say, "Gently, gently; LIGHT is
noiseless; how comes 'Enlightenment' to make such a clatter? Meanwhile,
if it be not impertinent, pray, where is enlightenment marching to?" Ask
that question of any six of the loudest bawlers in the procession, and
I'll wager ten-pence to California that you get six very unsatisfactory
answers. One respectable gentleman, who, to our great astonishment,
insists upon calling himself a "slave," but has a remarkably free way of
expressing his opinions, will reply--"Enlightenment is marching toward
the nine points of the Charter." Another, with his hair _a la jeune
France_, who has taken a fancy to his friend's wife, and is rather
embarrassed with his own, asserts that Enlightenment is proceeding
toward the Rights of Women, the reign of Social Love, and the
annihilation of Tyrannical Prejudice. A third, who has the air of a man
well to do in the middle class, more modest in his hopes, because he
neither wishes to have his head broken by his errand-boy, nor his wife
carried off to an Agapemone by his apprentice, does not take
Enlightenment a step further than a siege on Debrett, and a cannonade on
the Budget. Illiberal man! the march that he swells will soon trample
_him_ under foot. No one fares so ill in a crowd as the man who is
wedged in the middle. A fourth, looking wild and dreamy, as if he had
come out of the cave of Trophonius, and who is a mesmeriser and a
mystic, thinks Enlightenment is in full career toward the good old days
of alchemists and necromancers. A fifth, whom one might take for a
Quaker, asserts that the march of Enlightenment is a crusade for
universal philanthropy, vegetable diet, and the perpetuation of peace,
by means of speeches, which certainly do produce a very contrary effect
from the Philippics of Demosthenes! The sixth--(good fellow, without a
rag on his back)--does not care a straw where the march goes. He can't
be worse off than he is; and it is quite immaterial to him whether he
goes to the dogstar above, or the bottomless pit below. I say nothing,
however, against the march, while we take it all together. Whatever
happens, one is in good company; and though I am somewhat indolent by
nature, and would rather stay at home with Locke and Burke (dull dogs
though they were), than have my thoughts set off helter-skelter with
those cursed trumpets and drums, blown and dub-a-dubbed by fellows that
I vow to Heaven I would not trust with a five-pound note--still, if I
must march, I must; and so deuce take the hindmost. But when it comes
to individual marchers upon their own account--privateers and
condottieri of Enlightenment--who have filled their pockets with
lucifer-matches, and have a sublime contempt for their neighbors' barns
and hay-ricks, I don't see why I should throw myself into the seventh
heaven of admiration and ecstasy.
If those who are eternally rhapsodizing on the celestial blessings that
are to follow Enlightenment, Universal Knowledge, and so forth, would
just take their eyes out of their pockets, and look about them, I would
respectfully inquire if they have never met any very knowing and
enlightened gentleman, whose acquaintance is by no means desirable. If
not, they are monstrous lucky. Every man must judge by his own
experience; and the worst rogues I have ever encountered were amazingly
well-informed, clever fellows! From dunderheads and dunces we can
protect ourselves; but from your sharp-witted gentleman, all
enlightenment and no prejudice, we have but to cry, "Heaven defend us!"
It is true, that the rogue (let him be ever so enlightened) usually
comes to no good himself (though not before he has done harm enough to
his neighbors). But that only shows that the world wants something else
in those it rewards, besides intelligence _per se_ and in the abstract;
and is much too old a world to allow any Jack Horner to pick out its
plums for his own personal gratification. Hence a man of very moderate
intelligence, who believes in God, suffers his heart to beat with human
sympathies, and keeps his eyes off your strong-box, will perhaps gain a
vast deal more power than knowledge ever gives to a rogue.
Wherefore, though I anticipate an outcry against me on the part of the
blockheads, who, strange to say, are the most credulous idolators of
enlightenment, and, if knowledge were power, would rot on a dunghill;
yet, nevertheless, I think all really enlightened men will agree with
me, that when one falls in with detached sharpshooters from the general
march of enlightenment, it is no reason that we should make ourselves a
target, because enlightenment has furnished them with a gun. It has,
doubtless, been already remarked by the judicious reader, that of the
numerous characters introduced into this work, the larger portion belong
to that species which we call the INTELLECTUAL--that through them are
analyzed and developed human intellect, in various forms and directions.
