Act. V. Sc. 1:—

§Ham.§ How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

§1 Clo.§ Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our

last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.

§Ham.§ How long is that since?

§1 Clo.§ Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that: it was the

very day that young Hamlet was born: he that is mad and sent into

England.

* * * * *

§Ham.§ Upon what ground?

§1 Clo.§ Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy

thirty years.

HAMLET’S INSANITY.

It is strange that there should be any doubts whether Hamlet was really

or feignedly insane. His assertion to the Queen, after putting off his

assumed tricks (iii. 4.),

That I essentially am not in madness,

_But mad in craft_,

is surely admissible testimony. But he gives us other evidence based

upon the difficulty of _recalling a train of thought_, an invariable

accompaniment of insanity, inasmuch as it is an act in which both brains

are concerned. He says,—

Bring me to the test,

And I the matter will re-word; which madness

Would gambol from.

There are no instances of insanity on record, however slight and

uncognizable by any but an experienced medical man, where the patient,

after relating a short history of his complaints, physical, moral, and

social, could, on being requested to reiterate the narrative, follow the

same series, and repeat the same words, even with the limited

correctness of a sane person.[37]

Footnote 37:

“There was disorder in the mind—a disturbance of the intellect,

something more than that which he was feigning; but if the question of

insanity involve the question whether his mind ceased to be under the

mastery of his will, assuredly there was no such aberration.” (Reed’s

Lectures.)

Dr. Johnson goes further, declaring that Hamlet “does nothing which he

might not have done with the reputation of sanity.”

ADDITIONAL VERSES TO HOME, SWEET HOME.

In the winter of 1833, John Howard Payne, the author of _Home, Sweet

Home_, called upon an American lady, the wife of an eminent banker

living in London, and presented to her a copy of the original, set to

music, with the two following additional verses addressed to her:—

To _us_, in despite of the absence of years,

How sweet the remembrance of _home_ still appears!

From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye,

The unsatisfied heart turns, and says, with a sigh,

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

There’s no place like home!

_Your_ exile is blest with all fate can bestow,

But _mine_ has been checkered with many a woe!

Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same,

And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim,

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! etc.

THE STEREOTYPED FALSITIES OF HISTORY.

Thinking to amuse my father once, after his retirement from the

ministry, I offered to read a book of history. “Any thing but

history,” said he; “for history must be false.”—_Walpoliana._

What massive volumes would the reiterated errors and falsities of

history fill, could they be collected in one grand _omniana_! Historians

in every period of the world, narrowed and biassed by surrounding

circumstances, each in his pent-up Utica confined, have lacked the

fairness and impartiality necessary to insure a full conviction of their

truthfulness. Men not only suffer their opinions and their prejudices to

mislead themselves and others, but frequently, in the absence of

material, draw upon their imaginations for _facts_. Often, too, when

sincerely desirous of presenting the truth so as to “nothing extenuate,

nor set down aught in malice,” the sources of their information are

lamentably deficient.

The discrepancies of historical writers are very remarkable. If one who

had never heard of Napoleon were to read Scott’s Life of the great

military chieftain, and then read Abbott’s work, in what a maze of

perplexity would he be involved between the disparagement of the one and

the deification of the other! If one writer asserts that the Duke of

Clarence was drowned in a butt of malmsey in the Tower of London, and

another derisively treats it as a “childish improbability,” and if one

expresses the belief that Richard of Gloucester exerted himself to save

Clarence, and another that he was the actual murderer, _who_, or _what_,

are we to believe?

Knowing, as we do, that modern history abounds with errors, what are we

to think of ancient history? If fraudulent and erroneous statements can

be distinctly pointed out in Hume, and Lingard, and Alison, how far can

we place any reliance upon Cæsar, and Herodotus, and Xenophon?

The monstrous absurdities and incongruities related of Xerxes, which

have descended to our day under the name of history, are too stupendous

for any credulity. The imposture, like vaulting ambition, “o’erleaps

itself.” Such extravagant demands upon our faith serve to deepen our

doubt of alleged occurrences that lie more nearly within the range of

possibility. _If it be true_ that Hannibal cut his way across the Alps

with “_fire, iron, and vinegar_,” how did he apply the vinegar?

If falsities in our American history can creep upon us whilst our eyes

are open to surrounding evidence, is it to be wondered at that there are

so many contradictions and so many myths in the history of Rome? The

very name _America_ is a deception, a fraud, and a perpetuation of as

rank injustice as ever stained the annals of human events. It is to be

hoped that the time will yet come when Columbus shall receive his due.

When that millennial day arrives which will insist on calling things by

their right names, the battle of Bunker’s Hill will be called the battle

of Breed’s Hill.

It seems incredible, and it certainly is singular, that so many errors

in our history should continue to prevail in utter defiance of what is

known to be fact. Historians, for instance, persist in saying, and

people consequently persist in believing, that the breast-works of

General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans were made of cotton-bales

covered with earth, whilst intelligent survivors strenuously deny that

there was a pound of that combustible material on the ground.[38] A

well-known painting frequently

Footnote 38:

General W. H. Palfrey, of New Orleans, who served in Major Planche’s

battalion, which was stationed from Dec. 23, 1814, to Jan. 15, 1815,

in the centre of General Jackson’s line, makes the following

statement, (dated April 5, 1859,) which is confirmed by Major Chotard,

General Jackson’s Assistant Adjutant-General:—

“About twenty or twenty-five bales of cotton were used in forming the

embrasures of five or six batteries. There were four batteries of one

piece of artillery, or howitzer, and four of two pieces, established

at different points of the lines. Four bales were used at some of the

batteries and six at others. None were used in any other portions of

the works, which consisted of breast-works formed of earth thrown up

from the inside, branches of trees, and rubbish. Each company threw up

its own breastwork; and the more it was affected by the enemy’s

artillery and Congreve rockets, the more industriously the soldiers

toiled to strengthen it.”

copied by line-engravers represents Lord Cornwallis handing his sword to

General Washington, at the surrender of Yorktown, and this in spite of

the glaring fact that, to spare Cornwallis that humiliation, General

O’Hara gave his sword to General Lincoln.

The blood shed at the battle of Lexington is commonly believed and said

to have been the _first_ drawn in the contest of the Colonists with the

oppressive authorities of the British Government. Aside from the Boston

massacre, which occurred March 5, 1770, it will be found, by reference

to the records of Orange county, North Carolina, that a body of men was

formed, called the “Regulators,” with the view of resisting the

extortion of Colonel Fanning, clerk of the court, and other officers,

who demanded illegal fees, issued false deeds, levied unauthorized

taxes, &c.; that these men went to the court-house at Hillsboro’,

appointed a schoolmaster named York as clerk, set up a mock judge, and

pronounced judgment in mock gravity and ridicule of the court, law, and

officers, by whom they felt themselves aggrieved; that soon after, the

house, barn, and out-buildings of the judge were burned to the ground;

and that Governor Tryon subsequently, with a small force, went to

suppress the Regulators, with whom an engagement took place near

Alamance Creek, on the road from Hillsboro’ to Salisbury, on the 16th of

May, 1771,—nearly four years before the affair of Lexington,—in which

nine Regulators and twenty-seven militia were killed, and many

wounded,—fourteen of the latter being killed by one man, James Pugh,

from behind a rock.

The progress of the natural and physical sciences, together with the

increased facilities of intercommunication by steam, have done much

towards disproving and exposing the fabulous stories of travelers. The

extravagant character, for example, of the assertions of Fœrsch and

Darwin in regard to the noxious emanations of the Bohun Upas is now

shown by the fact that a specimen of it growing at Chiswick, England,

may be approached with safety, and even handled, with a little

precaution. It is equally well established that the famous Poison Valley

in the island of Java affords the most remarkable natural example yet

known of an atmosphere overloaded with carbonic acid gas, to which must

be referred the destructive influence upon animal life heretofore

attributed to the Upas-tree.

CONFLICTING TESTIMONY OF EYE-WITNESSES.

Sir Walter Raleigh, in his prison, was composing the second volume of

his History of the World. Leaning on the sill of his window, he

meditated on the duties of the historian to mankind, when suddenly his

attention was attracted by a disturbance in the court-yard before his

cell. He saw one man strike another, whom he supposed by his dress to be

an officer; the latter at once drew his sword and ran the former through

the body. The wounded man felled his adversary with a stick, and then

sank upon the pavement. At this juncture the guard came up and carried

off the officer insensible, and then the corpse of the man who had been

run through.

Next day Raleigh was visited by an intimate friend, to whom he related

the circumstances of the quarrel and its issue. To his astonishment, his

friend unhesitatingly declared that the prisoner had mistaken the whole

series of incidents which had passed before his eyes. The supposed

officer was not an officer at all, but the servant of a foreign

ambassador; it was he who had dealt the first blow; he had not drawn his

sword, but the other had snatched it from his side, and had run _him_

through the body before any one could interfere; whereupon a stranger

from among the crowd knocked the murderer down with his stick, and some

of the foreigners belonging to the ambassador’s retinue carried off the

corpse. The friend of Raleigh added that government had ordered the

arrest and immediate trial of the murderer, as the man assassinated was

one of the principal servants of the Spanish ambassador.

“Excuse me,” said Raleigh, “but I cannot have been deceived as you

suppose, for I was eye-witness to the events which took place under my

own window, and the man fell there on that spot where you see a

paving-stone standing up above the rest.” “My dear Raleigh,” replied his

friend, “I was sitting on that stone when the fray took place, and I

received this slight scratch on my cheek in snatching the sword from the

murderer, and upon my word of honor, you have been deceived upon every

particular.”

Sir Walter, when alone, took up the second volume of his History, which

was in MS., and contemplating it, thought—“If I cannot believe my own

eyes, how can I be assured of the truth of a tithe of the events which

happened ages before I was born?” and he flung the manuscript into the

fire.

WIT AND HUMOR.

The distinction between wit and humor may be said to consist in

this,—that the characteristic of the latter is Nature, and of the former

Art. Wit is more allied to intellect, and humor to imagination. Humor is

a higher, finer, and more genial thing than wit. It is a combination of

the laughable with tenderness, sympathy, and warm-heartedness. Pure wit

is often ill-natured, and has a sting; but wit, sweetened by a kind,

loving expression, becomes humor. Wit is usually brief, sharp,

epigrammatic, and incisive, the fewer words the better; but humor,

consisting more in the manner, is diffuse, and words are not spared in

it. Carlyle says, “The essence of humor is sensibility, warm, tender

fellow-feeling with all forms of existence;” and adds, of Jean Paul’s

humor, that “in Richter’s smile itself a touching pathos may lie hid too

deep for tears.” Wit may be considered as the distinctive feature of the

French genius, and humor of the English; but to show how difficult it is

to carry these distinctions out fairly, we may note that England has

produced a Butler, one of the greatest of wits, and France a Molière,

one of the greatest of humorists. Fun includes all those things that

occasion laughter which are not included in the two former divisions.

Buffoonery and mimicry come under this heading, and it has been observed

that the author of a comedy is a wit, the comic actor a humorist, and

the clown a buffoon. Old jests were usually tricks, and in coarse times

we find that little distinction is made between joyousness and a

malicious delight in the misfortunes of others. Civilization

discountenances practical jokes, and refinement is required to keep

laughter within bounds. As the world grows older, fun becomes less

boisterous, and wit gains in point, so that we cannot agree with

Cornelius O’Dowd when he says, “The day of witty people is gone by. If

there be men clever enough nowadays to say smart things, they are too

clever to say them. The world we live in prefers placidity to

brilliancy, and a man like Curran in our present-day society would be as

unwelcome as a pyrotechnist with a pocket full of squibs.” This is only

a repetition of an old complaint, and its incorrectness is proved when

we find the same thing said one hundred years ago. In a manuscript

comedy, “In Foro,” by Lady Houstone, who died near the end of the last

century, one of the characters observes: “Wit is nowadays out of

fashion; people are well-bred, and talk upon a level; one does not at

present find wit but in some old comedy.” In spite of Mr. Lever and Lady

Houstone, we believe that civilized society is specially suited for the

display of refined wit. Under such conditions satire is sure to

flourish, for the pen takes the place of the sword, and we know it can

slay an enemy as surely as steel. This notion owes its origin in part to

an error in our mental perspective, by which we bring the wit of all

ages to one focus, fancying what was really far apart to have been close

together, and thus comparing things which possess no proper elements of

comparison, and placing as it were in opposition to each other the

accumulated, broad, and well-storied tapestry of the past with the

fleeting moments of our day, which are but its still accumulating

fringe. Charles Lamb will not allow any great antiquity for wit, and

apostrophizing candle-light says: “This is our peculiar and household

planet; wanting it, what savage, unsocial nights must our ancestors have

spent, wintering in eaves and unillumined fastnesses! They must have

laid about and grumbled at one another in the dark. What repartees could

have passed, when you must have felt about for a smile, and handled a

neighbor’s cheek to be sure he understood it! Jokes came in with

candles.”

AN OLD PAPER.

The most amusing and remarkable paper ever printed was the _Muse

Historique_, or Rhyming Gazette of Jacques Loret, which, for fifteen

years, from 1650 to 1665, was issued weekly in Paris. It consisted of

550 verses summarizing the week’s news in rhyme, and treated of every

class of subjects, grave and gay. Loret computed, in 1663, the

thirteenth year of his enterprise, that he had written over 300,000

verses, and found more than 700 different exordiums, for he never twice

began his Gazette with the same _entère_ in _matier_. He ran about the

city for his own news, never failed to write good verses upon it, and

never had anybody to help him, and his prolonged and always equal

performance has been pronounced unique in the history of journalism.

COMFORT FOR BOOK LOVERS.

Mr. Ruskin vigorously defends the bibliomaniac, in his _Sesame and

Lilies_. We have despised literature. What do we, as a nation, care

about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on our libraries,

public or private, as compared with what we spend on our horses? If a

man spends lavishly on his library you call him mad—a bibliomaniac. But

you never call one a horse-maniac, though men ruin themselves every day

by their horses; and you do not hear of people ruining themselves by

their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do you think the contents

of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public and private, would

fetch as compared with the contents of its wine-cellars? What position

would its expenditure on literature take as compared with its

expenditure on luxurious eating? We talk of food for the mind as of food

for the body; now, a good book contains such food inexhaustibly—it is a

provision for life, and for the best part of us; yet how long most

people would look at the best book before they would give the price of a

large turbot for it! Though there have been men who have pinched their

stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were

cheaper to them, I think, in the end, than most men’s dinners are. We

are few of us put to such trial, and more the pity; for, indeed, a

precious thing is all the more precious to us if it has been won by work

or economy; and if public libraries were half as costly as public

dinners, or books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish

men and women might sometimes suspect there was good in reading, as well

as in munching and sparkling; whereas the very cheapness of literature

is making even wiser people forget that if a book is worth reading it is

worth buying.

