CHAPTER II.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. XI.--APRIL, 1851--VOL. II.

[Illustration: Washington Irving

[From a Daguerreotype by Plumbe.]]

There is a freshness about the fame and the character of Mr. IRVING, no

less than about his writings, which enables us to contemplate them with

unabated delight. Few men are so identified personally with their

literary productions, or have combined with admiration of their genius

such a cordial, home-like welcome in the purest affections of their

readers. We never become weary with the repetition of his familiar name;

no caprice of fashion tempts us to enthrone a new idol in place of the

ancient favorite; and even intellectual jealousies shrink back before

the soft brilliancy of his reputation. In the present Number of our

Magazine, we give our readers a portrait of the cherished author, with a

sketch of his sunny residence, which we are sure will be a grateful

memorial of one, to whom our countrymen owe such an accumulated fund of

exquisite enjoyments and delicious recollections. We will not let the

occasion pass without a few words of recognition, though conscious of no

wish to indulge in criticisms which at this late day might appear

superfluous.

The position of Mr. IRVING in American literature is no less peculiar

than it is enviable. With the exception of Mr. PAULDING, none of our

eminent living authors have been so long before the public. He commenced

his career as a writer almost with the commencement of the present

century. The first indications of his rich vein of humor and invention

that appeared through the press, were contained in the Jonathan Oldstyle

Letters, published in the Morning Chronicle in 1802, when he was in the

twentieth year of his age. His health at this time having become

seriously impaired, he spent a few years in European travel, and soon

after his return in 1806, he wrote the sparkling papers in Salmagundi,

which at once decided his position as a shrewd observer of society, a

pointed and vigorous satirist, a graphic delineator of manners, and a

quaint moral teacher, whose joyous humor graciously attempered the

bitterness of his wit. It was not, however, till the appearance of

Knickerbocker, that his unique powers, in this respect, were displayed

in all their vernal bloom, giving the promise of future golden harvests,

which has since been more than redeemed in the richness and beauty of

the varied productions of his genius.

The lapse of years has brought no cloud over the early brightness of Mr.

Irving's fame. He has sustained his reputation with an elastic vigor

that shows the soundness of its elements. At the dawn of American

letters, he was acknowledged to possess those enchantments of style,

that betray the hand of a master. His rare genius captivated all hearts.

His name was identified by our citizens with the racy chronicles of

their Dutch ancestors, and soon became associated with local

recollections and family traditions. Born in a quarter of the town,

whose original features have passed away before the encroachments of

business, he has witnessed the growth of his fame with the growth of the

city. The memory of Diedrich Knickerbocker is now immortalized at the

corners of the streets, and in our most crowded thoroughfares. Even the

dusty haunts of Mammon are refreshed with the emblems of a man of genius

who once trod their pavements.

With his successive publications, a new phase of Mr. Irving's

intellectual character was displayed to the public, but with no decrease

of the admiration, which from the first had stamped him as a universal

favorite. The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, and Tales of a Traveler

revealed a magic felicity of description, with a pathetic tenderness of

sentiment, that gave a still more mellow beauty to his composition;

while his elaborate historical work, The Life of Columbus, established

his reputation for unrivaled skill in sustaining the continuous interest

of a narrative, and in grouping its details with admirable picturesque

effect. His later productions, illustrative of Indian life, and his

still more recent works on the history of Mahomet and the biography of

Goldsmith, are marked with the characteristic traits of the author,

proving that his right hand has lost none of its cunning, nor his tongue

aught of its mellifluous sweetness.

It is highly creditable to the tastes of the present generation, that

Mr. Irving retains, to such a remarkable degree, his wonted ascendency.

Other authors of acknowledged eminence have arisen in various

departments of literature, since he won his earlier laurels, and many of

them since he has ceased to be a young man, but they have not enticed

the more youthful class of readers from the allegiance which was paid to

him by their fathers. The monarch that knew not Joseph has not yet

ascended the throne. Indeed many of the most true-hearted admirers of

Mr. Irving were not born until long after the Sketch Book had made his

name a household word among the tasteful readers of English literature.

This enduring popularity could not spring from any accidental causes. It

must proceed from those qualities in the author, which are the pledge of

a permanent fame. If a foretaste of literary immortality is desirable on

earth, we may congratulate Mr. Irving on the possession of one of its

most significant symbols, in the unfading brilliancy of his reputation

for little less than half a century.

We have already alluded to the use made by Mr. Irving of the historical

legends of our country. Nor is this his only claim on the American

heart. He is peculiarly a national writer. He has sought his

inspirations from the woods and streams, the lakes and prairies of his

native land. No poet has been more successful in throwing the spell of

romance around our familiar scenery. Under his creative pen the lordly

heights of the Hudson have become classic ground. The beings of his

weird fancy have peopled their forest dells, and obtained a "local

habitation" as permanent as the river and the mountains. His love of

country is a genial passion, inspired by the reminiscences of his youth,

and quickened by the studies of his manhood. He is proud of his

birthright in a land of freedom. His protracted residence abroad has

never seduced him from the ardor of his first attachment to the American

soil. His favorite writings are pervaded with this spirit. Yet he

betrays none of the prejudices of national pride. His patriotism is free

from all tincture of bigotry. He scorns the narrowness of exclusive

partialities. With genuine cosmopolitan tastes, he gathers up all that

is precious and beautiful in the traditions, or manners, or institutions

of other lands, finding materials for his gorgeous pictures in the

ancestral glories of English castles, and the splendid ruins of the

Alhambra, as well as in the quaint legends of Manhattan, and the

adventures of trapper life in the Far West. This singular universality

has given him the freedom of the whole literary world. As he every where

finds himself at home, his fame is not the monopoly of any nation. He

has his circle of admirers around the hearth-stones of every cultivated

people. Even the English, who are slow to recognize a melody in their

own language when spoken by a transatlantic tongue, have vied with his

countrymen in rendering homage to his genius. His evident mastery, even

in those departments of composition which have been the favorite sphere

of the most popular English writers, has softened the asperity of

criticism, and won a genial admiration from the worshipers of Addison,

Goldsmith, and Mackenzie. In this respect Mr. Irving stands alone among

American writers. Cherished with a glow of affectionate enthusiasm by

his own countrymen, he has secured a no less beautiful fame among

myriads of readers, with whom his sole intellectual tie is the

spontaneous attraction of his genius.

His universality is displayed with equal strength in the influence which

he exerts over all classes of minds. He has never been raised to a

factitious eminence by the applauses of a clique. His fame is as natural

and as healthy as his character, owing none of its lustre to the gloss

of flattery, or the glare of fashion. His themes have been taken, to a

great extent from common life. He has derived the coloring of his

pictures from the universal sentiments of humanity. He is equally free

from cold, prosaic, common-place hardness of feeling and from sickly and

mawkish effeminacy. He loves to deal with matters of fact, but always

surrounds them with the light of his radiant imagination. He exalts and

glorifies the actual, without losing it in the clouds of a vaporous

ideal. Refined and fastidious in feeling, he retains his sympathy with

the most homely realities of life, chuckles over the luscious comforts

of a Dutch ménage, and professes no philosophical indifference to the

savor of smoking venison in an Indian lodge. With the curious felicity

of his style, he uses no strange and far-fetched words. Its charm

depends on the beauty of its combinations, not on the rarity of its

language. He employs terms that are in the mouths of the people, but

weaves them up into those expressive and picturesque forms that never

cease to haunt the memory of the reader. Accordingly, he is cherished

with equal delight by persons of every variety of culture. His

fascinating volumes always formed a part of the traveling equipage of

one of the most celebrated New-England judges, and they may be found

with no less certainty among the household goods of the emigrant, and

the resources for a rainy day on the frugal shelves of the Yankee

farmer. They still detain the old man from his pillow, and the schoolboy

from his studies. Under their potent charm, the merchant forgets his

Wall-street engagements; the preacher lingers over their seductive

sentences till the Sunday becomes an astonishment; the statesman is

beguiled into oblivion of the salvation of his country; and the advocate

is absorbed in the fortunes of some "roystering varlet," till his own

forlorn client loses all chance of recovering his character.

The writings of Mr. Irving are no less distinguished by the truthfulness

and purity of their moral tone, than by their delightful humor, and

their apt delineations of nature and society. It is small praise to say

that he never panders to a vicious sentiment, that he makes no appeal to

a morbid imagination, and has written nothing to encourage a false and

effeminate view of life. His merits, in this respect, are of a positive

character. No one can be familiar with his productions, without

receiving a kindly and generous influence. His goodness of heart

communicates a benignant contagion to his readers. His mild and

beautiful charity, his spirit of wise tolerance, the considerateness and

candor of his judgments, the placable gentleness of his temper, and the

just appreciation of the infinite varieties of character and life are

adapted to mitigate the harshness of the cynic, and even to quell the

wild furies of the bigot. His sharpest satire never degenerates into

personal abuse. It seems the efflorescence of a rich nature, susceptible

to every shade of the ludicrous, rather than the overflow of a poisonous

fountain, spreading blight and mildew in its course. If he laughs at the

follies of the world, it is not that he has any less love for the good

souls who commit them, but that with his exuberant good-nature he has no

heart to use a more destructive weapon than his lambent irony. With his

fine moral influence, he never affects the sternness of a reformer. He

is utterly free from all didactic pedantry. We know nothing that he has

written with a view to ethical effect. He reveals his own nature in the

sweet flow of his delicate musings, and if he does good it is with

delightful unconsciousness. He would blush to find that he had been

useful when he aimed only to give pleasure, or rather to relieve his own

mind of its "thick coming fancies."

In describing the position of Mr. Irving in the field of American

literature, we have incidentally touched upon the characteristics of his

genius, to which he is indebted for his high and enviable fame. We need

not expand our rapid sketch into a labored analysis. Indeed every just

criticism of his writings would only repeat the verdict that has so

often been pronounced by the universal voice.

Nor is it exclusively as a writer that Mr. Irving has won such a

distinguished place in the admiration of his countrymen. While proud of

his successes in the walks of literature, they have regarded his

personal character with affectionate delight, and lavished the heartfelt

sympathies on the man which are never paid to the mere author. The

purity of this offering is the more transparent, as Mr. Irving has never

courted the favor of the public, nor been placed in those relations with

his fellow-men, that are usually the conditions of general popularity.

He has wisely kept himself apart from the excitements of the day; with

decided political opinions, he has abstained from every thing like

partisanship; no one has been able to count on his advocacy of any

special interests; and with his singular fluency and grace of

expression in written composition, he has never affected the arts

of popular oratory. His habits have been those of the well-educated

gentleman--neither cherishing the retirement of the secluded student,

nor seeking a prominence in public affairs--throwing a charm over the

social circles which he frequented by the brilliancy of his intellect,

the amenity of his manners, and the ease of his colloquial

intercourse--but never surrounded by the prestige of factitious

distinction by which so many inferior men obtain an ephemeral notoriety.

His appointment as Minister to Spain has been his sole official honor;

and this was rather a tribute to his literary eminence than the reward

of political services. On his return from Europe in 1832, after an

absence of nearly twenty years, he was received with a spontaneous

welcome by his fellow-citizens, such as has been seldom enjoyed by the

most successful claimants of popular favor; and from that time to the

present, no one has shown a more undisputed title to the character of

the favorite son of Manhattan. In his beautiful retreat at Sunnyside,

"as quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man could desire in which

to take refuge from the cares and troubles of this world," he listens to

the echoes of his fame, cheered by the benedictions of troops of

friends, and enjoying the autumn maturity of life with no mists of envy

and bitterness to cloud the purple splendors of his declining sun.

It is understood that Mr. Irving is now engaged in completing the Life

of Washington, a work of which he commenced the preparation before his

residence in Europe as Minister to the Spanish Court. We are informed

that it will probably be given to the public in the course of another

season. It can not fail to prove a volume of national and household

interest. The revered features of the Immortal Patriot will assume a

still more benignant aspect, under the affectionate and skillful touches

of the congenial Artist. With his unrivaled power of individualization,

his practiced ability in historical composition, and his acute sense of

the moral perspective in character, he will present the illustrious

subject of his biography in a manner to increase our admiration of his

virtues, and to inspire a fresh enthusiasm for the wise and beneficent

principles of which his life was the sublime embodiment. There is a

beautiful propriety in the still more intimate connection of the name of

WASHINGTON IRVING with that of the FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY. It is meet

that the most permanent and precious memorial of the First Chief of the

American Republic should be presented by the Patriarch of American

Letters. It would be a fitting close of his bright career before the

public--the melodious swan-song of his historic Muse.

[Illustration: SUNNYSIDE, THE RESIDENCE OF WASHINGTON IRVING.]

[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant.]

The birthplace of Mr. BRYANT, in a secluded and romantic spot

among the mountains of western Massachusetts, seems to have been

selected by Nature as a fit residence for the early unfolding of high

poetic genius. Situated on the forest elevations above the beautiful

valley of the Connecticut in the old county of Hampshire, surrounded by

a rare combination of scenery, in which are impressively blended the

wild and rugged with the soft and graceful, adorned in summer with the

splendors of a rapid and luxuriant vegetation, in winter exposed to the

fiercest storms from the northwest which bury the roads and almost the

houses in gigantic snow-drifts, inhabited by a hardy and primitive

population which exhibit the peculiar traits of New England character in

their most salient form, the little town of Cummington has the

distinction of giving birth to the greatest American poet.

It was here that he was first inspired with a sense of the glory and

mystery of Nature--first learned to "hold communion with her visible

forms," and to lend his ear to her "various language"--first awoke to

the consciousness of the "vision and the faculty divine," which he has

since displayed in such manifold forms of poetic creation. It was under

the shadow of his "native hills"--

"Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky

With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards, and beechen forests basking lie,

While deep the sunless glens are scooped between

Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen"--

in the "groves which were God's first temples," where the "sacred

influences"

"From the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound

Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once

All their green tops, stole over him"--

that the spirit of the boy-poet was touched with the mystic harmonies of

the universe, and received those impressions of melancholy grandeur from

natural objects, which pervade the most characteristic productions of

his genius.

Mr. BRYANT'S vocation for poetry was marked at a very early age. The

history of literature scarcely affords an example of such a precocious,

and, at the same time, such a healthy development. His first efforts

betray no symptoms of a forced, hot-bed culture, but seem the

spontaneous growth of a prolific imagination. They are free from the

spasmodic forces which indicate a morbid action of the intellect, and

flow in the polished, graceful, self-sustaining tranquillity, which is

usually the crowning attainment of a large and felicitous experience.

Among his earliest productions were several translations from different

Latin poets, some of which, made at ten years of age, were deemed so

successful, as to induce his friends to publish them in the newspaper of

a neighboring town. These were followed by a regular satirical

poem, entitled "The Embargo," written during the heated political

controversies concerning the policy of Mr. Jefferson, many of whose most

strenuous opponents resided at Northampton (at that time the centre of

political and social influence to a wide surrounding country), and from

the contagion of whose intelligence and zeal, the susceptible mind of

the young poet could not be expected to escape. This was published in

Boston, in 1808, before the author had completed his fourteenth year.

Its merits were at once acknowledged; it was noticed in the principal

literary review of that day; it was read with an eagerness in proportion

to the warmth of party spirit; and, indeed, so strong was the impression

which it made on the most competent judges, that nothing but the

explicit assertions of the friends of the writer could convince them of

its genuineness. It seemed, in all respects, too mature and finished a

performance to have proceeded from such a juvenile pen. This point,

however, was soon decided, and if any remaining doubts lingered in their

minds, they might have been removed by the production of "Thanatopsis,"

which was written about four years after, when the author was in the

beginning of his nineteenth year.

This remarkable poem was not published until 1816, when it appeared in

the North American Review, then under the charge of Mr. DANA,

who has himself since attained to such a signal eminence among the poets

and essayists of America, and between whom and Mr. Bryant a singular

unity of intellectual tastes laid the foundation for a cordial

friendship, which has been maintained with a warmth and constancy in the

highest degree honorable to the character of both parties. Meanwhile,

Mr. Bryant had established himself in the profession of the law, in the

beautiful village of Great Barrington, exchanging the mountain wildness

of his native region, for the diversified and singularly lovely scenery

of the Housatonic Valley, where he composed the lines "To Green Elver,"

"Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," "To a Waterfowl," and several

of his other smaller poems, which have since hardly been surpassed by

himself, and certainly not by any other American writer.

The "Thanatopsis," viewed without reference to the age at which it was

produced, is one of the most precious gems of didactic verse in the

whole compass of English poetry, but when considered as the composition

of a youth of eighteen, it partakes of the character of the marvelous.

It is, however, unjust to its rich and solemn beauty to contemplate it

in the light of a prodigy. Nor are we often tempted to revert to the

singularity of its origin, when we yield our minds to the influence of

its grand and impressive images. It seems like one of those majestic

products of nature, to which we assign no date, and which suggest no

emotion but that of admiration at their glorious harmony.

The objection has been made to the "Thanatopsis," that its consolations

in view of death are not drawn directly from the doctrines of religion,

and that it in fact makes no express allusion to the Divine Providence,

nor to the immortality of the soul. These ideas are so associated in

most minds with the subject matter of the poem, that their omission

causes a painful sense of incongruity. But the writer was not composing

a homily, nor a theological treatise. His imagination was absorbed with

the soothing influences of nature under the anticipation of the "last

bitter hour." In order to make the contrast more forcible, the poem

opens with a cold and dreary picture of the common destiny. Earth claims

the body which she has nourished; man is doomed to renounce his

individual being and mingle with the elements; kindred with the sluggish

clod, his mould is pierced by the roots of the spreading oak. The sun

shall no more see him in his daily course, nor shall any traces of his

image remain on earth or ocean.

But the universality of this fate relieves the desolation of the

prospect. Nature imparts a solace to her favorite child, glides into his

darker musings with mild and healing sympathy, and gently counsels him

not to look with dread on the mysterious realm, which is the final goal

of humanity. No one retires alone to his eternal resting-place. No couch

more magnificent could be desired than the mighty sepulchre in which

kings and patriarchs have laid down to their last repose. Every thing

grand and lovely in nature contributes to the decoration of the great

tomb of man. The dead are every where. The sun, the planets, the

infinite host of heaven, have shone on the abodes of death through the

lapse of ages. The living, who now witness the departure of their

companions without heed, will share their destiny. With these kindly

admonitions, Nature speaks to the spirit when it shudders at the thought

of the stern agony and the narrow house.

The stately movement of the versification, the accumulated grandeur of

the imagery, the vein of tender and solemn pathos, and the spirit of

cheerful trust at the close, which mark this extraordinary poem, render

it more effective, in an ethical point of view, than volumes of

exhortation; while, regarded as a work of art, the unity of purpose with

which its leading thought is presented under a variety of aspects, gives

it a completeness and symmetry which remove the force of the objection

to which we have alluded.

In a similar style of majestic thought is the "Forest Hymn," from which

we can not refrain from quoting an inimitable passage, descriptive of

the alternation between Life and Death in the Universe, which seems to

us to open the heart of the mystery with a truthfulness of insight that

has found expression in language of unsurpassable energy.

"My heart is awed within me, when I think

Of the great miracle that still goes on

In silence, round me--the perpetual work

Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd

Forever. Written on thy works, I read

The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die--but see, again,

How on the faltering footsteps of decay

Youth presses--ever gay and beautiful youth,

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

Wave not less proudly that their ancestors

Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,

After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies,

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

Of his arch-enemy, Death--yea, seats himself

Upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre,

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth

From thine own bosom, and shall have no end."

The soft and exquisite beauty of the lines entitled "To a Waterfowl" is

appreciated by every reader of taste. They belong to that rare class of

poems which, once read, haunt the imagination with a perpetual charm. A

more natural expression of true religious feeling than that contained in

the closing stanzas, is nowhere to be met with.

"Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

"He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright."

[Illustration: BRYANT'S RESIDENCE, AT ROSLYN, (HEMPSTEAD HARBOR) L. I.]

But we have no space to dwell upon the attractive details of Mr.

Bryant's poetry, though it would be a grateful task to pass in review

the familiar productions, of which we can weary as little as of the

natural landscape. It needs no profound analysis to state their most

general characteristics. Bryant's descriptions of nature are no less

remarkable for their minute accuracy than for the richness and delicacy

of their suggestions in the sphere of sentiment. No one can ever be

tempted to accuse him of obtaining his knowledge of nature at second

hand. He paints nothing which he has not seen. His images are derived

from actual experience. Hence they have the vernal freshness of an

orchard in bloom. He is no less familiar with the cheerful tune of

brooks in flowery June than with the voices and footfalls of the

thronged city. He has watched the maize-leaf and the maple-bough growing

greener under the fierce sun of midsummer; the mountain wind has

breathed its coolness on his brow; he has gazed at the dark figure of

the wild-bird painted on the crimson sky; and listened to the sound of

dropping nuts as they broke the solemn stillness of autumn woods. The

scenes of nature which he has loved and wooed have rewarded him with

their beautiful revelations in the moral world. Her dim symbolism has

become transparent to the anointed eye of the reverent bard, and

initiated him into the mysteries which give a new significance to the

material creation.

It is true that the staple of his poetry is reflection, rather than

passion, reminding us of the chaste severity of sculpture, and not

appealing to the fancy by any sensuous or voluptuous arts of coloring.

But a deep sentiment underlies the expression; and he touches the

springs of emotion with a powerful hand, though he never ceases to be

master of his own feelings. The apparent coldness of which some have

complained, may be ascribed to the frigidity of the reader, with more

truth than to the apathy of the writer. With its highly intellectual

character, the poetry of Mr. Bryant is adapted to win a more profound

and lasting admiration than if it were merely the creation of a

productive fancy. It may gain a more limited circle of readers (although

its universal popularity sets aside this supposition), but they who have

once enjoyed its substantial reality will place it on the same shelf

with Milton and Wordsworth, with a "sober certainty" that they will

always find it instinct with a fresh and genuine vitality.

The influence of this poetry is of a pure and ennobling character; never

ministering to false or unhealthy sensibility, it refreshes the better

feelings of our nature; inspiring a tranquil confidence in the on-goings

of the Universe, with whose most beautiful manifestations we are brought

into such intimate communion. Its most pensive tones, which murmur such

sweet, sad music, never lull the soul in the repose of despair, but

inspire it with a cheerful hope in the issues of the future. The

"inexorable Past" shall yet yield the treasures which are hidden in its

mysterious depths, and every thing good and fair be renewed in "the

glory and the beauty of its prime."

"All shall come back, each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again;

Alone shall Evil die,

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign."

As a prose writer, Mr. Bryant is distinguished for signal excellencies

both of thought and expression, evincing a remarkable skill in various

departments of composition, from the ephemeral political essay to the

high-wrought fictitious tale, and graphic recollections of foreign

travel. The superior brightness of his poetic fame can alone prevent him

from being known to posterity as a vigorous and graceful master of

prose, surpassed by few writers of the present day.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

In the early months of last year the Great Exhibition had become as

nearly a "fixed fact" as any thing in the future can be. The place where

and the building in which it was to be held, then became matters for

grave consideration. The first point, fortunately, presented little

difficulty, the south side of Hyde-park, between Kensington-road and

Rotten-row, having been early selected as the locality.

The construction of the edifice, however, presented difficulties not so

easily surmounted. The Building Committee, comprising some of the

leading architects and engineers of the kingdom, among whom are Mr.

Barry, the architect of the new Houses of Parliament, and Mr.

Stephenson, the constructor of the Britannia Tubular Bridge, advertised

for plans to be presented for the building. When the committee met, they

found no want of designs; their table was loaded with them, to the

number of 240. Their first task was to select those which were

positively worthless, and throw them aside. By this process the

number for consideration was reduced to about sixty; and from

these the committee proceeded to concoct a design, which pleased

nobody--themselves least of all. However, the plan, such as it was, was

decided upon, and advertisements were issued for tenders for its

construction. This was the signal for a fierce onslaught upon the

proceedings of the committee. For the erection of a building which was

to be used for only a few months, more materials were to be thrown into

one of the main lungs of the metropolis, than were contained in the

eternal pyramids of Egypt. Moreover, could the requisite number of miles

of brickwork be constructed within the few weeks of time allotted? and

was it not impossible that this should, in so short a time, become

sufficiently consolidated to sustain the weight of the immense iron dome

which, according to the design of the committee, was to rest upon it?

The committee, fortunately, were not compelled to answer these and a

multitude of similar puzzling interrogatories which were poured in upon

them. Relief was coming to them from an unexpected quarter: whence, we

must go back a little to explain.

On New Year's Day, of the year 1839, Sir Robert Schomburgk, the

botanist, was proceeding in a native boat up the River Berbice, in

Demerara. In a sheltered reach of the stream, he discovered resting upon

the still waters an aquatic plant, a species of lily, but of a gigantic

size, and of a shape hitherto unknown. Seeds of this plant, to which was

given the name of "Victoria Regia," were transmitted to England, and

were ultimately committed to the charge of JOSEPH PAXTON, the

horticulturist at Chatsworth, the magnificent seat of the Duke of

Devonshire. The plant produced from these seeds became the occasion, and

in certain respects the model, for the Crystal Palace.

Every means was adopted to place the plant in its accustomed

circumstances. A tropical soil was formed for it of burned loam and

peat; Newcastle coal was substituted for a meridian sun, to produce an

artificial South America under an English heaven; by means of a wheel a

ripple like that of its native river, was communicated to the waters of

the tank upon which its broad leaves reposed. Amid such enticements

the lily could not do otherwise than flourish; and in a month it had

outgrown its habitation. The problem was therefore set before its

foster-father to provide for it, within a few weeks, a new home. This

was not altogether a new task for Mr. Paxton, who had already devoted

much attention to the erection of green-houses; and within the required

space of time, he had completed this house for the "Victoria Regia," and

therein, in the sense in which the acorn includes the oak, that of the

Crystal Palace.

[Illustration: THE GREAT EXHIBITION BUILDING.]

While Mr. Paxton was planning an abode for this Brobdignagian lily, the

Building Committee of the Exhibition were poring wearily over the 240

plans lying upon their table. They had rejected the 180 worthless ones,

and from the remainder had concocted, as we have said, with much

cogitation and little satisfaction, their own design. Such as it was,

however, it was determined that it should be executed--if possible.

This brings us down to the middle, or to be precise, to the 18th of

June, on which day Mr. Paxton was sitting as chairman on a railway

committee. He had previously made himself acquainted with the case laid

before them, and was not therefore under the necessity of now devoting

his attention to it. He took advantage of this leisure moment to work

out a design for the Exhibition Building, which he had conceived some

days previously. In ten days thereafter elevations, sections, working

plans and specifications, were completed from this draft, and the whole

was submitted to the inspection of competent and influential persons, by

whom it was unanimously announced to be practicable, and the only

practicable scheme presented.

This design was then laid before the contractors, Messrs. Fox and

Henderson, who at once determined to submit a tender for the

construction of a building in accordance with it. In a single week, they

had calculated the amount and cost of every pound of iron, every pane of

glass, every foot of wood, and every hour of labor which would be

required, and were prepared with a tender and specifications for the

construction of the edifice. But here arose a difficulty. The committee

had advertised only for proposals for carrying out their own design;

but, fortunately, they had invited the suggestion on the part of

contractors, of any improvements upon it; and so Mr. Paxton's plan was

presented simply as an "improvement" upon that of the committee, with

which it had not a single feature in common. This, with certain

modifications, was adopted, and the result is the Crystal Palace--itself

the greatest wonder which the Exhibition will present--the exterior of

which is represented in our accompanying Illustration.

The building consists of three series of elevations of the respective

heights of 64, 44, and 24 feet, intersected at the centre by a transept

of 72 feet in width, having a semicircular roof rising to the height of

108 feet in the centre. It extends in length 1851 feet from north to

south, more than one-third of a mile, with a breadth of 456 feet upon

the ground; covering 18 superficial acres, nearly double the extent of

our own Washington-square; and exceeding by more than one half the

dimensions of the Park or the Battery. The whole rests upon cast-iron

pillars, united by bolts and nuts, fixed to flanges turned perfectly

true, so that if the socket be placed level, the columns and

connecting-pieces must stand upright; and, in point of fact, not a

crooked line is discoverable in the combination of such an immense

number of pieces. For the support of the columns, holes are dug in the

ground, in which is placed a bed of concrete, and upon this rest iron

sockets of from three to four feet in length, according to the level of

the ground, to which the columns are firmly attached by bolts and nuts.

At the top, each column is attached by a girder to its opposite column,

both longitudinally and transversely, so that the whole eighteen acres

of pillars is securely framed together.