So that this History, rightly considered, is a kind of humble, familiar
Epic, or, if you prefer it, a long Serio-Comedy, upon the varieties of
English Life in this our century, set in movement by the intelligences
most prevalent. And where more ordinary and less refined types of the
species round and complete the survey of our passing generation, they
will often suggest, by contrast, the deficiencies which mere
intellectual culture leaves in the human being. Certainly I have no
spite against intellect and enlightenment. Heaven forbid I should be
such a Goth. I am only the advocate for common sense and fair play. I
don't think an able man necessarily an angel; but I think if his heart
match his head, and both proceed in the Great March under a divine
Oriflamme, he goes as near to the angel as humanity will permit: if not,
if he has but a penn'orth of heart to a pound of brains, I say,
"_Bonjour, mon ange?_ I see not the starry upward wings, but the
groveling cloven-hoof." I'd rather be offuscated by the Squire of
Hazeldean, than enlightened by Randal Leslie. Every man to his taste.
But intellect itself (not in the philosophical, but the ordinary sense
of the term) is rarely, if ever, one completed harmonious agency; it is
not one faculty, but a compound of many, some of which are often at war
with each other, and mar the concord of the whole. Few of us but have
some predominant faculty, in itself a strength; but which (usurping
unseasonably dominion over the rest), shares the lot of all tyranny,
however brilliant, and leaves the empire weak against disaffection
within, and invasion from without. Hence intellect may be perverted in a
man of evil disposition, and sometimes merely wasted in a man of
excellent impulses, for want of the necessary discipline, or of a strong
ruling motive. I doubt if there be one person in the world, who has
obtained a high reputation for talent, who has not met somebody much
cleverer than himself, which said somebody has never obtained any
reputation at all! Men like Audley Egerton are constantly seen in the
great positions of life; while men like Harley L'Estrange, who could
have beaten them hollow in any thing equally striven for by both, float
away down the stream, and, unless some sudden stimulant arouse the
dreamy energies, vanish out of sight into silent graves. If Hamlet and
Polonius were living now, Polonius would have a much better chance of
being Chancellor of the Exchequer, though Hamlet would unquestionably be
a much more intellectual character. What would become of Hamlet? Heaven
knows! Dr. Arnold said, from his experience of a school, that the
difference between one man and another was not mere ability--it was
energy. There is a great deal of truth in that saying.
Submitting these hints to the judgment and penetration of the sagacious,
I enter on the fresh division of this work, and see already Randal
Leslie gnawing his lip on the back ground. The German poet observes,
that the Cow of Isis is to some the divine symbol of knowledge, to
others but the milch cow, only regarded for the pounds of butter she
will yield. O, tendency of our age, to look on Isis as the milch cow! O,
prostitution of the grandest desires to the basest uses! Gaze on the
goddess, Randal Leslie, and get ready thy churn and thy scales. Let us
see what the butter will fetch in the market.
CHAPTER II.
A new reign has commenced. There has been a general election; the
unpopularity of the Administration has been apparent at the hustings.
Audley Egerton, hitherto returned by vast majorities, has barely escaped
defeat--thanks to a majority of five. The expenses of his election are
said to have been prodigious. "But who can stand against such wealth as
Egerton's--no doubt, backed, too, by the Treasury purse?" said the
defeated candidate. It is toward the close of October; London is already
full; Parliament will meet in less than a fortnight.
In one of the principal apartments of that hotel in which foreigners may
discover what is meant by English comfort, and the price which
foreigners must pay for it, there sat two persons, side by side, engaged
in close conversation. The one was a female, in whose pale, clear
complexion and raven hair--in whose eyes, vivid with a power of
expression rarely bestowed on the beauties of the north, we recognize
Beatrice, Marchesa di Negra. Undeniably handsome as was the Italian
lady, her companion, though a man, and far advanced into middle age, was
yet more remarkable for personal advantages. There was a strong family
likeness between the two; but there was also a striking contrast in air,
manner, and all that stamps on the physiognomy the idiosyncrasies of
character. There was something of gravity, of earnestness and passion,
in Beatrice's countenance when carefully examined; her smile at times
might be false, but it was rarely ironical, never cynical. Her gestures,
though graceful, were unrestrained and frequent. You could see she was a
daughter of the south. Her companion, on the contrary, preserved on the
fair smooth face, to which years had given scarcely a line or wrinkle,
something that might have passed, at first glance, for the levity and
thoughtlessness of a gay and youthful nature; but the smile, though
exquisitely polished, took at times the derision of a sneer. In his
manners he was as composed and as free from gesture as an Englishman.