LETTERS AND THEIR ENDINGS.

There is a large gamut of choice for endings, from the official “Your

obedient servant,” and high and mighty “Your humble servant,” to the

friendly “Yours truly,” “Yours sincerely,” and “Yours affectionately.”

Some persons vary the form, and slightly intensify the expression by

placing the word “yours” last, as “Faithfully yours.” James Howell used

a great variety of endings, such as “Yours inviolably,” “Yours

entirely,” “Your entire friend,” “Yours verily and invariably,” “Yours

really,” “Yours in no vulgar way of friendship,” “Yours to dispose of,”

“Yours while J. H.,” “Yours! Yours! Yours!” Walpole writes: “Yours very

much,” “Yours most cordially,” and to Hannah More, in 1789, “Yours more

and more.” Mr. Bright, some years ago ended a controversial letter in

the following biting terms: “I am, sir, with whatever respect is due to

you.” The old Board of Commissioners of the British Navy used a form of

subscription very different from the ordinary official one. It was their

habit to subscribe their letters (even letters of reproof) to such

officers as were not of noble families or bore titles, “Your

affectionate friends.” It is said that this practice was discontinued in

consequence of a distinguished captain adding to his letter to the

Board, “Your affectionate friend.” He was thereupon desired to

discontinue the expression, when he replied, “I am, gentlemen, no longer

your affectionate friend.”

STUDIES AND BOOKS.

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief

use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in

discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of

business, for expert men can execute and perhaps judge of business one

by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of

affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time

in studies is sloth; to use them too much for ornament is affectation;

to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar: they

perfect nature and are perfected by experience,—for natural abilities

are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies

themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be

bounded in by experience. Crafty wise men contemn studies, simple men

admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use;

but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation.

Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted,

nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books

are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and

digested; _i.e._, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be

read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly and with

diligence and attention. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready

man, and writing an exact man; and therefore, if a man write little, he

had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a

present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning to

seem to know that he doth not.—§Lord Bacon.§

Literati.

ATTAINMENTS OF LINGUISTS.

Taking the very highest estimate which has been offered of their

attainments, the list of those who have been reputed to have possessed

more than ten languages is a very short one. Only four, in addition to a

case that will be presently mentioned,—Mithridates, Pico of Mirandola,

Jonadab Almanor, and Sir William Jones,—are said in the loosest sense to

have passed the limit of twenty. To the first two fame ascribes

twenty-two, to the last two twenty-eight, languages. Müller, Niebuhr,

Fulgence, Fresnel, and perhaps Sir John Bowring, are usually set down as

knowing twenty languages. For Elihu Burritt and Csoma de Koros their

admirers claim eighteen. Renaudot the controversialist is said to have

known seventeen; Professor Lee, sixteen; and the attainments of the

older linguists, as Arius Montanus, Martin del Rio, the converted Rabbi

Libettas Cominetus, and the Admirable Crichton, are said to have ranged

from this down to ten or twelve,—most of them the ordinary languages of

learned and polite society.

The extraordinary case above alluded to is that of the Cardinal

Mezzofanti, the son of a carpenter of Bologna, whose knowledge of

languages seems almost miraculous. Von Zach, who made an occasional

visit to Bologna in 1820, was accosted by the learned priest, as he then

was, in Hungarian, then in good Saxon, and afterwards in the Austrian

and Swabian dialects. With other members of the scientific corps the

priest conversed in English, Russian, Polish, French, and Hungarian. Von

Zach mentions that his German was so natural that a cultivated

Hanoverian lady in the company expressed her surprise that a German

should be a professor and librarian in an Italian university.

Professor Jacobs, of Gotha, was struck not only with the number of

languages acquired by the “interpreter for Babel,” but at the facility

with which he passed from one to the other, however opposite or cognate

their structure.

Dr. Tholuck heard him converse in German, Arabic, Spanish, Flemish,

English, and Swedish, received from him an original distich in Persian,

and found him studying Cornish. He heard him say that he had studied to

some extent the Quichus, or old Peruvian, and that he was employed upon

the Bimbarra. Dr. Wiseman met him on his way to receive lessons in

California Indian from natives of that country. He heard “Nigger Dutch”

from a Curaçoa mulatto, and in less than two weeks wrote a short piece

of poetry for the mulatto to recite in his rude tongue. He knew

something of Chippewa and Delaware, and learned the language of the

Algonquin Indians. A Ceylon student remembers many of the strangers with

whom Mezzofanti was in the habit of conversing in the Propaganda,—those

whose vernaculars were Peguan, Abyssinian, Amharic, Syriac, Arabico,

Maltese, Tamulic, Bulgarian, Albanian, besides others already named. His

facility in accommodating himself to each new colloquist justifies the

expression applied to him, as the “chamelion of languages.”

Dr. Russell, Mezzofanti’s biographer, adopting as his definition of a

thorough knowledge of language an ability to read it fluently and with

ease, to write it correctly, and to speak it idiomatically, sums up the

following estimate of the Cardinal’s acquisitions:—

1. Languages frequently tested and spoken by the Cardinal with rare

excellence,—thirty.

2. Stated to have been spoken fluently, but hardly sufficiently

tested,—nine.

3. Spoken rarely and less perfectly,—eleven.

4. Spoken imperfectly; a few sentences and conversational forms,—eight.

5. Studied from books, but not known to have been spoken,—fourteen.

6. Dialects spoken, or their peculiarities understood,—thirty-nine

dialects of ten languages, many of which might justly be described as

different languages.

This list adds up one hundred and eleven, exceeding by all comparison

every thing related in history. The Cardinal said he made it a rule to

learn every new grammar and apply himself to every strange dictionary

that came within his reach. He did not appear to consider his prodigious

talent so extraordinary as others did. “In addition to an excellent

memory,” said he, “God has blessed me with an incredible flexibility of

the organs of speech.” Another remark of his was, “that when one has

learned ten or a dozen languages essentially different from one another,

one may with a little study and attention learn any number of them.”

Again he remarked, “If you wish to know how I preserve these languages,

I can only say that when I once hear the meaning of a word in any

language I never forget it.”

And yet it is not claimed for this man of many words that his ideas at

all corresponded. He had twenty words for one idea, as he said of

himself; but he seemed to agree with Catharine de Medicis in preferring

to have twenty ideas for one word. He was remarkable for the number of

languages which he had made his own, but was not distinguished as a

grammarian, a lexicographer, a philologist, a philosopher, or

ethnologist, and contributed nothing to any department of the study of

words, much less that of science.

LITERARY ODDITIES.

Racine composed his verses while walking about, reciting them in a loud

voice. One day, while thus working at his play of Mithridates, in the

Tuileries gardens, a crowd of workmen gathered around him, attracted by

his gestures: they took him to be a madman about to throw himself into

the basin. On his return home from such walks he would write down scene

by scene, at first in prose, and when he had written it out, he would

exclaim, “My tragedy is done!” considering the dressing of the acts up

in verse as a very small affair. Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to

the Duke of Tuscany, on the contrary, never stirred abroad, but lived

amid books and upon books. They were his bed, board, and washing. He

passed eight-and-forty years in their midst, only twice in the course of

his life venturing beyond the walls of Florence,—once to go two leagues

off, and the other time three and a half leagues, by order of the Grand

Duke. He was an extremely frugal man, living upon eggs, bread, and

water, in great moderation. Luther, when studying, always had his dog

lying at his feet,—a dog he had brought from Wartburg and of which he

was very fond. An ivory crucifix stood on the table before him, and the

walls of his study were stuck round with caricatures of the Pope. He

worked at his desk for days together without going out; but when

fatigued, and the ideas began to stagnate in his brain, he would take

his flute or his guitar with him into the porch, and there execute some

musical fantasy, (for he was a skilful musician,) when the ideas would

flow upon him as fresh as flowers after summer’s rain. Music was his

invariable solace at such times. Indeed, Luther did not hesitate to say

that, after theology, music was the first of arts. “Music,” said he, “is

the art of the prophets: it is the only art which, like theology, can

calm the agitation of the soul and put the devil to flight.” Next to

music, if not before it, Luther loved children and flowers. The great,

gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman’s. Calvin studied in his

bed. Every morning, at five or six o’clock, he had books, manuscripts,

and papers carried to him there, and he worked on for hours together. If

he had occasion to go out, on his return he undressed and went to bed

again to continue his studies. In his later years he dictated his

writings to secretaries. He rarely corrected any thing. The sentences

issued complete from his mouth. If he felt his facility of composition

leaving him, he forthwith quitted his bed, gave up writing and

composing, and went about his outdoor duties for days, weeks, and months

together. But as soon as he felt the inspiration fall upon him again, he

went back to his bed, and his secretary set to work forthwith. Rousseau

wrote his works early in the morning; Le Sage at mid-day; Byron at

midnight. Villehardouin rose at four in the morning, and wrote till late

at night. Aristotle was a tremendous worker: he took little sleep, and

was constantly retrenching it. He had a contrivance by which he awoke

early, and to awake was with him to commence work. Demosthenes passed

three months in a cavern by the seaside, laboring to overcome the

defects of his voice. There he read, studied, and declaimed. Rabelais

composed his Life of Gargantua at Bellay, in the company of Roman

cardinals, and under the eyes of the Bishop of Paris. La Fontaine wrote

his fables chiefly under the shade of a tree, and sometimes by the side

of Racine and Boileau. Pascal wrote most of his Thoughts on little

scraps of paper, at his by-moments. Fénélon wrote his Telemachus in the

Palace of Versailles, at the court of the Grand Monarque, when

discharging the duties of tutor to the Dauphin. That a book so

thoroughly democratic should have issued from such a source and been

written by a priest may seem surprising. De Quincey first promulgated

his notion of universal freedom of person and trade, and of throwing all

taxes on the land,—the germ, perhaps, of the French Revolution,—in the

boudoir of Madame de Pompadour! Bacon knelt down before composing his

great work, and prayed for light from Heaven. Pope never could compose

well without first declaiming for some time at the top of his voice, and

thus rousing his nervous system to its fullest activity. The life of

Leibnitz was one of reading, writing, and meditation. That was the

secret of his prodigious knowledge. After an attack of gout, he confined

himself to a diet of bread and milk. Often he slept in a chair, and

rarely went to bed till after midnight. Sometimes he spent months

without quitting his seat, where he slept by night and wrote by day. He

had an ulcer in his right leg, which prevented his walking about even

had he wished to do so.

CULTURE AND SACRIFICE.

The instruction of the world has been carried on by perpetual sacrifice.

A grand army of teachers, authors, artists, schoolmasters, professors,

heads of colleges—have been through ages carrying on war against

ignorance; but no triumphal procession has been decreed to it, nor

spoils of conquered provinces have come to its coffers; no crown

imperial has invested it with pomp and power. In lonely watch-towers the

fires of genius have burned, but to waste and consume the lamp of life,

while they gave light to the world. It is no answer to say that the

victims of intellectual toil, broken down in health and fortune, have

counted their work a privilege and joy. As well deny the martyr’s

sacrifice because he has joyed in his integrity. And many of the world’s

intellectual benefactors have been martyrs. Socrates died in prison as a

public malefactor; for the healing wisdom he offered his people, deadly

poison was the reward. Homer had a lot, so obscure at least, that nobody

knew his birthplace; and, indeed, some modern critics are denying that

there ever was any Homer.

Plato traveled back and forth from his home in Athens to the court of

the Syracuse tyrant, regarded indeed and feared, but persecuted and in

peril of life; nay, and once sold for a slave. Cicero shared a worse

fate. Dante all his life knew, as he expressed it,

“How salt was a stranger’s bread,

How hard the path still up and down to tread,

A stranger’s stairs.”

Copernicus and Galileo found science no more profitable than Dante found

poetry. Shakspeare had a home, but too poorly endowed to stand long in

his name after he left it; the income upon which he retired was barely

two or three hundred pounds a year, and so little did his contemporaries

know or think of him that the critics hunt in vain for the details of

his private life. The mighty span of his large honors shrinks to an

obscure myth of life in theatres in London or on the banks of the Avon.

A LITERARY SCREW.

An English paper says that Sharon Turner, author of the _History of the

Anglo-Saxons_, who received three hundred pounds a year from Government

as a literary pension, wrote his third volume of his _Sacred History of

the World_ upon paper which did not cost him a farthing. The copy

consisted of torn and angular fragments of letters and notes, of covers

of periodicals, gray, drab, or green, written in thick round hand over a

small print; of shreds of curling-paper, unctuous with pomatum of bear’s

grease, and of white wrappers in which his proofs had been sent from the

printers. The paper, sometimes as thin as a bank-note, was written on

both sides, and was so sodden with ink, plastered on with a pen worn to

a stump, that hours were frequently wasted in discovering on which side

of it certain sentences were written. Men condemned to work on it saw

their dinner vanish in illimitable perspective, and first-rate hands

groaned over it a whole day for tenpence. One poor fellow assured the

writer of that paper that he could not earn enough upon it to pay his

rent, and that he had seven mouths to fill besides his own. In the hope

of mending matters in some degree, slips of stout white paper were sent

frequently with the proofs; but the good gentleman could not afford to

use them, and they never came back as copy. What an inveterate miser

this old scribbler must have been, notwithstanding his pension and his

copyrights!

DRYDEN AND HIS PUBLISHER.

When Dryden had finished his translation of Virgil, after some

self-deliberation, he sent the MS. to Jacob Tonson, requiring for it a

certain sum, which he mentioned in a note. Tonson was desirous of

possessing the work, but meanly wished to avail himself of Dryden’s

necessities, which at that time were particularly urgent. He therefore

informed the poet that he could not afford to give the sum demanded.

Dryden, in reply, sent the following lines descriptive of Tonson:—

With leering look, bull-faced, and freckled fair,

With two left legs, with Judas-colored hair,

And frowsy pores that taint the ambient air.