The roofs, of which there are five, one to each of the elevations, are

constructed on the "ridge and furrow" principle, and glazed

with sheets of glass of 49 inches in length. The construction will be at

once understood by imagining a series of parallel rows of the letter V

(thus, \/\/\/), extending in uninterrupted lines the whole length of the

building. The apex of each ridge is formed by a wooden sash-bar with

notches upon each side for holding the laths in which are fitted the

edges of the glass. The bottom bar, or rafter, is hollowed at the top so

as to form a gutter to carry off the water, which passes through

transverse gutters into the iron columns, which are hollow, thus serving

as water-pipes; in the base of the columns horizontal pipes are

inserted, which convey the accumulated water into the sewers. The

exhalations, from so large an extent of surface, from the plants, and

from the breath of the innumerable visitors, rising and condensed

against the glass, would descend from a flat roof in the form of a

perpetual mist, but it is found that from glass pitched at a particular

angle the moisture does not fall, but glides down its surface. The

bottom bars are therefore grooved on the inside, thus forming interior

gutters, by which the moisture also finds its way down the interior of

the columns, through the drainage pipes, into the sewers. These grooved

rafters, of which the total length is 205 miles, are formed by

machinery, at a single operation.

The lower tier of the building is boarded, the walls of the upper

portion being composed, like the roof, of glass. Ventilation is provided

for by the basement portion being walled with iron plates, placed at an

angle of 45 degrees, known as _luffer-boarding_, which admits the air

freely, while it excludes the rain. A similar provision is made at the

top of each tier of the building. These are so constructed that they can

be closed at pleasure. In order to subdue the intense light in a

building having such an extent of glass surface, the whole roof and the

south side will be covered with canvas, which will also preclude the

possibility of injury from hail, as well as render the edifice much

cooler.

In the construction of the building care has been taken to give to each

part the stiffest and strongest form possible in a given quantity of

material. The columns are hollow, and the girders which unite them are

trellis-formed. The utmost weight which any girder will ever be likely

to sustain is seven and a half tons; and not one is used until after

having been tested to the extent of 15 tons; while the breaking weight

is calculated at 30 tons. At first sight, there would seem to be danger

that a building presenting so great a surface to the action of the wind,

would be liable to be blown down. But from the manner in which the

columns are framed together they can not be overthrown except by

breaking them. Experiments show that in order to break the 1060 columns

on the ground floor, a force of 6360 tons must be exerted, at a height

of 24 feet. The greatest force of the wind ever known is computed at 22

pounds to the superficial foot; assuming a possible force of 28 pounds,

and suppose a hurricane of that momentum to strike at once the whole

side of the building, the total force would be less than 1500 tons--not

one-fourth of the capacity of the building to sustain, independent of

the bracings, which add materially to its strength. So that, if any

reliance at all can be placed upon theoretical engineering, there can be

no doubt as to the safety of the building.

Entering at the main east or west entrance, we find ourselves in a nave

64 feet in height, 72 in breadth, and extending without interruption the

whole length of the building, one-third of a mile. Parallel with this,

but interrupted by the transept in the centre, are a series of side

aisles of 48 and 24 feet in breadth, with a height of 44 and 24 feet.

Over the centre of the nave swells the semicircular roof of the

transept, overarching the stately trees beneath--a Brobdignagian

green-house with ancient elms instead of geraniums and rose-bushes. The

whole area of the ground floor is 772,784 square feet; and that of the

galleries 217,100; making in all within a fraction of one million square

feet; to which may be added 500,000 feet of hanging-space, available for

the display of the products of human heads and hands.

There are three refreshment rooms, one in the transept, and one near

each end, around the trees which were left standing, where ices and

pastry for the wealthy, and bread-and-butter and cheese for the poorer

are to be furnished. No wine, spirits, or fermented liquors are to be

sold; only tea, coffee, and unfermented drinks; pure water is to be

furnished gratis to all comers by the lessees of the refreshment rooms.

In respect to the decoration of the interior, a keen controversy has

been waged. The fact of iron being the material of construction renders

it necessary that it should be painted to preserve it from the action of

the atmosphere. On the one hand, it is said that the fact that the

structure is metallic should be indicated by the decoration, otherwise

the whole will have no more appearance of stability than an arbor of

wicker-work. Those who take this view recommend that the interior

should be bronzed. On the other hand, those to whom the decoration is

intrusted affirm that the object of using color is to increase the

effect of light and shade. If the whole were of one uniform dead color

the effect of the innumerable parts of which the building is composed,

all falling in similar lines, one before the other, would be precisely

that of a plane surface; the extended lines of pillars presenting the

aspect of a continuous wall. In order to bring out the distinctive

features of the building various colors must be used; and experiments

show that a combination of the primary colors, red, blue, and yellow, is

most pleasant to the eye. The best means for using these is to place

blue, which retreats, upon the concave surfaces, yellow, which advances,

upon the convex ones, reserving red for plane surfaces. But as when

these colors come in contact each becomes tinged with the complementary

color of the other--the blue with green, the red with orange--a line of

white is interposed between them. Applying these principles, the shafts

of the columns are to be yellow, the concave portions of their capitals

blue, the under side of the girders red, and their vertical surfaces

white.

Among all the wonders of the Crystal Palace nothing is more wonderful

than its cheapness, and the rapidity of its construction. Possession of

the site was obtained on the 30th of July; in a period of only 145

working-days the building was to all intents and purposes completed. As

to cheapness it costs less per cubic foot than an ordinary barn. If used

only for the Exhibition, and at its close returned to the contractors,

the cost will be nine-sixteenths of a penny a foot; or, if permanently

purchased, it will be one penny and one-twelfth. Thus: The solid

contents are 33,000,000 cubic feet; the price if returned is £79,800, if

retained £150,000. This simple fact, that a building of glass and iron,

covering eighteen acres, affording room for nine miles of tables, should

have been completed in less than five months from the day when the

contract was entered into, at a cost less than that of the humblest

hovel, opens a new era in the science of building.

As to the final destination of the Crystal Palace, it is the wish of the

designer that it should be converted into a permanent winter-garden with

drives and promenades. Leaving ample space for plants, there would be

two miles of walks in the galleries, and the same amount for walks upon

the ground floor; in summer the removal of the upright glass would give

the whole the appearance of a continuous walk or garden.

[Illustration: VOYAGE IN SEARCH OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN]

Sir JOHN FRANKLIN, in command of the "Erebus" and "Terror," having on

board one hundred and thirty-eight souls, set sail from England on the

19th of May, 1845, in search of a northwest passage. On the 26th of

July, sixty-eight days afterward, they were seen by a passing whaler

moored to an iceberg near the centre of Baffin's Bay; since which time

no intelligence of their fate has been received. No special anxiety was

entertained respecting them until the beginning of 1848, for the

commander had intimated that the voyage would probably continue for

three years, and that they might be the first to announce their own

return. But as month after month passed away without bringing any

tidings, an anxious and painful sympathy sprung up in the public mind,

and the British Government determined that searches for the missing

vessels should be made in three different quarters by three separate

expeditions fitted out for that purpose.

One quarter, however, that region known as Boothia, where there was a

probability of success, was beyond the scope of these expeditions, and

Lady Franklin determined to organize an expedition to explore that

region. For this purpose she appropriated all the means under her

control; and a subscription was opened to supply the deficiency. The

"Prince Albert," a ketch of less than ninety tons burden, measuring in

length about seventy-two feet, and seventeen in breadth, was purchased

for the expedition. She was taken to Aberdeen to be fitted up; a double

planking was put upon her, by way of pea-jacket to fit her for her

arctic voyage, and a crew of fourteen canny Scotchmen, secured by the

promise of double pay. Captain Forsyth, of the Royal Navy, proffered his

gratuitous services as commander. Attached to the expedition, having

special charge of the stores and scientific instruments, with the

express understanding that he should head one of the exploring parties

to be sent out from Regent's Inlet, was Mr. W. PARKER SNOW, from whose

Journal we propose to draw up some account of the pleasures of sailing

through the ice.

Mr. Snow seems to have been precisely the man for such an undertaking.

He left America at three days' notice to join any expedition which might

be sent out by Lady Franklin. With an active, hopeful temperament, never

so happy as in a gale of wind, if it was only blowing the right way, he

rushed to the embrace of the Arctic Snows with as much alacrity as

though they were kinsmen as well as namesakes. He had, moreover, a

happy faculty of turning his hand to every thing, and no disposition to

hide his talent in a napkin. A physician had been engaged for the

vessel; but when, two days before sailing, the disciple of Esculapius

saw the diminutive craft, he declined to proceed:--Mr. Snow volunteered

to perform his duties; he had read a little medicine at odd hours; and

by the aid of Rees's Guide, and Smee's Broadsheet, his practice was

uniformly successful--either in spite of, or on account of, his informal

professional training. The sailors, as might be expected from their

Scotch blood, were desirous of having religious worship on board:--Mr.

Snow offered his services as chaplain, reading and expounding the

Scriptures, and offering up prayer.

On the 6th of June, 1850, the Prince Albert set sail from Aberdeen; a

fortnight brought them within two hundred miles of the shores of

Greenland. Then came, for a week, a succession of heavy gales, which

drove them back upon their course; so that in six days their progress

was not more than a dozen miles. The 1st of July, however, found them

off Cape Farewell. Some idea of the multifarious occupations of the

many-officed Mr. Snow, at a time when his proper duties had not

commenced, may be gathered from his description of

LIFE ON SHIPBOARD.

"At half-past six I used to turn out; and, warm or cold, wet or dry,

take an immediate ablution in the pure and natural element. For half an

hour I would then walk on deck, fair or foul; and, a little before

eight, examine the men's forecastle; see to their condition, and whether

any of them were sick; and if so, give them medicine. At eight bells, I

would then take the chronometrical time for Captain Forsyth, while he

observed the altitude of the sun, to get our longitude. Latterly I used,

by his desire, to take a set of sights also myself, taking the time from

a common watch, and comparing it afterward with the chronometer. The

chronometers were then wound up by me, and the thermometer, barometer,

&c., registered. At eight o'clock the two mates went to breakfast; the

captain and I getting ours soon after them. During the forenoon I had to

attend to the stores, provisions, &c.; write my accounts, journals, and

other papers; and at noon worked up the ship's reckoning, the

observations, and wrote the ship's log, examining our present position

and future course. The mates had their dinner at noon: the captain and I

at three P.M.; after which, a stroll for an hour or so on deck was taken

by both of us. Tea came round at six, and at eight P.M. I used to try

the temperature of the air on deck, and of the sea. After that, we would

read together in the stern cabin. At ten, we would take our hot grog;

and, generally about eleven, when free from rough weather or the

neighborhood of ice, turn in for the night. Very little candle was

required below at night, as there was seldom more than an hour or two's

darkness during any part of our voyage, until we were returning. It was

not long after this date, moreover, that we had continued daylight

through the whole twenty-four hours."

The principal obstruction and danger in arctic navigation arises from

the ice; fields of which often occur of twenty or thirty miles in

diameter, and ten or fifteen feet in thickness. From these crystal

plains rise sometimes isolated, sometimes in groups, elevations of

thirty or more feet in height, called _hummocks_. Dr. Scoresby once saw

a field so free from hummocks and fissures that a coach might have

traversed it for leagues in a straight direction, without obstruction.

In May or June these fields begin to drift along in solemn procession to

the southwestward, in which direction they hold their steady course,

whether in calm or in spite of adverse winds. When these floating

continents emerge from the drift ice which had hitherto protected them,

they are shattered and broken up by the long, deep swell of the ocean. A

ground-swell, hardly perceptible in the open sea, will break up a field

in a few hours. These fields sometimes acquire a rotary motion, which

gives their circumference a velocity of several miles an hour, producing

a tremendous shock when one impinges upon another. "A body of more than

ten thousand millions of tons in weight," says Dr. Scoresby, "meeting

with resistance when in motion, produces consequences scarcely possible

to conceive. The strongest ship is but an insignificant impediment

between two fields in motion."--Mr. Snow gives the following account of

TAKING THE FIRST ICE.

"We had come so quickly and unexpectedly upon this "stream" (not having

seen it, owing to the thick weather, until close aboard of it), that

promptitude of decision and movement was absolutely necessary. It was

one of those moments when the _seaman_ comes forward, and by boldly

acting, either in the one way or the other, shows what he is made of. In

the present case the question instantly arose as to whether the vessel

should at once run through the ice now before her, or wait until clearer

and milder weather came. The mate, as ice-master, was asked by the

captain which, in his opinion, was best. He advised _heaving to, to

windward of it, and waiting_. The second mate was then asked; and he,

without knowing the other's opinion, strongly urged the necessity of

_running through at once_. Captain Forsyth, using his own judgment, very

wisely decided upon the latter, and accordingly run the ship on. And a

pretty sight, too, it was, as the "Prince Albert" under easy and working

sail, in a moment or two more entered the intricate channels that were

presented to her between numerous bergs and pieces of ice, rough and

smooth, large and small, new and old, dark and white. It was hazy

weather, snowing and raining at the time; and all hands having been

summoned on deck, were wrapped in their oil-skin dresses and waterproof

overcoats. Standing on the topsail-yard was the second mate conning the

ship; half-way up the weather rigging clung the captain, watching and

directing as necessary; while aft, on the raised counter near the wheel,

stood the chief mate telling the helmsman how to steer. This being the

first ice in any large and continuous quantity that we had met, I looked

at it with some curiosity. The moment we had entered within the outer

edge of the stream the water became as smooth as a common pond on

shore; and it was positively a pretty sight to see that little vessel

dodging in and out and threading her way among the numerous pieces of

ice that beset her proper and direct course. The ice itself presented a

most beautiful appearance both in color and form, being variegated in

every direction. We were soon in the very thick of it; and before five

minutes had elapsed from our first taking it we could see no apparent

means of either going on or retracing our steps. But it was well

managed, and after about an hour's turning hither and thither, this way

and that way, straight and crooked, we got fairly through, and found

clear water beyond.

"Throughout the night the wind blew a complete hurricane, and the short

high sea was perfectly furious; lashing about in all directions with the

madness of a maelström, and with a violence that, apparently, nothing

could resist. Heavy squalls, with sharp sleet and snowstorms from the

southward, added to the fearful tempest that was raging. It was

impossible to see three miles ahead, the weather being so thick.

Occasionally an iceberg would dart out through the mist, heaving its

huge body up and down in frightful motion, now advancing, next receding,

and again approaching with any thing but pleasant proximity. Our little

vessel, however, as usual, stood it well. Could we have divested

ourselves of the reality of the scene, it might have been likened to a

fancy picture, in which some strange and curious dance was being

represented between the sea, the ice, and the ship; the latter, by the

aid of the former, gallantly lifting herself to, and then declining from

the other. But it was too real; and the greater danger of the land being

possibly near, was too strongly impressed upon our minds, to allow any

visionary feeling to possess us at the time. It was the worst and most

dangerous night we had yet had, and hardly a man on board rested quietly

below until the height of it was past."

Soon after this a boat's crew was sent ashore for water, where in a

lonely spot they discovered the grave of an European, with an

inscription on a rude wooden tablet at its head, stating that "John

Huntley of Shetland, was buried there in August, 1847." The sailors

replaced the board which had blown down; and left the solitary grave,

with the humble tribute of a wish for the repose of the poor fellow's

soul. A few days later while on shore, Mr. Snow was spectator of the

OVERTURN OF AN ICEBERG.

"I was speedily awakened to reality by a sudden noise like the cracking

of some mighty edifice of stone, or the bursting of several pieces of

ordnance. Ere the sound of that noise had vibrated on the air, a

succession of reports like the continued discharge of a heavy fire of

musketry, interspersed with the occasional roar of cannon, followed

quickly upon one another, for the space of perhaps two minutes; when,

suddenly, my eye was arrested by the oscillation of a moderate-sized

iceberg not far beneath my feet, in a line away from the hill I was

upon; and the next moment it tottered, and with a sidelong inclination,

cut its way into the bosom of the sea upon which it had before been

reclining. Roar upon roar pealed in echoes from the mountain heights on

every side: the wild seabird arose with fluttering wings and rapid

flight as it proceeded to a quarter where its quiet would be less

disturbed: the heretofore peaceful water presented the appearance of a

troubled ocean after a fierce gale of wind; and, amid the varied sounds

now heard, human voices from the boat came rising up on high in honest

English--strangely striking on the ear--hailing to know if I had seen

the 'turn,' and also whether I wanted them to join me. But an instant

had not passed before the mighty mass of snow and ice which had so

suddenly overturned, again presented itself above the water. This time,

however, it bore a different shape. The conical and rotten surface that

had been uppermost, when I had first noticed it, was gone, and a smooth,

table-like plane, from which streamed numerous cascades and _jets

d'eau_, was now visible. The former had sunk some hundred feet below,

when the 'berg,' reversing itself, had been overturned by its extreme

upper weight, and thus brought the bottom of it high above the level of

the sea."

Northward, and still northward: thicker and more continuous grew the

ice-plains, while ever and anon a sound like the discharge of heavy

artillery booming along the lonely seas, announced that one iceberg

after another had burst amid this freezing arctic midsummer. They now

found that they were approaching the great Pack, where their labors were

properly to begin. Due preparations were made, by laying in order

ice-anchors, claws, and axes, getting tow-ropes, warps, and

tracking-belts in order for instant use, and

INSTALLING THE CROW'S NEST.

"The 'Crow's Nest' is a light cask, or any similar object, appointed for

the look-out man aloft to shelter himself in, and is in large ships

generally at the _topmast_ head. In smaller vessels, however, it is

necessary to have it as high up as possible, in order to give from it a

greater scope of vision than could be attained lower down. Consequently,

in the _Prince Albert_ it was close to the 'fore-truck,' that is,

completely at the mast-head. In our case, it was a long, narrow, but

_light_ cask, having at the lower part of it a trap, acting like a

valve, whereby any one could enter; and was open at the upper part. In

length it was about four feet, so that a person on the look-out had no

part of himself exposed to the weather but his head and shoulders. In

the interior of it was a small seat, slung to the hinder part of the

cask, and a spyglass, well secured. To reach this, a rope ladder was

affixed to the bottom of it, as seen in the engraving. This is called

the 'Jacob's Ladder,' and the boatswain may be observed attaching the

lower parts of it to the foremast-head. Upon the top-gallant yard are

two men, busy in securing the cask to the mast, while the second mate is

inside trying its strength, and giving directions concerning it. The

'Crow's Nest' is a favorite place with many whaling captains, who are

rarely out of it for days when among the ice. I was very frequently in

it myself, fair weather or foul--from six to a dozen times a day--both

for personal gratification, and for the purpose of looking out. It was a

favorite spot with me at midnight, when the atmosphere was clear, and

the whole beauty of arctic scenery was exposed to view. It was all fresh

to me: I enjoyed it; and had enough to do, admiring the enormous masses

of ice we were passing, the white-topped mountains in the distance, and

the strange aspect of every thing around me. It seemed, as we slowly

threaded our way through the bergs, that we were about approaching some

great battle-field, in which we were to be actively engaged; and that we

were now, cautiously, passing through the various outposts of the mighty

encampment; at other times I could almost fancy we were about to enter

secretly, by the suburbs, some of those vast and wonderful cities whose

magnificent ruins throw into utter insignificance all the grandeur of

succeeding ages. Silently, and apparently without motion, did we glide

along, amidst dark hazy weather, rain, and enough wind to fill the sails

and steady them, but no more."

Northward yet, and ever northward:--More frequent and massive grew the

icebergs among which the little "Prince Albert" threaded its way; while

far and near, to the east and north and west the eye met nothing but a

uniform dazzling whiteness shot up from the glittering ice-peaks. Now

and then a bear was seen, sitting a grim sentinel, by some seal-hole,

from which his prey was soon "expected out." As they advanced the ice

closed in around them, until at last they were fairly

[Illustration: SURROUNDED BY ICEBERGS.]

"We were fairly 'in the ice:' but ice of which most readers have no

idea. The water frozen in our ponds and lakes at home is but as a mere

thin pane of glass in comparison to that which now came upon us. Fancy

before you miles and miles of a tabular icy rock eight feet or more,

solid, thick throughout, unbroken, or only by a single rent here and

there, not sufficient to separate the piece itself. Conceive this icy

rock to be in many parts of a perfectly even surface, but in others

covered with what might well be conceived as the ruins of a mighty city

suddenly destroyed by an earthquake, and the remains jumbled together in

one confused mass. Let there be also huge blocks of most fantastic form

scattered about upon this tabular surface, and in some places rising in

towering height, and in one apparently connected chain, far, far beyond

the sight. Take these in your view, and you will have some faint idea of

what was the kind of ice presented to my eye as I gazed upon it from

aloft. We had at last come to the part most dreaded by the daring and

adventurous whalers. _Melville's Bay_, often called, from its fearful

character, the 'Devil's Nip,' was opening to my view, and stretching

away far to the northward out of sight. But neither bay nor aught else,

except by knowledge of its position, could I discover. Every where was

ice; and the wonder to me was, how we were to get on at all through

such an apparently insurmountable barrier.

"Our position now was becoming more and more confined as to sailing

room. The channel in which we had hitherto been quietly gliding,

narrowed till little better than the breadth of the ship. At 4^h 30^m

P.M. we could get no further, a barrier of 'hummocky' ice intervening

right across our passage between us and some open water, visible not

above seventy yards from us. Speedily the channel through which we had

come began to close, and after trying in vain to force our way through

the obstruction, we found ourselves at six o'clock completely beset. The

_Devil's Thumb_, which was now plainly visible, at this time bore S.E.

(compass) about thirty miles. Other land was also seen topping over

enormous glaciers, which were most wonderful to look at, and used to

entrance my gaze for hours. At six o'clock our actual labors in the ice

commenced. It was beginning to press upon us rather hard; and from the

appearance of that which blocked our way, it was evident there had been

a heavy squeeze here, and we were afraid of getting fixed in another.

Accordingly every effort was made to remove the obstacle which impeded

our passage. We first began to try and _heave_ the ship through by

attaching strong warps to ice anchors, which latter being fastened in

the solid floe, enabled a heavy strain to be put in force. The windlass

was then set to work, but to no purpose, as we hardly gained a fathom.

We next tried what heaving out the pieces that were in our way would do,

but this proved of no avail. The saws were then set to work to cut off

some angular projections that inconveniently pressed against our side;

and while this was being done, I sprung on to the hummocky pieces and

examined the difficulty. The obstacle, however, was not removed; and at

two in the morning a crack in the large floe to the westward of us was

observed to be gradually enlarging. In less than half an hour the water

appeared in larger quantities astern, and a 'lane' was opened, by a

circuitous route, into the clear space ahead of us, whither we wanted to

go. All hands were called to the ship, and the vessel's head turned

round to the southward, any further attempt to get through the channel

we had been working at being given up. Sail was made to a light breeze,

and some delicate manoeuvring had to be accomplished in getting the

ship round and in among some heavy ice, toward the passage we wished to

enter.

"When I went on deck the next morning about eight, I found the weather

very thick, with heavy rain. Our position seemed to me but little

improved from that of the past night, for numerous 'bergs' of every size

and shape appeared to obstruct our path. A fresh breeze was blowing from

the S.E., and our ship was bounding nimbly to it in water as smooth as a

mill-pond. But no sooner did she get to the end of her course one way,

than she had to retrace her steps and try it another. We seemed

completely hemmed in on every side by heavy packed ice, rough uneven

hummocks, or a complete fleet of enormous bergs. Like a frightened hare

did the poor thing seem to fly, here, there, and every where, vainly

striving to escape from the apparent trap she had got into. It was a

strange and novel sight. For three or four hours--indeed ever since we

had entered this basin of water, we had been vainly striving to find

some passage out of it, in as near a direction as possible to our proper

course, but neither this way, nor any other way, nor even that in which

we had entered (for the passage had again suddenly closed), could we

find one. At last, about ten A.M., an opening between two large bergs

was discovered to the N.W. Without a moment's delay our gallant little

bark was pushed into it, and soon we found ourselves threading through a

complete labyrinth of ice rocks, if they may be so called, where the

very smallest of them, ay, or even a fragment from one of them, if

falling on us, would have splintered into ten thousand pieces the

gallant vessel that had thus thrust herself among them, and would have

buried her crew irretrievably. Wonderful indeed was it all. Numerous

lanes and channels, not unlike the paths and streets of a mighty city,

branched off in several directions; but our course was in those that led

us most to the northward. Onward we pursued our way in this manner for

about two hours, when, suddenly, on turning out of a passage between

some lofty bergs, we found the view opening to us, a field of ice

appearing at the termination of the channel, and at the extreme end a

schooner fast to a 'floe,' that is, lying alongside the flat ice, as by

a quay. The wind was fair for us, blowing a moderate breeze, so that we

soon ran down to her in saucy style, rounding to just ahead of her

position, and making fast in like manner. To our great joy we found

that, as we had suspected, and, indeed, knew, as soon as colors were

hoisted, it was indeed Sir John Ross in the 'Felix.' Glad was I of an

opportunity to see the gallant old veteran, whose name and writings had

latterly been so frequently before me. Directly we got on board, Sir

John Ross came to meet us; I saw before me him who, for four long years

and more, had been incarcerated, hopelessly, with his companions, in

those icy regions to which we ourselves were bound. I was struck with

astonishment! It was nothing, in comparison, for the young and robust to

come on such a voyage; but that _he_, at his time of life, when men

generally think it right--and right, perhaps, it is, too--to sit quietly

down at home by their own firesides, should brave the hardship and

danger once again, was indeed surprising.

"In the evening both vessels had to move into another position, in

consequence of the bergs approaching too closely toward us. To watch

these mountain, icy monsters in a calm, as they slowly and silently, yet

surely and determinedly, move about in the narrow sheet of water by

which they chance to be encompassed, one could well imagine that it was

some huge mysterious thing, possessed of life, and bent on the fell

purpose of destruction. Onward it almost imperceptibly glides, until

reaching an opposing floe, it forces its way far through the solid ice,

plowing up the pieces and throwing them aside in hilly heaps with a

force and power apparently incredible. Should it happen that an impetus

is given to it by wind, or other causes besides those thus occasioned by

the tide, or current, it is mighty in its strength, and terrific in the

desolation it produces. Nothing can save a ship if thus caught by one,

as was the case in the memorable and fatal year of 1830, in this very

bay, when vessels were 'squeezed flat'--'reared up by the ice, almost in

the position of a rearing horse! others thrown fairly over on their

broadsides; and some actually overrun by the advancing floe and totally

buried by it.'"

The obstructions presented by the ice continued to increase so that in a

whole fortnight, in spite of the most strenuous exertions, they made

only twelve miles in their northward course. And even this, as they

subsequently learned, was more than was performed by the government

expedition, which was five weeks in advancing thirty miles. On the third

of August, in Melville's Bay, night closed in upon

[Illustration: THE PRINCE ALBERT IN A DANGEROUS POSITION.]

"There was still more danger now, on account of the heavier and worse

kind of ice about us. Several bergs and rugged hummocks were in very

close quarters to us. At four A.M. we had again to unship the rudder;

and this we could hardly do, in consequence of being completely beset.

The 'Felix,' was just ahead; but not a particle of water any where near

or around us could be seen. Several times both vessels were in extreme

danger; and once we sustained a rather heavy pressure, being canted over

on the starboard side most unpleasantly. But the 'Prince Albert' stood

it well; although it was painfully evident that should the heavy outer

floes still keep setting in upon those which inclosed us, nothing could

save her. To describe our position at this moment it will be only

necessary to observe that both vessels were as completely in the ice as

if they had been dropped into it from on high, and frozen there. It had

been impossible for me to sleep during the night in consequence of the

constant harsh grating sound that the floes caused as they slowly and

heavily moved along or _upon_ the ship's side, crushing their outer

edges with a most unpleasant noise close to my ear. My sleeping berth

was half under and half above the level of the water, when the ship was

on an even keel. In the morning I heard the grating sound still stronger

and close to me: I threw myself off the bed and went on deck. From the

deck, I jumped on to the ice, and had a look how it was serving the poor

little vessel. Under her stern I perceived large masses crushed up in a

frightful manner, and with terrific force, sufficient, I thought, to

have knocked her whole counter in. My only wonder was how she stood it;

but an explanation, independent of her own good strength, was soon

presented to me in the fact that the floe I was standing upon was moving

right round, and grinding in its progress all lesser pieces in its way.

This was the cause of safety to ourselves and the 'Felix.' Had the heavy

bodies of ice been impelled directly toward us, as we at first feared

they would be, instead of passing us in an angular direction, we should

both, most assuredly, have been crushed like an egg-shell. The very

_bergs_, or the _floating_ ones, near which we had been fast on the

previous day, were aiding in the impetus given by the tide or current to

the masses now in motion; and most providential was it that no wind was

blowing from the adverse quarter at the time, upon each side of the ship

the floes were solid and of great thickness, and pressing closely upon

her timbers. Under the bow, several rough pieces had been thrown up

nearly as high as the level of the bowsprit, and these were in constant

change, as the larger masses drove by them.