His hair was of that red brown with which the Italian painters produce
such marvelous effects of color; and, if here and there a silver thread
gleamed through the locks, it was lost at once amid their luxuriance.
His eyes were light, and his complexion, though without much color, was
singularly transparent. His beauty, indeed, would have been rather
womanly than masculine, but for the height and sinewy spareness of a
frame in which muscular strength was rather adorned than concealed by an
admirable elegance of proportion. You would never have guessed this man
to be an Italian: more likely you would have supposed him a Parisian. He
conversed in French, his dress was of French fashion, his mode of
thought seemed French. Not that he was like the Frenchman of the present
day--an animal, either rude or reserved; but your ideal of the _Marquis_
of the old _regime_--the _roue_ of the Regency.
Italian, however, he was, and of a race renowned in Italian history.
But, as if ashamed of his country and his birth, he affected to be a
citizen of the world. Heaven help the world if it hold only such
citizens!
"But, Giulio," said Beatrice di Negra, speaking in Italian, "even
granting that you discover this girl, can you suppose that her father
will ever consent to your alliance? Surely you know too well the nature
of your kinsman?"
"_Tu te trompes, ma soeur_," replied Giulio Franzini, Count di
Peschiera, in French as usual--"_tu te trompes_; I knew it before he had
gone through exile and penury. How can I know it now? But comfort
yourself, my too anxious Beatrice; I shall not care for his consent till
I have made sure of his daughter's."
"But how win that in despite of the father?"
"_Eh, mordieu!_" interrupted the Count, with true French gayety; "what
would become of all the comedies ever written, if marriages were not
made in despite of the father? Look you," he resumed, with a very slight
compression of his lip, and a still slighter movement in his
chair--"look you, this is no question of ifs and buts; it is a question
of must and shall--a question of existence to you and to me. When Danton
was condemned to the guillotine, he said, flinging a pellet of bread at
the nose of his respectable judge--'_Mon individu sera bientot dans le
neant_'--_My_ patrimony is there already! I am loaded with debts. I see
before me, on the one side, ruin or suicide; on the other side, wedlock
and wealth."
"But from those vast possessions which you have been permitted to enjoy
so long, have you really saved nothing against the time when they might
be reclaimed at your hands?"
"My sister," replied the Count, "do I look like a man who saved?
Besides, when the Austrian Emperor, unwilling to raze from his Lombard
domains a name and a house so illustrious as our kinsman's, and
desirous, while punishing that kinsman's rebellion, to reward my
adherence, forbore the peremptory confiscation of those vast
possessions, at which my mouth waters while we speak, but, annexing them
to the Crown during pleasure, allowed me, as the next of male kin, to
retain the revenues of one half for the same very indefinite period--had
I not every reason to suppose, that, before long, I could so influence
his majesty or his minister, as to obtain a decree that might transfer
the whole, unconditionally and absolutely, to myself? And, methinks, I
should have done so, but for this accursed, intermeddling English
milord, who has never ceased to besiege the court or the minister with
alleged extenuations of our cousin's rebellion, and proofless assertions
that I shared it in order to entangle my kinsman, and betrayed it in
order to profit by his spoils. So that, at last, in return for all my
services, and in answer to all my claims, I received from the minister
himself this cold reply--'Count of Peschiera, your aid was important,
and your reward has been large. That reward, it would not be for your
honor to extend, and justify the ill-opinion of your Italian countrymen,
by formally appropriating to yourself all that was forfeited by the
treason you denounced. A name so noble as yours should be dearer to you
than fortune itself.'"
"Ah, Giulio!" cried Beatrice, her face lighting up, changed in its whole
character--"those were words that might make the demon that tempts to
avarice, fly from your breast in shame."
The Count opened his eyes in great amaze; then he glanced round the
room, and said, quietly:
"Nobody else hears you, my dear Beatrice; talk common sense. Heroics
sound well in mixed society; but there is nothing less suited to the
tone of a family conversation."
Madame di Negra bent down her head abashed, and that sudden change in
the expression of her countenance, which had seemed to betray
susceptibility to generous emotion, faded as suddenly away.