When they were delivered to Tonson, he asked if Mr. Dryden had said any

thing more. “Yes,” answered the bearer: “he said, ‘Tell the dog that he

who wrote these lines can write more like them.’” Jacob immediately sent

the money.

Personal Sketches and Anecdotes.

ANECDOTE OF WASHINGTON.

During General Washington’s administration, he almost daily attended his

room, adjoining the Senate-chamber, and often arrived before the Senate

organized. On one occasion, but before his arrival, Gouverneur Morris

and some other senators were standing together, conversing on various

topics, and, among them, the natural but majestic air of General

Washington, when some one observed there was no man living who could

take a liberty with him. The sprightly and bold Morris remarked, “I will

bet a dozen of wine I can do that with impunity.” The bet was accepted.

Soon after, Washington appeared, and commenced an easy and pleasant

conversation with one of the gentlemen, at a little distance from the

others. While thus engaged, Morris, stepping up, in a jocund manner,

familiarly tapped Washington on the shoulder, and said,—

“Good morning, old fellow!”

The General turned, and merely looked him in the face, without a word,

when Morris, with all his assumed effrontery, stepped hastily back, in

evident discomposure, and said:—

“Gentlemen, you have won the bet. I will never take such a liberty

again!”

The writer obtained this fact from a member of the Senate, who witnessed

the occurrence.

ANECDOTE OF LAFAYETTE.

Shortly after Lafayette’s second return from America, he was at

Versailles when the king was about to review a division of troops.

Lafayette was invited to join in the review. He was dressed in the

American uniform, and was standing by the side of the Duc de Condé, when

the king, in his tour of conversation with the officers, came to him,

and, after speaking on several topics, asked him questions about his

uniform and the military costume in the United States. The king’s

attention was attracted by a little medal, which was attached to his

coat in the manner in which the insignia of orders are usually worn in

Europe; and he asked what it was. Lafayette replied that it was a symbol

which it was the custom of the foreign officers in the American service

to wear, and that it bore a device. The king asked what was the device:

to which Lafayette answered that there was no device common to all, but

that each officer chose such as pleased his fancy. “And what has pleased

your fancy?” inquired the king. “My device,” said the young general,

pointing to his medal, “is a liberty-pole standing on a broken crown and

sceptre.” The king smiled, and, with some pleasantry about the

republican propensities of a French marquis in American uniform, turned

the conversation to another topic. Condé looked grave, but said nothing.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

The name Napoleon, being written in Greek characters, will form seven

different words, by dropping the first letter of each in succession:—

Ναπολεων, Ἀπολέον, Πόλεον, Ὁλεον, Λέον, Ἐόν, ὧν.

These words make a complete sentence, meaning, Napoleon, the destroyer

of whole cities, was the lion of his people.

MILTON AND NAPOLEON.

Napoleon Bonaparte declared to Sir Colin Campbell, who had charge of his

person at the Isle of Elba, that he was a great admirer of Milton’s

_Paradise Lost_, and that he had read it to some purpose, for that the

plan of the battle of Austerlitz he borrowed from the sixth book of that

work, where Satan brings his artillery to bear upon Michael and his

angelic host with such direful effect:—

“Training his dev’lish enginery impaled

On every side with shadowing squadrons deep

To _hide the fraud_.”

This _new_ mode of warfare appeared to Bonaparte so likely to succeed,

if applied to actual use, that he determined upon its adoption, and

succeeded beyond expectation. By reference to the details of that

battle, it will be found to assimilate so completely with Milton’s

imaginary fight as to leave no doubt of the assertion.

PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF NAPOLEON.

Captain Maitland gives the following description of the person of

Napoleon, as he appeared on board the _Bellerophon_, in 1815:—

He was then a remarkably strong, well-built man, about five feet seven

inches high, his limbs particularly well formed, with a fine ankle and a

very small foot, of which he seemed very vain, as he always wore, while

on board the ship, silk stockings and shoes. His hands were also small,

and had the plumpness of a woman’s rather than the robustness of a

man’s. His eyes were light gray, his teeth good; and when he smiled, the

expression of his countenance was highly pleasing; when under the

influence of disappointment, however, it assumed a dark and gloomy cast.

His hair was a very dark brown, nearly approaching to black, and, though

a little thin on the top and front, had not a gray hair amongst it. His

complexion was a very uncommon one, being of a light sallow color,

different from any other I ever met with. From his being corpulent, he

had lost much of his activity.

HIS OPINION OF SUICIDE.

In the Journal of Dr. Warden, Surgeon of the Northumberland, the British

frigate that conveyed Napoleon to St. Helena, are recorded the following

remarkable sentiments of the imperial prisoner, as expressed to Warden:—

In one paper, I am called a _liar_; in another, a _tyrant_; in a third,

a _monster_; and in one of them, which I really did not expect, I am

described as a _coward_; but it turned out, after all, that the writer

did not accuse me of avoiding danger in the field of battle, or flying

from an enemy, or fearing to face the menaces of fate and fortune; he

did not charge me with wanting presence of mind in the hurry of battle,

and in the suspense of conflicting armies. No such thing. I wanted

courage, it seems, because I did not coolly take a dose of poison, or

throw myself into the sea, or blow out my brains. The editor most

certainly misunderstands me: I have, at least, too much courage for

that.

On another occasion he expressed himself in the following terms:—

Suicide is a crime the most revolting to my feelings, nor does any

reason suggest itself to my understanding by which it can be justified.

It certainly originates in that species of fear which we denominate

_poltroonery_. For what claim can that man have to courage who trembles

at the frowns of fortune? True heroism consists in being superior to the

ills of life, in whatever shape they may challenge him to the combat.

DR. FRANKLIN’S WIFE.

Franklin, in a sketch of his life and habits, relates the following

anecdote of his frugal and affectionate wife. A wife could scarcely make

a prettier apology for purchasing her first piece of luxury.

We have an English proverb, that says,—

“He that would thrive

Must ask his wife.”

It was lucky for me that I have one as much disposed to industry and

frugality as myself. She assisted me cheerfully in my business, and in

stitching pamphlets, tending shop, purchasing old linen rags for the

paper-makers, &c. We kept no idle servant; our table was plain and

simple; our furniture of the cheapest. For instance, my breakfast was

for a long time bread and milk (no tea), and I ate it out of a two-penny

earthen porringer, with a pewter spoon. But mark how luxury will enter

families, and make a progress in spite of principle: being called one

morning to breakfast, I found it in a china bowl, with a spoon of

silver. They had been bought for me without my knowledge, by my wife,

and had cost her the enormous sum of three-and-twenty shillings, for

which she had no other excuse or apology to make but that she thought

_her_ husband _deserved_ a silver spoon and china bowl as well as any of

his neighbors. This was the first appearance of plate or china in our

house, which afterwards, in the course of years, as our wealth

increased, augmented gradually to several hundred pounds in value.

MAJOR ANDRÉ.

In a satirical poem written by Major André some time prior to his arrest

as a spy, he, curiously enough, alludes to the means of his own death. A

newspaper published soon after the Revolutionary War gives some extracts

from the poem, and calls it a “remarkable prophecy.” Could the

ill-starred poet and soldier have looked into futurity and seen his own

sad end, he would hardly have indulged in the humor which is indicated

in his poem. The piece was entitled “The Cow-Chase,” and was suggested

by the failure of an expedition undertaken by Wayne for the purpose of

collecting cattle. Great liberties were taken with the names of the

American officers employed on the occasion,—

Harry Lee and his dragoons,

And Proctor with his cannon.

But the point of his irony seemed particularly aimed at Wayne, whose

entire baggage, he asserts, was taken along, comprising

His Congress dollars and his prog,

His military speeches,

His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,

Black stockings and blue breeches.

The satirist brings his doggerel to a close by observing that it is

necessary to check the current of his satire,—

Lest the same warrior-drover Wayne

Should _catch and hang the poet_!

AN ENGLISH VIEW OF ANDRÉ AND ARNOLD.

Many historians have been inclined to blame Washington for unnecessary

severity in not acceding to the request of the prisoner (André), that he

might be shot instead of hanged. We cannot agree with them: the

ignominious death was decided upon by Washington—after much and anxious

deliberation, and against his own feelings, which inclined to grant the

prayer—as a strictly preventive punishment; and it had its effect. The

social qualities and the letters of André, although they are always

brought forward in his favor, do not extenuate but rather aggravate his

crime, as they show that, whatever his moral principles may have been,

he had the education of an English gentleman. If any thing, his memory

has been treated with too great leniency. If monuments are to be erected

in Westminster Abbey to men of such lax morality, it is time for honesty

to hide its head.

The conduct of Sir Henry Clinton, in receiving Arnold when he fled to

the English ranks, and giving him a high command, is only in keeping

with his countenance of the plot that cost André his life. Arnold, who

seems to have been a miserable scoundrel, born to serve as a foil to the

virtuous brightness of George Washington, might have redeemed his

character by giving himself up in place of André, who was entrapped by

Arnold’s cowardice and over-caution; but such a piece of self-sacrifice

never entered his head. A villain himself, he never believed in the

success of the struggle of honest men, and his conduct after obtaining

the protection of Sir Henry Clinton proves this beyond a doubt. Let him

rest with all his British honors thick upon him.—_English Newspaper._

FLAMSTEED, THE ASTRONOMER ROYAL.

In the _London Chronicle_ for Dec. 3, 1771, is the following anecdote of

Dr. Flamsteed:—

He was many years Astronomer Royal at Greenwich Observatory; a humorist,

and of warm passions. Persons of his profession are often supposed, by

the common people, to be capable of foretelling events. In this

persuasion a poor washerwoman at Greenwich, who had been robbed at night

of a large parcel of linen, to her almost ruin, if forced to pay for it,

came to him, and with great anxiety earnestly requested him to use his

art, to let her know where her things were, and who had robbed her. The

Doctor happened to be in the humor to joke: he bid her stay: he would

see what he could do; perhaps he might let her know where she could find

them; but who the persons were, he would not undertake; as she could

have no positive proof to convict them, it would be useless. He then set

about drawing circles, squares, &c., to amuse her; and after some time

told her if she would go into a particular field, that in such a part of

it, in a dry ditch, she would find them all tumbled up in a sheet. The

woman went, and found them; came with great haste and joy to thank the

Doctor, and offered him half-a-crown as a token of gratitude, being as

much as she could afford. The Doctor, surprised himself, told her: “Good

woman, I am heartily glad you have found your linen; but I assure you I

knew nothing of it, and intended only to joke with you, and then to have

read you a lecture on the folly of applying to any person to know events

not in human power to tell. But I see the devil has a mind that I should

deal with him: I am determined I will not. Never come or send any one to

me any more, on such occasions; for I will never attempt such an affair

again whilst I live.”

LORD NELSON’S SANG-FROID.

Jack was what they called loblolly boy on board the _Victory_. It was

his duty to do anything and everything that was required—from sweeping

and washing the deck, and saying amen to the chaplain, down to cleaning

the guns, and helping the doctor to make pills and plasters, and mix

medicines. Four days before the battle that was so glorious to England,

but so fatal to its greatest hero, Jack was ordered by the doctor to

fetch a bottle that was standing in a particular place. Jack ran off,

post-haste, to the spot, where he found what appeared to be an empty

bottle. Curiosity was uppermost; “What,” thought Jack, “can there be

about this empty bottle?” He examined it carefully, but could not

comprehend the mystery, so he thought that he would call in the aid of a

candle to throw light on the subject. The bottle contained _ether_, and

the result of the examination was that the vapor ignited, and the flames

extended to some of the sails, and also to a part of the ship. There was

a general confusion—running with buckets and what-not—and, to make

matters worse, the fire was rapidly extending to the powder-magazine.

During the hubbub, Lord Nelson was in the chief cabin writing

dispatches. His lordship heard the noise—he couldn’t do otherwise—and

so, in a loud voice, he called out, “What’s all that infernal noise

about?” The boatswain answered, “My Lord, the loblolly boy’s set fire to

an empty bottle, and it’s set fire to the ship.” “Oh!” said Nelson,

“that’s all, is it? I thought the enemy had boarded us and taken us all

prisoners—you and loblolly must put it out, and take care we’re not

blown up! but pray make as little noise about it as you can, or I can’t

go on with my dispatches,” and with these words Nelson went to his desk,

and continued his writing with the greatest coolness.

* * * * *

Crabb Robinson, in his _Diary_, speaking of Gœthe as the mightiest

intellect that has shone on the earth for centuries, says: “It has been

my rare good fortune to have seen a large proportion of the greatest

minds of our age, in the fields of poetry and speculative philosophy,

such as Wordsworth, Coleridge, Schiller, Tieck, but none that I have

ever known came near him.”

MARTIN LUTHER.

Roma orbem domuit, Romam sibi Papa subegit;

Viribus illa suit, fraudibus iste suis,

Quanto isto major Lutherus, major et illa,

Istum illamque uno qui domuit calamo.—§Beza.§

(Rome won the world, the Pope o’er Rome prevailed,

And one by force and one by fraud availed:

Greater than each was Luther’s prowess shown,

Who conquered both by one poor pen alone.)

Luther, in the lion-hearted daring of his conduct and in the robust

and rugged grandeur of his faith, may well be considered as the Elijah

of the Reformation; while his life, by the stern and solemn realities

of his experiences, and the almost ideal evolutions of events by which

it was accompanied, constitutes indeed the embodied Poem of European

Protestantism.

§R. Montgomery.§

Heine sketches the following unique portrait of Luther:—

He was at once a mystic dreamer and a man of action. His thoughts had

not only wings, they had hands likewise. He spoke, and, rare thing, he

also acted; he was at once the tongue and the sword of his age. At the

same time he was a cold scholastic, a chopper of words, and an exalted

prophet drunk with the word of God. When he had passed painfully through

the day, wearing out his soul in dogmatical instructions, night come, he

would take his flute, and, contemplating the stars, melt in melodies and

pious thoughts. The same man who could abuse his adversaries like a

fish-fag knew also how to use soft and tender language, like an amorous

virgin. He was sometimes savage and impetuous as the hurricane that

roots up oaks, then gentle and murmuring as the zephyr that lightly

caresses the violets. He was full of the holy fear of God, ready for

every sacrifice in honor of the Holy Spirit; he knew how to vault into

the purest regions of the celestial kingdom; and yet he perfectly knew

the magnificence of this earth: he could appreciate it, and from his

mouth fell the famous proverb:—

Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib, und Gesang,

Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.