"I ascended on deck, and found all the preparations for taking to the

ice, if necessary, renewed. Spirits of wine, for portable fuel, had been

drawn off, and placed handy; bags of bread, pemmican, &c., were all in

readiness; and nothing was wanting in the event of a too heavy squeeze

coming. We could perceive that, sooner or later, a collision between the

two floes, the one on our larboard and the other on our starboard side,

must take place, as the former had not nearly so much motion as the

latter; but where this collision would occur was impossible to say.

Between the 'Felix' and us, the passage was blocked principally by the

same sort of pieces that I have mentioned as lying under our bow; and

astern of us were several small bergs that might or might not be of

service in breaking the collision. Very fortunately they proved the

former; for, presently, I could perceive the floe on our starboard hand,

as it came flushing and grinding all near it, in its circular movement,

catch one of its extreme corners on a large block of ice a short

distance astern, and by the force of the pressure drive it into the

opposite floe, rending and tearing all before it; while at the same time

itself rebounded, as it were, or swerved on one side, and glided more

softly and with a relaxed pressure past us. This was the last trial of

the kind our little 'Prince' had to endure; for afterward a gradual

slackening of the whole body of ice took place, and at ten it opened to

the southward. We immediately shipped the rudder, and began heaving,

warping, and tracking the ship through the loose masses that lay in

that, the only direction for us now to pursue, if we wished to get clear

at all."

On the 10th of August, as the sun, which now never sank below the

horizon, rose above a low-lying fog-bank; one of the government

expeditions was seen emerging from the mist. The expedition consisted of

two screw steamers, each having a sailing vessel in tow. A strange sight

it was to see these steamers--the first that ever burst into that silent

sea--gliding along amid the eternal ice of the arctic circle. They

proved of great service in breaking through the ice, dashing stem on

against the massy barriers; then backing astern, to gain headway, and

repeating the manoeuvre until a passage was forced. When the ice was

too thick to be broken in this manner, a hole was drilled in it, into

which a powder-cylinder was placed, the mine fired, and the fragments

dragged out by the steamers. The "Prince Albert" and "Felix" were taken

in tow, for some three hundred miles by the steamers. Mr. Snow gives the

following sketch and description of

[Illustration: THE ARCTIC DISCOVERY SHIPS AT MIDNIGHT.]

"I have before made mention of the remarkable stillness which may be

observed at midnight in these regions; but not until now did it come

upon me with such force, and in such a singular manner. I can not

attempt to describe the mingled sensations I experienced, of constant

surprise and amazement at the extraordinary occurrence then taking place

in the waters I was gazing upon, and of renewed hope, mellowed into a

quiet, holy, and reverential feeling of gratitude toward that mighty

Being who, in this solemn silence, reigned alike supreme, as in the busy

hour of noon when man is eager at his toil, or the custom of the

civilized world gives to business active life and vigor. Save the

distant humming noise of the engine working on board of the steamer

towing us, there was no sound to be heard denoting the existence of any

living thing, or of any animate matter. Yet there we were, perceptibly,

nay, rapidly, gliding past the land and floes of ice, as though some

secret and mysterious power had been set to work to carry us swiftly

away from those vexatious, harassing, and delaying portions of our

voyage, in which we had already experienced so much trouble and

perplexity. The leading vessels had passed all the parts where any

further difficulty might have been apprehended, and this of course gave

to us in the rear a sense of perfect security for the present. All

hands, therefore, except the middle watch on deck, were below in our

respective vessels; and, as I looked forward ahead of us, and beheld the

long line of masts and rigging that rose up from each ship before me,

without any sail set, or any apparent motion to propel such masses

onward, and without a single human voice to be heard around, it did seem

something wonderful and amazing! And yet, it was a noble sight: six

vessels were casting their long shadows across the smooth surface of the

passing floes of ice, as the sun, with mellowed light, and gentler, but

still beautiful lustre, was soaring through the polar sky, at the back

of Melville's Cape. Ay, in truth it was a noble sight; and well could I

look upward to the streaming pendant of my own dear country that hung

listlessly from the mast-head of the 'Assistance,' and feel the highest

satisfaction in my breast that I, too, was one of her children, and

could boast myself of being born on her own free soil, under her own

revered and idolized flag. But even as I beheld that listless symbol of

my country's name, pendant from the lofty truck, my glance was directed

higher; and as it caught the pale blue firmament of heaven, still in

this midnight hour divested of star or moon that shine by night, and

brightened by the sun; my heart breathed a prayer that He, who dwells

far beyond the ken of mortal eye, would deign to grant that the attempt

now making should not be made in vain, but that those whom we were now

on our way to seek might be found and restored to their home and

sorrowing friends; and that, until then, full support and strength might

be afforded them."

After parting company with the other vessels, the "Prince Albert" stood

on her way westward, until they almost reached the spot where it had

been proposed to winter, and where the design of the expedition would

begin to be put in execution. But they found the harbor which they had

proposed to enter blocked up with ice; and so unaccountable a

discouragement came over the expedition, that on the 22d of August a

sudden resolution was taken to return forthwith. The Journal of Mr. Snow

is extremely guarded as to the reasons for this determination. The

vessel had performed admirably; every preparation had been made for

wintering; they were provisioned for two years; the crew were in

excellent health: and yet the whole expedition, which had been fitted

out at such a sacrifice, was abandoned, almost before it was fairly

begun. We are led to infer that the true reason was that the officers in

command had not the cool, determined courage requisite for such a

charge. But we are sure that such a deficiency can not be laid to the

charge of our author. From this time forth a tone of deep and bitter

chagrin runs through the Journal at this inglorious termination of the

expedition. It was no small addition to this feeling of intense

mortification, that on the very day when they determined to abandon the

enterprise, and return home, the American Expedition fitted out by Mr.

GRINNELL, which they had seen, a fortnight before, blocked up by ice, as

they supposed, in Melville's Bay, but which had now overtaken them,

notwithstanding their own tow by the steamers, was seen boldly pressing

its way where they themselves dared not follow. Notwithstanding this

feeling of mortification, Mr. Snow has too intense a sympathy with

daring and courage, ennobled by high and philanthropic purpose, to fail

to do ample justice to

THE AMERICAN RELIEF EXPEDITION.

"Large pieces of ice were floating about, and setting rapidly up the

inlet. We had to stand away for some distance, to round the edge of this

stream; and as we approached the far end, we perceived that a vessel,

which we had some time before seen, was apparently standing right in

toward us. At first, we took her to be Sir John Ross's schooner, the

'Felix,' but a few moments more settled the point, by her size and rig

being different, and her colors being displayed, which proved her to be

one of the 'Americans!' All idea of sleep was now instantly banished

from me. The American vessels already up here, when we had fancied them

still in Melville's Bay, not far from where we had left them on the 6th

instant! Much as I knew of the enterprising and daring spirit of our

transatlantic brethren, I could not help being astonished. They must

have had either some extraordinary luck, or else the ice had suddenly

and most effectually broken up to admit of their exit, unaided by steam

or other help, in so short a time. I felt, however, a pleasure in thus

finding my repeated observations concerning them so thoroughly verified;

and I was not sorry for themselves that they were here. All exclusive

nationality was done away with. We were all engaged in the same noble

cause; we were all striving forward in the same animating and exciting

race, and none should envy the other his advance therein. We showed our

colors to him; and Captain Forsyth immediately determined to go on board

of him, and see whether the same plan of search for him was laid out as

for us. The boat was lowered, and in a short time we were standing on

the deck of the 'Advance,' Lieutenant De Haven, of the American Navy,

and most cordially received, with their accustomed hospitality, by our

transatlantic friends.

"The 'Advance' was most extraordinarily fortified to resist any pressure

of the ice, and to enable her to force her way against such impediments

as those she encountered this evening. Her bow was one solid mass of

timber--I believe I am right in saying, from the foremast. Her timbers

were increased in size and number, so that she might well be said to

have been doubled inside as well as out. Her deck was also doubled, then

felted, and again lined inside, while her cabin had, in addition, a

sheathing of cork. The after-part of the vessel was remarkably strong;

and a movable bulk-head, which ran across the forepart of the cabin,

could at any time be unshipped to afford a free communication fore and

aft when needed. The crew, if I remember rightly, lived in a strongly

built 'round-house' on deck, amidships, one end of which was converted

into a cook-house, called a 'galley,' and another the 'pantry.'

_Ten_ men formed the number of the working seamen; there were no

'ice-masters,' nor regular 'ice-men:' but most of the sailors were long

accustomed to the ice. A steward and a cook completed the full

complement of the ship. The officers lived in a truly republican manner.

The whole cabin was thrown into one spacious room, in which captain,

mates, and surgeon lived together. Their sleeping berths were built

around it, and appeared to possess every accommodation to make them

comfortable.

"The 'Advance' was one of two vessels (the other being the 'Rescue'--a

smaller craft) that had been bought and fitted out in the most noble and

generous manner, solely by one individual--HENRY GRINNELL, Esq., a

merchant of New York. This truly great and good man had long felt his

heart yearn toward the lost ones, whom we were now seeking, and their

friends; and desiring to redeem the partial pledge given by the

government of the United States to Lady Franklin, he yielded to the

strong impulses awakened by some of her private letters, which he had

had the opportunity of reading, and being blest with an ample fortune,

he determined to employ no small portion of it in sending out at his own

expense an expedition to this quarter of the world, to aid in the search

that England was making this year after her gallant children. It

required, however, not a trifling sum to accomplish this, and I well

know with what distrust and doubt of its fulfillment the first notice of

his intentions was received in New York and elsewhere, when publicly

made known. But he was not a man, it has appeared, to promise what he

means not, or can not perform. At a very heavy outlay he purchased two

vessels, one of, I believe, 125 tons, and the other of 95 tons, and had

them strengthened and prepared in a most efficient manner for the

service they were to enter upon. Applying to Congress, then assembled,

he got these ships received into the naval force, and brought under

naval authority. Officers and crews were appointed by the Board of

Administration for Maritime Affairs, and the government, moreover,

agreed to pay them as if in regular service, making an additional

allowance on each pay, of a grade in rank above. This having been

accomplished, and all things in readiness, on the 24th of May, 1850, he

had the satisfaction of seeing his two ships and their brave crews

depart from New York on their generous mission. He accompanied them

himself for some distance, and finally bid them farewell on the 26th,

returning in his yacht to the city, where, as he has often declared, he

can sit down now in peace, and be ready to lay his head at rest forever;

knowing that he has done his duty, and striven to perform the part of a

faithful steward with the wealth which he enjoys.

"The 'Advance' was manned by sixteen persons, officers included. Her

commander, Lieutenant De Haven, a young man of about twenty-six years of

age, had served in the United States exploring expedition, under

Commodore Wilkes, in the Antarctic Seas. He seemed as fine a specimen of

a seaman, and a rough and ready officer, as I had ever seen. Nor was he

at all deficient in the characteristics of a true gentleman, although

the cognomen is so often misapplied and ill-understood. With a sharp,

quick eye, a countenance bronzed and apparently inured to all weathers,

his voice gave unmistakable signs of energy, promptitude, and decision.

There was no mistaking the man. He was undoubtedly well-fitted to lead

such an expedition, and I felt charmed to see it.

"His second in command (for they were very differently organized from

us) was still younger and more slim, but withal of equally determined

and sailorlike appearance. Next to him was a junior officer, of whom I

saw but little; but that little was enough to tell me that the

executives under Captain De Haven would be efficient auxiliaries to him.

Last of all, though not least among them, was one of whom I must be

excused for saying more than a casual word or two. It was Dr. Kane, the

surgeon, naturalist, journalist, &c., of the expedition. Of an

exceedingly slim and apparently fragile form and make, and with features

to all appearance far more suited to a genial clime, and to the comforts

of a pleasant home, than to the roughness and hardships of an arctic

voyage, he was yet a very old traveler both by sea and land. His rank as

a surgeon in the American navy, and his appointment, at three days'

notice, to this service, were sufficient proof of his abilities, and of

his being considered capable of enduring all that would have to be gone

through. While our captain was talking to the American commander, Dr.

Kane turned his attention to me, and a congeniality of sentiment and

feeling soon brought us deep into pleasant conversation. I found he had

been in many parts of the world, by sea and land, that I myself had

visited, and in many other parts that I could only long to visit. Old

scenes and delightful recollections were speedily revived. Our talk ran

wild; and _there_, in that cold, inhospitable, dreary region of

everlasting ice and snow, did we again, in fancy, gallop over miles and

miles of lands far distant, and far more joyous. Ever-smiling Italy, and

its softening life; sturdy Switzerland, and its hardy sons; the Alps,

the Apennines, France, Germany, and elsewhere were rapidly wandered

over. India, Africa, and Southern America were brought before us in

swift succession. Then came Spain and Portugal, and my own England; next

appeared Egypt, Syria, and the Desert; with all of these was he

personally familiar, in all had he been a traveler, and in all could I

join him, too, except the latter. Rich in anecdote and full of pleasing

talk, time flew rapidly as I conversed with him, and partook of the

hospitality offered me. Delighted at the knowledge that I had been

residing for some time in New York, he tried all he could to make me

enjoy the moment."

After parting with the American Expedition, the "Prince Albert" took her

homeward way, reaching Aberdeen on the 1st of October. "As it was quite

dark," says Mr. Snow, "few witnessed our arrival, and I was not sorry

for it". Had we returned fortunate, it would have been different; as it

was, why, the night was, I thought, better suited to our condition. The

"Prince Albert" brought the latest tidings received of the "Advance" and

"Rescue," when

BROTHER JONATHAN GIVES JOHN BULL "A LEAD."

"If I had ever before doubted the daring and enterprising character of

the American, what I saw and heard on board of the 'Advance' would have

removed such doubt; but these peculiar features in the children of the

Stars and Stripes were always apparent to me, and admiringly

acknowledged. I was given a brief history of their voyage to the present

time, as also an outline of their future plans. They intended to push on

wherever they could, this way or that way, as might be found best, in

the direction of Melville Island, and parts adjacent, especially Banks's

Land; and they meant to winter wherever they might chance to be, in the

Pack or out of the Pack. As long as they could be moving or making any

progress, in any direction that might assist in the object for which

they had come, they meant still to be going on, and, with the true

characteristic of the American, cared for no obstacles or impediments

that might arise in their way. Neither fears, nor the necessary caution

which might easily be alleged as an excuse for hesitation or delay, at

periods when any thing like fancied danger appeared, was to deter them.

Happy fellows! thought I: no fair winds nor opening prospects will be

lost with you; no dissension or incompetency among your executive

officers exist to stay your progress. Bent upon one errand alone, your

minds set upon _that_ before you embarked, no trifles nor common

danger will prevent you daring every thing for the carrying out of your

mission. Go on, then, brave sons of America, and may at least some share

of prosperity and success attend your noble exertions!

"If ever a vessel and her officers were capable of going through an

undertaking in which more than ordinary difficulties had to be

encountered, I had no doubt it would be the American; and this was

evinced to me, even while we were on board, by the apparently reckless

way in which they dashed through the streams of heavy ice running off

from Leopold Island. I happened to go on deck when they were thus

engaged, and was delighted to witness how gallantly they put aside every

impediment in their way. An officer was standing on the heel of the

bowsprit, conning the ship and issuing his orders to the man at the

wheel in that short, decisive, yet _clear_ manner, which the helmsman at

once well understood and promptly obeyed. There was not a rag of canvas

taken in, nor a moment's hesitation. The way was before them: the stream

of ice had to be either gone through boldly or a long _detour_ made;

and, despite the heaviness of the stream, _they pushed the vessel

through in her proper course_. Two or three shocks, as she came in

contact with some large pieces, were unheeded; and the moment the last

block was past the bow, the officer sung out, 'So: steady as she goes on

her course;' and came aft as if nothing more than ordinary sailing had

been going on. I observed our own little barky nobly following in the

American's wake; and, as I afterward learned, she got through it pretty

well, though not without much doubt of the propriety of keeping on in

such procedure after the 'mad Yankee,' as he was called by our mate."

WHAT BECOMES OF ALL THE PINS?

Every body uses pins--men, women, and children. Every body buys them.

Every body bends them, breaks them, knocks off their heads, and loses

them. They enter into every operation, from the drawing-room to the

scullery. Go where you will, if you look sharp, you may calculate with

certainty on picking up a pin--in the streets, in the cabs, on

door-steps and mats, in halls and drawing-rooms, sticking in curtains

and sofas, and paper-hangings, in counting-houses and lawyers' offices,

keeping together old receipts and bills, and fragments of papers, in

ladies' needlework, in shopkeepers' parcels, in books, bags, baskets,

luggage--they are to be found every where, let them get there how

they may, by accident or design. Their ubiquity is astounding--and their

manufacture, being in proportion to it, must be something prodigious.

There is no article of perpetual use with which we are so familiar; and

out of this familiarity springs indifference, for there is no article

about whose final destination we are so profoundly ignorant. We know

well enough the end of things (not half so useful to us) that wear out

in the course of time, or that are liable to be smashed, cracked,

chipped, put out of order, or otherwise rendered unavailable for further

service; but of the fate of this little article, so universal in its

application, so indispensable in its utility, we know nothing whatever.

Nobody ever thinks of asking, WHAT BECOMES OF THE PINS? For our

own parts, we should be very glad to get an answer to that question, and

should be very much obliged to any person who could furnish us with it.

The question is by no means an idle one. If we could get at the

statistics of pins, we should have some tremendous revelations. The loss

in pins, strayed, stolen, and mislaid, is past all calculation. Millions

of billions of pins must vanish--no woman alive can tell how or

where--in the course of a year. Of the actual number fabricated,

pointed, headed, and papered up for sale from one year's end to another

(remember they are to be found in every house, large and small, within

the pale of civilization), we should be afraid to venture a conjecture;

but, judging from what we know of their invincible tendency to lose

themselves, and our own inveterate carelessness in losing them, we

apprehend that, could such a return be obtained, it would present an

alarming result. Think of millions of billions of pins being in course

of perpetual disappearance! And that this has been going on for

centuries and centuries, and will continue to go on, probably, to the

world's end. A grave matter to contemplate, my masters! A pin, in its

single integrity, is a trifle, atomic, in comparison with other things

that are lost and never found again. But reflect for a moment upon pins

in the aggregate. The grand sum-total of human life is made up of

trifles--all large bodies are composed of minute particles. Years are

made up of months, months of weeks, weeks of days, days of hours, hours

of minutes, minutes of seconds; and, coming down to the seconds, and

calling in the multiplication-table to enlighten us, we shall find that

there are considerably upward of thirty-one millions of them in a year.

Try a similar experiment with the pins. Assume any given quantity of

loss in any given time, and calculate what it will come to in a cycle of

centuries. Most people are afraid of looking into the future, and would

not, if they could, acquire a knowledge of the destiny that lies before

them. Pause, therefore, before you embark in this fearful calculation;

for the chances are largely in favor of your arriving at this harrowing

conclusion, that, by the mere force of accumulation and the inevitable

pressure of quantity, the great globe itself must, at no very distant

period, become a vast shapeless mass of pins.

As yet we have no signs or tokens of this impending catastrophe, and are

entirely in the dark about the process that is insidiously conducting us

to it; and hence we ask, in solemn accents, WHAT BECOMES OF THE PINS?

Where do they go to? How do they get there? What are the attractive and

repulsive forces to which they are subject after they drop from us? What

are the laws that govern their wanderings? Do they dissolve and

volatilize, and come back again into the air, so that we are breathing

pins without knowing it? Do they melt into the earth, and go to the

roots of vegetables, so that every day of our lives we are unconsciously

dining on them? The inquiry baffles all scholarship; and we are forced

to put up with the obscure satisfaction which Hamlet applies to the

world of apparitions, that there are more pins in unknown places and

unsuspected shapes upon the earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

LAMARTINE ON THE RELIGION OF REVOLUTIONARY MEN.

I know--I sigh when I think of it--that hitherto the French people have

been the least religious of all the nations of Europe. Is it because the

idea of God--which arises from all the evidences of Nature, and from the

depths of reflection, being the profoundest and weightiest idea of which

human intelligence is capable--and the French mind being the most rapid,

but the most superficial, the lightest, the most unreflective of all

European races--this mind has not the force and severity necessary to

carry far and long the greatest conception of the human understanding?

Is it because our governments have always taken upon themselves to think

for us, to believe for us, and to pray for us? Is it because we are and

have been a military people, a soldier-nation, led by kings, heroes,

ambitious men, from battlefield to battlefield, making conquests, and

never keeping them, ravaging, dazzling, charming, and corrupting Europe;

and bringing home the manners, vices, bravery, lightness, and impiety of

the camp to the fireside of the people?

I know not, but certain it is that the nation has an immense progress to

make in serious thought if she wishes to remain free. If we look at the

characters, compared as regards religious sentiment, of the great

nations of Europe, America, even Asia, the advantage is not for us. The

great men of other countries live and die on the scene of history,

looking up to heaven; our great men appear to live and die, forgetting

completely the only idea for which it is worth living and dying--they

live and die looking at the spectator, or, at most, at posterity.

Open the history of America, the history of England, and the history of

France; read the great lives, the great deaths, the great martyrdoms,

the great words at the hour when the ruling thought of life reveals

itself in the last words of the dying--and compare.

Washington and Franklin fought, spoke, suffered, ascended, and descended

in their political life of popularity in the ingratitude of glory, in

the contempt of their fellow-citizens--always in the name of God, for

whom they acted; and the liberator of America died, confiding to God the

liberty of the people and his own soul.

Sidney, the young martyr of a patriotism, guilty of nothing but

impatience, and who died to expiate his country's dream of liberty, said

to his jailer--"I rejoice that I die innocent toward the king, but a

victim, resigned to the King on High, to whom all life is due."

The Republicans of Cromwell only sought the way of God, even in the

blood of battles. Their politics were their faith--their reign a

prayer--their death a psalm. One hears, sees, feels, that God was in all

the movements of these great people.

But cross the sea, traverse La Mancha, come to our times, open our

annals, and listen to the last words of the great political actors of

the drama of our liberty. One would think that God was eclipsed from the

soul, that His name was unknown in the language. History will have the

air of an atheist, when she recounts to posterity these annihilations,

rather than deaths, of celebrated men in the greatest year of France!

The victims only have a God; the tribunes and lictors have none.

Look at Mirabeau on the bed of death--"Crown me with flowers," said he;

"intoxicate me with perfumes. Let me die to the sound of delicious

music"--not a word of God or of his soul. Sensual philosopher, he

desired only supreme sensualism, a last voluptuousness in his agony.

Contemplate Madame Roland, the strong-hearted woman of the Revolution,

on the cart that conveyed her to death. She looked contemptuously on the

besotted people who killed their prophets and sibyls. Not a glance

toward heaven! Only one word for the earth she was quitting--"Oh,

Liberty!"

Approach the dungeon door of the Girondins. Their last night is a

banquet; the only hymn, the Marseillaise!

Follow Camille Desmoulins to his execution. A cool and indecent

pleasantry at the trial, and a long imprecation on the road to the

guillotine, were the two last thoughts of this dying man on his way to

the last tribunal.

Hear Danton on the platform of the scaffold, at the distance of a line

from God and eternity. "I have had a good time of it; let me go to

sleep." Then to the executioner, "you will show my head to the

people--it is worth the trouble!" His faith, annihilation; his last

sigh, vanity. Behold the Frenchman of this latter age!

What must one think of the religious sentiment of a free people whose

great figures seem thus to march in procession to annihilation, and to

whom that terrible minister--death--itself recalls neither the

threatenings nor promises of God!

The republic of these men without a God has quickly been stranded. The

liberty, won by so much heroism and so much genius, has not found in

France a conscience to shelter it, a God to avenge it, a people to

defend it against that atheism which has been called glory. All ended in

a soldier and some apostate republicans travestied into courtiers. An

atheistic republicanism can not be heroic. When you terrify it, it

bends; when you would buy it, it sells itself. It would be very foolish

to immolate itself. Who would take any heed? the people ungrateful and

God non-existent! So finish atheist revolutions!--_Bien Publique._

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THOMAS HARLOWE.

All amid the summer roses

In his garden, with his wife,

Sate the cheerful Thomas Harlowe,

Glancing backward through his life.

Woodlarks in the trees were singing,

And the breezes, low and sweet,

Wafted down laburnum blossoms,

Like an offering, at his feet.

There he sate, good Thomas Harlowe,

Living o'er the past in thought;

And old griefs, like mountain summits,

Golden hues of sunset caught.

Thus he spake: "The truest poet

Is the one whose touch reveals

Those deep springs of human feeling

Which the conscious heart conceals.

"Human nature's living fountains,

Ever-flowing, round us lie,

Yet the poets seek their waters

As from cisterns old and dry.

"Hence they seldom write, my Ellen,

Aught so full of natural woe,

As that song which thy good uncle

Made so many years ago.

"My sweet wife, my life's companion,

Canst thou not recall the time

When we sate beneath the lilacs,

Listening to that simple rhyme?

"I was then just five-and-twenty,

Young in years, but old in sooth;

Hopeless love had dimmed my manhood,

Care had saddened all my youth.

"But that touching, simple ballad,

Which thy uncle writ and read,

Like the words of God, creative,

Gave a life unto the dead.

"And thenceforth have been so blissful

All our days, so calm, so bright,

That it seems like joy to linger

O'er my young life's early blight.

"Easy was my father's temper,

And his being passed along

Like a streamlet 'neath the willows,

Lapsing to the linnet's song.

"With the scholar's tastes and feelings,

He had all he asked of life

In his books and in his garden,

In his child, and gentle wife.

"He was for the world unfitted;

For its idols knew no love;

And, without the serpent's wisdom

Was as guileless as the dove.

"Such men are the schemer's victims.

Trusting to a faithless guide,

He was lured on to his ruin,

And a hopeless bankrupt died.

"Short had been my father's sorrow;

He had not the strength to face

What was worse than altered fortune,

Or than faithless friends--disgrace.

"He had not the strength to combat

Through the adverse ranks of life;

In his prime he died, heart-broken,

Leaving unto us the strife.

"I was then a slender stripling,

Full of life, and hope, and joy;

But, at once, the cares of manhood

Crushed the spirit of the boy.

"Woman oft than man is stronger

Where are inner foes to quell,

And my mother rose triumphant,

When my father, vanquished, fell.

"All we had we gave up freely,

That on him might rest less blame;

And, without a friend in London,

In the winter, hither came.

"To the world-commanding London,

Came as atoms, nothing worth;

'Mid the strift of myriad workers,

Our small efforts to put forth.

"Oh, the hero-strength of woman,

When her strong affection pleads,

When she tasks her to endurance

In the path where duty leads!

"Fair my mother was and gentle,

Reared 'mid wealth, of good descent,

One who, till our time of trial,

Ne'er had known what hardship meant.

"Now she toiled. Her skillful needle

Many a wondrous fabric wrought,

Which the loom could never equal,

And which wealthy ladies bought.

"Meantime I, among the merchants

Found employment; saw them write,

Brooding over red-lined ledgers,

Ever gain, from morn till night.

"Or amid the crowded shipping

Of the great world's busy hive,

Saw the wealth of both the Indies,

For their wealthier marts, arrive

"So we lived without repining,

Toiling, toiling, week by week;

But I saw her silent sufferings

By the pallor of her cheek.

"Love like mine was eagle sighted;

Vainly did she strive to keep

All her sufferings from my knowledge,

And to lull my fears to sleep.

"Well I knew her days were numbered;

And, as she approached her end,

Stronger grew the love between us,

Doubly was she parent--friend!

"God permitted that her spirit

Should through stormy floods be led,

That she might converse with angels

While she toiled for daily bread.

"Wondrous oft were her communings,

As of one to life new-born,

When I watched beside her pillow,

'Twixt the midnight and the morn.

"Still she lay through one long Sabbath,

But as evening closed she woke,

And like one amazed with sorrow,

Thus with pleading voice she spoke:

"'God will give whate'er is needful;

Will sustain from day to day;

This I know--yet worldly fetters

Keep me still a thrall to clay!

"'Oh, my son, from these world-shackles

Only thou canst set me free!'

'Speak thy wish,' said I, 'my mother,

Lay thy lov'd commands on me!'

"As if strength were given unto her

For some purpose high, she spake:

'I have toiled, and--like a miser--

Hoarded, hoarded for thy sake.

"'Not for sordid purpose hoarded,

But to free from outward blame,

From the tarnish of dishonor,

Thy dead father's sacred name,

"'And I lay on thee this duty--

'Tis my last request, my son--

Lay on thee this solemn duty

Which I die and leave undone!