"But still," she said, coldly, "you enjoy one half of those ample
revenues--why talk, then, of suicide and ruin?"
"I enjoy them at the pleasure of the crown; and what if it be the
pleasure of the crown to recall our cousin, and reinstate him in his
possessions?"
"There is a _probability_, then, of that pardon? When you first employed
me in your researches, you only thought there was a _possibility_."
"There is a great probability of it, and therefore I am here. I learned
some little time since that the question of such recall had been
suggested by the Emperor, and discussed in Council. The danger to the
State, which might arise from our cousin's wealth, his alleged
abilities--(abilities! bah!)--and his popular name, deferred any
decision on the point; and, indeed, the difficulty of dealing with
myself must have embarrassed the ministry. But it is a mere question of
time. He can not long remain excluded from the general amnesty, already
extended to the other refugees. The person who gave me this information
is high in power, and friendly to myself; and he added a piece of
advice, on which I acted. 'It was intimated,' said he, 'by one of the
partisans of your kinsman, that the exile could give a hostage for his
loyalty in the person of his daughter and heiress; that she had arrived
at marriageable age; that if she were to wed, with the Emperor's
consent, some one whose attachment to the Austrian crown was
unquestionable, there would be a guarantee both for the faith of the
father, and for the transmission of so important a heritage to safe and
loyal hands. Why not' (continued my friend) 'apply to the Emperor for
his consent to that alliance for yourself? you, on whom he can depend;
you who, if the daughter should die, would be the legal heir to those
lands?' On that hint I spoke."
"You saw the Emperor?"
"And after combating the unjust prepossessions against me, I stated,
that so far from my cousin having any fair cause of resentment against
me, when all was duly explained to him, I did not doubt that he would
willingly give me the hand of his child."
"You did!" cried the Marchesa, amazed.
"And," continued the Count, imperturbably, as he smoothed, with careless
hand, the snowy plaits of his shirt front--"and that I should thus have
the happiness of becoming myself the guarantee of my kinsman's
loyalty--the agent for the restoration of his honors, while, in the eyes
of the envious and malignant, I should clear up my own name from all
suspicion that I had wronged him."
"And the Emperor consented?"
"_Pardieu_, my dear sister. What else could his majesty do? My
proposition smoothed every obstacle, and reconciled policy with mercy.
It remains, therefore, only to find out, what has hitherto baffled all
our researches, the retreat of our dear kinsfolk, and to make myself a
welcome lover to the demoiselle. There is some disparity of years, I
own; but--unless your sex and my glass flatter me overmuch--I am still a
match for many a gallant of five-and-twenty."
The Count said this with so charming a smile, and looked so
pre-eminently handsome, that he carried off the coxcombry of the words
as gracefully as if they had been spoken by some dazzling hero of the
grand old comedy of Parisian life.
Then interlacing his fingers, and lightly leaning his hands, thus
clasped, upon his sister's shoulder, he looked into her face, and said
slowly--"And now, my sister, for some gentle but deserved reproach. Have
you not sadly failed me in the task I imposed on your regard for my
interests? Is it not some years since you first came to England on the
mission of discovering these worthy relatives of ours? Did I not entreat
you to seduce into your toils the man whom I knew to be my enemy, and
who was indubitably acquainted with our cousin's retreat--a secret he
has hitherto locked within his bosom? Did you not tell me, that though
he was then in England, you could find no occasion even to meet him, but
that you had obtained the friendship of the statesman to whom I directed
your attention as his most intimate associate? And yet you, whose charms
are usually so irresistible, learn nothing from the statesman, as you
see nothing of _milord_. Nay, baffled and misled, you actually supposed
that the quarry has taken refuge in France. You go thither--you pretend
to search the capital--the provinces, Switzerland, _que sais-je?_ all in
vain--though--_-foi de gentilhomme_--your police cost me dearly--you
return to England--the same chase and the same result. _Palsambleu, ma
soeur_, I do too much credit to your talents not to question your zeal.
In a word have you been in earnest--or have you not had some womanly
pleasure in amusing yourself and abusing my trust?"
"Giulio," answered Beatrice, sadly, "you know the influence you have
exercised over my character and my fate. Your reproaches are not just. I
made such inquiries as were in my power, and I have now cause to believe
that I know one who is possessed of this secret, and can guide us to
it."