(Who loves not woman, wine, and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long.)

In short, he was a complete man. To call him a spiritualist would be to

commit as great a mistake as it would be to call him a sensualist. What

shall I say more? He had something about him clever, original,

miraculous, inconceivable.

In an article on John de Wycliffe, in the _North British Review_, is the

following paragraph:—

Abundant as is our historical literature, and fond as our ablest writers

have recently become of attempting careful and vivid renderings of the

physiognomies of important historical personages, we are still without a

set of thoroughly good portraits of the modern religious reformers of

different nations, painted, as they might be, in series, so that the

features of each may be compared with those of all the rest. Wycliffe,

Huss, Savonarola, Luther, Zwingle, Calvin, Knox, and Cranmer,—all men

coming under the same general designation,—all heroes of the same

general movement; and yet what a contrast of physiognomies! Pre-eminent

in the series will ever be Luther, the man of biggest frame and largest

heart; the man of richest and most original genius; the great, soft,

furious, musical, pliant, sociable, kiss-you, knock-you-down German.

None of them all had such a face; none of them all said such things; of

none of them all can you have such anecdotes, such a collection of

_ana_.

Luther, says another writer, speaking of his fondness for music, was not

solely nor chiefly a theologian, or he had been no true reformer. As the

cloister had not been able to bound his sympathies, so the controversial

theatre could not circumscribe his honest ambition. He in whom “the

Italian head was joined to the German body” would not only free the

souls of men, but win the hearts of women and little children. Much had

he to feel proud of during his busy life. It was no light thing to have

waged successful combat with the most powerful hierarchy that the world

had ever seen, or to have held in his hands the destinies of Europe. But

dearer to his kind heart was the sound of his own verses sung to his own

melodies, which rose from street and market-place, from highway and

byway, chanted by laborers going to their daily work, during their hours

of toil, and as they returned home at even-tide. How would it have

gladdened his heart to have heard these same hymns, two hundred years

later, sung by the miners of Cornwall and Gloucestershire!

“I always loved music,” said he: “whoso has skill in this art is of a

good temperament, fitted for all things.” Many times he exemplified this

power in his own person. When sore perplexed and in danger of life, he

would drive away all gloomy thoughts by the magic of his own melodies.

On that sad journey to Worms, when friends crowded round him and sought

to change his purpose, warning him, with many tears, of the certain

death that awaited him,—on the morning of that memorable 16th of April,

when the towers of the ancient city appeared in sight,—the true-hearted

man, rising in his chariot, broke forth with the words and music of that

Marseillaise of the Reformation, _Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott_, which

he had improvised two days before at Oppenheim,—the same stirring hymn

that Gustavus Adolphus and the whole Swedish army sang a century later,

on the morning of the battle of Lutzen:—

A safe stronghold our God is still,

A trusty shield and weapon;

He’ll help us clear from all the ill

That hath us now o’ertaken.

The ancient Prince of hell

Hath risen with purpose fell.

Strong mail of craft and power

He weareth in this hour;

On earth is not his fellow.

With force of arms we nothing can,

Full soon were we down-ridden;

But for us fights the proper man,

Whom God himself hath bidden.

Ask ye, Who is this same?

§Christ Jesus§ is his name,

The Lord Sabaoth’s son:

He, and no other one,

Shall conquer in the battle.

And were the world all devils o’er,

And watching to devour us,

We lay it not to heart so sore,

Not they can overpower us.

Then let the Prince of ill

Look grim as e’er he will,

He harms us not a whit:

For why? His doom is writ:—

A word shall quickly slay him.

God’s word for all their craft and force

One moment will not linger,

But spite of hell shall have its course:

’Tis written by his finger.

And though they take our life,

Goods, honor, children, wife,

Yet is their profit small:

These things shall vanish all;

The Church of God remaineth.[39]

Footnote 39:

Carlyle’s translation.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Queen Bess is thus described in Sir John Hayward’s Annals:—

Shee was a lady upon whom nature had bestowed, and well placed, many of

her fayrest favours; of stature meane, slender, straight, and amiably

composed; of such state in her carriage, as every motion of her seemed

to beare majesty; her haire was inclined to pale yellow, her foreheade

large and faire, and seeming seat for princely grace; her eyes lively

and sweete, but short-sighted; her nose somewhat rising in the middest.

The whole compasse of her countenance somewhat long, but yet of

admirable beauty; not so much in that which is termed the flower of

youth, as in a most delightful compositione of majesty and modesty in

equall mixture.... Her vertues were such as might suffice to make an

Ethiopian beautifull, which, the more man knows and understands, the

more he shall love and admire. Shee was of divine witt, as well for

depth of judgment, as for quick conceite and speedy expeditione; of

eloquence as sweete in the utterance, as ready and easy to come to the

utterance; of wonderful knowledge, both in learning and affayres;

skilfull not only in Latine and Greeke, but alsoe in divers foraigne

languages.

In _Paul Heintzner’s Travels_, 1598, is the following description:—

She was said to be fifty-five years old. Her face was rather long,

white, and somewhat wrinkled; her eyes small, black, and gracious; her

nose somewhat bent; her lips compressed; her teeth black (from eating

too much sugar). She had earrings of pearls, red hair (but artificial),

and wore a small crown. Her breast was uncovered (as is the case with

all unmarried ladies in England), and round her neck was a chain with

precious gems. Her hands were graceful, her fingers long. She was of

middle size, but stepped on majestically. She was gracious and kind in

her address. The dress she wore was of white silk, with pearls as large

as beans. Her cloak was of black silk, with silver lace, and a long

train was carried by a marchioness. She spoke English, French, and

Italian; but she knew also Greek and Latin, and understood Spanish,

Scotch, and Dutch. Wherever she turned her eyes, people fell on their

knees. When she came to the door of the chapel, books were handed to

her, and the people called out, “God save the Queen Elizabeth!”

whereupon the Queen answered, “I thanke you, myn good peuple.”

Among the spirited repartees and impromptus of the queen which have

descended to our time is her ingenious evasion of a direct answer to a

theological question respecting the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. On

being asked by a Popish priest whether she allowed the _real presence_,

she replied,—

Christ was the word that spake it:

He took the bread and brake it;

And what that word did make it,

That I believe and take it.

In an old folio copy of the _Arcadia_, preserved at Wilton, have been

found two interesting relics,—a lock of Queen Elizabeth’s hair, and some

lines in the handwriting of Sir Philip Sidney. The hair was given by the

queen to her young hero, who complimented her in return as follows:—

Her inward worth all outward worth transcends;

Envy her merits with regret commends;

Like sparkling gems her virtues draw the light,

And in her conduct she is always bright.

When she imparts her thoughts, her words have force,

And sense and wisdom flow in sweet discourse.

The date of this exchange was 1583, when the queen was forty and the

knight twenty-nine. Elizabeth’s hair is very fine, soft, and silky, with

the undulation of water; its color, a fair auburn or golden brown,

without a tinge of red, as her detractors assert. In every country under

the sun, such hair would be pronounced beautiful.

SHAKSPEARE’S ORTHODOXY.

The numerous biographers of the immortal bard have said little or

nothing of his religious character, leaving the inference that he was

indifferent to religion and careless as to the future. They seem to

forget such passages as his beautiful reference to Palestine in _Henry

IV._:—

Those holy fields,

Over whose acres walked those blessed feet

Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nailed,

For our advantage, on the bitter cross.

Shakspeare’s will, written two months before his death, (April, 1616,)

is remarkable for its evangelical character. He says:—

“First, I commend my soul into the hands of God, my Creator, hoping, and

assuredly believing, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to

be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth whereof

it is made.”

Nor should we overlook the bond of Christian sympathy with his parish

minister, Rev. Richard Byfield, whose church he constantly attended

during his retirement at Stratford.

OLIVER CROMWELL.

The subjoined sketch of the person and character of the great Protector

is from a letter of John Maidstone to Governor Winthrop, of Connecticut,

written soon after Cromwell’s death:—

Before I pass further, pardon me in troubling you with the character of

his person, which, by reason of my nearness to him, I had opportunity

well to observe. His body was well compact and strong; his stature under

six feet (I believe about two inches); his head so shaped as you might

see it a storehouse and shop, both a vast treasury of natural parts. His

temper exceeding fiery, as I have known; but the flame of it kept down

for the most part, or soon allayed with those moral endowments he had.

He was naturally compassionate towards objects in distress, even to an

effeminate measure, though God had made him a heart wherein was left

little room for any fear but what was due to himself, of which there was

a large proportion; yet did he excel in tenderness towards sufferers. A

larger soul, I think, hath seldom dwelt in a house of clay than his was.

I do believe, if his story were impartially transmitted and the

unprejudiced world well possessed with it, it would add him to her nine

worthies and make that number a decemviri. He lived and died in

comfortable communion with his seed, as judicious persons near him well

observed. He was that Mordecai that sought the welfare of his people,

and spake peace to his seed; yet were his temptations such as it

appeared frequently that he that hath grace enough for many men may have

too little for himself; the treasure he had being but in an earthen

vessel, and that equally defiled with original sin as any other man’s

nature is.

The following newspaper notices in relation to Cromwell’s head are

interesting:—

The curious head of Cromwell, which Sir Joshua Reynolds has had the good

fortune to procure, is to be shown to his majesty. How much would

Charles the First have valued the man that would have brought him

Cromwell’s head!—September, 1786.

The real embalmed head of the powerful and renowned usurper, Oliver

Cromwell, styled Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and

Ireland; with the original dyes for the medals struck in honor of his

victory at Dunbar, &c., &c., are now exhibiting at No. 5 in Mead Court,

Old Bond Street (where the Rattlesnake was shown last year). A genuine

narrative relating to the acquisition, concealment, and preservation of

these articles to be had at the place of exhibition.—_Morning

Chronicle_, March 18, 1799.

Cromwell died at Hampton Court in 1658, giving the strongest evidence of

his earnest religious convictions and of his sincerity as a Christian.

After an imposing funeral pageant, the body having been embalmed, he was

buried in Westminster. On the restoration of the Stuarts he was taken up

and hung in Tyburn. Afterwards his head was cut off, a pike driven up

through the neck and skull, and exposed on Westminster Hall. It remained

there a long while, until, by some violence, the pike was broken and the

head thrown down. It was picked up by a soldier and concealed, and

afterwards conveyed to some friend, who kept it carefully for years.

Through a succession of families, which can easily be traced, it has

come into the possession of the daughter of Hon. Mr. Wilkinson,

ex-member of Parliament from Buckingham and Bromley.

The head is almost entire. The flesh is black and sunken, but the

features are nearly perfect, and the hair still remains. Even the large

wart over one of the eyes—a distinctive mark on his face—is yet

perfectly visible. The pike which was thrust through the neck may still

be seen, the upper part of iron, nearly rusted off, and the lower or

wooden portion in splinters, showing that it was broken by some act of

violence. It is known historically that Cromwell was embalmed; and no

person thus cared for was ever publicly gibbeted except this illustrious

man. It is a curious keepsake for a lady; but it is carefully preserved

under lock and key in a box of great antiquity, wrapped in a number of

costly envelopes. And when it is raised from its hiding-place and held

in one’s hand, what a world of thought is suggested!

POPE’S SKULL.

William Howitt says that, by one of those acts which neither science nor

curiosity can excuse, the skull of Pope is now in the private collection

of a phrenologist. The manner in which it was obtained is said to have

been this:—On some occasion of alteration in the church, or burial of

some one in the same spot, the coffin of Pope was disinterred, and

opened to see the state of the remains. By a bribe to the sexton of the

time, possession of the skull was obtained for the night, and another

skull was returned instead of it. Fifty pounds were paid to manage and

carry through this transaction. Be that as it may, the skull of Pope

figures in a private museum.

WICKLIFFE’S ASHES.

The Council of Constance raised from the grave the bones of the immortal

Wickliffe forty years after their interment, burned them to ashes, and

threw them into a neighboring brook. “This brook,” says Fuller,

“conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow

seas, they into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of Wickliffe are the

emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world over.”

“So,” says Foxe, “was he resolved into three elements, earth, fire, and

water, thinking thereby utterly to extinguish both the name and doctrine

of Wickliffe forever. But as there is no counsel against the Lord, so

there is no keeping down of verity. It will spring and come out of dust

and ashes, as appeared right well in this man; for, though they digged

up his body, burnt his bones, and drowned his ashes, yet the word of God

and truth of his doctrines, with the fruit and success thereof, they

could not burn. They to this day remain.”

* * * * *

Cardan, and Burton, the author of the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, who were

famous for astrological skill, both suffered a voluntary death merely to

verify their own predictions.

TALLEYRANDIANA.

A banker, anxious about the rise or fall of stocks, came once to

Talleyrand for information respecting the truth of a rumor that George

III. had suddenly died, when the statesman replied in a confidential

tone: “I shall be delighted, if the information I have to give be of any

use to you.” The banker was enchanted at the prospect of obtaining

authentic intelligence from so high a source; and Talleyrand, with a

mysterious air, continued: “Some say the King of England is dead;

others, that he is not dead: for my own part, I believe neither the one

nor the other. I tell you this in confidence, but do not commit me.”

During Talleyrand’s administration, when the seals of private letters

were not very safe, the Spanish Ambassador complained, with an

expressive look, to that Minister, that one of his despatches had been

opened. “Oh!” returned the statesman, after listening with profound

attention, “I shall wager I can guess how the thing happened. I am

convinced your despatch was opened by some one who desired to know what

was inside.”

When Louis XVIII., at the Restoration, praised the subtile diplomatist

for his talents and influence, he disclaimed the compliment, but added,

what might serve both as a hint and a threat: “There is, however, some

inexplicable thing about me, that prevents any government from

prospering that attempts to set me aside.”

After the Pope excommunicated his apostate Abbé, that unworthy son of

the church wrote to a friend, saying: “Come and comfort me: come and sup

with me. Everybody is going to refuse me fire and water; we shall

therefore have nothing this evening but iced meats, and drink nothing

but wine.”

When the Abbé Dupanloup told him, during his last hour, that the

Archbishop of Paris had said he would willingly die for him, the dying

statesman said, with his expiring breath: “He might make a better use of

his life.”