"'Promise, that thy dearest wishes,

Pleasure, profit, shall be naught,

Until, to the utmost farthing,

Thou this purpose shalt have wrought!'

"And I promised. All my being

Freely, firmly answered, yea!

Thus absolved, her angel-spirit,

Breathing blessings, passed away.

"Once more in the noisy, jostling

Human crowd; I seemed to stand,

Like to him who goes to battle,

With his life within his hand.

"All things wore a different aspect;

I was now mine own no more:

Pleasure, wealth, the smile of woman

All a different meaning bore.

"Thus I toiled--though young, not youthful

Ever mingling in the crowd,

Yet apart; my life, my labor,

To a solemn purpose vowed.

"Yet even duty had its pleasure,

And I proudly kept apart;

Lord of all my weaker feelings;

Monarch of my subject heart.

"Foolish boast! My pride of purpose

Proved itself a feeble thing,

When thy uncle brought me hither,

In the pleasant time of Spring.

"Said he, 'Thou hast toiled too closely;

Thou shalt breathe our country air;

Thou shalt come to us on Sundays,

And thy failing health repair!'

"Now began my hardest trial.

What had I with love to do?

Loving thee was sin 'gainst duty,

And 'gainst thy good uncle too!

"Until now my heart was cheerful;

Duty had been light till now,

--Oh that I were free to woo thee;

That my heart had known no vow!

"Yet, I would not shrink from duty;

Nor my vow leave unfulfilled!

--Still, still, had my mother known thee,

Would she thus have sternly willed?

"Wherefore did my angel-mother

Thus enforce her dying prayer?

--Yet what right had I to seek thee,

Thou, thy uncle's wealthy heir!

"Thus my spirit cried within me;

And that inward strife began,

That wild warfare of the feelings

Which lays waste the life of man.

"In such turmoil of the spirit,

Feeble is our human strength;

Life seems stripped of all its glory:

--Yet was duty lord at length.

"So at least I deemed. But meeting

Toward the pleasant end of May

With thy uncle, here he brought me,

I who long had kept away.

"He was willful, thy good uncle;

I was such a stranger grown;

I must go to hear the reading

Of a ballad of his own.

"Willing to be won, I yielded.

Canst thou not that eve recall,

When the lilacs were in blossom,

And the sunshine lay o'er all?

"On the bench beneath the lilacs,

Sate we; and thy uncle read

That sweet, simple, wondrous ballad,

Which my own heart's woe portrayed.

"'Twas a simple tale of nature--

Of a lowly youth who gave

All his heart to one above him,

Loved, and filled an early grave.

"But the fine tact of the poet

Laid the wounded spirit bare,

Breathed forth all the silent anguish

Of the breaking heart's despair.

"'Twas as if my soul had spoken,

And at once I seemed to know,

Through the poet's voice prophetic,

What the issue of my woe.

"Later, walking in the evening

Through the shrubbery, thou and I,

With the woodlarks singing round us,

And the full moon in the sky;

"Thou, my Ellen, didst reproach me,

For that I had coldly heard

That sweet ballad of thy uncle's,

Nor responded by a word.

"Said I, 'If that marvelous ballad

Did not seem my heart to touch;

It was not from want of feeling,

But because it felt too much.'

"And even as the rod of Moses

Called forth water from the rock;

So did now thy sweet reproaches

All my secret heart unlock.

"And my soul lay bare before thee;

And I told thee all; how strove,

As in fierce and dreary conflict,

My stern duty and my love.

"All I told thee--of my parents,

Of my angel-mother's fate;

Of the vow by which she bound me;

Of my present low estate.

"All I told thee, while the woodlarks

Filled with song the evening breeze,

And bright gushes of the moonlight

Fell upon us through the trees.

"And thou murmured'st, oh! my Ellen,

In a voice so sweet and low;

'Would that I had known thy mother.

Would that I might soothe thy woe!'

"Ellen, my sweet, life's companion!

From my being's inmost core

Then I blessed thee; but I bless thee,

Bless thee, even now, still more!

"For, as in the days chivalric

Ladies armed their knights for strife,

So didst thou, with thy true counsel,

Arm me for the fight of life.

"Saidst thou, 'No, thou must not waver,

Ever upright must thou stand:

Even in duty's hardest peril,

All thy weapons in thy hand.

"'Doing still thy utmost, utmost;

Never resting till thou'rt free!--

But, if e'er thy soul is weary,

Or discouraged--think of me!'

"And again thy sweet voice murmured,

In a low and thrilling tone;

'I have loved thee, truly loved thee,

Though that love was all unknown!

"'And the sorrows and the trials

Which thy youth in bondage hold,

Make thee to my heart yet dearer

Than if thou hadst mines of gold!

"'Go forth--pay thy debt to duty;

And when thou art nobly free,

He shall know, my good old uncle,

Of the love 'twixt thee and me!'

"Ellen, thou wast my good angel!

Once again in life I strove--

But the hardest task was easy,

In the light and strength of love.

"And, when months had passed on swiftly,

Canst thou not that hour recall--

'Twas a Christmas Sabbath evening--

When we told thy uncle all?

"Good old uncle! I can see him,

With those calm and loving eyes,

Smiling on us as he listened,

Silent, yet with no surprise.

"And when once again the lilacs

Blossom'd, in the merry May,

And the woodlarks sang together,

Came our happy marriage day.

"My sweet Ellen, then I blessed thee

As my young and wealthy wife,

But I knew not half the blessings

With which thou wouldst dower my life!"

Here he ceased, good Thomas Harlowe;

And as soon as ceased his voice--

That sweet chorusing of woodlarks

Made the silent night rejoice.

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

(_Continued from Page 468._)

PART THE FIRST--MORNING.

VII.

"I am not about to relate a family history," he began; "but there are

some personal circumstances to which I must allude. At nineteen, I was

left the sole protector of two sisters, and of a ward of my father,

whose guardianship also devolved upon me. It was a heavy responsibility

at so early an age, and pressed hard upon a temperament better adapted

for gayety and enjoyment. I discharged it, however, with the best

judgment I could, and with a zeal that has bequeathed me, among many

grateful recollections, one source of lasting and bitter repentance."

"Repentance, Forrester?" I cried, involuntarily.

"You may understand the sort of dangers to which these young creatures

were exposed in the spring-tide of their beauty, protected only by a

stripling, who knew little more of the world than they did themselves.

Upon that point, perhaps, I was too sensitive. I knew what it was to

struggle against the natural feelings of youth, and was not disposed to

place much trust in the gad-flies who gathered about my sisters. Well--I

watched every movement, and I was right. Yet, with all my care, it so

happened that an offense--an insult such as your heartless libertines

think they may inflict with impunity on unprotected women--was offered

to one of my sisters. Our friendless situation was a mark for general

observation, and it was necessary that society should know the terms I

kept with it. My enemy--for I made him so on the instant--would have

appeased me, but I was inaccessible to apologies. We met; I was wounded

severely--my opponent fell. This fearful end of the quarrel affected my

sister's health. She had a feeling of remorse about being the cause of

that man's death, and her delicate frame sunk under it."

"Perhaps," said I, "there might have been other feelings, which she

concealed."

"That fear has cast a shadow over my whole life. But we will not talk of

it. I must hasten on. There was a fatal malady in our family--the

treacherous malady which is fed so luxuriously by the climate of

England. My remaining sister, plunged into grief at our bereavement,

became a prey to its wasting and insidious influence. You saw that the

servant who opened the door was in mourning? I have mentioned these

particulars that you may understand I was not alone in the world, as I

am now, when the lady you have seen came to reside in my house. At that

time, my sisters were living."

"And she?"

"Was my father's ward, of whom I have spoken. During the early part of

her life she lived in Scotland, where she had friends. Now listen to me

attentively. Gertrude Hastings lost her mother in her childhood; and

upon the death of her father, being a minor, her education and

guardianship devolved upon my father, who was trustee to her fortune. At

his death, which took place soon afterward, the trust came into my

hands. It was thought advisable, under these circumstances, that she

should have the benefit of wiser counsel than my own, and for several

years she was placed in the house of her mother's sister, who lived at

no great distance from the English Border. It was my duty to visit her

sometimes." He hesitated, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Well--I entreat you to proceed."

"Let me collect myself. I visited her sometimes--at first at long

intervals, then more frequently. Every man in his youth forms some

ideal, false or true, of the woman to whom he would devote his love.

Such dreams visited me, but my situation forbade me to indulge in them,

and I resolved to devote myself to the charge I had undertaken, and to

forego all thoughts of marriage. I never found this conflict beyond my

strength until I saw Gertrude Hastings."

I was struck with horror at these words, and shuddered at what I feared

was yet to come. He perceived the effect they took upon me, and went on:

"You are precipitate in your judgment, and I must beg that you will hear

me patiently to the end. I will be brief, for I am more pained by the

disclosure than you can be. Why should I prolong a confession which you

have already anticipated? I loved her; and every time I saw her, I loved

her more and more. I was justified by the circumstances that drew us

together--the equality of our births--the connection of our families.

She was free to choose--so was I. I knew of no impediment, and there was

none at the time she inspired me with that fatal passion which, when it

grew too strong to be concealed from her, she was unable to return."

I breathed more freely; but seeing the emotion under which poor

Forrester was laboring, I kept silence, and waited for him to resume.

"I despise what is called superstition," he said, "as much as any of

those bald philosophers we are in the habit of meeting. When they, or

you, or I, talk of supernatural agencies, we must each of us be judged

by the measure of our knowledge. Ignorance and unbelief evade the

question they fear to examine by the easy process of rejecting the

evidence on which it rests. If the evidence be trustworthy, if it be

clear and coherent in every particular, if it be such as we should be

bound to admit upon matters that come within the range of our

experience, I have yet to learn upon what grounds it can be rejected

when it relates to matters of which we know nothing. Our inability to

refute it should make us pause before we heap odium on the witnesses who

vouch for its truth."

Forrester was proceeding in this strain, apparently under an

apprehension that the disclosure he was about to make required some

prologue of this kind to bespeak credit for it, little suspecting that

there were incidents in my own life which rendered me too easy a

recipient of such statements. But I interrupted him by an assurance that

I was quite prepared to believe in things much more extraordinary than

any which he could have to relate. He then returned to the narrative.

"Gertrude's aunt had been bred up in Scotland, and was a staunch

supporter of the old customs, and a stickler for the popular faith in

the ceremonies that are practiced there on certain anniversaries. On

one of these occasions, Gertrude, whose imagination had, probably, been

affected by the stories she had heard concerning them, was induced, half

in play and half in earnest, to try the virtue of one of the charms

prescribed for the Eve of All Hallows. We might safely smile at these

things, if they did not sometimes, as in this instance, lead to serious

results. You see I am relating it to you calmly and circumstantially,

although it has blighted my existence. The charm worked out its ends to

a miracle. The table was laid out with supper, the necessary

incantations having been previously performed, and Gertrude, hiding

behind a screen, waited for the appearance of the lover who was to

decide her future destiny. They say there was a long pause--at least it

seemed so to her--and then a footstep was heard, and then the figure of

a man entered the room, and seated himself at the table. Trembling with

terror, she looked out from her hiding-place, and saw him clearly within

two or three yards of her. The chair had been so placed that his face

was exactly opposite to her. She scanned his features so accurately,

that she remembered the minutest particulars, to the color of his hair

and eyes, and the exact form of his mouth, which had a peculiar

expression in it. The figure moved, as if to rise from the chair, and

Gertrude, struck to the heart with fear, uttered a loud shriek, and fell

in a swoon upon the ground. Her friends, who were watching outside,

rushed into the room, but it was empty."

"And that figure--has she never seen it since?"

"Never till to-night. _She recognized you in an instant._"

My amazement at this narrative nearly deprived me of the power of

speech.

"What followed this?" I inquired.

"A delusion that has occupied her thoughts ever since. It took such

complete possession of her, that all arguments were useless. When she

was asked if she believed it to be real, her invariable answer was that

it was real to her. I suffered her to indulge this fancy, hoping that

one day or another she would recover from what I regarded as a trance of

the mind; but I was mistaken. She always said she was sure of your

existence; and looked forward to the realization of her destiny, like

one who lived under an enchantment. By slow degrees I relinquished all

hopes, and resolved to sacrifice my own happiness to hers, if the

opportunity should ever arrive. After this she came to London, broken

down in health, and rapidly wasting away under the influence of the

protracted expectation that was destroying her. Then it was I first met

you. I had some misgiving about you from the beginning, and prevailed

upon her to describe to me again and again the person of my spectral

rival. It was impossible to mistake the portrait. My doubts were cleared

up, and the duty I had to perform was obvious. But I determined to make

further inquiry before I revealed to either what I knew of both, and

having heard you speak of your birth-place and residence, I went into

the country, satisfied myself on all points respecting you, and at the

same time learned the whole particulars of your life. Still I delayed

from day to day my intention of bringing you together, knowing that when

it was accomplished my own doom would be sealed forever. While I

delayed, however, she grew worse, and I felt that it would be criminal

to hesitate any longer. I have now fulfilled my part--it remains for you

to act upon your own responsibility. My strength exerted for her has

carried me so far--I can go no further."

As he uttered these words he rose and turned away his head. I grasped

his hand and tried to detain him. He stood and listened while I

expressed the unbounded gratitude and admiration with which his conduct

inspired me, and explained, hurriedly, the fascination that had held me

in a similar trance to that which he had just described. But he made no

observation on what I said. It appeared as if he had resolved to speak

no more on the subject; and he exhibited such signs of weariness and

pain that I thought it would be unreasonable to solicit his advice at

that moment. And so we parted for the night.

VIII.

I pondered all night upon the history related to me by Forrester. In the

desire to escape from the clouds which still darkened my judgment, I

endeavored to persuade myself at one moment that Forrester was trying to

impose upon me, and at another that he must be laboring under a mental

aberration. The pride of reason revolted from the incredible particulars

of that extraordinary narrative; yet certain coincidences, which seemed

to confirm their truth, made me hesitate in my skepticism. If I had

related to him what had happened to myself, he would have had as good a

right to doubt my sanity or veracity as I had to doubt his. This was

what staggered me.

I sifted every particle of the story, and was compelled to confess that

there was nothing in it which my own experience did not corroborate. The

fetch, or wraith, or whatever it was that had appeared to Gertrude, was

a counterpart illusion to the figure that had appeared to me. Upon her

memory, as upon mine, it had made so vivid an impression, that our

recognition of each other was mutual and instantaneous. That fact was

clear, and placed the truth of Forrester's statement beyond controversy.

It was competent to others, who had no personal evidence of such

visitations, to treat with indifference the mysteries of the spiritual

world; but I was not free, however much I desired it, to set up for a

philosophical unbeliever. All that remained, therefore, was to speculate

in the dark on the circumstances which were thus shaping out our

destiny, and which, inscrutable as they were, commanded the submission

of my reason and my senses.

It occurred to me that, as Gertrude's residence beyond the border might

not have been distant many miles from the spot where I imagined I had

seen her, it was possible--barely possible--that her appearance there

might have been a reality after all. This supposition was a great relief

to me, for I would gladly have accepted a natural solution of the

phenomenon, and I accordingly resolved to question her upon the subject.

I thought the next day would never come, yet I shuddered at its coming.

I was eager to see her again, although I dreaded the interview; and I

will frankly acknowledge, that when I approached the house I trembled

like a man on the eve of a sentence which was to determine the issue of

life or death.

The blinds were down in all the windows, and the aspect of the whole was

chill and dismal. Where sickness is, there, too, must be cheerlessness

and fear. The passion which had so long possessed me was as strong as

ever, but it was dashed with a hideous terror; there was so much to

explain and to be satisfied upon before either of us could rightly

comprehend our situation.

I knocked faintly. There was no answer. I knocked again, more loudly,

but still lowly, and with increasing apprehension. The door was opened

by Forrester. He looked dreadfully haggard, as if he had been sitting up

all night, worn by grief and watching. I spoke to him, something broken

and hardly articulate: he bent his head, and, raising his hand in token

of silence, beckoned me to follow him. He was evidently much agitated,

and a suspicion crossed my mind that he already repented the sacrifice

he had made. But I did him wrong.

When we reached the door of the room in which we had seen Gertrude on

the preceding night Forrester paused, as if to gather up his manhood for

what was to follow; then, putting forward his hand, he pushed open the

door.

"Go in--go in," he cried, in a choking voice; and hurrying me on he

retreated back into the shadow, as if he wished to avoid being present

at our meeting.

The room was in deep twilight. The curtains were drawn together over the

windows, and there was less disorder in the apartment than when I had

last seen it. The evidences of illness which I had observed scattered

about were removed, and the furniture was more carefully arranged. The

atmosphere was heavy, and affected me painfully. But I thought nothing

of these things, although the slightest incident did not escape me.

Gertrude still lay upon the sofa, and appeared to be more tranquil and

composed. There was a solemn hush over her as she lay perfectly calm and

motionless. I fancied she was asleep, and approached her gently. Her

hands were stretched down by her sides, and I ventured to raise one of

them to my lips. I shall never forget the horror of that touch. A thrill

shot through my veins, as if a bolt of ice had struck upon my heart and

frozen up its current at the fountain. It was the hand of a corpse.

In the first feeling of madness and despair which seized upon me I ran

my hands wildly over her arms, and even touched her face and lips,

doubting whether the form that lay before me was of this world. Some

such wild apprehension traversed my brain; but the witnesses of death in

the flesh were too palpable in many ways to admit of any superstitious

incredulity. The violent surprise and emotion of the night before had

proved too much for her wasted strength, and she had sunk suddenly under

the fearful re-action.

The shock overwhelmed me. Not only was she taken from me at the very

instant of discovery and possession, but all hope of mutual explanation

was extinguished forever. Upon one point alone had I arrived at

certainty, but that only rendered me more anxious to clear up the rest.

I had seen her living, had spoken to her, and heard her voice; and now

she was dead, the proof of her actual humanity was palpable. It was some

comfort to know that she to whom I had dedicated myself under the

influence of a sort of sorcery, was a being actuated by passions like my

own, and subject to the same natural laws; but it was the extremity of

all conceivable wretchedness to lose her just as I had acquired this

consoling knowledge. The phantom had scarcely become a reality when it

again faded into a phantom.

A few days afterward, for the second time, I followed a hearse to the

grave. The only persons to whom I had consecrated my love were gone; and

this last bereavement seemed to me at the time as if it were final, and

as if there was nothing left for me but to die. My reason, however, had

gained some strength by my rough intercourse with the world; and even in

the midst of the desolation of that melancholy scene I felt as if a

burden had been taken off my mind, and I had been released from a

harassing obligation. At all events I had a consciousness, that as the

earth closed over the coffin of Gertrude, I passed out of the region of

dreams and deceptions, and that whatever lay in advance of me, for good

or evil, was of the actual, toiling, practical world. The exodus of my

delusion seemed to open to me a future, in which imagination would be

rebuked by the presence of stern and harsh realities. I felt like a

manumitted slave, who goes forth reluctantly to the hard work of

freedom, and would gladly fall back, if he could, upon the supine repose

which had spared him the trouble of thinking for himself.

Forrester bore his agony with heroic endurance. I, who knew what was in

his heart, knew what he suffered. But his eyes were still and his lips

were fixed, and not a single quiver of his pulses betrayed his anguish

to the bystanders. When the last rites were over, and we turned away, he

wrung my hand without a word of leave-taking, and departed. A few days

afterward he left England. The associations connected with the scenes

of his past life--with the country that contained the ashes of all he

loved--embittered every hour of his life, and he wisely sought relief in

exile. I was hurt at not having received some communication from him

before he went away; but I knew he was subject to fits of heavy

depression, and his silence, although it pained me at the time, did not

diminish the respect and sympathy inspired by his conduct.

I will not dwell upon the immediate effect which the dissolution of

Gertrude, and the phantoms connected with her, had upon my mind.

Shattered and subdued, I re-entered the world, which I was now resolved,

out of cowardice and distrust of myself, not to leave again; taking

mental exercise, as an invalid, slowly recovering from the prostration

of a long illness, tests his returning strength in the open air. I had a

great fear upon me of going into the country, and being once more alone.

The tranquillity of Nature would have thrown me back into despair, while

the crowded haunts of London kept me in a state of activity that

excluded the morbid influences I had so much reason to dread. Of my new

experiences in the second phase of my life, as different from the former

as light from darkness, I shall speak with the same fidelity which I

have hitherto strictly observed.

PART THE SECOND--NOON.

I.

When I had deposited Gertrude in the grave I was a solitary tree,

singled out by the lightning, from the rest of the forest, and blasted

through every part of its articulation. There was no verdure in my soul.

I was dead to the world around me. I lived in what was gone--I had no

interest in what was to come. I believed that the fatal spell that had

exercised such a power over my thoughts and actions had accomplished its

catastrophe, and that there was nothing further for me to fulfill but

death. My Idol had perished in her beauty and her love. She had withered

before my eyes, destroyed by the supernatural passion which had bound us

to each other. How then could I live, when that which was my life had

vanished like a pageant in the sky? I thought I could not survive her.

Yet I did. And seeing things as I see them now, and knowing the

supremacy of time over affliction, I look back and wonder at the thought

which desolated my heart under the immediate pressure of a calamity that

appeared irreparable, but for which the world offered a hundred

appeasing consolations.

I went again into the bustle--the strife of vanities, ambitions,

passions, and interests. At first I merely suffered myself to be carried

away by the tide; my plank was launched, and I drifted with the current.

But in a little time I began to be excited by the roar and jubilee of

the waters.

For many months Gertrude was ever present to me, in moments of respite

and solitude. As certain as the night returned, the stillness of my

chamber was haunted by her smiles. The tomb seemed to give up its tenant

in the fresh bloom and sweet confidence of life, and she would come in

her star-light brightness, smiling sadly, as if she had a feeling of

something wanted in that existence to which death had translated her,

and looking reproachfully, but sweetly down upon me for lingering so

long behind her. By degrees, as time wore on, her form grew less and

less distinct, and, wearied of watching and ruminating, I would fall

asleep and lose her; and so, between waking and sleeping, the floating

outlines vanished, and she visited me no more. At last I almost forgot

the features which were once so deeply portrayed upon my heart. Poor

human love and grief, how soon their footprints are washed away!

I resided entirely in London, without any settled plan of life, tossed

about upon the living surge, and indifferent whither it swept me. I

lived from hour to hour, and from day to day, upon the incidents that

chanced to turn up. People thought there was something singular in my

manner, and that my antecedents were ambiguous; consequently I was much

sought after, and invited abroad. My table was covered with cards. I was

plagued with inquiries, and found that ladies were especially anxious to

know more about me than I chose to tell. My silence and reserve piqued

their curiosity. Had I been a romantic exile, dressed in a bizarre

costume, with an interesting head of hair, and an impenetrable

expression of melancholy in my face, I could not have been more

flattered by their inconvenient attentions. Out of this crush of

civilities I made my own election of friends. My acquaintance was

prodigious--my intimacies were few. Wherever I went I met a multitude of

faces that were quite familiar to me, and to which I was expected to

bow, but very few individuals whom I really knew. I had not the kind of

talent that can carry away a whole _London Directory_ in its

head. I could never remember the names of the mob of people I was

acquainted with. I recognized their faces, and shook their hands, and

was astonished to find how glibly they all had my name, although I

hardly recollected one of theirs, and this round of nods and

how-d'ye-do's constituted the regular routine of an extensive

intercourse with society. The clatter, frivolous as it was, kept me in

motion, and there was health in that; but it was very wearisome. A man

with a heart in his body desires closer and more absorbing ties. But we

get habituated to these superficialities, and drop into them with

surprising indifference; knowing or hoping that the sympathy we long for

will come at last, and that, if it never comes, it is not so bad a thing

after all, to be perpetually stopped on the journey of life by lively

gossips, who will shake you by the hand, and insist upon asking you how

you are, just as cordially as if they cared to know.

There was one family I visited more frequently than the rest of my

miscellaneous acquaintance. I can hardly explain the attraction that

drew me so much into their circle, for there was little in it that was

lovable in itself, or that harmonized with my tastes. But antagonisms

are sometimes as magnetic as affinities in the moral world. They were

all very odd, and did nothing like other people. They were so changeable

and eccentric that they scarcely appeared to me for two evenings in

succession to be the same individuals. They were perpetually shifting

the slides of character, and exhibiting new phases. Their amusements and

occupations resembled the incessant dazzle of a magic lantern. They were

never without a novelty of some kind on hand--a new whim, which they

played with like a toy till they got tired of it--a subtle joke, with a

little malicious pleasantry in it--or a piece of scandal, which they

exhausted till it degenerated into ribaldry. Their raillery and mirth,

even when they happened to be in their most good-natured moods, were

invariably on the side of ridicule. They took delight in distorting

every thing, and never distorted any thing twice in the same way. They

laughed at the whole range of quiet, serious amiabilities, as if all

small virtues were foibles and weaknesses; and held the heroic qualities

in a sort of mock awe that was more ludicrous and humiliating than open

scoffing and derision. In this way they passed their lives, coming out

with fresh gibes every morning, and going to bed at night in the same

harlequinade humor. It seemed as if they had no cares of their own, and

made up for the want of them by taking into keeping the cares of their

neighbors; which they tortured so adroitly that, disrelish it as you

might, it was impossible to resist the infection of their grotesque

satire.

One of the members of this family was distinguished from the rest by

peculiarities special to himself. He was a dwarf in stature, with a

large head, projecting forehead, starting eyes, bushy hair, and an

angular chin. He was old enough to be dealt with as a man; but from his

diminutive size, and the singularity of his manners, he was treated as a

boy. Although his mental capacity was as stunted as his body, he

possessed so extraordinary a talent for translating and caricaturing

humanity, that he was looked upon as a domestic mime of unrivaled

powers. He could run the circle of the passions with surprising

facility, rendering each transition from the grave to the gay so

clearly, and touching so rapidly, yet so truly, every shade of emotion,

that your wonder was divided between the dexterity, ease, and

completeness of the imitation, and the sagacious penetration into

character which it indicated. Acting, no doubt, is not always as wise as

it looks; and the mimicry that shows so shrewd on the surface is often a

mere mechanical trick. But in this case the assumptions were various,

distinct, and broadly marked, and not to be confounded with the low art

that paints a feeling in a contortion or a grimace. During these strange

feats he never spoke a word. He did not require language to

give effect or intelligence to his action. All was rapid, graphic, and

obvious, and dashed off with such an air of original humor that the most

serious pantomime took the odd color of a jest without compromising an

atom of its grave purpose. Indeed this tendency to indulge in a kind of

sardonic fun was the topping peculiarity of the whole group, and the

dwarf was a faithful subscriber to the family principles.

I suffered myself to be most unreasonably amused by this daily

extravagance. The dwarf was a fellow after my own fancy: an

irresponsible fellow, headlong, irregular, misshapen, and eternally

oscillating to and fro without any goal in life. He never disturbed me

by attempts to show things as they were, or by over-refined reasoning

upon facts, in which some people are in the habit of indulging until

they wear off the sharp edge of truths, and fritter them down into

commonplaces. In short, he never reasoned at all. He darted upon a

topic, struck his fangs into it, and left it, depositing a little poison

behind him. His singularities never offended me, because they never

interfered with my own. He turned the entire structure and operations of

society to the account of the absurd; and made men, not the victims of

distaste as I did, but the puppets of a farce. We arrived, however, at

much the same conclusion by different routes, and the dwarf and I agreed

well together; although there was an unconfessed repulsion between us

which prohibited the interchange of those outward tokens of harmony that

telegraph the good fellowship of the crowd.

From the first moment of our acquaintance I had a secret distrust about

my friend the dwarf. I shrank from him instinctively when I felt his

breath upon me, which was as hot as if it came from a furnace. I felt as

if he was a social Mephistophiles, exercising a malignant influence over

my fate. Yet, in spite of this feeling, we became intimate all at once.

As I saw him in the first interview, I saw him ever after. We relaxed

all formalities on the instant of introduction, when he broke out with a

gibe that put us both at our ease at once. We were intimates in slippers

and morning-gowns, while the rest of the family were as yet on

full-dress ceremony with me.

II.

After I had known this family a considerable time, a lady from a distant

part of the country, whom I had never seen or heard of before, came on a

visit to them. She was a woman of about twenty-five years of age, with a

handsome person, considerable powers of conversation, and more intellect

than fine women usually take the trouble to cultivate or display,

preferring to trust, as she might have safely done, to the influence of

their beauty. Her form was grand and voluptuous; her head, with her hair

bound up in fillets, had a noble classical air; and her features were

strictly intellectual. She had never been married; and exhibiting, as

she did at all times, a lofty superiority over the people by whom she

was surrounded in this house, it opened a strange chapter of sprightly

malevolence to observe how they criticised her, and picked off her

feathers, whenever she happened to be out of the room. They affected the

most sublime regard for her, and the way they showed it was by wondering

why she remained single, and trying to account for it by sundry

flattering inuendos, with a sneer lurking under each of them.