"Ah, you do!" exclaimed the Count. Beatrice did not heed the
exclamation, but hurried on.
"But grant that my heart shrunk from the task you imposed on me, would
it not have been natural? When I first came to England, you informed me
that your object in discovering the exiles was one which I could
honestly aid. You naturally desired first to know if the daughter lived;
if not, you were the heir. If she did, you assured me you desired to
effect, through my mediation, some liberal compromise with Alphonso, by
which you would have sought to obtain his restoration, provided he would
leave you for life in possession of the grant you hold from the crown.
While these were your objects, I did my best, ineffectual as it was, to
obtain the information required."
"And what made me lose so important though so ineffectual an ally?"
asked the Count, still smiling; but a gleam that belied the smile shot
from his eye.
"What! when you bade me receive and co-operate with the miserable
spies--the false Italians--whom you sent over, and seek to entangle this
poor exile, when found, in some rash correspondence, to be revealed to
the court; when you sought to seduce the daughter of the Counts of
Peschiera, the descendant of those who had ruled in Italy, into the
informer, the corrupter, and the traitress! No, Giulio--then I recoiled;
and then, fearful of your own sway over me, I retreated into France. I
have answered you frankly."
The Count removed his hands from the shoulders on which they had
reclined so cordially.
"And this," said he, "is your wisdom, and this your gratitude. You,
whose fortunes are bound up in mine--you, who subsist on my bounty--you,
who--"
"Hold," cried the Marchesa, rising, and with a burst of emotion, as if
stung to the utmost, and breaking into revolt from the tyranny of
years--"Hold--gratitude! bounty! Brother, brother--what, indeed, do I
owe to you? The shame and the misery of a life. While yet a child, you
condemned me to marry against my will--against my heart--against my
prayers--and laughed at my tears when I knelt to you for mercy. I was
pure then, Giulio--pure and innocent as the flowers in my virgin crown.
And now--now--"
Beatrice stopped abruptly, and clasped her hands before her face.
"Now you upbraid me," said the Count, unruffled by her sudden passion,
"because I gave you in marriage to a man young and noble?"
"Old in vices and mean of soul! The marriage I forgave you. You had the
right, according to the customs of our country, to dispose of my hand.
But I forgave you not the consolations that you whispered in the ear of
a wretched and insulted wife."
"Pardon me the remark," replied the Count, with a courtly bend of his
head, "but those consolations were also conformable to the customs of
our country, and I was not aware till now that you had wholly disdained
them. And," continued the Count, "you were not so long a wife that the
gall of the chain should smart still. You were soon left a widow--free,
childless, young, beautiful."
"And penniless."
"True, Di Negra was a gambler, and very unlucky; no fault of mine. I
could neither keep the cards from his hands, nor advise him how to play
them."
"And my own portion? Oh, Giulio, I knew but at his death why you had
condemned me to that renegade Genoese. He owed you money, and, against
honor, and, I believe, against law, you had accepted my fortune in
discharge of the debt."
"He had no other way to discharge it--a debt of honor must be paid--old
stories these. What matters? Since then my purse has been open to you?"
"Yes, not as your sister, but your instrument--your spy! Yes, your purse
has been open--with a niggard hand."
"_Un peu de conscience, ma chere_, you are so extravagant. But come, be
plain. What would you?"
"I would be free from you."
"That is, you would form some second marriage with one of these rich
island lords. _Ma foi_, I respect your ambition."
"It is not so high. I aim but to escape from slavery--to be placed
beyond dishonorable temptation. I desire," cried Beatrice with increased
emotion, "I desire to re-enter the life of woman."