He proposed that the Duchess de Berri should be threatened for all her

strange conspicuous freaks, thus: “Madame, there is no hope for you, you

will be tried, condemned, and pardoned!”

Speaking of a well-known lady on one occasion, he said emphatically:—

“She is insufferable.”

Then, as if relenting, he added:

“But that is her only fault.”

Madame de Stael cordially hated him, and in her story of _Delphine_ was

supposed to have painted herself in the person of her heroine, and

Talleyrand in that of a garrulous old woman. On their first meeting, the

wit pleasantly remarked, “They tell me that we are both of us in your

novel, in the disguise of women.”

While making a few days’ tour in England, he wrote this note to a

gentleman connected with the Treasury:—

“My dear Sir,

“Would you give a short quarter of an hour to explain to me the

financial system of your country?

“Always yours,

“§Talleyrand§.”

PORSON.

A favorite diversion of Porson, when among a party of literary men, was

to quote a few lines of poetry, and ask if any of the company could tell

where they came from. He frequently quoted the following lines without

finding any one able to name the author:—

For laws that are inanimate,

And feel no sense of love or hate,

That have no passion of their own,

Or pity to be wrought upon,

Are only proper to inflict

Revenge on criminals as strict:

But to have power to forgive

Is empire and prerogative;

And ’tis in crowns a nobler gem

To grant a pardon than condemn.

The lines remind the Shakspeare student of a similar verse in _Measure

for Measure_, (Act III, Sc. 2.):—

He that the sword of state would bear,

Should be holy as severe;

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go, &c.

The company generally guessed every likely author but the right one.

When conjecture was exhausted, Porson would satisfy curiosity by telling

them the lines were in Butler’s _Hudibras_, and would be found in _The

Heroic Epistle of Hudibras to his Lady_, which few people ever did read,

and no one now thinks of reading.

Historical Memoranda.

THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN OUR REVOLUTION.

The “First Blood of the Revolution” is commonly supposed to have been

shed at Lexington, April 19, 1775; but Westminster, Vt., files a prior

claim in favor of one William French, who it is asserted was killed on

the night of March 13, 1775, at the King’s court-house, in what is now

Westminster. At that time Vermont was a part of New York, and the King’s

court officers, together with a body of troops, were sent on to

Westminster to hold the usual session of the court. The people, however,

were exasperated, and assembled in the court-house to resist. A little

before midnight the troops of George the Third advanced and fired

indiscriminately upon the crowd, instantly killing William French, whose

head was pierced by a musket ball. He was buried in the churchyard, and

a stone erected to his memory, with this quaint inscription:—

“In Memory of William French, Who Was Shot at Westminster March ye

12th, 1775, by the hand of the Cruel Ministerial tools of Georg ye 3rd

at the Courthouse at 11 o’clock at Night in the 22d year of his age.

“Here William French his Body lies,

For Murder his Blood for Vengeance Cries.

King Georg the third his Tory crew

that with a bawl his head Shot threw,

For Liberty and his Countrys Good

he Lost his Life his Dearest blood.”

THE “TEA-PARTY” AND THE “TEA-BURNING.”

The world has rung with the story of the “Boston tea-party,” how in the

darkness of night certain men disguised as Indians threw overboard the

cargo which bore the obnoxious duty, and kept their secret so well that

even their own families were not trusted with it. It was a resolute and

patriotic act, and answered its purpose. But why all the darkness, the

disguise and mystery? Because the number of those who opposed the act,

either from loyalty to Great Britain, from timidity, or from pecuniary

interest in the cargo, was so great, that only by such means could the

deed be done and the doers of it escape punishment.

How does this compare with the “tea-burning” in Annapolis in the same

year? Here the course to be taken was publicly and calmly discussed in

open assembly; the resolution arrived at was openly announced, and

carried out in the face of day, the owner of the vessel himself applying

the torch. This was the Maryland way of doing the thing; and it may well

be asked whether the calm judicial dignity of the procedure, the

unanimity of sentiment, the absence alike of passion and of concealment,

are not far worthier of commemoration and admiration than the act of men

who, even for a patriotic purpose, had to assume the garb of

conspirators and do a deed of darkness.

The local historians thus tell the story:—

On the 14th of October, the brig Peggy Stewart arrived at Annapolis,

having in its cargo a few packages of tea. The duty was paid by the

owner of the vessel. The people were outraged at the attempt to fix upon

them the badge of servitude, by the payment of the tax.

A meeting was held, at which it was determined that the tea should not

be landed. The owner, fearing further trouble, proposed to destroy the

tea. But that was not sufficient punishment. The offence was a grave

one, for had this attempt succeeded, it would have been followed by

others more aggressive, and thus the very principle which was contended

for would have been overthrown in the end. It was the head of the ugly

beast that was thrust in the door, and it must not only be _put_ out,

but _driven_ out by blows, lest growing bold, it should push its whole

body in.

After much discussion it was proposed to burn the vessel. The meeting

did not consent to this, but many expressed their determination to raise

a force to accomplish the brig’s destruction.

Acting under the advice of Mr. Carroll of Carrollton, the owner, seeing

that the loss of his property was certain, and willing to repair his

good name, even by that loss, proposed to destroy the vessel with his

own hands. In the presence of the assembled multitude he set fire to it,

with the tea on board,—expiating his offence by the destruction of his

property.

The striking features of this transaction were not only the boldness

with which it was executed, but the deliberation and utter carelessness

of concealment in all the measures leading to its accomplishment.

It was not until the 28th of November that the Dartmouth arrived in

Boston harbor, and not until the 16th of December that protracted

discussion ended in the overthrow of its cargo. The tea-ship sent to

South Carolina arrived December 2d, and the tea-ship to Philadelphia,

December 25th. The cargo of the former perished in storage; that of the

latter was sent back.

THE UNITED STATES NAVY.

A South Carolina correspondent of the _American Historical Record_

writes as follows concerning the inception of the Navy:—

A few years ago, while looking over a volume of manuscript letters in

the Charleston (South Carolina) Library, I found a leaf of coarse

foolscap, with the following endorsement:—

ORIGIN OF THE NAVY.

At a caucus in 1794, consisting of Izard, Morris, and Ellsworth of the

Senate, Ames, Sedgwick, Smith, Dayton, &c. of the Representatives, and

of Secretaries Hamilton and Knox, to form a plan for a national navy,

Smith began the figuring as Secretary of the meeting. Hamilton then took

the pen, and instead of minuting the proceedings, he amused himself by

making a variety of flourishes during the discussion. In consequence of

the plan adopted at this meeting, a bill was reported for building six

frigates, which formed the foundation or origin of the American Navy.

The “figuring” on the top of the page consists of five lines, and is as

follows:—

First cost of a frigate, 44 guns, of 1,300 tons, and

provision for six months $150,000

350 men 51,000

Provision for six months 11,000

————————

Total $212,000

Then follows an estimate of the annual cost of such a vessel. The rest

of the page below these estimates is occupied by bold flourishes, which

seem, if they mean anything, to imitate a drawing of a peacock’s tail

“in its pride.” Similar scratching, but to a less extent is on the other

side of the page.

* * * * *

The only letter addressed to Shakspeare, which is undoubtedly genuine,

is that now in the museum at Stratford, from Richard Quinn, the actor,

asking for a loan of £20. This letter is endorsed: “To my lovinge good

ffriend and countreyman, Mr. William Shackespere deliver Thees.” If the

writer spelled names no better than other words, this affords little aid

to the solution of the perplexing question, for notwithstanding the

outrageous fashion in which our forefathers spelled English, he is

considerably ahead of his age in this respect.

QUAKER “MALIGNANTS.”

There has been discovered in Boston the following letter relative to

William Penn, written “September ye 15, 1682.” by Cotton Mather, to “ye

aged and beloved Mr. John Higginson”:—

There bee now at sea a shippe (for our friend Mr. Esaias Holcraft, of

London, did advise me by ye last packet that it wolde sail some time

in August) called ye Welcome, R. Greenaway, master, which has aboard

an hundred or more of ye heretics and malignants called Quakers, with

W. Penne, who is ye chief scampe at ye hedde of them. Ye General Court

has accordingly given secret orders to Master Malachi Huxett, of ye

brig Porpusse, to waylaye ye said Welcome as near the coast of Codde

as may be, and make captive ye said Penne and his ungodlie crew, so

that ye Lord may be glorified and not mocked on ye soil of this new

countrie with ye heathen worshippe of these people. Much spoyl can be

made by selling ye whole lotte to Barbadoes, where slaves fetch good

prices in rumme and sugar, and we shall not only do ye Lord great

service by punishing ye wicked, but shall make great gayne for his

ministers and people.

Master Huxett feels hopeful, and I will set down ye news he brings

when his shippe comes back.

Yours in ye bowels of Christ,

§Cotton Mather§.

AN AMERICAN MONARCHY.

After the downfall of Napoleon I., in 1815, several young Americans who

subsequently earned high position as writers and statesmen, among them

Irving, Everett, Ticknor, Legaré, and Preston, (afterward Senator from

South Carolina,) went to Europe for the benefit of foreign travel. While

abroad, they took an opportunity to pay a visit to Sir Walter Scott, and

Mr. Preston relates that during the evening, in the course of

conversation, Sir Walter gave an account of a curious discovery he had

made.

Not long after it had been divulged who was the author of the “Waverley

Novels,” Scott was the Regent’s (afterward George the Fourth) guest in

the royal palace, where, one day, the latter ordered the key of a

certain room to be given to the great writer, saying that it opened the

door of the Stuart Chamber, where all the papers concerning the Stuarts

and their pretenders were kept. George gave Scott full permission to

rummage among all these records, and to use what he liked for his works.

“I depend on your discretion,” he said, and Scott went. He spent several

days in this curious chamber, and, so he told Preston, one day stumbled

upon what seemed to him a remarkable paper. It consisted of a call and

petition, by Scottish in America, chiefly, however, by the Gaelic

Scottish who had a settlement—“saddle-bagging” as it is sometimes

expressed in the West—in North Carolina, addressed to the Pretender

(Prince Charles Edward, grandson of James the Second), as he was then

called, to come to America and assume the crown of this realm.

The question whether this country had not best be turned into a monarchy

was seriously and very naturally mooted, in the earliest days of our

national existence, but until this singular revelation was made, it was

not known that such a positive offer, a very strange one, to say the

least, had been made.

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

The following description of the significance of the different parts of

our national flag was written by a member of the committee appointed by

the Continental Congress to design a flag for the young Republic:—

The stars of the new flag represent the new constellation of States

rising in the West. The idea was taken from the constellation of Lyra,

which in the land of Orpheus signifies harmony. The blue in the field

was taken from the edges of the Covenanter’s banner, in Scotland,

significant of the league-covenant of the United Colonies against

oppression, incidentally involving the virtues of vigilance,

perseverance and justice. The stars were disposed in a circle

symbolizing the perpetuity of the Union; the ring, like the serpent of

the Egyptians, signifying eternity. The thirteen stripes showed with

the stars, the number of the United Colonies, and denoted the

subordination of the States to the Union, as well as equality among

themselves. The whole was the blending of the various flags of the

army and the white ones of the floating batteries. The red color,

which in Roman days was the signal of defiance, denoted daring; and

the white purity.

THE FRENCH TRICOLOR.

The French tricolor, so far from being a revolutionary flag, is more

ancient than the white flag, and was, in fact, the flag of the House of

Bourbon. Clovis, when he marched through Tours to fight the Visigoths,

adopted as his banner the scope of St. Martin, which was blue, and thus

blue was, so to speak, the first French color. The oriflamme, which was

the particular flag of the Abbey of St. Denis, and was red, became to a

certain extent the national flag, when St. Denis came under the

protection of the kings of France, the kings still preserving their blue

flag studded with golden _fleurs de lis_. The white flag (which was also

the banner of Joan of Arc) has in all countries, and through all times,

been the sign of authority. And when Louis XIV. destroyed the functions

of the colonels-general of the different corps that bore the white

standard, the color became the emblem of Royal authority. Nevertheless,

it is useless to dispute the fact that the tricolor took its rise as the

badge of the National Guard at the French Revolution, and that it will

be as difficult to separate it from the idea of revolution as to

separate the white flag from the idea of legitimacy.

THE POLITICAL GAMUT.

In 1815 the French newspapers announced the departure of Bonaparte from

Elba, his progress through France, and his entry; into Paris, in the

following manner:—

March 9. The Anthropophagus has quitted his den.—March 10. The Corsican

Ogre has landed at Cape Juan.—March 11. The Tiger has arrived at

Gap.—March 12. The Monster slept at Grenoble.—March 13. The Tyrant has

passed through Lyons.—March 14. The Usurper is directing his steps

towards Dijon, but the brave and loyal Burgundians have risen _en

masse_, and surrounded him on all sides.—March 18. Bonaparte is only

sixty leagues from the capital; he has been fortunate enough to escape

the hands of his pursuers.—March 19. Bonaparte is advancing with rapid

steps, but he will never enter Paris.—March 20. Napoleon will,

to-morrow, be under our ramparts.—March 21. The Emperor is at

Fontainebleau.—March 22. His Imperial and Royal Majesty yesterday

evening arrived at the Tuileries, amidst the joyful acclamations of his

devoted and faithful subjects. 5 The _Journal des Débats_, in reference

to the escape from Elba, spoke of Napoleon on the 9th of March, as “the

_Poltroon of 1814_.” On the 15th it said to him, “_Scourge of

generations thou shall reign no more!_” On the 16th he is “_a

Robespierre on horseback_”; on the 19th, “_the adventurer from

Corsica_”; but on the 21st, we are gravely told that “_the_ §EMPEROR§

_has pursued his triumphal course, having found no other enemies than

the miserable libels which were vainly scattered on his path to impede

his progress_.”

THE FLIGHT OF EUGENIE.

The following particulars of the flight of the Empress of France from

Paris, in consequence of the subversion of the Napoleonic dynasty by the

capitulation of Sedan, were furnished by the late Bishop McIlvaine, of

Ohio, who obtained them from one who aided the flight of Eugenie, and

are therefore stamped with the essentials of authenticity.