The men had no taste--this was said so slily as to make every body

laugh--or perhaps they were afraid of her; she was hard to please; her

mind was too masculine, which made her appear more repulsive than she

really was; she did not relish female society, and men are always

jealous of women who are superior to themselves, and so, between the

two--hem!--there was the old adage! Then she aimed at eccentricity, and

had some uncommon tastes; she was fond of poetry and philosophy, and

blue stockings are not so marketable as hosiery of a plainer kind: in

short, it was not surprising that such a woman should find it rather

difficult to suit herself with a husband. But whoever did succeed in

overcoming her fastidiousness would get a prize!

These criticisms, probably, awakened an interest in my mind about this

lady. She was evidently not understood by her critics; and it was by no

means unlikely that, in attributing peculiarities to her which did not

exist, they might have overlooked the true excellencies of her

character. In proportion as they depreciated her, she rose in my

estimation, by the rule of contrarieties. It had always been a weakness

of mine to set myself against the multitude on questions of taste, and

to reverse their judgment by a foregone conclusion. I then believed, and

do still in a great measure believe, that persons of genius are not

appreciated or comprehended by the mob; but I occasionally committed the

mistake of taking it for granted that persons who were depreciated by

the mob must of necessity be persons of genius.

Astræa--for so she was familiarly called, at first in the way of covert

ridicule, but afterward from habit--was thoroughly in earnest in every

thing she said and did. She could adapt herself to the passing humor of

vivacity or sarcasm without any apparent effort, but her natural manner

was grave and dominant. Beneath the severity of her air was an unsettled

spirit, which a close observer could not fail to detect. It was to carry

off or hide this secret disquietude of soul (such, at least, it appeared

to me), that, with a strong aversion to frivolity, she heeded all the

frivolous amusements; but then it was done with an effort and excess

that showed how little her taste lay in it, and that it was resorted to

only as an escape from criticism. She had no skill in these relaxations,

and blundered sadly in her attempts to get through them; and people

tried to feel complimented by her condescension, but were never really

satisfied. And when she had succeeded in getting up the group to the

height of its gayety, and thought that every body was fully employed,

she would take advantage of the general merriment and relapse into her

own thoughts. It was then you could see clearly how little interest she

took in these things. But she was too important a person to be allowed

to drop out, and as she was well aware of the invidious distinction with

which she was treated, she would speedily rally and mix in the frivolity

again. All this was done with a struggle that was quite transparent to

me. She never played that part with much tact. Yet her true character

baffled me, notwithstanding. There was an evident restlessness within;

as if she were out of her sphere, or as if there were a void to be

filled, a longing after something which was wanted to awaken her

sympathies, and set her soul at repose. Of that I was convinced; but all

beyond was impenetrable obscurity.

The mystery that hovered about her manner, her looks, her words,

attracted me insensibly toward her. She was an enigma to the world as I

was myself; and a secret feeling took possession of me that there were

some latent points of unison in our natures which would yet be drawn out

in answering harmony. This feeling was entirely exempt from passion.

Gertrude had absorbed all that was passionate and loving in my

nature--at least, I thought so then. And the difference between them was

so wide, that it was impossible to feel in the same way about Gertrude

first and Astræa afterward. Simplicity, gentleness, and timidity, were

the characteristics of Gertrude; while Astræa was proud, grand, almost

haughty, with a reserve which I could not fathom. If it be true that the

individual nature can find a response only in another of a certain

quality, then it would have been absurd to delude myself by any dreams

of that kind about Astræa. If I had really loved Gertrude, I could not

love Astræa. They were essentially in direct opposition to each other.

As for Astræa, she appeared inaccessible to the weaknesses of passion;

her conversation was bold, and she selected topics that invited

argument, but rarely awakened emotion. Energetic, lofty, and severe, her

very bearing repelled the approaches of love. He would have been a brave

man who should have dared to love Astræa. I wondered at her beauty,

which was not captivating at a glance, but full of dignity. I wondered,

admired, listened, but was not enslaved.

She treated me with a frankness which she did not extend to others. This

did not surprise me in the circle in which I found her. It was natural

enough that she should avail herself of any escape that offered from

that atmosphere of _persiflage_. I was guided by a similar

impulse. But the same thing occurs every day in society. People

always, when they can, prefer the intercourse which comes nearest to

their own standard. It does not follow, however, that they must

necessarily fall in love. Such a suspicion never entered my head.

I soon discovered that her knowledge was by no means profound; and that

her judgment was not always accurate. Setting aside the showy

accomplishments which go for nothing as mental culture she was

self-educated. She had been an extensive reader, but without method.

She touched the surface of many subjects, and carried away something

from each, to show that she had been there, trusting to her vigorous

intellect for the use she should make of her fragmentary acquisitions.

It was only when you discussed a subject fully with her that you

discovered her deficiencies. In the ordinary way, rapidly lighting upon

a variety of topics, she was always so brilliant and suggestive that you

gave her credit for a larger field of acquirements than she really

traversed. This discovery gave me an advantage over her; and my

advantage gave me courage.

One evening we were talking of the mythology, one of her favorite

themes.

"And you seriously think," I observed, in answer to something she said,

"that the story of Hercules and the distaff has a purpose?"

"A deep purpose, and a very obvious moral," she replied.

"Will you expound it to me?"

"It is quite plain--the parable of strength vanquished by gentleness.

There is nothing so strong as gentleness."

This reply took me by surprise, and I observed, "I should hardly have

expected that from you." I was thinking more of the unexpected admission

of the power of gentleness from the lips of Astræa, than of the truth or

depth of the remark.

"Do you mean that as a compliment?" she inquired.

"Well--no. But from a mind constituted like yours, I should have looked

for a different interpretation."

"Then you think that my mind ought to prostrate itself before a brawny

development of muscles?"

"No, no; remember, you spoke of gentleness."

"That is the mind of woman," she answered, "taking its natural place,

and asserting its moral power. For gentleness, like beauty, is a moral

power."

"Beauty a moral power?" I exclaimed.

"That is its true definition, unless you would degrade it by lowering it

to the standard of the senses," she replied, kindling as she spoke.

"It elevates the imagination; we feel a moral exaltation in the

contemplation of it; it is the essential grace of nature; it refines and

dignifies our whole being; and appreciated in this aspect, it inspires

the purest and noblest aspirations."

This creed of beauty was very unlike any thing I had anticipated from

her. If any body in a crowded drawing-room had spoken in this style, I

should have expected that she would have smiled somewhat contemptuously

upon them.

"Your definition is imperfect," I ventured to say; "I do not dispute it

as far as it goes, but it is defective in one article of faith."

"Oh! I am not sent from the stars--though they have voted me Astræa--to

convert heathens. Pray, let us have your article of faith."

"I believe implicitly in your religion," said I; "but believing so much,

I am compelled to believe a little more. If beauty calls up this homage

of the imagination, and inspires these pure and elevating aspirations,

it must awaken the emotions of the heart. To feel and appreciate beauty

truly, therefore, is, in other words, to love."

"That is an old fallacy. If love were indispensable to the appreciation

of beauty, it would cruelly narrow the pleasures of the imagination."

"On the contrary," I replied, "I believe them to be inseparable."

"You are talking riddles," she replied, as if she were getting tired of

the subject; "but, true or false, I have no reliance upon the word love,

or the use that is made of it. It means any thing or nothing."

"Then you must allow me to explain myself;" and so I set about my

explanation without exactly knowing what it was I had to explain. "I

spoke of love as an abstract emotion." She smiled very discouragingly at

that phrase, and I was, therefore, bound to defend it. "Certainly there

is such a thing--listen to me for a moment. I was not speaking of the

love of this or that particular object--a love that may grow up and then

die to the root; but the love which may be described as the poetical

perception and permanent enjoyment of the ideal."

"We must not quarrel about the word," interrupted Astræa, as if she

wished to bring the conversation to a close; "we agree, possibly, in the

thing, although I should have expressed it differently."

"I grant," said I, trying to gather my own meaning more clearly, "love

must have an object. Abstractions may occupy the reason, but do not

touch the heart. When beauty appeals to the heart it must take a

definite shape, and the love it inspires must be addressed to that

object alone."

"We have changed our argument," observed Astræa, quickly, "and see, we

must change our seats, too, for supper is announced."

I felt that I was rhapsodizing, and that, if I had gone on much further,

I must have uttered a great deal that Astræa would have inevitably set

down as rank nonsense. I was not sorry, therefore, that the conversation

was broken off at that dubious point. We were both scared out of our

subtleties by the flutter and laughter that rang through the room as

every body rose to go to supper; and in a few moments I found myself

seated at table with Astræa next to me, and my friend the dwarf seated

exactly opposite.

III.

The chatter of the party was, as usual, noisy and sarcastic. They were

in an extraordinary flow of spirits, and indulged their unsparing

raillery to an extravagant excess. The dwarf had quite a roystering fit

upon him, and tossed his great shapeless head about with such outrageous

fun, that one might suppose he was laboring under a sudden access of

delirium, or had, at least, fallen in with a rare God-send to exercise

his powers of frantic ridicule upon. These things, no doubt, presented

themselves to me in an exaggerated light, for I was a little out of

humor with myself; and could not help contrasting the reckless levity of

the group with the stillness of Astræa, who must have secretly despised

the companionship into which she was thrown.

Whenever any body uttered a joke (and dreary and miserable jokes they

were), the dwarf, who acted a sort of chorus to their obstreperous

humors, would jerk his head back with a theatrical "Ha!" and spread out

his hands like so many coiling snakes, with an indescribable

exaggeration of astonishment. Then a sneer and chirrup would run round

the table, rising presently into a loud laugh, which the lady of the

house would discreetly suppress by lifting her finger half way to her

face--a signal that was understood to imply a cessation of hostilities

when the ribaldry was supposed to be going too far.

I looked at Astræa involuntarily on one of these occasions, and found

her eyes turned at the same instant to mine. The same thought was in

both our minds. We both abhorred the coarseness of the scene, and felt

the same desire to be alone. The position which thus extracted the

feelings that we held in common was full of peril to us; but at such

moments one never thinks of peril.

I asked her to take wine, pouring it into her glass at the same moment.

This implied a familiarity between us which I certainly did not intend,

and should not have been conscious of if I had not chanced to notice the

face of the dwarf. He was looking straight at us, his mouth pursed out,

and his head thrust forward as if to make way for a sudden writhing or

elevation of his shoulders. It was the express image of a man who had

discovered something very strange, or in whom a previous doubt had just

been confirmed. I could not at all comprehend his meaning; but I knew he

had a meaning, and that threw me back upon myself to find out the point

of the caricature. I attributed it to the unceremonious freedom I had

taken with Astræa, and regretted that I had given occasion to so pitiful

a jest; but I was by no means satisfied that there was not an _arrière

pensée_ in the mind of the dwarf.

The spiteful mirth went on in a rapid succession of vulgar inuendos,

puns, and jokes. The peculiarities of one intimate friend after another

were anatomized with surprising skill; nobody was spared; and the finger

of the hostess was in constant requisition to check the riot, and direct

the scandal-hunters after fresh quarry. As none of the people who were

thus made the subjects of unmerciful ridicule were known to me or

Astræa, we took no part in their dissection, and imperceptibly dropped

into a conversation between ourselves.

We resumed our old subject, and talked in low and earnest tones. I

supposed that they were all too much engaged in the personal topics that

afforded them so much amusement to think about us, and had no suspicion

that they were observing us closely all the time. I was apprised of

the fact by the astounding expression I detected on the face of

my indefatigable Mephistophiles: I shall never forget it. It was a

face of saturnine ecstasy, with a secret smile of pleasure in it,

evidently intended for me alone, as if he rejoiced, and wondered, and

congratulated me, and was in high raptures at my happiness. I was

astonished and confounded, and felt myself singularly agitated; yet, I

knew not why--I was not angry with him: for although his manner was

inexplicable, and ought to have been taken as an offense from its

grossness, still, for some unaccountable reason, it was pleasant rather

than disagreeable to me.

I forgot the little demon, however, in the delight of looking at Astræa,

and listening to her. There was such a charm in her eyes, and in the

sound of her voice, that I was soon drawn again within its powerful

influence. As to the subject of our conversation, it was of secondary

interest to the pleasure of hearing her speak. Whatever I said was but

to induce her to say more. To struggle in an argument was out of the

question--all I yearned for was the music of her tones. Not that I quite

lost the thread of our discussion, but that I was more engaged in

following the new graces and embellishments it derived from her mode of

treating it, than in pursuing the main topic. Again I turned to the

dwarf, and there he was again glaring upon us with a look of transport.

But his fiery eyes no longer leaped out upon me alone; they were moved

quickly from Astræa to me alternately, and were lighted up with a wild

satisfaction that appeared to indicate the consummation of some

delirious passion. I never saw so much mad glee in a human face; all the

more mad to me, since I was entirely ignorant of the source from whence

it sprang. Once I thought Astræa observed him, but she turned aside her

head, and hastily changed the conversation, apparently to defeat his

curiosity.

Many times before I took leave that night the mime repeated his antics;

and, as if to make me feel assured that I was really the object of his

pantomimic raptures, he squeezed my hand significantly at parting, and

with more cordiality than he had ever shown me before.

As I bade Astræa "good-night," she gave me her hand--in the presence of

the whole family; there was nothing to conceal in her thoughts. I took

it gently in mine, and, gazing for a moment intently into her face, in

which I thought I perceived a slight trace of confusion, I bowed and

withdrew.

That was a night of strange speculation. For some time past, I had

thought little of Gertrude--had almost forgotten her. That night she

returned, but unlike what she had ever been before. The smile, like

sunlight let in upon the recesses of a young bud, no longer cleft her

lips; and her eyes were cold and glassy. I felt, too, that I had

recalled her by an effort of the will, and that she did not come

involuntarily, as of old.

There was a sense of guiltiness in this. Was Gertrude fading from my

memory?--and was Astræa concerned in the change? No, Astræa was nothing

to me--she was out of my way--the height on which she stood was frozen.

What was it, then, that troubled and excited me, and blotted out the

past?

I was more unhappy than ever; yet it was an unhappiness that carried me

onward, as if there was an escape for it, or a remedy. I was perplexed

and disturbed. I was like a bird suddenly awakened in its cage amidst

the glare of torches. I tried to think of Gertrude, but it was in vain.

The thought no longer appeased me. The dwarf-mime was before me with all

his devilish tricks and gestures. I could not rid myself of his hideous

features. They danced and gibbered in the air, and were always fastened

upon me. He was like a human nightmare; and even the gray dawn, as it

came through the curtains, only showed that misshapen head more clearly.

What was this dwarf to me that he should haunt me thus, and become an

agony to my soul. Was he my fate? or was he sent to torture me to some

deed of self-abandonment? I should have gone mad with this waking dream,

but as the morning advanced, and the light spread, my aching eyes closed

in an uneasy sleep.

I was dissatisfied with myself, without exactly knowing why. I hated the

dwarf, yet was fascinated by the very importunity that made me hate him.

Why should he meddle with me? Why should he exult in any diversion of my

fortunes? What was he to me, or Astræa to either of us? I was an

unchartered ship, in which no living person had an interest, drifting on

the wide waste of waters. Why should his eyes traverse the great expanse

to keep watch on me? Could he not let me founder on the breakers,

without making mocking signals to me from the shore, where he and his

stood in heartless security? My sleep was full of dreams of that

malignant demon, and I awoke in a state of actual terror from their

violent action on my nerves.

IV.

The next morning I went out, determined to dissipate these harassing

reflections, and, above all things, resolved not to see Astræa. I

wandered about half the day, perfectly sincere in my intention of

avoiding the quarter of the town in which she lived. My mind was so much

absorbed, that I was quite unconscious of the route I had taken, until,

raising my eyes, I saw the dwarf standing before me on the steps of his

own door. I had dropped into the old track by the sheer force of habit,

and have no doubt that my tormentor put the worst construction on the

flush that shot into my face at seeing him. The same riotous glee was in

his eyes that I had noticed, for the first time, on the evening before;

but it now took something of a look of triumph that perplexed me more

than ever.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, with a chuckle that literally palpitated through his

whole body--"you are come at last. I have been looking out for you the

whole morning."

"Indeed!"

"How did you sleep last night?" he continued; "what sort of dreams had

you? I'll answer for it that no dancing dervish ever went through such

contortions!"

"What do you mean?" I demanded.

"Why, there!" he replied, "you turn red and white by turns. Are you

hit?--are you hit? Confess yourself, and I will comfort you."

"Come, come," said I, anxious not to provoke the explanation I panted

for, yet dreaded, "this _badinage_ is sorry work for the day-light.

You should keep it till the lamps are lighted!"

"Have at you, then," he returned, his features undergoing a comical

transition into affected gravity; "I will talk proverbs with you, and

look as gloomy as a mute at a funeral:" giving, at the same time, an

irresistible imitation of one of those ghastly, wire-drawn, drunken

faces. "Mercy upon us! what ominous tokens are in that doleful

countenance of yours! The candle gives out its warning-sheet for the

bespoken of the grave; the sea has its sights and sounds for the doomed

man who is to sup with the fishes; the cricket challenges death in the

hearth; the devil gives three knocks at the door when some miserable

wretch is passing through the mortal agony; and there are signs in your

face of a living torture, which any man galloping by may see. What does

it mean? Is the leaf only turned over by the wind, and will the next

blast whisk it back again? or are its fibres riven past recovery?"

I could not bear this tantalizing mockery; and if I had not been afraid

of exciting the malice of that fiendish nature, there must have been an

explosion at this moment. I managed, however, to control myself, and

spoke to him calmly, but with a resolution in my voice which admitted of

no mis-construction. "Now, listen to me, my friend," I said, "and

understand distinctly what I am going to say. You have extraordinary

talents for sarcasm, but I must ask you not to practice them upon me. I

don't like to be questioned and criticised in this way. I dare say you

don't intend any thing beyond an idle joke; but I don't like being made

the subject of jokes. I covet no favor from you but to be spared your

gibes--and that is not much for you to grant."

"The hardest thing in the world to grant!" he answered. "To be spared my

gibes! What is to become of us, if I'm not to have my gibes? You might

as well ask me to look you straight in the face and not to see you.

Nonsense! you mustn't impose such a penance upon me."

"But why do you jest with me in this way? Do you think I am a fit object

for burlesque and buffoonery?"

"Burlesque and buffoonery?" he returned, twitching his mouth as if he

were stung to the quick; "I do not burlesque you, and I am not a

buffoon."

"Then drop this strange humor of yours, and try to be serious with me."

"Do you desire me to be serious with you?"

"Most assuredly I do. I don't understand any thing else."

"Then it is a bond between us henceforth," he cried, in a tone of deep

earnestness. "From this hour I jest with you no more."

As he spoke he glanced at me darkly under his eyebrows, and turned into

the house. I was rather taken by surprise at this new manifestation of

his versatile genius, and followed him mechanically, utterly forgetful

of the wise resolution with which I had set out.

We went into the drawing-room. Astræa was surrounded by a group o girls,

some kneeling, others dispersed about her, while she was directing their

employment on a piece of tapestry on a large frame. The _tableau_

was striking, and I thought Astræa never looked so well Her fine figure

was thrown into a graceful attitude, the head slightly averted, and one

hand pointing to the tracery, while the other was raised in the air,

suspending some threads of the embroidery. The face that formed a circle

round her were looking up, beaming with pleasure and presented an

animated picture. Here was Astræa in a new aspect. I felt the injustice

her flippant critics had committed in unsexing her, and depriving her of

her domestic attributes.

Our entrance disturbed the group, and, springing up, they took to flight

like a flock of birds.

"You see, Astræa," said the dwarf, in a sharp voice, meant to convey

sneer through a compliment, "you are not allowed to be useful in this

world. You are invaded at all your weak points: the force of you

attraction will not suffer you to enjoy even your needle in private."

"A truce, sir, to this folly!" exclaimed Astræa, turning from him an

advancing to meet me.

The dwarf twirled painfully on his chair, as if the scorn had taken

full effect upon him. We had both struck him in the same place. Had we

premeditated a plan of operations for wounding his vanity we could not

have acted more completely in concert.

"I hope," said I, desiring to change the subject, "you have recovered

our merriment of last night?"

"Merriment?" interposed Mephistophiles; "Good! _Your_ merriment

You and Astræa were like dull citizens yawning over a comedy, which we

were fools enough to act for you. When next we play in that fashion may

we have a livelier audience."

"The reproach, I am afraid, is just," I observed, looking at Astræa.

But she was not disposed to give the vantage ground to Mephistophiles.

"I hope next time you may have an audience more to your liking," she

observed; "tastes differ, you know, in these matters."

"Yes, that's quite true," returned the dwarf, dryly; "but _your_

tastes, it seems agree wonderfully."

Thus Astræa and I were coupled and cast together by the mime, who

evidently took a vindictive delight in committing us to embarrassments

of that kind. To have attempted to extricate ourselves would probably

have only drawn fresh imputations upon us; so we let it pass.

Every body has observed what important events sometimes take their

spring in trifles. The destiny of a life is not unfrequently determined

by an accident. I felt that there was something due to Astræa or the

freedom to which she was exposed on my account. Yet it was an

exceedingly awkward subject to touch upon. The very consciousness of

this awkwardness produced or suggested other feelings that involved me in

fresh difficulties. I felt that I ought to apologize for having brought

this sort of observation upon her; but I also felt that explanations on

such subjects are dangerous, and that it is safer to leave them

unnoticed. The impulse, however, to say something was irresistible; and

what I did say was not well calculated to help me out of the dilemma.

"I feel," said I, quite aware at the moment I spoke that it would have

been just as well to have left my feelings out of the question--"I feel

that I ought to apologize to you for bringing discredit on your taste.

The whole fault of the dullness lies with me."

"Not at all," she replied; "I am perfectly willing to take my share of

it. Be assured that the highest compliment is often to be extracted from

some people's sarcasms."

This was a "palpable hit," and I apprehended that it would rouse the

dwarf to a fierce rejoinder. But he had left the room, and we were

alone.

There was a pause; and Astræa, who had more courage under the

embarrassment than I could command, was the first to speak. "They

mistake me," she said slowly; "it has been my misfortune all my life to

be misunderstood. Perhaps the error is in myself. Possibly my own nature

is at cross-purposes, marring and frustrating all that I really mean to

do and say. I try to adapt myself to other people, but always fail. Even

my motive are misinterpreted, and I can not make myself intelligible. It

must be some original willfulness of my nature, that makes me seem too

proud to the proud, and too condescending to the humble; but certain it

is that both equally mistake me."

"_I_ do not mistake you, Astræa," I cried, startled by the humility

of her confession.

"I feel you do not," she answered.

"They say you are scornful and unapproachable--not so! You are as timid

at heart as the fawn trembling in its retreat at the sound of the

hunter's horn. But you hold them, with whom you can not mingle, by the

bond of fear. You compel them to treat you with deference, from the

apprehension that they might otherwise become familiar. The translate

your high intelligence into haughtiness; and because they can not reach

to your height, they believe you to be proud and despotic."

"I know not how that may be," she returned; "but I will acknowledge that

my feelings must be touched before the mere woman's nature is awakened.

They who do not know me think--"

"That you are insensible to that touch," said I, supplying the

unfinished sentence; "they libel you, Astræa! Achilles had only one

vulnerable spot, but that was fatal. Protected in all else, you are

defenseless on one point, and when that is struck your whole nature is

subjugated. Do I describe you truly? When the woman is awakened, the

insensibility and fortitude in which you are shut up will melt

away--your power will be reduced to helplessness: absorbing devotion,

unbounded tenderness, which are yearning for their release, will flow

out; the conqueror will become the enslaved, living, not for victories

which you despise, but for a servitude which will bring your repressed

enthusiasm into action. For this you would sacrifice the world--pride,

place, applause, disciples, flattery!"

"Not a very agreeable picture--but, I am afraid, a faithful one."

"Strong feelings and energy of character are not always best for our

happiness," I went on; "you expected too much; you found the world cold

and selfish, and your heart closed upon it. This was the action of a

temperament eager and easily chilled; and it was natural enough that

people who could not move your sympathies should think that your heart

was dead or callous. Yet there it was, watching for the being who was

one day to call up its idolatry--for it is not love that will constitute

your happiness, Astræa--it must be idolatry. It is that for which you

live--to relinquish yourself for another. All is darkness and probation

with you till she who now inspires so much worship to which she is

indifferent, shall herself become the worshiper. It is the instinct of

your nature, the secret of the enigma, which makes you seem exactly the

opposite of what you are."

I might have run on I know not to what excess, for I felt my eloquence

kindling and rising to an extravagant height, when I perceived Astræa

change color and avert her eyes.

"Have I offended you, Astræa?" I inquired.

"Offended me?" she answered; "no, you have done me a service. You have

shown me the error of my life--the folly and delusion of hoping for a

destiny different from that of the ordinary lot."

"Why do you call it a delusion? You will yet find that haven of rest

toward which your heart looks so tremulously. The bird whose instinct

carries it over the wild seas from continent to continent sometimes

droops its jaded wings and sinks, but it makes land at last."

"No, no; it was a dream. There is no reality in such foolish notions."

"Come," said I, with increasing earnestness, "you must not speak against

your convictions. You do not think it a dream--you rely confidently on

the hope that the time will come--"

"The thought is madness," interrupted Astræa, quickly;

"no--no--no--there is no such hope for me. Do not misconceive me. You

have read my nature as clearly as if the volume of my whole life to its

inmost thoughts were laid open before you. But the dream is over. It

might have been the pride and glory of my soul to have waited upon some

high Intelligence--to have followed its progress, cheered it patiently

in secret to exertion, encouraged its ambition, and lain in the shadow

of its triumphs. It is over. That may never be!"

Her voice shook, although she looked calmly at me as she spoke, trying

to conceal her emotion. Her hand accidentally lay in mine. There was a

danger in it which I would not see.

"And you have not found the Intelligence for which you sought?" I

demanded, in a voice that conveyed more than it expressed in words.

"Yes," she replied slowly, "I have found Intelligence--original, hard,

athletic; but wanting in the sympathy that alone wins the heart of

woman."

"Astræa," I replied, "your imagination has pictured an ideal which I

fear you will never find realized."

"I _have_ found it!" she cried, betrayed into a transport of

feeling; then, checking herself, she added, "and I have lost it. Would

to God I had never found it!"

Her head drooped--it touched my shoulder; my arm pressed her waist--I

was ignorant of it; a haze swam before my eyes. Tumultuous sensations

beat audibly at my heart. Astræa, the haughty beauty--the intellectual,

proud Astræa--where was her dominant power--her lofty self-possession

now? Subdued, bowed down by emotion, the strength of her will seemed to

pass from her to me, reversing our positions, and placing in my hands

the ascendency she had so lately wielded. The air seemed to palpitate

with these new and agitating feelings. I made an effort to control

myself and speak, but could only pronounce her name

"Astræa!"

There were a hundred questions in the word; but she was silent, and in

her silence a hundred answers.

"Not here, Astræa," I cried; "we shall be more free to speak

elsewhere--away from those vacant eyes through which no hearts find

utterance for us. One word, and I will be still--one word--"

She trembled violently, and pressed my hand convulsively, as if she

desired that I should not ask that word. But it was no longer possible

to restrain it.

That word was spoken.

A shudder passed over her, and as she bent her head I felt a gush of

tears upon my hand. At that moment a muffled step was on the stairs, and

I had scarcely time to disengage myself when our imp half opened the

door, and looked in with a leer of ribaldry and suspicion that chilled

me to the core.

(_To be continued._)

WILLIAM PENN'S CONVERSION TO QUAKERISM.[1]

[Footnote 1: From a new life of Penn, by Hepworth Dixon, in the press of

Blanchard and Lea, Philadelphia.]

Penn did not remain long in London. His father, anxious to keep him

apart from his old Puritan friends--and to sustain the habit of devotion

to his temporal interests into which he seemed gradually falling, sent

him again into Ireland. He had no suspicion that the enemy of his peace

lay in ambush at the very gates of his stronghold. But the youth had not

resided more than a few months at Shangarry Castle before one of those

incidents occurred which destroy in a day the most elaborate attempts to

stifle the instincts of nature. When the admiral in England was pluming

himself on the triumphs of his worldly prudence, his son, on occasion of

one of his frequent visits to Cork, heard by accident that Thomas Loe,

his old Oxford acquaintance, was in the city and intended to preach that

night. He thought of his boyish enthusiasm at college, and wondered how

the preacher's eloquence would stand the censures of his riper judgment.