"Eno'!" said the Count with a visible impatience, "is there any thing in
the attainment of your object that should render you indifferent to
mine? You desire to marry, if I comprehend you right. And to marry, as
becomes you, you should bring to your husband not debts, but a dowry. Be
it so. I will restore the portion that I saved from the spendthrift
clutch of the Genoese--the moment that it is mine to bestow--the moment
that I am husband to my kinsman's heiress. And now, Beatrice, you imply
that my former notions revolted your conscience; my present plan should
content it; for by this marriage shall our kinsman regain his country,
and repossess, at least, half his lands. And if I am not an excellent
husband to the demoiselle, it will be her own fault. I have sown my wild
oats. _Je suis bon prince_, when I have things a little my own way. It
is my hope and my intention, and certainly it will be my interest, to
become _digne epoux et irreproachable pere de famille_. I speak
lightly--'tis my way. I mean seriously. The little girl will be very
happy with me, and I shall succeed in soothing all resentment her father
may retain. Will you aid me then--yes or no? Aid me, and you shall
indeed be free. The magician will release the fair spirit he has bound
to his will. Aid me not, _ma chere_, and mark, I do not threaten--I do
but warn--aid me not; grant that I become a beggar, and ask yourself
what is to become of you--still young, still beautiful, and still
penniless? Nay, worse than penniless; you have done me the honor" (and
here the Count, looking on the table, drew a letter from a portfolio,
emblazoned with his arms and coronet), "you have done me the honor to
consult me as to your debts."
"You will restore my fortune?" said the Marchesa, irresolutely--and
averting her head from an odious schedule of figures.
"When my own, with your aid, is secured."
"But do you not overate the value of my aid?"
"Possibly," said the Count, with a caressing suavity--and he kissed his
sister's forehead.
"Possibly; but by my honor, I wish to repair to you any wrong, real or
supposed, I may have done you in past times. I wish to find again my own
dear sister. I may overvalue your aid, but not the affection from which
it comes. Let us be friends, _cara Beatrice mia_," added the Count, for
the first time employing Italian words.
The Marchesa laid her head on his shoulder, and her tears flowed softly.
Evidently this man had great influence over her--and evidently, whatever
her cause for complaint, her affection for him was still sisterly and
strong. A nature with fine flashes of generosity, spirit, honor, and
passion, was hers--but uncultured, unguided--spoilt by the worst social
examples--easily led into wrong--not always aware where the wrong
was--letting affections good or bad whisper away her conscience, or
blind her reason. Such women are often far more dangerous when induced
to wrong, than those who are thoroughly abandoned--such women are the
accomplices men like the Count of Peschiera most desire to obtain.
"Ah, Giulio," said Beatrice, after a pause, and looking up at him
through her tears, "when you speak to me thus, you know you can do with
me what you will. Fatherless and motherless, whom had my childhood to
love and obey but you?"
"Dear Beatrice," murmured the Count tenderly--and he again kissed her
forehead. "So," he continued more carelessly--"so the reconciliation is
effected, and our interests and our hearts re-allied. Now, alas, to
descend to business. You say that you know some one whom you believe to
be acquainted with the lurking-place of my father-in-law--that is to
be!"
"I think so. You remind me that I have an appointment with him this day;
it is near the hour--I must leave you."
"To learn the secret?--Quick--quick. I have no fear of your success, if
it is by his heart that you lead him?"
"You mistake; on his heart I have no hold. But he has a friend who loves
me, and honorably, and whose cause he pleads. I think here that I have
some means to control or persuade him. If not--ah, he is of a character
that perplexes me in all but his worldly ambition; and how can we
foreigners influence him through _that_?"
"Is he poor, or is he extravagant?"
"Not extravagant, and not positively poor, but dependent."
"Then we have him," said the Count composedly. "If his assistance be
worth buying, we can bid high for it. _Sur mon ame_, I never yet knew
money fail with any man who was both worldly and dependent. I put him
and myself in your hands."
Thus saying, the Count opened the door, and conducted his sister with
formal politeness to her carriage. He then returned, reseated himself,
and mused in silence. As he did so, the muscles of his countenance
relaxed. The levity of the Frenchman fled from his visage, and in his
eye, as it gazed abstractedly into space, there was that steady depth so
remarkable in the old portraits of Florentine diplomatist, or Venetian
oligarch. Thus seen, there was in that face, despite all its beauty,
something that would have awed back even the fond gaze of love;
something hard, collected, inscrutable, remorseless, but this change of
countenance did not last long. Evidently, thought, though intense for
the moment, was not habitual to the man. Evidently, he had lived the
life which takes all things lightly--so he rose with a look of fatigue,
shook and stretched himself, as if to cast off, or grow out of an
unwelcome and irksome mood. An hour afterward, the Count of Peschiera
was charming all eyes, and pleasing all ears, in the saloon of a
high-born beauty, whose acquaintance he had made at Vienna, and whose
charms, according to that old and never truth-speaking oracle, Polite
Scandal, were now said to have attracted to London the brilliant
foreigner.