The safety of the Empress had been assured to her by General Trochu, who

had solemnly promised to inform her of the approach of danger. For some

unexplained reasons he failed to do so, and when on Sunday the mob began

to assemble about the Tuileries, three of her friends, Prince

Metternich, the Spanish Ambassador and M. Lesseps, formed a plan for her

escape, and went to her rescue. M. Lesseps stood outside and harangued

the mob for the purpose of detaining them, while the two other gentlemen

went in search of the Empress. They found her partaking of a very frugal

lunch with one of her ladies, and her fears could not be aroused. Seeing

it impossible to persuade her, the two gentlemen used force to remove

her. At this she consented to make a slight preparation, and without at

all changing her dress, (for the mob had already entered the Palace),

catching up a small leathern reticule, she put into it two

pocket-handkerchiefs, and two books, the New Testament and a

prayer-book. On her head she put a riding hat, and then by that time

thoroughly aroused, she fled through the Palace, through long corridors,

up and down flights of stairs, through chamber and _salon_, a long

distance before they came down to the Rue Rivoli, on which side of the

Palace the mob had not collected. Here a cab awaited her. She, with the

lady in attendance, was put into it. “Now,” said the friends, “we must

leave you; too well-known, our attendance would bring destruction upon

you! Make good speed!” Yes, good speed, for she heard the cries of the

furious mob, and as she was entering the cab a little boy exclaimed,

“There is the Empress,” and she thought all was lost; but it proved that

there was no one there to take notice, and so the two ladies drove off.

Soon they came into the midst of the excited crowd, and the lady

accompanying her questioned on this side and the other the meaning of it

all, and appeared to be lost in wonder at the proceedings, while the

Empress sank back out of sight in the carriage. They had a long ride out

beyond the Champs Élysées to the quieter parts of the city, when they

alighted, dismissed the cab, to avoid giving any clew in case of

pursuit, and walked some distance. Where should she go? To whom flee?

What friend trust? There was but one to whom she would venture, and that

one an American gentlemen of some note, who, with his wife, had long

been a friend of both Emperor and Empress. So they took another cab for

the house of this gentleman (whom we will call Mr. W——), arriving there

to find him away from home, and his wife absent for the summer at a

small seaport on the coast. The servant under these circumstances was

extremely ungracious, and quite refused to admit these strange ladies,

and when at last, upon their insisting, they were admitted to the house,

she was unwilling to show them into an apartment suitable for them, and

it was not without some difficulty that they were allowed to wait in the

library for the owner’s return. When at last he returned and entered the

room, judge of his surprise at the sight of the Empress. “You must get

me immediately out of France,—this very night,” exclaimed the Empress

the moment she saw him. Out of France that very night? He told her it

was impossible. He was expecting a party of friends to dinner, but would

plead sudden business and excuse himself, and make preparations as

quickly as possible for her flight; but, in the meantime, she must be

quiet and rest. This she was prevailed upon to do, and, supplying

herself from Mrs. W——’s wardrobe, retired for the night.

The dinner party, receiving the excuses of the host, and overcome with a

sense of mystery, soon withdrew in spite of the cordial message and

wishes of the gentleman that they would make themselves merry in his

absence. At four o’clock in the morning a carriage stood at the door,

into which Mr. W—— put the two ladies, and, driving himself, they set

off on their way out of France, pursuing quiet streets, confining their

course to unfrequented roads and lanes of the country, and avoiding the

more public highways, until the horses were worn out. They were then

near a little village; and the question arose how to get a carriage

brought to them, and explain why they could not go to it. Mr. W—— went

to the inn and, having found a private carriage which was waiting over

there, agreed with the servant to come out a mile or so and carry his

party, Mr. W——’s two sisters—one of whom was very lame indeed, and could

not walk a step—some miles on, till they should come to a railway. This

done and the lame lady with much difficulty put into the carriage by her

“brother” and “sister,” they proceeded for a distance until they came to

a railway, where they left the carriage to break up the clew, and rode a

short distance in the rail-car without attracting attention. Then they

took another carriage, riding in roundabout ways, until at the end of

two days they reached the little seaport where Mrs. W—— was spending the

summer. How must Mr. W—— conduct the ladies into the presence of his

wife without being observed by every one? After some reconnoitring, this

was successfully accomplished, and throwing her arms around the neck of

Mrs. W——, Eugenie exclaimed: “You and your husband are the only friends

left to me in the world.” She, with the lady who accompanied her,

remained in the room of Mrs. W——, lest some one should see and recognize

her. No servant could be allowed to enter the room. Mrs. W—— brought

food to the two ladies and served the Empress in everything, who

expostulated at the inconvenience she was causing her friend, and

insisted upon waiting upon herself, her behavior being of such a sweet

character as still more to endear her to her friends, who were risking

nearly all they possessed in her cause.

Their plan was now to get her across the Channel to the Isle of Wight,

and thence to England. There were but two conveyances in the harbor—both

private yachts—and only one able to get out to sea. The owner of that

one flatly refused to take the ladies over, but at last, after the

identity of the ladies had been made known and much persuasion used, he

consented, and Mr. W—— and the two ladies, with the reticule containing

two pocket-handkerchiefs, set out the day after their arrival in the

little seaport town on their voyage to England.

This is a journey usually made in a few hours; but a terrible storm

arising, it was prolonged to twenty-seven. The same night and in the

same waters the ever-memorable vessel the _Captain_ went down. But

although the gentleman in command lost all control of himself and ship,

they weathered the storm.

During this time Eugenie showed the most remarkable self-possession, and

evidently looked upon death as a relief from her woes. But this was not

to be, and after a passage fraught with the most imminent danger, she

was landed on the Isle of Wight, to find on English ground that asylum

which had been sought by so many fugitives before her. And to add to her

relief, her son, of whose whereabouts she knew nothing, was found to be

in Hastings, not far from her.

Such is the true story of Eugenie’s escape from Paris and France. What a

sad, sad tale of fallen greatness! How much must she have suffered in

those few days! the fury of a Paris mob in her ears; the fear of pursuit

at her back; how often did she start, and give herself up for lost! What

threatening meaning did many an accidental phrase assume! No wonder her

courage sustained the fearful storm; the thunder and lightning, the

waters, however dark and cold and deep, would be far more merciful than

that dreadful mob that called out her name, the mob that had shown no

pity to the little child or tender woman, and derided with the bitterest

insults the fond Marie Antoinette at the guillotine. Oh, France! when we

remember those days of terror, can we wonder at this retribution?

NAPOLEON III.

The following lines, suggested by the rise of Louis Napoleon, were

written January 6th, 1853. The capitulation of Sedan occurred September

1, 1870, and the death of the exile of Chiselhurst, January 9, 1873.

The light-house that once crowned the pointed rock

Of Eddystone, its bold inventor deem’d

A work to last for centuries, nor dream’d

It would succumb beneath the tempest’s shock:

And, therefore, as if Providence to mock,

He housed within it when the lightning gleam’d

Mid storm and darkness, but when morning beam’d,

Nought stood upon the bare and granite block!

Ambition thus dares all, and rears on high,

With the audacity of human pride,

A pile that may with Egypt’s wonders vie;

Perceiving not—presumptuous homicide!—

The ministers of wrath, that lurking nigh,

Will scatter the proud fabric far and wide.

THE EMPIRE IS PEACE.

This memorable utterance was originally made at Toulouse in the autumn

of 1852, while Louis Napoleon was feeling the public pulse in the

vineyards of Southern France, preparatory to re-establishing the

imperial _régime_. At the close of a splendid banquet given to him by

the Chamber of Commerce, in the Bourse, the Prince-President, emboldened

by the mad enthusiasm of the company present, suddenly cast off all

reserve, and unequivocally announced the impending change. “There is one

objection,” he urged in vindication of his purpose, “to which I must

reply. Certain minds seem to entertain a dread of war; certain persons

say, the Empire is only war. But I say, §the Empire is Peace§ (l’Empire

c’est la Paix), for France desires it, and when France is satisfied the

world is tranquil.”

JEFFERSON ON MARIE ANTOINETTE.

Mr. Jefferson’s estimate of Marie Antoinette is not so favorable as that

of some writers; for many years after his return from France he wrote of

her thus:—

This angel, as gaudily painted in the rhapsodies of Burke, with some

smartness of fancy, but no sound sense, was proud, disdainful of

restraint, indignant at all obstacles to her will, eager in the

pursuit of pleasure, and firm enough to hold to her desires, or perish

in their wreck. Her inordinate gambling and dissipations, with those

of the Count d’Artois and others of her _clique_, had been a sensible

item in the exhaustion of the treasury, which called into action the

reforming hand of the nation; and her opposition to it, her inflexible

perverseness and dauntless spirit, led herself to the guillotine, drew

the king on with her, and plunged the world into crimes and calamities

which will forever stain the pages of modern history. I have ever

believed that had there been no queen there would have been no

Revolution. No force would have been provoked or exercised. [He adds,

that he would not have voted for the execution of the sovereign. He

would have shut the queen up in a convent, and deprived the king only

of irresponsible and arbitrary power.]

GENERAL BLÜCHER.

This “personal” of Blücher is from the _Recollections_ of Lady

Clementina Davies:—When the special messengers arrived to inform Blücher

that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and that his services would be

immediately required in the field, they were astonished to find him

literally running round and round a large room, the floor of which was

covered with sawdust, and in which he had immured himself under the

delusion that he was an elephant. For the time it was feared that

Blücher was hopelessly insane, or that he was so far suffering from

_delirium tremens_ that his active co-operation in the anticipated

campaign would be impossible; but when the urgent news was brought him

he at once recovered himself, and proceeded to give his advice in a

perfectly sound state of mind, the tone of which was thus, as by a

sudden shock, restored to him.

THE MOTHER OF CHARLES V.

An interesting historical discovery has been made by a Prussian savant,

of the name of Bergenroth, who was commissioned by the English

Government to investigate various collections of Spanish archives for

papers illustrating the relations between Spain and England in the

middle ages. Among other important documents, M. Bergenroth discovered a

hitherto unpublished mass of correspondence of Ferdinand the Catholic

and Charles V.

From this correspondence it appears that Joanna, daughter of Ferdinand

and Isabella, and mother of Charles, was not really mad, as all the

world has hitherto believed. The story was an atrocious fabrication,

under cover of which, first her father, and then her son kept her

incarcerated, in order to keep possession themselves of the crown of

Castile, which was hers by right of her mother Isabella. After long

years of rigorous and even cruel captivity, the unfortunate lady did at

last lose her senses, but not until her old age.

We are continually called upon to reconstruct our views of history,

which, the more we study it, more and more resembles Hamlet’s cloud,

taking whatever shape partisanship may determine. We must draw a new

likeness of Charles, who is no longer the prince full of Flemish

_bonhomie_, good knight, and boon companion, rigorous and despotic, but

not personally cruel; and when this is done, Philip II. will appear a

less surprising anomaly.

THE TRADITIONAL MARY MAGDALENE.

The injurious and probably unjust inferences respecting Mary Magdalene,

as drawn by the general assent of the Christian Church from the

narratives of the Evangelists, in which mention is made of her

attendance on our Lord, want the stamp of confirmation. Such portraiture

is more traditional than authoritative. The prevailing conjecture that

the infirmity of which she had been cured implied moral guilt was

rejected, or mentioned with hesitation, by the early Greek and Latin

Fathers. It was taken up by Gregory the Great, and stamped with his

authority in the latter part of the sixth century. It is sanctioned by

the Roman Breviary, and its truth has been assumed by most

ecclesiastical writers, who seem to think that Mary loved much because

she had much to be forgiven. Painters and poets have described the

supposed illustrious penitent, in loose array, without giving her

costume the benefit of her conversion! By these means it became

established in the popular mind. This was the more easy, as it supplied

an agreeable and interesting contrast. It made one Mary serve as a foil

to set off the excellencies of another. Mary, the mother of our Lord,

became the type of feminine purity; but the leaders of opinion were not

content with giving her those honors to which all Christians consider

her justly entitled. To give it, however, the advantage of a striking

contrast, and thus make it shine with greater splendor, a female

character of an opposite description was wanted—a type of fallen

womanhood, penitent and restored. And as “the woman which was a sinner,”

mentioned by St. Luke in the seventh chapter of his Gospel, is left by

the historian strictly anonymous, Mary Magdalene, whose name occurs in

the next chapter, was seized on for this purpose, and her character

treated in a way which, by any honest woman, would be deemed worse than

martyrdom.

MOTHER GOOSE.

Mother Goose, instead of being a traditional bard, or a creature of

fancy, as commonly supposed, was a veritable personage. The

mother-in-law of Thomas Fleet, the editor, in 1731, of the Boston

_Weekly Rehearsal_, was the original Mother Goose—the “old woman” of the

world-famous melodies. Mother Goose belonged to a wealthy family in

Boston, where her eldest daughter, Elizabeth Goose, was married by

Cotton Mather, in 1715, to Fleet, and in due time gave birth to a son.

Like most mothers-in-law in our own day, the importance of Mrs. Goose

increased with the appearance of her grandchild, and poor Mr. Fleet,

half distracted with her endless nursery ditties, finding all other

means fail, tried what ridicule could effect, and actually printed a

book with the title: “Songs for the Nursery, or Mother Goose’s Melodies

for Children, printed by T. Fleet, at his printing house, Pudding Lane,

Boston. Price ten coppers.”

Mother Goose was the mother of nineteen children, and hence we may

easily trace the origin of that famous classic:—

“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,

She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

HISTORY AND FICTION.

The archbishop of Canterbury once put the following question to

Betterton, the actor: “How is it that you players, who deal only with

things imaginary, affect your auditors as if they were real; while we

preachers, who deal only with things real, affect our auditors as if

they were imaginary?” “It is, my lord,” replied the player, “because we

actors speak of things imaginary as if they were real, while you

preachers too often speak of things real as if they were imaginary.”