Curiosity prompted him to stay and listen. The fervid orator took for

his text the passage--"There is a faith that overcomes the world, and

there is a faith that is overcome by the world." The topic was

peculiarly adapted to his own situation. Possessed by strong religious

instincts, but at the same time docile and affectionate--he had hitherto

oscillated between two duties--duty to God and duty to his father. The

case was one in which the strongest minds might waver for a time. On the

one side--his filial affection, the example of his brilliant friends,

the worldly ambition never quite a stranger to the soul of man--all

pleaded powerfully in favor of his father's views. On the other there

was only the low whisperings of his own heart. But the still voice would

not be silenced. Often as he had escaped from thought into business, gay

society, or the smaller vanities of the parade and mess-room--the moment

of repose again brought back the old emotions. The crisis had come at

last. Under Thomas Loe's influence they were restored to a permanent

sway. From that night he was a Quaker in his heart.

He now began to attend the meetings of this despised and persecuted

sect, and soon learned to feel the bitter martyrdom to which he had

given up all his future hopes. In no part of these islands were the

Quakers of that time treated as men and as brethren--and least of any

where in Ireland. Confounded by ignorant and zealous magistrates with

those sterner Puritans who had lately ruled the land with a rod of iron,

and had now fallen into the position of a vanquished and prostrate

party--they were held up to ridicule in polite society, and pilloried by

the vulgar in the market-place. On the 3d of September (1667), a meeting

of these harmless people was being held in Cork when a company of

soldiers broke in upon them, made the whole congregation prisoners and

carried them before the mayor on a charge of riot and tumultuous

assembling. Seeing William Penn, the lord of Shangarry Castle and an

intimate friend of the viceroy, among the prisoners, the worthy

magistrate wished to set him at liberty on simply giving his word to

keep the peace, but not knowing that he had violated any law he refused

to enter into terms, and was sent to jail with the rest. From the prison

he wrote to his friend the Earl of Ossory--Lord President of

Munster--giving an account of his arrest and detention. An order was of

course sent to the mayor for his immediate discharge; but the incident

had made known to all the gossips of Dublin the fact that the young

courtier and soldier had turned Quaker.

His friends at the vice-regal court were greatly distressed at this

untoward event. The earl wrote off to the admiral to inform him of his

son's danger, stating the bare facts just as they had come to his

knowledge. The family were thunderstruck. The father especially was

seriously annoyed; he thought the boy's conduct not only mad but what

was far worse in that libertine age--ridiculous. The world was beginning

to laugh at him and his family:--he could bear it no longer. He wrote in

peremptory terms, calling him to London. William obeyed without a word

of expostulation. At the first interview between father and son nothing

was said on the subject which both had so much at heart. The admiral

scrutinized the youth with searching eyes--and as he observed no change

in his costume, nor in his manner any of that formal stiffness which he

thought the only distinction of the abhorred sect, he felt re-assured.

His son was still dressed like a gentleman; he wore lace and ruffles,

plume and rapier; the graceful curls of the cavalier still fell in

natural clusters about his neck and shoulders: he began to hope that his

noble correspondent had erred in his friendly haste. But a few days

served to dissipate this illusion. He was first struck with the

circumstance that his son omitted to uncover in the presence of his

elders and superiors; and with somewhat of indignation and impatience in

his tone demanded an interview and an explanation.

William frankly owned that he was now a Quaker. The admiral laughed at

the idea, and treating it as a passing fancy, tried to reason him out of

it. But he mistook his strength. The boy was the better theologian and

the more thorough master of all the weapons of controversy. He then fell

back on his own leading motives. A Quaker! Why, the Quakers abjured

worldly titles: and he expected to be made a peer! Had the boy turned

Independent, Anabaptist--any thing but Quaker, he might have reconciled

it to his conscience. But he had made himself one of a sect remarkable

only for absurdities which would close on him every door in courtly

circles. Then there was that question of the hat. Was he to believe that

his own son would refuse to uncover in his presence? The thing was quite

rebellious and unnatural. And to crown all--how would he behave himself

at court? Would he wear his hat in the royal presence? William paused.

He asked an hour to consider his answer--and withdrew to his own

chamber.

This enraged the admiral more than ever. What! a son of his could

hesitate at such a question! Why, this was a question of breeding--not

of conscience. Every child uncovered to his father--every subject to his

sovereign. Could any man with the feelings and the education of a

gentleman doubt? And this boy--for whom he had worked so hard--had won

such interest--had opened such a brilliant prospect--that he, with his

practical and cultivated mind, should throw away his golden

opportunities for a mere whimsy! He felt that his patience was sorely

tried.

After a time spent in solitude and prayer, the young man returned to his

father with the result of his meditation--a refusal.

The indignant admiral turned him out of doors.

THE BIRTH OF CRIME--A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

He was scarce past his childhood, and yet, at a glance, I perceived that

he had commenced life's warfare for himself; that necessity had, with a

stern, unbending brow, pointed out to him the way he was to take, and

taught him, young as he was, that his fate must be to battle for himself

on the path of life. His very humble and tattered dress, the sorrowful

expression which had settled on his pallid yet interesting features,

told their own story, and I involuntarily sighed while observing him.

"Want alone," I mentally exclaimed, "has hitherto been his companion;

light hearts, gamboling playmates of his own years, exuberance of the

young spirit, which gives buoyancy to the foot, throws sunshine on the

heart, and 'neath whose spell all things seem beautiful--he, poor boy!

has never known. He knows naught of the green fields and flowers, of

murmuring brooks and leafy trees, amidst whose branches sweet music

dwells: in some pent-up, crowded alley is his home, and his young mind

hath been awoke in confines close, amidst scenes of toil and misery."

The gentle and dejected expression of his countenance first attracted my

attention, and, unobserved by him, I watched his movements as he slowly

advanced down the crowded street toward the spot where I stood.

Occasionally he paused, and after looking up and down the busy

thoroughfare, apparently awaiting or looking for some expected object to

come in sight, he resumed his saunter, keeping close to the wall, so as

to avoid intercepting the way of the numbers who were hurrying past him.

The more I saw of the boy, the more was my interest in him increased,

and my desire to know what object had brought him thither. So young,

could his design be criminal? had he been initiated into the craft of

pocket-picking? did he thus linger amidst the bustle of the crowded

pathway to mark where he could successfully seize the spoil? I looked at

him more earnestly as he approached me still nearer, and I felt that in

the bare suspicion I had done him an injustice.

While I was thus speculating on his character, he paused within a few

paces of me, and gazed earnestly down the street, where something

appeared to be exciting his attention. Following the direction of his

earnest look, I perceived at a little distance a gentleman on horseback

slowly advancing, while looking inquiringly at the houses he was

passing, as though in search of one of them in particular. He had

arrived within a few yards of the place where I stood, when he halted,

and dismounted: in an instant the boy I have spoken of was at his side,

and touching the ragged apology for a cap which he wore, evidently

tendered his services to hold the horse. The horseman cast a hasty

glance at the little fellow, and was apparently about to resign the

reins into his hands, when the door of the house before which he was

standing opened, and a servant advanced to address him. I indistinctly

caught the words "from home" and "to-morrow," when the functionary

retired to the house; the horseman remounted, and cantered down the

street, leaving the boy disappointedly and wistfully gazing after him.

Yes, I saw the gleam which had irradiated the little fellow's face

vanish; and fancied I heard a sigh, which his young breast heaved forth

as he turned away dejectedly from the spot. Thus unsuccessful, I saw him

next, from some of the passers-by, ask charity; but so timidly, that I

saw he feared the repulse of harsh words, which, as I watched him, in

some instances met his solicitations; while others passed him without

the slightest notice. Apparently very tired, he now seated himself on a

door-step, still looking eagerly about him, as though anxious for

another opportunity to present itself, when he might, with success,

offer his services. While he was thus employed, an open carriage came

rattling up the street, and, pulling up, a lady alighted at the house

immediately opposite to where the young street-wanderer sat. I watched

the play of his features as his gaze rested upon two little fellows of

apparently his own age who were in the carriage, and who, in spite of an

elderly-looking nurse's efforts to restrain them, were gamboling with

each other rather boisterously. In the true spirit of boyish glee and

mischief, they were endeavoring with parasols to push off the hat of the

footman; who, seemingly, as much amused as themselves, while standing by

the carriage awaiting the lady's return, was giving them opportunities

to accomplish their object. Yes, right joyous were they; and with their

costly dresses, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, presented a striking

contrast to the little fellow, who, in rags and wretchedness, from the

door-step, was earnestly observing them. I would have given much to have

known his thoughts in those moments; to have read, like the pages of a

book, the feelings of his heart, while watching them in their gambols.

There was no envy in the expression of his countenance; but, by the

fixedness of his gaze, I judged that the sight of the carriage and its

young occupants, at that juncture, had given birth to a train of

thoughts and ideas as new as they were, perhaps, saddening. Did he think

that fate had dealt hardly with him? Did he in his cogitations become

bewildered in a labyrinth of thought, in endeavoring to account for the

why of their being so differently situated? or, did fancy in his young

brain raise some strange speculation on the world and the designs of Him

who made it?

After a short time had elapsed, the door of the house opened, and the

lady came forth; she entered the carriage, the footman mounted behind,

away they rattled down the street, and were soon out of sight. I turned

to look at the boy; he seemed to have fallen into a reverie, sitting

motionless, while his gaze rested on the part of the street where the

carriage had disappeared.

When I again observed him, he had left his seat, and was rapidly

crossing the street, to meet a female who, attired somewhat above the

common garb, was advancing on the opposite side, and bearing in her arms

a rather bulky parcel, which she appeared inconveniently to carry. As I

had seen him salute the horseman, the street-wanderer, in addressing

her, touched his cap, and evidently tendered his services to carry the

parcel. The woman paused for a moment to look at the applicant, when,

either deeming him too diminutive for the burden, or actuated by a

spirit of economy, with some brief but decisive remark she turned from

him, and resumed her walk. At the same moment a boor of a porter, rather

than diverge from his path, knocked roughly against the boy, who was

standing on the pavement, and sent him staggering against the wall,

continuing his heavy tread onward, without as much as turning his head

to see whether or not the little fellow had fallen.

Thus twice had I seen the cup held to his lips and dashed away; twice

had I seen him strong in hope, and twice in disappointment deep. Where

now, boy, is thy energy? where thy spirit, thy resolution? Methinks thou

needst them now. Alas! thou art but a child; and at thy age the green

fields, where birds are blithely singing, or the jocund playground with

young kindred spirits, where sport hath its daring and its perseverance

too, were more fitting place to bring forth such exalted qualities than

the crowded street--where want, perhaps, spurs thee to attempt; where

fortune frowns upon thee, and seems hope to whisper only to deceive!

Courage thou hast no more. Energy, it has left thee; else wouldst thou

not so dejectedly hang thy head, and creep along the street as though

thou wert upon forbidden ground, or trespassing in sharing the light of

the fading day and the breath of heaven with those who are heedlessly

hurrying past thee.

After his last unsuccessful application, I next saw the dispirited

little fellow turn down a small, little-frequented street, and, with the

intention of meeting and speaking to him, I made a short _détour_, soon

gaining the opposite end of the street which I had seen him enter. The

buildings consisted entirely of warehouses, which were all closed for

the night; and knowing that he could scarcely have entered one of them,

I was not a little surprised to find the street apparently deserted.

Advancing a few paces, however, the mystery was soon solved. Nestling in

the corner of a warehouse doorway, with his head resting on his little

hand, my eyes fell upon the wanderer I was in search of. Absorbed in his

grief, I approached him unseen, unheard. Ah! need I say that he was

weeping bitterly?

Reader, the boy had a home; I saw it; a cellar, whose bare walls and

brick-uncovered floor bespoke it the abode of poverty and misery. He was

not an orphan; for on a heap of rags, which served her for a bed, I saw

an emaciated figure which he called his mother; a brother and a sister,

too, were there, younger than my guide, and in their tattered, dirty

garments scarcely distinguishable from the bed of rags on which they

were huddled beside the dying woman. He was not an orphan; the young

street-wanderer had a father. Him, too, I saw; a rude, blear-eyed

drunkard, whose countenance it was fearful to look upon; for there might

be seen that the worst passions of our common nature had with him

obtained a perilous ascendency--a brute, whose intellect, perhaps never

bright, had become more brutal under the influence of the fire-spirit,

to which he bore conspicuous marks of being a groveling soul-and-body

slave. To me he appeared like the demon Ruin midst the wreck around. On

him, now that the wife could work no more, were they dependent. Need I

say that there were days when they scarce tasted food, when the young

wanderer had been unsuccessful in the streets? and when hungry, tired,

and dejected, he gave current to his grief, as when I found him in the

midst of his heart-breaking sorrow?

Yes, my first surmise was painfully correct. He had, indeed, commenced

life's warfare for himself; young as he was, it was his fate to battle

his way on the path of life, and not a soul to advise and guard him

against the demon Crime, whose favorite haunts are the footsteps of the

ignorant and needy.

Reader, how many of the victims of crime who fill our prisons, were

their histories known, would prove to have commenced life like this boy!

Not always, then, let us unpitying behold the criminal, who, in his

early manhood or the prime of life, is banished from his country, or

suffers the dread penalty of death, without reflecting how much those

who brought him into the world were concerned with so melancholy an

issue--without reflecting that, like the little fellow of whom these

pages tell, he may have had a father little better than the brute of the

field, and in his childish years have been turned out to get his

bread--a wanderer in the streets.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S. MORE.

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIÆ INCEPTVS.

* * * * *

"Nulla dies sine linea."

* * * * *

CHELSEA, _June 18_.

On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I s^d put this fayr _libellus_, he did

suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note y^e

more important of our domestick passages, whether of joy or griefe--my

father's journies and absences--the visits of learned men, theire

notable sayings, etc. "You are smart at the pen, Mistress Margaret," he

was pleased to say; "and I woulde humblie advise your journalling in y^e

same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter which soe well

pleased the Bishop of Exeter, that he sent you a Portugal piece. 'Twill

be well to write it in English, which 'tis expedient for you not

altogether to negleckt, even for the more honourable Latin."

Methinks I am close upon womanhood.... "Humblie advise," quotha! to me,

that hath so oft humblie sued for his pardon, and sometimes in vayn!

'Tis well to make trial of Gonellus his "humble" advice: albeit, our

daylie course is so methodicall, that 'twill afford scant subject for

y^e pen--_Vitam continet una dies._

* * * * *

... As I traced y^e last word, methoughte I heard y^e well-known tones

of Erasmus his pleasant voyce; and, looking forthe of my lattice, did

indeede beholde the deare little man coming up from y^e river side with

my father, who, because of y^e heat, had given his cloak to a tall

stripling behind him to bear. I flew up stairs, to advertise mother, who

was half in and half out of her grogram gown, and who stayed me to clasp

her owches; so that, by y^e time I had followed her down stairs, we

founde 'em alreadie in y^e hall.

So soon as I had kissed their hands, and obtayned their blessings, the

tall lad stept forthe, and who s^d he but William Roper, returned from

my father's errand over-seas! He hath grown hugelie, and looks mannish;

but his manners are worsened insteade of bettered by forayn travell;

for, insteade of his old franknesse, he hung upon hand till father bade

him come forward; and then, as he went his rounds, kissing one after

another, stopt short when he came to me, twice made as though he would

have saluted me, and then held back, making me looke so stupid, that I

c^d have boxed his ears for his payns. 'Speciallie as father burst out

a-laughing, and cried, "The third time's lucky!"

After supper, we took deare Erasmus entirely over y^e house, in a kind

of family procession, e'en from the buttery and scalding-house to our

own deare Academia, with its cool green curtain flapping in y^e evening

breeze, and blowing aside, as though on purpose to give a glimpse of y^e

cleare-shining Thames! Erasmus noted and admired the stone jar, placed

by Mercy Giggs on y^e table, full of blue and yellow irises, scarlet

tiger-lilies, dog-roses, honeysuckles, moonwort, and herb-trinity; and

alsoe our various desks, eache in its own little retirement,--mine own,

in speciall, so pleasantly situate! He protested, with everie semblance

of sincerity, he had never seene so pretty an academy. I should think

not, indeede! Bess, Daisy, and I, are of opinion, that there is not

likelie to be such another in y^e world. He glanced, too, at y^e books

on our desks; Bessy's being Livy; Daisy's, Sallust; and mine, St.

Augustine, with father's marks where I was to read, and where desist. He

tolde Erasmus, laying his hand fondlie on my head, "Here is one who

knows what is implied in the word Trust." Dear father, well I may! He

added, "There was no law against laughing in _his_ academia, for

that his girls knew how to be merry and wise."

From the house to the new building, the chapel and gallery, and thence

to visitt all the dumbe kinde, from the great horned owls to Cecy's pet

dormice. Erasmus was amused at some of theire names, and doubted whether

Dun Scotus and the venerable Bede would have thoughte themselves

complimented in being made name-fathers to a couple of owls; though he

admitted that Argus and Juno were goode cognomens for peacocks. Will

Roper hath broughte mother a pretty little forayn animal called a

marmot, but she sayd she had noe time for such-like playthings, and bade

him give it to his little wife. Methinks, I being neare sixteen and he

close upon twenty, we are too old for those childish names now, nor am I

much flattered at a present not intended for me; however, I shall be

kind to the little creature, and, perhaps, grow fond of it, as 'tis both

harmlesse and diverting.

To return, howbeit, to Erasmus; Cecy, who had hold of his gown, and had

alreadie, through his familiar kindnesse and her own childish

heedlessness, somewhat transgrest bounds, began now in her mirthe to

fabricate a dialogue, she pretended to have overhearde, between Argus

and Juno as they stoode pearcht on a stone parapet. Erasmus was

entertayned with her garrulitie for a while, but at length gentlie

checkt her, with "Love y^e truth, little mayd, love y^e truth, or, if

thou liest, let it be with a circumstance," a qualification which made

mother stare and father laugh.

Sayth Erasmus, "There is no harm in a fabella, apologus, or parabola, so

long as its character be distinctlie recognised for such, but

contrariwise, much goode; and y^e same hath been sanctioned, not only

by y^e wiser heads of Greece and Rome, but by our deare Lord himself.

Therefore, Cecilie, whom I love exceedinglie, be not abasht, child, at

my reproof, for thy dialogue between the two peacocks was innocent no

less than ingenious, till thou wouldst have insisted that they, in

sooth, sayd something like what thou didst invent. Therein thou didst

violence to y^e truth, which St. Paul hath typified by a girdle, to be

worn next the heart, and that not only confineth within due limits but

addeth strength. So now be friends; wert thou more than eleven and I no

priest, thou shouldst be my little wife, and darn my hose, and make me

sweet marchpane, such as thou and I love. But, oh! this pretty Chelsea!

What daisies! what buttercups! what joviall swarms of gnats! The country

all about is as nice and flat as Rotterdam."

Anon, we sit down to rest and talk in the pavillion.

Sayth Erasmus to my father, "I marvel you have never entered into the

king's service in some publick capacitie, wherein your learning and

knowledge, bothe of men and things, would not onlie serve your own

interest, but that of your friends and y^e publick."

Father smiled and made answer, "I am better and happier as I am. As for

my friends, I alreadie do for them alle I can, soe as they can hardlie

consider me in their debt; and, for myself, y^e yielding to theire

solicitations that I w^d putt myself forward for the benefit of the

world in generall, w^d be like printing a book at request of friends,

that y^e publick may be charmed with what, in fact, it values at a doit.

The cardinall offered me a pension, as retaining fee to the king a

little while back, but I tolde him I did not care to be a mathematical

point, to have position without magnitude."

Erasmus laught and sayd, "I woulde not have you y^e slave of anie king;

howbeit, you mighte assist him and be useful to him."

"The change of the word," sayth father, "does not alter the matter; I

shoulde _be_ a slave, as completely as if I had a collar rounde my

neck."

"But would not increased usefulnesse," says Erasmus, "make you happier?"

"Happier?" says father, somewhat heating; "how can that be compassed in

a way so abhorrent to my genius? At present, I live as I will, to which

very few courtiers can pretend. Half-a-dozen blue-coated serving-men

answer my turn in the house, garden, field, and on the river: I have a

few strong horses for work, none for show, plenty of plain food for a

healthy family, and enough, with a hearty welcome, for a score of guests

that are not dainty. The lengthe of my wife's train infringeth not the

statute; and, for myself, I soe hate bravery, that my motto is, 'Of

those whom you see in scarlet, not one is happy.' I have a regular

profession, which supports my house, and enables me to promote peace and

justice; I have leisure to chat with my wife, and sport with my

children; I have hours for devotion, and hours for philosophie and y^e

liberall arts, which are absolutelie medicinall to me, as antidotes to

y^e sharpe but contracted habitts of mind engendered by y^e law. If

there be aniething in a court life which can compensate for y^e losse of

anie of these blessings, deare Desiderius, pray tell me what it is, for

I confesse I know not."

"You are a comicall genius," says Erasmus.

"As for you," retorted father, "you are at your olde trick of arguing on

y^e wrong side, as you did y^e firste time we mett. Nay, don't we know

you can declaime backward and forwarde on the same argument, as you did

on y^e Venetian war?"

Erasmus smiled quietlie, and sayd, "What coulde I do? The pope changed

his holy mind." Whereat father smiled too.

"What nonsense you learned men sometimes talk!" pursues father.

"I--wanted at court, quotha! Fancy a dozen starving men with one roasted

pig betweene them;--do you think they would be really glad to see a

thirteenth come up, with an eye to a small piece of y^e crackling? No;

believe me, there is none that courtiers are more sincerelie respectfull

to than the man who avows he hath no intention of attempting to go

shares; and e'en him they care mighty little about, for they love none

with true tendernesse save themselves."

"We shall see you at court yet," says Erasmus.

Sayth father, "Then I will tell you in what guise. With a fool-cap and

bells. Pish! I won't aggravate you, churchman as you are, by alluding to

the blessings I have which you have not; and I trow there is as much

danger in taking you for serious when you are onlie playful and

ironicall as if you were Plato himself."

Sayth Erasmus, after some minutes' silence, "I know full well that you

holde Plato, in manie instances, to be sporting when I accept him in

very deed and truth. _Speculating_ he often was; as a brighte, pure

flame must needs be struggling up, and, if it findeth no direct vent,

come forthe of y^e oven's mouth. He was like a man shut into a vault,

running hither and thither, with his poor, flickering taper, agonizing

to get forthe, and holding himself in readinesse to make a spring

forward the moment a door s^d open. But it never did. 'Not manie wise

are called.' He had clomb a hill in y^e darke, and stoode calling to his

companions below, 'Come on, come on! this way lies y^e east; I am

advised we shall see the sun rise anon.' But they never did. What a

Christian he woulde have made! Ah! he is one now. He and Socrates--the

veil long removed from their eyes--are sitting at Jesus' feet. Sancte

Socrates, ora pro nobis!"

Bessie and I exchanged glances at this so strange ejaculation; but y^e

subjeckt was of such interest, that we listened with deep attention to

what followed.

Sayth father, "Whether Socrates were what Plato painted him in his

dialogues, is with me a great matter of doubte; but it is not of

moment. When so many contemporaries coulde distinguishe y^e fancifulle

from y^e fictitious, Plato's object coulde never have beene to

_deceive_. There is something higher in art than gross imitation. He who

attempteth it is always the leaste successfull; and his failure hath the

odium of a discovered lie; whereas, to give an avowedlie fabulous

narrative a consistence within itselfe which permitts y^e reader to be,

for y^e time, voluntarilie deceived, is as artfulle as it is allowable.

Were I to construct a tale, I woulde, as you sayd to Cecy, lie with a

circumstance, but shoulde consider it noe compliment to have my unicorns

and hippogriffs taken for live animals. Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates,

magis tamen amica veritas. Now, Plato had a much higher aim than to give

a very pattern of Socrates his snub nose. He wanted a peg to hang his

thoughts upon--"

"A peg? A statue of Phidias," interrupts Erasmus.

"A statue by Phidias, to clothe in y^e most beautiful drapery," sayth

father; "no matter that y^e drapery was his own, he wanted to show it to

the best advantage, and to y^e honour rather than prejudice of the

statue. And, having clothed y^e same, he got a spark of Prometheus his

fire, and made the aforesayd statue walk and talk to the glory of gods

and men, and sate himself quietlie down in a corner. By the way,

Desiderius, why shouldst thou not submitt thy subtletie to the rules of

a colloquy? Set Eckius and Martin Luther by the ears! Ha! man, what

sport! Heavens! if I were to compound a tale or a dialogue, what

crotches and quips of mine own woulde I not putt into my puppets'

mouths! and then have out my laugh behind my vizard, as when we used to

act burlesques before Cardinall Morton. What rare sporte we had, one

Christmas, with a mummery we called the 'Triall of Feasting!' Dinner and

Supper were broughte up before my Lord Chief Justice, charged with

murder. Theire accomplices were Plum-pudding, Mince-pye, Surfeit,

Drunkenness, and suchlike. Being condemned to hang by y^e neck, I, who

was Supper, stuft out with I cannot tell you how manie pillows, began to

call lustilie for a confessor; and, on his stepping forthe, commenct a

list of all y^e fitts, convulsions, spasms, payns in y^e head, and so

forthe, I had inflicted on this one and t'other. 'Alas! good father,'

says I, 'King John layd his death at my door; indeede, there's scarce a

royall or noble house that hath not a charge agaynst me; and I'm sorelie

afrayd' (giving a poke at a fat priest that sate at my lord cardinall's

elbow) 'I shall have the death of _that_ holy man to answer for.'"

Erasmus laughed, and sayd, "Did I ever tell you of the retort of

Willibald Pirkheimer. A monk, hearing him praise me somewhat lavishly to

another, could not avoid expressing by his looks great disgust and

dissatisfaction; and, on being askt whence they arose, confest he c^d

not, with patience, hear y^e commendation of a man soe notoriously fond

of eating fowls. 'Does he steal them?' says Pirkheimer. 'Surely no,'

says y^e monk. 'Why, then,' quoth Willibald, 'I know of a fox who is ten

times the greater rogue; for, look you, he helps himself to many a fat

hen from my roost without ever offering to pay me. But tell me now, dear

father, is it then a sin to eat fowls?' 'Most assuredlie it is,' says

the monk, 'if you indulge in them to gluttony.' 'Ah! if, if!' quoth

Pirkheimer. 'If stands stiff, as the Lacedemonians told Philip of

Macedon; and 'tis not by eating bread alone, my dear father, you have

acquired that huge paunch of yours. I fancy, if all the fat fowls that

have gone into it coulde raise their voices and cackle at once, they

woulde make noise enow to drown y^e drums and trumpets of an army.' Well

may Luther say," continued Erasmus, laughing, "that theire fasting is

easier to them than our eating to us; seeing that every man Jack of them

hath to his evening meal two quarts of beer, a quart of wine, and as

manie as he can eat of spice cakes, the better to relish his drink.

While I--'tis true my stomach is Lutheran, but my heart is Catholic;

that's as heaven made me, and I'll be judged by you alle, whether I am

not as thin as a weasel."

'Twas now growing dusk, and Cecy's tame hares were just beginning to be

on y^e alert, skipping across our path, as we returned towards the

house, jumping over one another, and raysing 'emselves on theire hind

legs to solicitt our notice. Erasmus was amused at theire gambols, and

at our making them beg for vine-tendrils; and father told him there was

hardlie a member of y^e householde who had not a dumb pet of some sort.

"I encourage the taste in them," he sayd, "not onlie because it fosters

humanitie and affords harmless recreation, but because it promotes

habitts of forethought and regularitie. No child or servant of mine hath

liberty to adopt a pet which he is too lazy or nice to attend to

himself. A little management may enable even a young gentlewoman to do

this, without soyling her hands; and to neglect giving them proper food

at proper times entayls a disgrace of which everie one of 'em w^d be

ashamed. But, hark! there is the vesper-bell."

As we passed under a pear-tree, Erasmus told us, with much drollerie, of

a piece of boyish mischief of his--the theft of some pears off a

particular tree, the fruit of which the superior of his convent had

meant to reserve to himself. One morning, Erasmus had climbed the tree,

and was feasting to his great content, when he was aware of the superior

approaching to catch him in y^e fact; soe, quicklie slid down to the

ground, and made off in y^e opposite direction, limping as he went. The

malice of this act consisted in its being the counterfeit of the gait of

a poor lame lay brother, who was, in fact, smartlie punisht for Erasmus

his misdeede. Our friend mentioned this with a kinde of remorse, and

observed to my father, "Men laugh at the sins of young people and

little children, as if they were little sins; albeit, the robbery of an

apple or cherry-orchard is as much a breaking of the eighth commandment

as the stealing of a leg of mutton from a butcher's stall, and ofttimes

with far less excuse. Our Church tells us, indeede, of venial sins, such

as the theft of an apple or a pin; but, I think" (looking hard at

Cecilie and Jack), "even the youngest among us could tell how much sin

and sorrow was brought into the world by stealing an apple."