Whitefield used to tell this anecdote as an explanation of his own

vehement and dramatic style of preaching. The remark may be applied to

historical and fictitious writing. The old school historians were so

solid and stately that they conveyed only feeble images to the mind,

while poets and romancers out of airy nothings have created living and

breathing beings. How much more readily we remember romance than

history, and yet “truth is stranger than fiction.” Shakspeare’s Macbeth

and Richard are not the Macbeth and Richard of history, yet we cling to

the poet’s portraits of them, and discard the sober truth. “Macbeth,”

Sir Walter Scott tells us, “broke no law of hospitality in his attempt

on Duncan’s life. He attacked and slew the king at a place called

Bothgowan, or the Smith’s house, near Elgin, in 1039, and not, as has

been supposed, in his own castle of Inverness. The act was bloody, as

was the complexion of the times; but in very truth, the claim of Macbeth

to the throne, according to the rules of Scottish succession, was better

than that of Duncan. As a king, the tyrant so much exclaimed against,

was, in realty, a firm, just and equitable prince. Early authorities

show us no such persons as Banquo and his son Fleance, nor have we

reason to think that the latter ever fled further from Macbeth than

across the flat scene according to the stage direction. Neither were

Banquo or his son ancestors of the house of Stuart. All these things are

now known, but the mind retains pertinaciously the impressions made by

the imposition of genius. While the works of Shakspeare are read, and

the English language exists, history may say what she will, but the

general reader will only recollect Macbeth as the sacrilegious usurper

and Richard as the deformed murderer.”

CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM.

Robert Greene, the Elizabethan dramatist and novelist, indulged in the

following disparaging criticism in reference to Shakspeare:—

“There is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers that, with his

_tiger’s heart wrapt in a player’s hide_, supposes he is as well able to

bombast out a blank verse as the best of you, and being an absolute

Johannes factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a

country.”

The line in italics is a parody of one in 3 Henry VI., i. 4:—

“O! tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide,” which was taken from an

old play called the _First Part of the Contention of the two famous

Houses of York and Lancaster_. Shakspeare is known to have founded his

Henry VI. upon this piece and another which are supposed to have been

written by Greene or his friends, and hence, no doubt, Greene’s

acrimonious remark.

Says Dugald Stewart in his _Essays_:—A curious specimen of cotemporary

criticism is found in the Letters of the celebrated Waller, who speaks

thus of the first appearance of _Paradise Lost_:—“The old blind

schoolmaster, John Milton, hath published a tedious poem on the Fall of

Man. If its length be not considered as merit, it has no other!” Johnson

also says, in his _Lives of the Poets_: “Thompson has lately published a

poem, called the _Castle of Indolence_, in which there are some good

stanzas!”

Why do not men of superior talents strive, for the honor of the arts

which they love, to conceal their ignoble jealousies from the malignity

of those whom incapacity and mortified pride have leagued together as

the covenanted foes of worth and genius? What a triumph has been

furnished to the writers who delight in levelling all the proud

distinctions of humanity! and what a stain has been left on some of the

fairest pages of our literary history by the irritable passions and

petty hostilities of Pope and Addison!

Michelet, the historian, showed his extreme aversion to the First

Napoleon by describing him as “without eyelashes or eyebrows; with a

small quantity of hair of an uncertain brown; with eyes gray, like a

pane of glass, wherein one sees nothing; in short, an incomplete and

obscure impersonality which appears phantasmagorical.”

GREAT EVENTS FROM LITTLE CAUSES.

Fortuna quæ plurimum potest, cum in aliis rebus, tum præcipue in

bello, in parvis momentis magnus rerum mutationes efficit.—§Cæsar§,

_De Bello Civili_.

In _Poor Richard’s Almanac_, 1758, Franklin quotes,—“He adviseth to

circumspection and care even in the smallest matters, because sometimes

‘A little neglect may breed great mischief,’ adding, ‘For want of a nail

the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a

horse the rider was lost’; being overtaken and slain by the enemy, all

for want of care about a horse-shoe nail.” And St. James (ch. iii. v. 5)

gives a fine illustration in respect to the government of the tongue,

“Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.”

In the relations of cause and consequence there must, of course, be many

greater causes in readiness to act. An accidental spark may blow up a

fortress—_provided_ there be gunpowder in the magazine. But it is as

legitimate as it is curious to trace the successive links of a chain of

events back to small accidents.

“How momentous,” says Campbell, “are the results of apparently trivial

circumstances! When Mahomet was flying from his enemies, he took refuge

in a cave; which his pursuers would have entered, if they had not seen a

spider’s web at the entrance. Not knowing that it was freshly woven,

they passed by, and thus a spider’s web changed the history of the

world.”

When Louis VII., to obey the injunctions of his bishops, cropped his

hair and shaved his beard, Eleanor, his consort, found him, with this

unusual appearance, very ridiculous, and soon very contemptible. She

revenged herself as she thought proper, and the poor shaved king

obtained a divorce. She then married the Count of Anjou, afterwards

Henry II. of England. She had for her marriage-dower the rich provinces

of Poitou and Guienne; and this was the origin of those wars which for

three hundred years ravaged France, and cost the French three millions

of men. All this probably had never occurred had Louis not been so rash

as to crop his head, and shave his beard, by which he became so

disgustful in the eyes of Queen Eleanor.

Warton mentions, in his _Notes on Pope_, that the Treaty of Utrecht was

occasioned by a quarrel between the Duchess of Marlborough and Queen

Anne about a pair of gloves.

The expedition to the island of Ré was undertaken to gratify a foolish

and romantic passion of the Duke of Buckingham.

The coquetry of the daughter of Count Julian introduced the Saracens

into Spain.

What can be imagined more trivial, remarks Hume, in one of his essays,

than the difference between one color of livery and another in horse

races? Yet this difference begat two most inveterate factions in the

Greek empire, the Prasini and Veneti; who never suspended their

animosities till they ruined that unhappy government.

The murder of Cæsar in the capitol was chiefly owing to his not rising

from his seat when the senate tendered him some particular honors.

The negotiations with the Pope for dissolving Henry VIII.’s marriage

(which brought on the Reformation) are said to have been interrupted by

the Earl of Wiltshire’s dog biting his holiness’s toe, when he put it

out to be kissed by that ambassador; and the Duchess of Marlborough’s

spilling a basin of water on Mrs. Masham’s gown, in Queen Anne’s reign,

brought in the Tory Ministry, and gave a new turn to the affairs of

Europe.

If the nose of Cleopatra had been shorter, said Pascal, in his

epigrammatic and brilliant manner, the condition of the world would have

been different.

Luther might have been a lawyer, had his friend and companion escaped

the thunderstorm; Scotland had wanted her stern reformer, if the appeal

of the preacher had not startled him in the chapel of St Andrew’s

Castle; and if Mr. Grenville had not carried, in 1764, his memorable

resolution as to the expediency of charging certain stamp duties on the

plantations in America, the western world might still have bowed to the

British sceptre.

Giotto, one of the early Florentine painters, might have continued a

rude shepherd boy, if a sheep drawn by him upon a stone had not

accidentally attracted the notice of Cimabue.

THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Mr. Jefferson used to relate, with much merriment, that the final

signing of the Declaration of Independence was hastened by an absurdly

trivial cause. Near the hall in which the debates were then held was a

livery stable, from which swarms of flies came into the open windows and

assailed the silk-stockinged legs of honorable members. Handkerchief in

hand they lashed the flies with such vigor as they could command on a

July afternoon, but the annoyance became at length so extreme as to

render them impatient of delay, and they made haste to bring the

momentous business to a conclusion.

After such a long and severe strain upon their minds, members seem to

have indulged in many a jocular observation as they stood around the

table. Tradition has it that when John Hancock had affixed his

magnificent signature to the paper, he said, “There, John Bull may read

my name without spectacles!” Tradition, also, will never relinquish the

pleasure of repeating that, when Mr. Hancock reminded members of the

necessity of hanging together, Dr. Franklin was ready with his “Yes, we

must indeed all hang together, or else, most assuredly we shall all hang

separately.” And this may have suggested to the portly Harrison—a

“luxurious, heavy gentleman,” as John Adams describes him—his remark to

slender Elbridge Gerry, that when the hanging came he should have the

advantage, for poor Gerry would be kicking in the air long after it was

all over with himself.

French critics censure Shakspeare for mingling buffoonery with scenes of

the deepest tragic interest. But here we find one of the most important

assemblies ever convened, at the supreme moment of its existence, while

performing the act that gives it its rank among deliberate bodies,

cracking jokes, and hurrying up to the table to sign, in order to escape

the flies. It is precisely so that Shakspeare would have imagined the

scene.

THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.

According to a Spanish tradition the discovery of America is mainly due

to the result of a hard-fought game of chess. Columbus had for seven

weary years been dancing attendance upon the Court of Spain in pursuance

of the aim of his life. The anxious petitioner for royal favor and

assistance had failed to arouse in Ferdinand sufficient interest, in

what was declared by the commissioners appointed to report upon the

project, to be a visionary and impracticable scheme. True, he had

enlisted the sympathy of the good queen Isabella, and his hopes had been

encouraged and sustained by her in many ways. But after years of vain

solicitation, baffled by the skepticism which could not share his

aspirations, he determined to lay his plans before Charles VIII. of

France, and accordingly called to take leave of their majesties before

his departure from Cordova. Arriving at the palace at nightfall, he

announced his purpose to the queen, who instantly sought Ferdinand with

a determination to make a final effort on behalf of the sad and

discouraged suitor. The king was absorbed in a game of chess with a

grandee whose skill taxed his powers to the utmost. Isabella’s

interruption had the effect of distracting the monarch’s attention, and

of causing him to lose his principal piece, which was followed by a

volley of imprecations on mariners in general, and Columbus in

particular. The game grew worse, and defeat seemed imminent. With the

prospect of being vanquished, Ferdinand at length told the queen that

her _protegé_ should be successful or otherwise accordingly as the game

resulted. She immediately bent all her energies upon the board, and

watched the long contest with concentrated interest. The courtiers

clustered around the table, amused at the excitement of the king and the

quiet satisfaction of his antagonist. And so the game went on which was

to decide the discovery of a new world, until Isabella leaned toward her

husband’s ear and whispered, “you can checkmate him in four moves.” In

the utmost astonishment Ferdinand re-examined the game, found the

queen’s assertion correct, and in the course of a few minutes announced

that Columbus should depart on his voyage with the title of Admiral of

the Elect.

THE STORY OF TWO FAVORITE BALLADS.

ANNIE LAURIE.

The birth of the heroine of the well-known ballad of Annie Laurie is

quaintly recorded by her father, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, in

the family register, in these words:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty God, my daughter, Annie Laurie, was

born on the 16th day of December, 1682 years, about 6 o’clock in the

morning, and was baptised by Mr. Geo.” [Hunter, of Glencairn.]

And his own marriage is given in the same quaint style:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty, I was married to my wife, Jean Riddle,

upon the 27th day of July, 1674, in the Tron Kirk of Edinb., by Mr.

Annane.”

These statements are derived from the curious collection of manuscripts

left by the late Mr. W. F. H. Arundell, of Barjarg Tower, Dumfriesshire.

The papers of this industrious collector contain a vast fund of

information respecting the antiquities and county families of

Dumfriesshire. From them we learn further that Annie was wooed by

William Douglas, of Fingland, in Kirkcudbrightshire. Her charms are thus

spoken of in his pathetic lyric, “Bonnie Annie Laurie”:—

Her brow is like the snow-drift,

Her neck is like the swan,

Her face it is the fairest

That e’er the sun shone on,

That e’er the sun shone on,

And dark blue is her eye;

And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I’d lay me down and die.

“She was, however, obdurate to his passionate appeal, preferring

Alexander Ferguson, of Craigdarroch, to whom she was eventually married.

This William Douglas was said to have been the hero of the well-known

song, “Willie was a Wanton Wag.” Though he was refused by Annie, he did

not pine away in single blessedness, but made a runaway marriage with

Miss Elizabeth Clark, of Glenboig, in Galloway, by whom he had four sons

and two daughters.”

ROBIN ADAIR.

Robin Adair was well-known in the London fashionable circles of the last

century by the _sobriquet_ of the “Fortunate Irishman;” but his

parentage and the exact place of his birth are unknown. He was brought

up as a surgeon, but “his detection in an early amour drove him

precipitately from Dublin,” to push his fortunes in England. Scarcely

had he crossed the Channel when the chain of lucky events that

ultimately led him to fame and fortune commenced.

Near Holyhead, perceiving a carriage overturned, he ran to render

assistance. The sole occupant of this vehicle was a “lady of fashion,

well-known in polite circles,” who received Adair’s attentions with

thanks; and, being lightly hurt, and hearing that he was a surgeon,

requested him to travel with her in her carriage to London. On their

arrival in the metropolis she presented him with a fee of one hundred

guineas, and gave him a general invitation to her house. In after life

Adair used to say that it was not so much the amount of this fee, but

the time it was given, that was of service to him, as he was then almost

destitute. But the invitation to her house was a still greater service,

for there he met the person who decided his fate in life. This was Lady

Caroline Keppel, daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle and of Lady

Anne Lenox, daughter of the first Duke of Richmond. Forgetting her high

lineage, Lady Caroline, at the first sight of the Irish surgeon, fell

desperately in love with him; and her emotions were so sudden and so

violent as to attract the general attention of the company.

Adair, perceiving his advantage, lost no time in pursuing it; while the

Albemarle and Richmond families were dismayed at the prospect of such a

terrible _mesalliance_. Every means were tried to induce the young lady

to alter her mind, but without effect. Adair’s biographer tells us that

“amusements, a long journey, an advantageous offer, and other common

modes of shaking off what was considered by the family as an improper

match, were already tried, but in vain; the health of Lady Caroline was

evidently impaired, and the family at last confessed, with a good sense

that reflects honor on their understandings as well as their hearts,

that it was possible to prevent, but never to dissolve an attachment;

and that marriage was the honorable, and indeed the only alternative

that could secure her happiness and life.”

When Lady Caroline was taken by her friends from London to Bath, that

she might be separated from her lover, she wrote, it is said, the song

of “Robin Adair,” and set it to a plaintive Irish tune that she had

heard him sing. Whether written by Lady Caroline or not, the song is

simply expressive of her feelings at the time, and as it completely

corroborates the circumstances just related, which were the town-talk of

the period, though now little more than family tradition, there can be

no doubt that they were the origin of the song, the words of which, as

originally written, are the following:—

What’s this dull town to me?

Robin’s not near;

He whom I wish to see,

Wish for to hear.

Where’s all the joy and mirth,

Made life a heaven on earth?

Oh! they’re all fled with thee,

Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine?

Robin Adair!

What made the ball so fine?

Robin was there!

What, when the play was o’er,

What made my heart so sore?

Oh! it was parting with

Robin Adair!

But now thou art far from me,

Robin Adair!

But now I never see

Robin Adair!

Yet he I love so well

Still in my heart shall dwell,

Oh! can I ne’er forget

Robin Adair!