At bedtime, Bess and I did agree in wishing that alle learned men were

as apt to unite pleasure with profit in theire talk as Erasmus. There be

some that can write after y^e fashion of Paul, and others preach like

unto Apollos; but this, methinketh, is scattering seed by the wayside,

like the great Sower.

* * * * *

'Tis singular, the love that Jack and Cecy have for one another; it

resembleth that of twins. Jack is not forward at his booke; on y^e other

hand, he hath a resolution of character which Cecy altogether wants.

Last night, when Erasmus spake of children's sins, I observed her

squeeze Jack's hand with alle her mighte. I know what she was thinking

of. Having bothe beene forbidden to approach a favorite part of y^e

river bank which had given way from too much use, one or y^e other of em

transgressed, as was proven by y^e smalle footprints in y^e mud, as well

as by a nosegay of flowers, that grow not, save by the river; to wit,

purple loose-strife, cream-and-codlins, scorpion-grass, water plantain,

and the like. Neither of them would confesse, and Jack was, therefore,

sentenced to be whipt. As he walked off with Mr. Drew, I observed Cecy

turn soe pale, that I whispered father I was certayn she was guilty. He

made answer, "Never mind, we cannot beat a girl, and 'twill answer y^e

same purpose; in flogging him we flog both." Jack bore the first stripe

or two, I suppose, well enow, but at lengthe we hearde him cry out, on

which Cecy coulde not forbeare to do y^e same, and then stopt bothe her

ears. I expected everie moment to hear her say, "Father, 'twas I;" but

no, she had not courage for that; onlie, when Jack came forthe all

smirked with tears, she put her arm aboute his neck, and they walked off

together into the nuttery. Since that hour, she hath beene more devoted

to him than ever, if possible; and he, boy-like, finds satisfaction in

making her his little slave. But the beauty lay in my father's

improvement of y^e circumstance. Taking Cecy on his knee that evening

(for she was not ostensiblie in disgrace), he beganne to talk of

atonement and mediation for sin, and who it was that bare our sins for

us on the tree. 'Tis thus he turns y^e daylie accidents of our quiet

lives into lessons of deepe import, not pedanticallie delivered, ex

cathedrâ, but welling forthe from a full and fresh mind.

This morn I had risen before dawn, being minded to meditate on sundrie

matters before Bess was up and doing, she being given to much talk

during her dressing, and made my way to y^e pavillion, where, methought,

I s^d be quiet enow; but beholde! father and Erasmus were there before

me, in fluent and earneste discourse. I w^d have withdrawne, but father,

without interrupting his sentence, puts his arm rounde me and draweth me

to him, soe there I sit, my head on 's shoulder, and mine eyes on

Erasmus his face.

From much they spake, and other much I guessed, they had beene

conversing y^e present state of y^e Church, and how much it needed

renovation.

Erasmus sayd, y^e vices of y^e Clergy and ignorance of y^e vulgar had

now come to a poynt, at the which, a remedie must be founde, or y^e

whole fabric w^d falle to pieces.

--Sayd, the revival of learning seemed appoynted by heaven for some

greate purpose, 'twas difficulte to say how greate.

--Spake of y^e new art of printing, and its possible consequents.

--Of y^e active and fertile minds at present turning up new ground and

ferreting out old abuses.

--Of the abuse of monachism, and of y^e evil lives of conventualls. In

special, of y^e fanaticism and hypocrisie of y^e Dominicans.

Considered y^e evills of y^e times such, as that societie must shortlie,

by a vigorous effort, shake 'em off.

Wondered at y^e patience of the laitie for soe manie generations, but

thoughte 'em now waking from theire sleepe. The people had of late

beganne to know theire physickall power, and to chafe at y^e weighte of

theire yoke.

Thoughte the doctrine of indulgences altogether bad and false.

Father sayd, that y^e graduallie increast severitie of Church discipline

concerning minor offences had become such as to render indulgences y^e

needfulle remedie for burdens too heavie to be borne.--Condemned a

Draconic code, that visitted even sins of discipline with y^e extream

penaltie.--Quoted how ill such excessive severitie answered in our owne

land, with regard to y^e civill law; twenty thieves oft hanging together

on y^e same gibbet, yet robberie noe whit abated.

Othermuch to same purport, y^e which, if alle set downe, woulde too

soone fill my libellus. At length, unwillinglie brake off, when the bell

rang us to matins.

At breakfaste, William and Rupert were earneste with my father to let

'em row him to Westminster, which he was disinclined to, as he was for

more speede, and had promised Erasmus an earlie caste to Lambeth;

howbeit, he consented that they s^d pull us up to Putney in y^e evening,

and William s^d have y^e stroke-oar. Erasmus sayd, he must thank y^e

archbishop for his present of a horse; "tho' I'm full faine," he

observed, "to believe it a changeling. He is idle and gluttonish, as

thin as a wasp, and as ugly as sin. Such a horse, and such a rider!"

In the evening, Will and Rupert made 'emselves spruce enow, with

nosegays and ribbons and we tooke water bravelie--John Harris in y^e

stern, playing the recorder. We had the six-oared barge; and when Rupert

Allington was tired of pulling, Mr. Clement tooke his oar; and when _he_

wearied, John Harris gave over playing y^e pipe; but William and Mr.

Gunnel never flagged.

Erasmus was full of his visitt to y^e archbishop, who, as usuall, I

think, had given him some money.

"We sate down two hundred to table," sayth he; "there was fish, flesh,

and fowl; but Wareham onlie played with his knife, and drank noe wine.

He was very cheerfulle and accessible; he knows not what pride is; and

yet, of how much mighte he be proude! What genius! what erudition! what

kindnesse and modesty! From Wareham, who ever departed in sorrow?"

Landing at Fulham, we had a brave ramble thro' y^e meadows. Erasmus

noting y^e poor children a gathering y^e dandelion and milk-thistle for

the herb-market, was avised to speak of forayn herbes and theire uses,

bothe for food and medicine.

"For me," says father "there is manie a plant I entertayn in my garden

and paddock which y^e fastidious woulde cast forthe. I like to teache my

children y^e uses of common things--to know, for instance, y^e uses of

y^e flowers and weeds that grow in our fields and hedges. Manie a poor

knave's pottage woulde be improved, if he were skilled in y^e properties

of y^e burdock and purple orchis, lady's-smock, brook-lime, and old

man's pepper. The roots of wild succory and water arrow-head mighte

agreeablie change his Lenten diet; and glasswort afford him a pickle for

his mouthfulle of salt-meat. Then, there are cresses and wood-sorrel to

his breakfast, and salep for his hot evening mess. For his medicine,

there is herb-twopence, that will cure a hundred ills; camomile, to lull

a raging tooth; and the juice of buttercup to cleare his head by

sneezing. Vervain cureth ague; and crowfoot affords y^e leaste painfulle

of blisters. St. Anthony's turnip is an emetic; goosegrass sweetens the

blood; woodruffe is good for the liver; and bind-weed hath nigh as much

virtue as y^e forayn scammony. Pimpernel promoteth laughter; and poppy

sleep: thyme giveth pleasant dreams; and an ashen branch drives evil

spirits from y^e pillow. As for rosemarie, I lett it run alle over my

garden walls, not onlie because my bees love it, but because 'tis the

herb sacred to remembrance, and, therefore, to friendship, whence a

sprig of it hath a dumb language that maketh y^e chosen emblem at our

funeral wakes, and in our buriall grounds. Howbeit, I am a schoolboy

prating in presence of his master, for here is John Clement at my elbow,

who is the best botanist and herbalist of us all."

--Returning home, y^e youths being warmed with rowing, and in high

spiritts, did entertayn themselves and us with manie jests and playings

upon words, some of 'em forced enow, yet provocative of laughing.

Afterwards, Mr. Gunnel proposed enigmas and curious questions. Among

others, he woulde know which of y^e famous women of Greece or Rome we

maidens w^d resemble. Bess was for Cornelia, Daisy for Clelia, but I for

Damo, daughter of Pythagoras, which William Roper deemed stupid enow,

and thoughte I mighte have found as good a daughter, that had not died a

maid. Sayth Erasmus, with his sweet, inexpressible smile, "Now I will

tell you, lads and lassies, what manner of man _I_ w^d be, if I

were not Erasmus. I woulde step back some few years of my life, and be

half-way 'twixt thirty and forty; I would be pious and profounde enow

for y^e church, albeit noe churchman; I woulde have a blythe, stirring,

English wife, and half-a-dozen merrie girls and boys, an English

homestead, neither hall nor farm, but betweene both; but neare enow to

y^e citie for convenience, but away from its noise. I woulde have a

profession, that gave me some hours daylie of regular businesse, that

s^d let men know my parts, and court me into publick station, for which

my taste made me rather withdrawe. I woulde have such a private

independence, as s^d enable me to give and lend, rather than beg and

borrow. I woulde encourage mirthe without buffoonerie, ease without

negligence; my habitt and table shoulde be simple, and for my looks I

woulde be neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, rubicund nor sallow, but

of a fayr skin with blue eyes, brownish beard, and a countenance

engaging and attractive, soe that alle of my companie coulde not choose

but love me."

"Why, then, you woulde be father himselfe," cried Cecy, clasping his arm

in bothe her hands with a kind of rapture, and, indeede, y^e portraiture

was soe like, we coulde not but smile at y^e resemblance.

Arrived at y^e landing, father protested he was wearie with his ramble,

and, his foot slipping, he wrenched his ankle, and sate for an instante

on a barrow, the which one of y^e men had left with his garden tools,

and before he c^d rise or cry out, William, laughing, rolled him up to

y^e house-door; which, considering father's weight, was much for a

stripling to doe. Father sayd the same, and, laying his hand on Will's

shoulder with kindnesse, cried, "Bless thee, my boy, but I woulde not

have thee overstrayned, like Biton and Clitobus."

(_To be continued._)

SKETCH OF A MISER.

John Overs was a miser, living in the old days when popery flourished,

and friars abounded in England. Some of his vices and eccentricities

have been chronicled in a little tract of great rarity, entitled "The

True History of the Life and Death of John Overs, and of his Daughter

Mary, who caused the Church of St. Mary Overs to be built." But in

giving the particulars of his life, we do not vouch for their

authenticity: the tract resembles too strongly a chap book to bear the

marks of honest truth; yet the anecdotes are amusing, and the tradition

of the miser's pretty daughter reads somewhat romantic.

John Overs was a Southwark ferryman, and he obtained, by paying an

annual sum to the city authorities, a monopoly in the trade of conveying

passengers across the river. He soon grew rich, and became the master of

numerous servants and apprentices. From his first increase of wealth, he

put his money out to use on such profitable terms, that he rapidly

amassed a fortune almost equal to that of the first nobleman in the

land; yet, notwithstanding this speedy accumulation of wealth, in his

habits, housekeeping, and expenses, he bore the appearance of the most

abject poverty, and was so eager after gain, that even in his old age,

and when his body had become weak by unnecessary deprivations, he would

labor incessantly, and allow himself no rest or repose. This most

miserly wretch, it is said, had a daughter, remarkable both for her

piety and beauty; the old man, in spite of his parsimonious habits,

retained some affection for his child, and bestowed upon her a somewhat

liberal education.

Mary Overs had no sympathy with the avarice and selfishness of her

parent: she grew up endowed with amiability, and with a true maiden's

heart to love. As she approached womanhood, her dazzling charms

attracted numerous suitors; but the miser refused all matrimonial

offers, and even declined to negociate the matter on any terms, although

some of wealth and rank were willing to wed with the ferryman's

daughter. Mary was kept a close prisoner, and forbidden to bestow her

smiles upon any of her admirers, nor were any allowed to speak with her;

but love and nature will conquer bolts and bars, as well as fear; and

one of her suitors took the opportunity, while the miser was busy

picking up his penny fares, to get admitted to her company. The first

interview pleased well; another was granted and arranged, which pleased

still better; and a third ended in a mutual plighting of their troths.

During all these transactions at home, the silly old ferryman was still

busy with his avocation, not dreaming but that things were as secure on

land as they were on water.

John Overs was of a disposition so wretched and miserly, that he even

begrudged his servants their necessary food. He used to buy black

puddings, which were then sold in London at a penny a yard; and whenever

he gave them their allowance, he used to say, "There, you hungry dogs,

you will undo me with eating." He would scarcely allow a neighbor to

obtain a light from his candle, lest he should in some way impoverish

him by taking some of its light. He used to go to market to search for

bargains: he bought the siftings of the coarsest meal, looked out

eagerly for marrow-bones that could be purchased for a trifle, and

scrupled not to convert them into soup if they were mouldy. He bought

the stalest bread, and he used to cut it into slices, "that, taking the

air, it might become the harder to be eaten." Sometimes he would buy

meat so tainted, that even his dog would refuse it; upon which

occasions, he used to say that it was a dainty cur, and better fed than

taught, and then eat it himself. He needed no cats, for all the rats and

mice voluntarily left the house, as nothing was cast aside from which

they could obtain a picking.

It is said that this sordid old man resorted one day to a most singular

stratagem, for the purpose of saving a day's provision in his

establishment. He counterfeited illness, and pretended to die; he

compelled his daughter to assist in the deception, much against her

inclination. Overs imagined that, like good Catholics, his servants

would not be so unnatural as to partake of food while his body was above

ground, but would lament his loss, and observe a rigid fast; when the

day was over, he intended to feign a sudden recovery. He was laid out as

dead, and wrapt in a sheet; a candle was placed at his head, in

accordance with the popish custom of the age. His apprentices were

informed of their master's death; but, instead of manifesting grief,

they gave vent to the most unbounded joy; hoping, at last, to be

released from their hard and penurious servitude. They hastened to

satisfy themselves of the truth of this joyful news, and seeing him laid

out as dead, could not even restrain their feelings in the presence of

death, but actually danced and skipped around the corpse; tears or

lamentations they had none; and as to fasting, an empty belly admits of

no delay. In the ebullition of their joy, one ran into the kitchen, and

breaking open the cupboard, brought out the bread; another ran for the

cheese, and brought it forth in triumph; and the third drew a flagon of

ale. They all sat down in high glee, congratulating and rejoicing among

themselves, at having been so unexpectedly released from their bonds of

servitude. Hard as it was, the bread rapidly disappeared; they indulged

in huge slices of cheese, even ventured to cast aside the parings, and

to take copious draughts of the miser's ale. The old man lay all this

time struck with horror at this awful prodigality, and enraged at their

mutinous disrespect: flesh and blood--at least, the flesh and blood of a

miser--could endure it no longer; and starting up he caught hold of the

funeral taper, determined to chastise them for their waste. One of them

seeing the old man struggling in the sheet, and thinking it was the

devil or a ghost, and becoming alarmed, caught hold of the butt end of a

broken oar, and at one blow struck out his brains! "Thus," says the

tradition, "he who thought only to counterfeit death, occasioned it in

earnest; and the law acquitted the fellow of the act, as he was the

prime cause of his own death." The daughter's lover, hearing of the

death of old Overs, hastened up to London with all possible speed; but

riding fast, his horse unfortunately threw him, just as he was entering

the city, and broke his neck. This, with her father's death, had such an

effect on the spirits of Mary Overs, that she was almost frantic, and

being troubled with a numerous train of suitors, she resolved to

retire into a nunnery, and to devote the whole of her wealth, which was

enormous, to purposes of charity and religion. She laid the foundation

of "a famous church, which at her own charge was finished, and by her

dedicated to the Virgin Mary." This, tradition says, was the origin of

St. Mary Overs, Southwark, a name which it received in memory of its

beautiful, but unfortunate foundress.

On an old sepulchre, in St. Saviour's church, may be seen to this day,

reclining in no very easy posture, the figure of a poor,

emaciated-looking being; which rumor has declared to be the figure of

John Overs, the ferryman. There is not much to warrant the conclusion,

except, perhaps, the similarity which the mind might discover in the

stone effigy and the aspect with which, in idea, we instinctively endow

all such objects of penury. The figure looks thin enough for a man who

lived on the pickings of stale bones, and musty bread, it must be

allowed; and the countenance certainly looks miserly enough for any

miser; but then the marble tablet above merely tells the passer by that

the body of one William Emerson lyeth there, "who departed out of this

life," one day in June, in the year 1575.

The curious little tract from which we have gleaned many of the above

particulars, gives a very different account of the miser's

burying-place. On account, it is said, of his usury, extortion, and the

general sordidness of his life, he had been excommunicated, and refused

Christian burial; but the daughter, by large sums of money, endeavored

to bribe the friars of Bermondsey Abbey to get him buried. As my lord

abbot happened to be away from home, the holy brothers took the money,

and buried him within the cloister. The abbot on his return seeing a new

grave, inquired who, in his absence, had been buried there; and on being

informed, he ordered it to be immediately disinterred, and be laid on

the back of an ass; then muttering some benediction, or, perhaps, an

anathema, he turned the beast from the abbey gates. "The ass went with a

solemn pace, unguided by any, through Kent Street, till it came to St.

Thomas-a-Watering, which was then the common execution place; and then

shook him off, just under the gallows, where a grave was instantly made,

and, without any ceremony, he was tumbled in, and covered with earth."

While we abhor the abuse, and think it well to guard others by hideous

examples of its folly and vice, we can appreciate and participate in its

general use. We look upon it as a solemn duty in men, whether regarded

as citizens or fathers of families, to practice a prudent economy; and

the man who is frugal without being avaricious--who is parsimonious

without being sordid--we regard as fulfilling one of his greatest social

duties. If economy is a virtue, wastefulness is a sin; and yet how many

weekly glory in being thought extravagant! Ruined spendthrifts will

boast of their meanless prodigality and their wasteful dissipation, as

if in their past liberal selfishness they could claim some forbearance

for their present disrepute, or some compassion for the misfortunes into

which their own heedlessness has thrown them. The learned, too, will

disdain all knowledge of the dull routine of economy, and proclaim their

ignorance of the affairs of life, as if the confession endowed them with

a virtue; but perfection is not the privilege of any order of men, and

many who ought to have been the monitors of mankind, whose talents have

made their names immortal, embittered their lives, and impaired the

vigor of their intellects by their thoughtless and wanton extravagance.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

In the winter of the year 1792, Paris was agitated to the very core, by

the most important public question which had yet arisen during the

course of the Revolution. The people had hitherto been completely

triumphant in their attack on established things. They had overturned

the throne, and sent its supporters by thousands to the scaffold or to

exile. They had subverted the ancient constitution; and, though no new

form of government had yet been arranged, all power lay for the time in

the hands of their leaders, of one or another denomination of

republicans. The Jacobins, ultimately the dominant faction, had not yet

obtained full sway, but had to contend for supremacy in the convention

(or senate) of the nation, with the Girondists, a section numbering in

its ranks many of the most able and more moderate republicans of France.

Daily and bitterly did these two parties struggle at this time against

one another--Robespierre, Danton, and Marat being the virtual chiefs,

whether acting in unison or otherwise, of the Jacobins or violent

republicans; while Vergniaud, Guadet, Louvet, Salle, Petion, and others,

headed the Girondists or moderates. Matters stood thus before the

commencement of the trial of Louis XVI., the question already alluded to

as exceeding in importance and interest any to which the Revolution had

yet given birth. On the results of the process hung the life of the

king; and men speculated as to the issue with anxiety, mingled with fear

and wonderment. Doubts existed as to what might be that issue--doubts

excited chiefly by the condition of parties just described. On the

whole, the chances seemed in favor of the king before the commencement

of his trial, seeing that the Girondists had then a decided ascendency

over their rivals in the convention, and that many of them had strong

leanings to the side of mercy. But the unfortunate Louis XVI., whose

very mildness made him the scape-goat for the errors of his

predecessors, stood in mortal peril in the best view of the case. So

felt his friends throughout France, and they were yet numerous, though

constrained to look on in silence, and bury their feelings in their own

bosoms.

One evening, in the winter mentioned, before the trial of the king had

opened, the convention broke up after a stormy sitting, and its members

separated for their clubs or their homes, to intrigue or to recreate, as

they felt inclined. The Girondist leaders, Vergniaud, Guadet, Fonfrene,

and others, might then have been seen, as they left the place of

sitting, to surround a young man who was speaking loudly and vehemently.

His theme was Robespierre; and bitter were the recriminations which he

poured on that too famous individual. Vergniaud and the rest attempted

to check the outbursts of wrath, but, at the same time, with peals of

laughter at their young colleague's angry violence.

"Come home with me, my good Barbaroux," said Vergniaud; "we shall hear

you more comfortably before a good fire. It is piercingly cold, and I

promise you, that, if the vines of Medoc have to sustain such a season,

we need not expect to drink Bordeaux at a reasonable price for fifteen

years to come."

"Fifteen years!" said Guadet, in a melancholy voice; "and do you then

count upon living for another fifteen years, Vergniaud?"

"Why not?" was the answer; "am I a king that I should fear the anger of

the Republic?"

At this moment, a little Savoyard, with his stool at his back, threw

himself almost betwixt the legs of Vergniaud, and, holding out a letter,

exclaimed, "Which of you, citizens, is the representative Barbaroux?"

"Here," said Vergniaud, taking the letter from the lad, and handing it

to his companion, the irritated young deputy above mentioned, "here is a

billet for you, Barbaroux. I should guess that it comes from some

ex-marchioness, who wishes to know if the judges of the king are formed

like other men, or if you have got horns on your head, and a cloven

foot."

Barbaroux, at this time little more than twenty-seven years of age, was

one of the most handsome, as well as beautiful men of his time. Madame

Roland, in one phrase, has given us a singular idea of his personal

attractions. "He had," she says, "the head of Antinous upon the frame of

a Hercules." The young representative of Marseilles (for such was his

station) took the note of the Savoyard, and, advancing to a lamp, opened

it, and read therein the following words:

"Citizen, if you fear not to accede to an invitation which can not be

signed, repair this evening, at nine o'clock, to the street St. Honore,

where you will find a coach standing in front of the house, No. 56.

Enter the vehicle without fear, and it will conduct you among old

friends."

Turning to his companions, after reading this mystic note, Barbaroux

observed, "You are right, Vergniaud; it is a communication from an

ex-marchioness."

"Ah! I thought so," replied the other; "and will you accept the

invitation?"

"I know not," was the careless response.

Barbaroux was young, and, without being exactly weary of the agitated

public life which he habitually led, felt any circumstance calculated to

take him out of it for a time as a piece of good fortune not to be

contemned. He deceived Vergniaud, therefore, when he affected to treat

the matter of the billet lightly. In fact, it seized upon his thoughts

exclusively; and he not only spoke no more of Robespierre to his

friends, but quitted them upon some slight pretext soon afterward. He

then returned directly to his own home; and, when there, delivered

himself up to conjectures respecting the mysterious epistle which he had

received. Barbaroux was young, be it again observed, and of a

temperament not indisposed to gallantry, though the softer concerns of

life had been all but banished from his thoughts more lately. However,

the anonymous billet, which came, he felt assured, from a female,

directed his reflections into a train once not so unfamiliar to them,

and the more so as it spoke of his meeting "old friends." With

impatience, therefore, he watched the movements of his time-piece, as it

indicated the gradual approach of the hour of appointment. The

Marseillaise representative felt no personal alarm respecting the coming

adventure. He had never been an advocate of bloodshed in his public

character, and knew of none likely to entertain against him sentiments

of hostility, or to project snares for his life. No; he confidently

assumed the object of the unknown correspondent to be friendly.

Enough, however, about the anticipations of Barbaroux. The hour of nine

came, and he hastily left his own residence, to proceed to the Rue St.

Honore. There, opposite to No. 56, he found a coach in waiting. Without

a word, he opened the door, leaped inside, and shut himself up with his

own hands. In a moment the coachman lashed his horses, and Barbaroux

felt himself whirled along for an hour with such rapidity, as, together

with the obscurity of the evening, to prevent him completely from

discerning the route taken. At length the vehicle stopped abruptly, in a

petty street, and before a house of sufficiently mediocre appearance.

The gate opened instantly, and the driver, descending from his seat,

silently showed Barbaroux into the house, after which the door was

closed behind. The young man now found himself in a passage of some

length, as was shown by a distant light. That light speedily increased,

and the visitor perceived a young girl approaching him with a lamp in

her hand--one of those old iron lamps in which the oil floats openly,

and which have the wick at one of the sides. Barbaroux was instantly

reminded of the fisher-cots of Marseilles--his own well-known

Marseilles--where such articles are used constantly by the fishing

community. Casting his eyes attentively on the girl, he saw more to

remind him of the same ancient sea-port--her cap, colored kerchief, and

dress generally, being such as its young women always wore. Her face,

too, was not a strange one. Moreover the odor of tar, or that smell

peculiar to well-used cordage and sails, struck forcibly on his senses,

and strengthened the same associative recollections. Astonished

already, Barbaroux felt still more so, when a once familiar voice

addressed him in accents strongly provincial, or Marseillaise.

"Charles," said the girl with the lamp, "you have made us wait. You

promised this morning to be earlier here."

"I promised!" cried Barbaroux, with amazement, heightened by a sort of

impression that he was speaking to a person who ought at the moment to

be at two hundred leagues' distance.

"Yes! promised," continued the girl; "but no doubt, you have been at the

office, or have forgotten yourself with the curate of La Major, who

makes you study such beautiful plants. Never mind; come with me. Melanie

is with her uncle Jean, and I, as I tell you, have been waiting for you

more than an hour. Come, then!"

Barbaroux scarcely comprehended what was said to him. He found all his

senses deceiving him at once, as it were, sight, hearing, and smell; and

his imagination transported from the present to the past, had some

difficulty in overcoming the first shock of stupefied surprise.

Thereafter, he felt a kind of wish to yield himself up voluntarily to

what seemed a sweet illusion. He followed the young girl as desired, but

soon found new causes for astonishment. Before him appeared the old

screw-stair of a well-known fisher dwelling, with the narrow

landing-place, chalky walls, and plastered chimney, with its tint of

yellow, to him most familiar of old. He even noted on the plaster an

acanthus leaf, where such a thing had been once rudely charcoaled by his

own hand. In the chimney grate, he beheld an enormous log, the Christmas

log, sparkling above the red embers; and he then called to mind that the

day was the 24th of December, and the evening Christmas Eve.

"Ah! you see," said the young girl, rousing him by her voice, "we are

going to hold the Christmas feast. Come, Charles, enter, and sit down

opposite to uncle Jean, and by the side of Melanie. I will take my place

on your other hand."

As the girl spoke, she had opened the door of an inner apartment, and

led forward Barbaroux. The latter did indeed see before him uncle Jean;

he clasped in his own the hands of Melanie. He beheld all that he had

been once wont to see, in short, in the home of uncle Jean, the old

seaman of Marseilles. The same veteran weather-glass hung on the wall;

the compass was there, too, pointing still, as it pointed of yore. On

the table Barbaroux observed the green glasses of Provence; the bottles

were the peculiar bottles of uncle Jean; and, amid others, he saw the

yellow seals marking the prized Cyprus wine of the ancient mariner

of Marseilles. Brown dishes were there of the pottery of Saint

Jacquerie--articles to Paris unknown. Edibles lay upon them too, such as

Marseilles draws from sunny Afric: almonds and dates, with figs and

raisins, alone, or compounded into cakes, after the mode of southern

France. All these things confounded the young member of convention. Had

he made in a few hours a journey of eight days? Had he retrograded in

the way of existence? Had he dreamt of a busy life of three years, since

the time when, under the shade of the church of St. Laurent of

Marseilles, he had courted the fair niece of uncle Jean, amid scenes and

sights such as now surrounded him? The deputy of Marseilles, the popular

conventionist, closed his eyes in doubt. Dreamed he at that moment or

had he dreamed for years?