Immediately after his marriage with Lady Caroline, Adair was appointed

Inspector General of Military Hospitals, and subsequently, becoming a

favorite of George III., he was made Surgeon-General, King’s Sergeant

Surgeon, and Surgeon of Chelsea Hospital. Very fortunate men have seldom

many friends, but Adair, by declining a baronetcy that was offered to

him by the king, for surgical attendance on the Duke of Gloucester,

actually acquired considerable popularity before his death, which took

place when he was nearly fourscore years of age, in 1790. In the

“Gentleman’s Magazine” of that year there are verses “On the Death of

Robert Adair, Esq., late Surgeon-General, by J. Crane, M. D.,” who, it

is to be hoped, was a much better physician than a poet.

Lady Caroline Adair’s married life was short but happy. She died of

consumption, after giving birth to three children, one of them a son. On

her death-bed she requested Adair to wear mourning for her as long as he

lived; which he scrupulously did, save on the king’s and queen’s

birthdays, when his duty to his sovereign required him to appear at

Court in full dress. If this injunction respecting mourning were to

prevent Adair marrying again, it had the desired effect; he did not

marry a second time, though he had many offers.

JOAN OF ARC.

The legend respecting the substitution of another person at the stake,

and the subsequent marriage of the Maid to Robert des Hermoises, has

been treated by no less an iconoclast than M. Octave Delepierre, the

learned Belgian Consul in England, in a volume (_Doute Historique_),

privately printed. In the _Athenæum_ for September 15, 1855, there is a

complete analysis of the story, from which it appears that more than two

centuries after the alleged execution of Joan, namely in 1645, Father

Vignier found documents among the archives at Metz, which spoke of the

presence and recognition of Joan in that city, five years after her

alleged execution. The Father was then a guest of a descendant of Robert

des Hermoises, in whose muniment chest he discovered the marriage

contract of Robert and Joan. The matter was forgotten, when in 1740,

documents were found at Orleans which recorded, among other things, a

gratuity made to Joan in 1439, “for services rendered by her at the

siege of the same city, 210 livres.” The tradition has many singular

points, and is full of delightful uncertainty.

AMY ROBSART.

Another time-honored illusion is gone, and Amy Robsart descends into the

grave like a respectable lady, instead of disappearing through a

trap-door into a vault beneath and breaking her neck. So one by one the

pleasant fictions over which in youth we lingered with such keen

enjoyment, are stripped of their reality, and nothing but dull prose is

left in their place. The pretty legend of Pocahontas, the venerable and

patriotic one of William Tell, the ingenious mystification between the

island of Juan Fernandez, Alexander Selkirk, and Robinson Crusoe, all

have been cast down from their shrines. Nay, attempts have been made to

remove Shakspeare himself into the region of myth, by representing that

Lord Bacon was the veritable author of the plays and poems supposed to

have been written by the great bard of Avon. No one need now despair of

the disappearance of any time-honored personage or romance.

The name of Amy Robsart has always possessed a peculiar interest, not

merely on account of the historical associations connected with her, but

for the halo with which romance and poetry have invested her; and not

the least strange feature of the case is the fact that historians should

have so generally ignored the falsity of the legend. It had lain wrapped

in its venerable mantle for more than three hundred years, until very

recently, when public attention was forcibly called to the subject by an

article published in the Oxford _Undergraduates’ Journal_, England. In a

communication in that periodical, from the Secretary to the Oxford

Architectural and Historical Society, there is a statement to the

following effect: “The Rev. J. Burgon, the Vicar of St. Mary’s (Oxford),

has caused an inscription to be cut on the top step of the three steps

leading to the chancel of St. Mary’s Church, commemorating the site of

the interment of the ill-fated Amy Robsart. The inscription is as

follows: ‘In a vault of brick, at the upper end of this quire, was

buried Amy Robsart, wife of Lord Robert Dudley, K. G., Sunday, 22d

September, A. D. 1560.’” History tells us that the funeral was

celebrated with great pomp: but previously to the ceremony, a coroner’s

inquest was held on the body, and after a long and minute investigation

of the circumstances, a verdict of “accidental death,” was returned. The

character of the Earl of Leicester, (Lord Robert Dudley) her husband,

was such as to raise grave doubts as to the mode by which she came by

her death, and the popular belief that Queen Elizabeth was in love with

him, and was willing to marry him, gave great countenance to the

prevailing suspicion that he had kept his marriage a secret, and got rid

of his wife to enable him to carry out his ambitious schemes. The

historian, Hume, alludes to these reports, which, however, he derived

from Camden, the antiquary, and which very probably originated in the

political hostility and personal hatred of Cecil, Walsingham, and others

of Leicester’s mortal enemies. Ashmole, in his work, _The Antiquities of

Berkshire_ gives the popular legend from which Sir Walter Scott derived

many of the materials for his beautiful romance of _Kenilworth_.

Ashmole wrote his book about the middle of the seventeenth century, a

hundred years after the fatal event at Cumnor Hall; he is, therefore, no

authority on the subject; but William Julius Mickle, the poet, took him

for one a century later, and turned the story into verse. And thus,

between political hostility, personal dislike, the non-authenticated

statements of historians, antiquaries, poets and novelists, it has long

been accepted as an undoubted fact that Robert Dudley, Earl of

Leicester, murdered his wife, or was accessory to her murder, at Cumnor

Hall. But it has been very generally overlooked that his alleged main

motive for the supposed murder could have had no existence. There is no

doubt the Queen knew he was married, but she continued to disgrace

herself by open professions of attachment to him notwithstanding; and

after Amy’s sudden death, the inquest on her body, and her public

funeral, “Good Queen Bess” was just as fond of him as ever, and showered

such favors upon him as could have left him but little to wish for. He

knew perfectly well that a marriage between himself and Elizabeth would

have convulsed the kingdom, and probably cost him his life. He also knew

that she had no real intention of parting with one iota of the royal

power or prerogative, even to him, and hence the motive for the

so-called murder falls to the ground, and with it the pathetic romance

built upon it.

WILLIAM TELL.

William Tell is very hard to kill. German writers in the last century

demolish him, over and over again, but to little purpose. He remained

the Swiss hero, and what is far worse, those hideous statues at Altorf

continue to assert their undying ugliness, and pretend to prove, by

their presence there, the truth of the story. The giant has been

recently slain once more as an impostor. Once more? Half a dozen times;

and each slayer takes himself for the sole and original champion. Swiss

professors even have been at the work of demolition. Three or four years

ago Mr. Baring-Gould, in his “Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,” set up

a dozen of those myths, and bowled them all down at one bowl: he proved,

as others had done, that the legend of William Tell was “as fabulous as

any other historical event.” Mr. Baring-Gould, however, does more than

some others have done. He traces the story as far back as it can be

traced. This is the order of the tradition:—

1. In the tenth century a tippling, boasting Danish soldier, named Toki,

swore he could drive an arrow through an apple, placed on the point of a

stick, at a great distance. King Harald Bluetooth told the boaster that

the apple should be placed on his son’s head, and if Toki did not send

an arrow through it at the first attempt, his own head should pay the

penalty. Toki performed the feat with perfect success; but Harald

perceiving he had brought other arrows, demanded the reason thereof, and

Toki replied that if he had injured his son he would have driven those

other arrows into the King’s body. The story was first related by Saxo

Grammaticus, in the twelfth century.

2. But in the eleventh century the above prototype of Tell had

successors or imitators. King Olaf, the Saint of Norway, challenged

Eindridi, among other things, to shoot with an arrow at a writing tablet

on the head of Eindridi’s son. Each was to have one shot. Olaf grazed

the boy’s head, whereupon the boy’s mother interfered, and Eindridi was

withdrawn from the contest. Olaf remarked that his competitor had a

second arrow, which Eindridi confessed that he intended for his Majesty

if anything very unpleasant had happened to the boy.

3. A year or two later in this eleventh century, another Norse archer,

Hemingr, had a match with King Harold. Harold set a spear-shaft for a

mark in the ground. He then fired in the air; the arrow turned in its

descent and pierced the spear-shaft. Hemingr followed suit, and split

the King’s arrow, which was perpendicularly fixed in the spear-shaft.

Then the King stuck a knife in an oak. His arrow went into the haft.

Hemingr shot, and his arrow cleft the haft and went into the socket of

the blade. The enraged King next fired at a tender twig, which his arrow

pierced, but Hemingr’s split a hazel-nut growing upon it. “You shall put

the nut on your brother Bjorn’s head,” said Harold, “and if you do not

pierce it with your spear at the first attempt, your life shall be

forfeited.” Of course the thing was done. Hemingr is supposed to have

had his revenge by sending an arrow through Harold’s trachea at the

battle of Stamford Bridge, where he fought on the English side.

4. In the Faroe Isles, the above Harold is said to have had a

swimming-match with a certain Geyti, who not only beat him, but gave him

a ducking. Harold condemned him to shoot a hazel-nut off his brother’s

head, under the usual penalty, and with the usual result.

5. The same story is told of one Puncher, (suggestive name,) with this

difference, that the object aimed at was a coin.

6. In Finland, it is a son who shoots an apple off his father’s head;

for which feat some robbers, who had captured his sire, gave him up to

the son.

7. In a Persian poem of the twelfth century, a King, in sport, shoots an

arrow at an apple on the head of his favorite page, who, though not

hurt, died of the fright.

8. The story, with a difference, is told of Egil, in the Saga of

Thidrik, of no particular date.

9. It is familiar to us, in the English ballad of William of Cloudesley,

chronological date of event uncertain.

10. Enter William Tell, in the first decade of the fourteenth century.

We need not tell his well-known tale again. It is only necessary to

remark, by way of comment, that the Tell and Gesler legend was not set

up till many years afterwards, and that in no contemporary record is any

mention made of either Tell, Gesler, or the apple incident. No Vogt

named Gesler ever exercised authority for the Emperor in Switzerland; no

family bearing the name of Tell can be traced in any part of that

country.

11, and lastly. The hero’s name was not Tell at all, but M’Leod, and he

came from Braemar. Mr. Baring-Gould has quite overlooked him. Therefore

is the new claimant’s story here subjoined in order to make the roll of

legends complete. It is taken from _The Braemar Highlands; their Tales,

Traditions and History_, by Elizabeth Taylor. The King referred to is

Malcolm Canmore.

“A young man named M’Leod had been hunting one day in the royal forest.

A favorite hound of the King’s having attacked M’Leod, was killed by

him. The King soon heard of the slaughter of his favorite, and was

exceedingly angry—so much so that M’Leod was condemned to death. The

gibbet was erected on Craig Choinnich, _i.e._, Kennoth’s Craig. As there

was less of justice than revenge in the sentence, little time was

permitted ere it was carried into execution. The prisoner was led out by

the north gate of the castle. The King, in great state, surrounded by a

crowd of his nobles, followed in procession. Sorrowing crowds of the

people came after, in wondering amazement. As they moved slowly on, an

incident occurred which arrested universal attention. A woman with a

child in her arms came rushing through the crowd, and throwing herself

before the King, pleaded with him to spare her husband’s life, though it

should be at the expense of all they possessed. Her impassioned

entreaties were met with silence. Malcolm was not to be moved from his

purpose of death. Seeing that her efforts to move the King were useless,

she made her way to her husband, and throwing her arms around him

declared that she would not leave him—she would go and die with him.

Malcolm was somewhat moved by the touching scene. Allen Durward,

noticing the favorable moment, ventured to put in the suggestion that it

was a pity to hang such a splendid archer. ‘A splendid archer, is he?’

replied the King; ‘then he shall have his skill tried.’ So he ordered

that M’Leod’s wife and child should be placed on the opposite side of

the river; something to serve as a mark was to be placed on the child’s

head. If M’Leod succeeded in hitting the mark without injuring his wife

or child his life would be spared, otherwise the sentence was to be

carried into execution. Accordingly (so the legend goes) the young wife

and child were put across the river, and placed on Tomghainmheine;

according to some, a little farther down the river, near where a

boat-house once stood. The width of the Dee was to be the distance

separating M’Leod from his mark. He asked for a bow and two arrows, and

having examined each with the greatest care, he took his position. The

eventful moment came, the people gathered round him, and stood in

profound silence. On the opposite side of the river his wife stood, the

central figure of a crowd of eager bystanders, tears glistening on her

cheeks as she gazed alternately at her husband and child in dumb

emotion. M’Leod took aim; but his body shook like an aspen-leaf in the

evening breeze. This was a trial for him far harder than death. Again he

placed himself in position; but he trembled to such a degree that he

could not shoot, and turning to the King, who stood near, he said in a

voice scarcely articulate in its suppressed agony, ‘This is hard!’ But

the King relented not; so the third time he fell into the attitude, and

as he did so, almost roared, ‘This is hard!’ Then as if all his

nervousness had escaped through the cry, he let the arrow fly—it struck

the mark! The mother seized her child, and in a transport of joy seemed

to devour it with kisses; while the pent-up emotion of the crowd found

vent through a loud cry of wonder and triumph, which repeated itself

again and again as the echoes rolled slowly away among the neighboring

hills. The King now approached M’Leod, and after confirming his pardon,

inquired why he, so sure of hand and keen of sight, had asked two

arrows? ‘Because,’ replied M’Leod, ‘had I missed the mark, or hurt my

wife and child, I was determined not to miss you.’ The king grew pale,

and turned away as if undecided what to do. His better nature prevailed;

so he again approached M’Leod, and with kindly voice and manner told him

that he would receive him into his body-guard, and he would be well

provided for. ‘Never!’ answered the undaunted Celt. ‘After the painful

proof to which you have just put my heart. I could never love you enough

to serve you faithfully. The King in amazement cried out, ‘Thou art a

Hardy! and as Hardy thou art, so Hardy thou shalt be.’” From that time

M’Leod went under the appellation of Hardy, while his descendants were

termed the M’Hardy’s—Mac being the Gaelic word for son. The date of the

above is the eleventh century, when the legend burst forth in several

parts of the world. Here we have it in Scotland. Like many other legends

it probably came originally from India.

THE TIME OF LE GRAND MONARQUE.

Thackeray draws the following graphic picture of the extremes of society

in Europe in the time of Louis XIV. Rarely is the contrast between “the

boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,” and “the short and simple annals

of the poor,” delineated with such masterly vigor. Referring to the

influence of French fashions upon the German courts, he says:—