Barbaroux was no weak-minded man, and yet it is not too much to say,

that he felt positive difficulty in determining what he saw to be

unreal, or, at most but an illusory revival of a former reality; and

this difficulty he felt, even though he had in his pocket, and touched

with his fingers, a note from Madame Roland, received in the convention

on that very afternoon. On the other hand, the two Provençal girls were

assuredly by his side; and, at the sight of Melanie, upsprung anew that

fresh young love which politics had stifled in his heart in its very

bud. Was not uncle Jean there, moreover, with his robust form and open

features, his kindly smile, and his strong Marseillaise accents? If all

was a delusion, as the reason of Barbaroux ever and anon told him, and

if a purposed delusion, as seemed more than likely, what could that

purpose be? Had uncle Jean and Melanie thus mysteriously encompassed him

with souvenirs of former and happy hours, to rekindle the love from

which politics had detached him, and to lead him yet into that union

once all but arranged? Such might possibly be the case, and the thought

tended to check the questions which rose naturally to the young man's

lip. He could not, would not, bring a blush to the cheek of Melanie, by

asking her explanations so delicate. These would be voluntarily given,

doubtless, in due time. Besides, to speak the truth, he felt so happy to

be again by her side, as to shrink from the idea of breaking the spell,

and was contented to yield himself up to the soft intoxication of the

moment. He spoke of Marseilles, as if he was actually there, and as if

he had no thought save of its passing interests and affairs. On these

matters, uncle Jean and the two girls conversed with him freely, never

leaving it to be supposed for an instant, however, that they were at all

conscious of being elsewhere, or that Barbaroux had ever been absent

from their sides. Only now and then did Barbaroux catch the glance of

Melanie, fixed on him with an unusual expression, made up of mingled

tenderness and thoughtful anxiety. His observation, however, made her

instantly recur to the same manner displayed by her sister and uncle,

who treated him as if they had seen him but a few hours previously. The

deputy, after being enlivened by the little supper and the good wine,

even smiled internally to see the extent to which they carried this

caution, though it mystified him the more. The window of the chamber in

which they sat at their singular Christmas feast, opened suddenly of its

own accord.

"Shut that window, Melanie," said uncle Jean; "the air of the sea is

unwholesome by night." The window was closed accordingly; but Barbaroux

fancied that he had actually heard through it the roll of the waves, and

felt on his cheek the freshness of the ocean breeze.

At length the hour of midnight sounded--the hour at which, once only in

the year, the priest ascends the high altar to say mass--the hour of the

Saviour's birth.

"It is midnight," cried the two girls; "let us proceed to mass."

As they spoke, the girls rose from table, and, in doing so, overturned,

by accident or intention, the two candles by which the room was lighted.

Barbaroux found himself a second time in the dark; but speedily his arms

were seized by the girls, one on each side, and he was noiselessly led

down into the dark passage by which he had entered. Barbaroux had often

stolen an embrace from Melanie in such circumstances as the present, and

he here found himself repaid by a voluntary one from herself. For a

moment her arm lingered around him, and was then withdrawn in silence.

The door was then opened for him, and, in another second of time, he

stood alone in the street, with the coach in waiting which had brought

him thither. Confusedly and mechanically he entered the vehicle, and was

ere long set down in the Rue St. Honore, at liberty to regain his own

home.

Deeply as he was impressed by this remarkable incident, Barbaroux did

not think it necessary to disclose the particulars to Vergniaud and his

other political companions; but he made a confidant of Madame Roland.

"It is plain," said he, concludingly to that lady, "that the whole was a

purposed plan of deception or illusion. It is the story of Aline put in

action for my especial benefit, but surely without end, without

sufficing grounds. Wherefore employ such chicanery with a man like me?

It would have been better to have addressed me frankly, and so have

reminded me of the past, than to have resorted to a scheme which, though

impressive at the time, can only move me now to a smile. Yes, madame, I

would say--that the issue might possibly have been more agreeable to

their wishes, had they dealt with me less mysteriously. But what

inducement can have made uncle Jean go in with such a step, really

puzzles me. He is a man who dies of ennui when out of sight of the sea

for a day. Besides, though he did love me once, I believe that he at

heart hates the convention, with all belonging to it, and favors the

Bourbons."

"Even if the intention," replied Madame Roland, "was only to recall your

old love to your recollection, Barbaroux, there is something pretty in

the idea. It is as if your Melanie, in putting her home, her friends,

and herself, before you in their perfect reality, had said--'This is all

I can offer--all save my love.' But there is something more under it

than all this, Barbaroux,' pursued the lady, after reflecting gravely

for some time. 'They gave you no verbal explanation, you say; but did

they leave you no clew otherwise? Did you wear your present dress

yesterday?"

"I did, madame."

"Have you examined its pockets?"

"No," said Barbaroux, "but I shall do so immediately."

The young member of convention accordingly put his hands into his

pockets, and was not slow to discover there, as Madame Roland had

acutely conjectured, a complete solution of his whole enigma. He found a

paper bearing his address, in which an offer was made to him of the hand

of the woman he (once, at least, had) loved, with a dowry of five

hundred thousand francs, and the prospect of enjoying anew all the

pleasures of his happy youth, provided that he supported the Appeal to

the People on behalf of Louis XVI.--provided, in short, that he lent his

influence to save the life, at all events, of the king. That such an

appeal would have saved Louis from the scaffold, all men at the time

believed. The Jacobins obviously thought so, since they obstinately

denied him any such chance of escape.

It is probable that the monetary clause in this proposal would alone

have prevented its entertainment by the young deputy for Marseilles. Be

this as it may, the romantic scheme which the friendship of uncle Jean,

and the love of Melanie, had led them to enter upon, at the instance,

doubtless of the other friends of Louis, for inducing Barbaroux to

befriend the king, and for wiling himself from the dangerous vortex of

political turmoil, ended in nothing. Within a few weeks--nay, a few days

afterward--began that life-and-death struggle between the Girondists and

Jacobins, which only terminated with the total fall of the former party,

and the condemnation to the scaffold of all its leaders. To the honor of

Barbaroux, be it told that, without a bribe, he supported the Appeal to

the People, and had he had the power would have saved the ill-fated king

from the extreme and bloody penalty of the guillotine. But the infuriate

councils of Robespierre and Marat prevailed; and Barbaroux, with five

companions, fled for safety to the Gironde, that southern portion of

France, of which Bordeaux is the capital, and whence they had derived

their party name. They found there, however, no safety; they were hunted

down like wild beasts by the dominant faction, and every man of them was

taken and beheaded, or otherwise perished miserably, with the exception

of Louvet, who subsequently recorded their perils and their sufferings.

Barbaroux, the young, gay, handsome and brave Barbaroux, died on the

scaffold, while Petion met the death of a wild beast in the

fields--starved while in life, and mangled by wolves when no

more. Well had it been for Barbaroux, had he yielded timeously to the

loving call of Melanie, made so romantically and mysteriously. It was

not so destined to be.[2]

[Footnote 2: This little story is drawn from the French. The

Revolutionary era was so fertile in romantic incidents, springing at

once from the theatrical character of the people, and the extraordinary

excitement of the period, that the adventure of Barbaroux is quite

within the range of probability. One vote did at last condemn Louis

XVI.]

"JUDGE NOT!"

Many years since, two pupils of the University at Warsaw were passing

through the street in which stands the column of King Sigismund, round

whose pedestal may generally be seen seated a number of women selling

fruit, cakes, and a variety of eatables, to the passers-by. The young

men paused to look at a figure whose oddity attracted their attention.

This was a man apparently between fifty and sixty years of age; his

coat, once black, was worn threadbare; his broad hat overshadowed a thin

wrinkled face; his form was greatly emaciated, yet he walked with a firm

and rapid step. He stopped at one of the stalls beneath the column,

purchased a halfpenny worth of bread, ate part of it, put the remainder

into his pocket, and pursued his way toward the palace of General

Zaionczek, lieutenant of the kingdom, who, in the absence of the czar,

Alexander, exercised royal authority in Poland.

"Do you know that man?" asked one student of the other.

"I do not; but judging by his lugubrious costume, and no less mournful

countenance, I should guess him to be an undertaker."

"Wrong, my friend; he is Stanislas Staszic."

"Staszic!" exclaimed the student, looking after the man, who was then

entering the palace. "How can a mean, wretched-looking man, who stops in

the middle of the street to buy a morsel of bread, be rich and

powerful?"

"Yet, so it is," replied his companion. "Under this unpromising exterior

is hidden one of our most influential ministers, and one of the most

illustrious _savans_ of Europe."

The man whose appearance contrasted so strongly with his social

position, who was as powerful as he seemed insignificant, as rich as he

appeared poor, owed all his fortune to himself--to his labors, and to

his genius.

Of low extraction--he left Poland, while young, in order to acquire

learning. He passed some years in the Universities of Leipsic and

Göttingen, continued his studies in the College of France, under Brisson

and D'Aubanton; gained the friendship of Buffon; visited the Alps and

the Apennines; and, finally, returned to his native land, stored with

rich and varied learning.

He was speedily invited by a nobleman to take charge of the education of

his son. Afterward, the government wished to profit by his talents; and

Staszic, from grade to grade, was raised to the highest posts and the

greatest dignities. His economical habits made him rich. Five hundred

serfs cultivated his lands, and he possessed large sums of money placed

at interest. When did any man ever rise very far above the rank in which

he was born, without presenting a mark for envy and detraction to aim

their arrows against? Mediocrity always avenges itself by calumny; and

so Staszic found it, for the good folks of Warsaw were quite ready to

attribute all his actions to sinister motives.

A group of idlers had paused close to where the students were standing.

All looked at the minister, and every one had something to say against

him.

"Who would ever think," cried a noble, whose gray mustaches and

old-fashioned costume recalled the era of King Sigismund, "that

_he_ could be a minister of state? Formerly, when a Palatin

traversed the capital, a troop of horsemen both preceded and followed

him. Soldiers dispersed the crowds that pressed to look at him. But what

respect can be felt for an old miser, who has not the heart to afford

himself a coach, and who eats a piece of bread in the streets, just as a

beggar would do?"

"His heart," said a priest, "is as hard as the iron chest in which he

keeps his gold; a poor man might die of hunger at his door, before he

would give him alms."

"He has worn the same coat for the last ten years," remarked another.

"He sits on the ground for fear of wearing out his chairs," chimed in a

saucy-looking lad, and every one joined in a mocking laugh.

A young pupil of one of the public schools had listened in indignant

silence to these speeches, which cut him to the heart; and at length,

unable to restrain himself, he turned toward the priest and said:

"A man distinguished for his generosity ought to be spoken of with more

respect. What does it signify to us how he dresses, or what he eats, if

he makes a noble use of his fortune?"

"And pray what use _does_ he make of it?"

"The Academy of Sciences wanted a place for a library, and had not funds

to hire one. Who bestowed on them a magnificent palace? Was it not

Staszic!"

"Oh! yes, because he is as greedy of praise as of gold."

"Poland esteems, as her chief glory, the man who discovered the laws of

the sidereal movement. Who was it that raised to him a monument worthy

of his renown--calling the chisel of Canova to honor the memory of

Copernicus?"

"It was Staszic," replied the priest, "and so all Europe honors for it

the generous senator. But, my young friend, it is not the light of the

noon-day sun that ought to illume Christian charity. If you want really

to know a man, watch the daily course of his private life. This

ostentatious miser, in the books which he publishes groans over the lot

of the peasantry, and in his vast domains he employs five hundred

miserable serfs. Go some morning to his house--there you will find a

poor woman beseeching with tears a cold proud man who repulses her. That

man is Staszic--that woman his sister. Ought not the haughty giver of

palaces, the builder of pompous statues, rather to employ himself in

protecting his oppressed serfs, and relieving his destitute relative?"

The young man began to reply, but no one would listen to him. Sad and

dejected at hearing one who had been to him a true and generous friend,

so spoken of, he went to his humble lodging.

Next morning he repaired at an early hour to the dwelling of his

benefactor. There he met a woman weeping, and lamenting the inhumanity

of her brother.

This confirmation of what the priest had said, inspired the young man

with a fixed determination. It was Staszic who had placed him at

college, and supplied him with the means of continuing there. Now, he

would reject his gifts--he would not accept benefits from a man who

could look unmoved at his own sister's tears.

The learned minister, seeing his favorite pupil enter, did not desist

from his occupation, but, continuing to write, said to him:

"Well, Adolphe, what can I do for you to-day? If you want books, take

them out of my library; or instruments--order them, and send me the

bill. Speak to me freely, and tell me if you want any thing."

"On the contrary, sir, I come to thank you for your past kindness, and

to say that I must in future decline receiving your gifts."

"You are, then, become rich?"

"I am as poor as ever."

"And your college?"

"I must leave it."

"Impossible!" cried Staszic, standing up, and fixing his penetrating

eyes on his visitor. "You are the most promising of all our pupils--it

must not be!"

In vain the young student tried to conceal the motive of his conduct;

Staszic insisted on knowing it.

"You wish," said Adolphe, "to heap favors on me, at the expense of your

suffering family."

The powerful minister could not conceal his emotion. His eyes filled

with tears, and he pressed the young man's hand warmly, as he said:

"Dear boy, always take heed to this counsel--'JUDGE NOTHING BEFORE

THE TIME.' Ere the end of life arrives, the purest virtue may be

soiled by vice, and the bitterest calumny proved to be unfounded. My

conduct is, in truth, an enigma, which I can not now solve--it is the

secret of my life."

Seeing the young man still hesitate, he added:

"Keep an account of the money I give you, consider it as a loan; and

when some day, through labor and study, you find yourself rich, pay the

debt by educating a poor, deserving student. As to me, wait for my

death, before you judge my life."

During fifty years Stanislas Staszic allowed malice to blacken his

actions. He knew the time would come when all Poland would do him

justice.

On the 20th of January, 1826, thirty thousand mourning Poles flocked

around his bier, and sought to touch the pall, as though it were some

holy, precious relic.

The Russian army could not comprehend the reason of the homage thus paid

by the people of Warsaw to this illustrious man. His last testament

fully explained the reason of his apparent avarice. His vast estates

were divided into five hundred portions, each to become the property of

a free peasant--his former serf. A school, on an admirable plan and very

extended scale, was to be established for the instruction of the

peasants' children in different trades. A reserved fund was provided for

the succor of the sick and aged. A small yearly tax, to be paid by the

liberated serfs, was destined for purchasing, by degrees, the freedom of

their neighbors, condemned, as they had been, to hard and thankless

toil.

After having thus provided for his peasants, Staszic bequeathed six

hundred thousand florins for founding a model hospital; and he left a

considerable sum toward educating poor and studious youths. As for his

sister, she inherited only the same allowance which he had given her,

yearly, during his life; for she was a person of careless, extravagant

habits, who dissipated foolishly all the money she received.

A strange fate was that of Stanislas Staszic. A martyr to calumny during

his life, after death his memory was blessed and revered by the

multitudes whom he had made happy.

A MATHEMATICAL HERMIT.

During the earlier half of the last century, there lived in one of the

villages on the outskirts of the moor on which a singular pile of rocks

on the Cornish moors called the Cheese-Wring stands, a stone-cutter

named Daniel Gumb. This man was noted among his companions for his

taciturn, eccentric character, and for his attachment to mathematical

studies. Such leisure time as he had at his command he regularly devoted

to pondering over some of the problems of Euclid; he was always drawing

mysterious complications of angles, triangles, and parallelograms, on

pieces of slate, and on the blank leaves of such few books as he

possessed. But he made very slow progress in his studies. Poverty and

hard work increased with the increase of his family. At last he was

obliged to give up his mathematics altogether. He labored early and

labored late; he hacked and hewed at the hard material out of which he

was doomed to cut a livelihood with unremitting diligence; but want

still kept up with him, toil as he might to outstrip it, in the career

of life. In short, times went on so ill with Daniel, that in despair of

ever finding them better he took a sudden resolution of altering his

manner of living, and retreating from the difficulties that he could

not overcome. He went to the hill on which the Cheese-Wring stands, and

looked about among the rocks until he found some that had accidentally

formed themselves into a sort of rude cavern. He widened this recess; he

propped up a great wide slab, that made its roof, at one end where it

seemed likely to sink without some additional support; he cut out in a

rock that rose above this, what he called his bed-room--a mere

longitudinal slit in the stone, the length and breadth of his body, into

which he could roll himself sideways when he wanted to enter it. After

he had completed this last piece of work, he scratched the date of the

year of his extraordinary labors (1735) on the rock; and then, he went

and fetched his wife and family away from their cottage, and lodged them

in the cavity he had made--never to return during his life-time, to the

dwellings of men!

Here he lived and here he worked, when he could get work. He paid no

rent now: he wanted no furniture; he struggled no longer to appear to

the world as his equals appeared; he required no more money than would

procure for his family and himself the barest necessaries of life; he

suffered no interruptions from his fellow-workmen, who thought him a

madman, and kept out of his way; and--most precious privilege of his new

position--he could at last shorten his hours of labor, and lengthen his

hours of study, with impunity. Having no temptations to spend money, no

hard demands of an inexorable landlord to answer, whether he was able or

not, he could now work with his brains as well as his hands, he could

toil at his problems upon the tops of rocks, under the open sky, amid

the silence of the great moor; he could scratch his lines and angles on

thousands of stone tablets freely offered around him. The great ambition

of his life was greatly achieved.

Henceforth, nothing moved him, nothing depressed him. The storms of

winter rushed over his unsheltered dwelling, but failed to dislodge him.

He taught his family to brave solitude and cold in the cavern among the

rocks, as he braved them. In the cell that he had scooped out for his

wife (the roof of which has now fallen in) some of his children died,

and others were born. They point out the rock where he used to sit on

calm summer evenings, absorbed over his tattered copy of Euclid. A

geometrical "puzzle," traced by his hand, still appears on the stone.

When he died, what became of his family, no one can tell. Nothing more

is known of him than that he never quitted the wild place of his exile;

that he continued to the day of his death to live contentedly with his

wife and children, amid a civilized nation, and during a civilized age,

under such a shelter as would hardly serve the first savage tribes of

the most savage country--to live, starving out poverty and want on a

barren wild; defying both to follow him among the desert rocks--to live,

forsaking all things, enduring all things for the love of Knowledge,

which he could still nobly follow through trials and extremities,

without encouragement of fame or profit, without vantage ground of

station or wealth, for its own dear sake. Beyond this, nothing but

conjecture is left. The cell, the bed-place, the lines traced on the

rocks, the inscription of the year in which he hewed his habitation out

of them, are all the memorials that remain of a man, whose strange and

striking story might worthily adorn the pages of a tragic yet glorious

history which is still unwritten--the history of the martyrs of

knowledge in humble life!

A PRISON ANECDOTE.

In the year 1834, a widow lady of good fortune (whom we shall call Mrs.

Newton), resided with her daughter in one of the suburbs nearest to the

metropolis. They lived in fashionable style, and kept an ample

establishment of servants.

A very pretty young girl, nineteen years of age, resided in this family

in the capacity of lady's-maid. She was tolerably educated, spoke with

grammatical correctness, and was distinguished by a remarkably gentle

and fascinating address.

At that time Miss Newton was engaged to be married to one Captain

Jennings, R.N.; and Miss Newton (as many young ladies in the like

circumstances have done before), employed her leisure in embroidering

cambric, making it up into handkerchiefs, and sending them and other

little presents of that description, to Captain Jennings. Unhappily, but

very naturally, she made Charlotte Mortlock, her maid, the bearer of

these tender communications. The captain occupied lodgings suited to a

gentleman of station, and thither Charlotte Mortlock frequently repaired

at the bidding of her young mistress, and generally waited (as lovers

are generally impatient) to take back the captain's answers.

A strange sort of regard, or attachment (it is confidently believed to

have been guiltless) sprung up between the captain and the maid; and the

captain, who would seem to have deserved Miss Newton's confidence as

little as her maid did, gave as presents to Charlotte, some of the

embroidered offerings of Miss Newton.

It happened that a sudden appointment to the command of a ship of war,

took Captain Jennings on a transatlantic voyage. He had not been very

long gone, when the following discovery threw the family of the Newtons

into a state of intense agitation.

In search of some missing article in the absence of her maid, Miss

Newton betook herself to that young woman's room, and, quite

unsuspiciously, opened a trunk which was left unlocked. There she found,

to her horror, a number of the handkerchiefs she had embroidered for her

lover. The possibility of the real truth never flashed across her mind;

the dishonesty of Charlotte seemed to be the only solution of the

incident. "Doubtless," she reasoned, "the parcels had been opened on

their way to Captain Jennings, and their contents stolen."

On the return of Charlotte Mortlock, she was charged with the robbery.

What availed the assertion that she had received the handkerchiefs from

the captain himself? It was no defense, and certainly was not calculated

to soften the anger of her mistress. A policeman was summoned, the

unhappy girl was charged with felony, underwent examination, was

committed for trial, and, destitute of witnesses, or of any probable

defense, was ultimately _convicted_. The judge (now deceased) who tried

the case, was unsparingly denounced by many philanthropic ladies, for

the admiration he had expressed for the weeping girl, and especially for

his announcement to the jury, in passing sentence of one year's

imprisonment with hard labor, "that he would not transport her, since

the country could not afford to loose such beauty." It was doubtless,

not a very judicial remark; but an innocent girl was, at all events,

saved from a sentence that might have killed her.

Consigned to the County House of Correction, Charlotte Mortlock observed

the best possible conduct--was modest, humble, submissive, and

industrious--and soon gained the good-will of all her supervisors. To

the governor she always asserted her innocence, and told, with great

simplicity, the tale of her fatal possession of those dangerous gifts.

She had been in prison a few months, when the governor received a visit

from a certain old baronet, who with ill-disguised reluctance, and in

the blunt phraseology which was peculiar to him, proceeded to say, that

"A girl named Charlotte Mortlock had quite bewitched his friend Captain

Jennings, who was beyond the Atlantic; and that a letter he produced

would show the singular frame of mind in which the captain was, about

that girl."

Assuredly, the letter teemed with expressions of anguish, remorse, and

horror at the suffering and apparent ruin of "a dear innocent girl," the

victim of his senseless and heartless imprudence. However, the baronet

seemed to be any thing but touched by his friend's rhapsodies. He talked

much of "human nature," and of "the weakness of a man when a pretty girl

was in the case;" but, in order to satisfy his friend's mind, asked to

see her, that he might write some account of her appearance and

condition. Accordingly, he _did_ see her, in the governor's

presence. After a few inappropriate questions, he cut the interview

short, and went away, manifestly disposed to account his gallant friend

a fool for his excitement.

The incident was not lost upon the governor, who listened with increased

faith to the poor girl's protestations. In a few months more he received

a stronger confirmation of them. Apparently unsatisfied with the

baronet's services, Captain Jennings wrote to another friend of his, a

public functionary, formerly a captain in the renowned Light Division;

and that officer placed in the governor's hands a letter from the

captain, expressing unbounded grief for the dreadful fate of an innocent

young woman. "He could not rest night or day; she haunted his

imagination, and yet he was distant, and powerless to serve her." His

second messenger was touched with pity, and consulted the governor as to

the proper steps to pursue. However, under the unhappy circumstances of

the case, Captain Jennings being so far away, no formal document being

at hand, and the period of the poor girl's release being then almost

come, it was deemed unadvisable to take any step. Charlotte Mortlock

fulfilled the judgment of the law.

She had been carefully observed, her occupation had been of a womanly

character; she had never incurred a reproof, much less a punishment, in

the prison; and her health had been well sustained. She, consequently,

quitted her sad abode in a condition suitable for active exertion. Such

assistance as could be extended to her, on her departure, was afforded,

and so she was launched into the wide world of London.

She soon found herself penniless. Happily, she did not linger in want,

pawn her clothes (which were good), and gradually descend to the extreme

privation which has assailed so many similarly circumstanced. She

resolved to _act_, and again went to the prison gates. Well attired, but

deeply vailed, so as to defy recognition, she inquired for the governor.

The gate porter announced that "a lady" desired to speak to him. The

stranger was shown in, the vail was uplifted, and, to the governor's

astonishment, there stood Charlotte Mortlock! Her hair was neatly and

becomingly arranged about her face; her dress was quiet and pretty; and

altogether she looked so young, so lovely, and, at the same time, so

modest and innocent, that the governor, perforce, almost excused the

inconstancy (albeit attended with such fatal consequences) of Captain

Jennings.

With many tears she acknowledged her grateful obligations for the

considerate and humane treatment she had received in prison. She

disclosed her poverty, and her utter friendlessness; expressed her

horror of the temptations to which she was exposed; and implored the

governor's counsel and assistance. Without a moment's hesitation, she

was advised to go at once to a lady of station, whose extensive

charities and zealous services, rendered to the outcasts of society at

that time, were most remarkable. She cheerfully acquiesced. She found

the good lady at home, related her history, met with sympathy and active

aid, and, after remaining for a time, by her benevolent recommendation,

in a charitable establishment, was recommended to a wealthy family, to

whom every particular of her history was confided. In this service she

acquitted herself with perfect trustfulness and fidelity, and won the

warmest regard. The incident which had led to her unmerited

imprisonment, broke off the engagement between Captain Jennings and Miss

Newton; but whether the former had ever an opportunity of indemnifying

the poor girl for the suffering she had undergone, the narrator has

never been able to learn. This is, in every particular, a true case of

prison experience.

THE PILCHARD FISHERY ON THE COAST OF CORNWALL.[3]

[Footnote 3: From "Rambles beyond Railways," an interesting

work by W. WILKIE COLLINS, just published in London.]

If it so happened that a stranger in Cornwall went out to take his first

walk along the cliffs toward the south of the country, in the month of

August, that stranger could not advance far in any direction without

witnessing what would strike him as a very singular and alarming

phenomenon. He would see a man standing on the extreme edge of a

precipice, just over the sea, gesticulating in a very remarkable manner,

with a bush in his hand, waving it to the right and the left,

brandishing it over his head, sweeping it past his feet; in short,

apparently acting the part of a maniac of the most dangerous

description. It would add considerably to the startling effect of this

sight on the stranger aforesaid, if he were told, while beholding it,

that the insane individual before him was paid for flourishing the bush

at the rate of a guinea a week. And if he, thereupon, advanced a little

to obtain a nearer view of the madman, and then observed on the sea

below (as he certainly might) a well-manned boat, turning carefully to

right and left exactly as the bush turned right and left, his

mystification would probably be complete, and his ideas on the sanity of

the inhabitants of the neighborhood would at least be perplexed with

grievous doubt.

But a few words of explanation would soon make him alter his opinion. He

would then learn that the man with the bush was an important agent in

the Pilchard Fishery of Cornwall; that he had just discovered a shoal of

pilchards swimming toward the land; and that the men in the boat were

guided by his gesticulations alone, in securing the fish on which they

and all their countrymen on the coast depend for a livelihood.

To begin, however, with the pilchards themselves, as forming one of the

staple commercial commodities of Cornwall. They may be, perhaps, best

described as bearing a very close resemblance to the herring, but as

being rather smaller in size and having larger scales. Where they come

from before they visit the Cornish coast--where those that escape the

fishermen go to when they quit it, is unknown; or, at best, only vaguely

conjectured. All that is certain about them is, that they are met with,

swimming past the Scilly Isles, as early as July (when they are caught

with a drift-net). They then advance inland in August, during which

month the principal, or "in-shore," fishing begins, visit different

parts of the coast until October or November, and after that disappear

until the next year. They may be sometimes caught off the southwest part

of Devonshire, and are occasionally to be met with near the southernmost

coast of Ireland; but beyond these two points they are never seen on any

other portion of the shores of Great Britain, either before they

approach Cornwall, or after they have left it.

The first sight from the cliffs of a shoal of pilchards advancing toward

the land, is not a little interesting. They produce on the sea the

appearance of the shadow of a dark cloud. This shadow comes on, and on,

until you can see the fish leaping and playing on the surface by

hundreds at a time, all huddled close together, and all approaching so

near to the shore that they can be always caught in some fifty or sixty

feet of water. Indeed, on certain occasions, when the shoals are of

considerable magnitude, the fish behind have been known to force the

fish before, literally up to the beach, so that they could be taken in

buckets, or even in the hand with the greatest ease. It is said that

they are thus impelled to approach the land by precisely the same

necessity which impels the fishermen to catch them as they appear--the

necessity of getting food.

With the discovery of the first shoal, the active duties of the

"look-out" on the cliffs begin. Each fishing-village places one or more

of these men on the watch all round the coast. They are called "huers,"

a word said to be derived from the old French verb _huer_, to call

out, to give an alarm. On the vigilance and skill of the "huer" much

depends. He is, therefore, not only paid his guinea a week while he is

on the watch, but receives, besides, a perquisite in the shape of a

percentage on the produce of all the fish taken under his auspices. He

is placed at his post, where he can command an uninterrupted view of the

sea, some days before the pilchards are expected to appear; and, at the

same time, boats, nets, and men are all ready for action at a moment's

notice.

The principal boat used is at least fifteen tons in burden, and carries

a large net called the "seine," which measures a hundred and ninety

fathoms in length, and costs a hundred and seventy pounds--sometimes

more. It is simply one long strip, from eleven to thirteen fathoms in

breadth, composed of very small meshes, and furnished, all along its

length, with lead at one side and corks at the other. The men who cast

this net are called the "shooters," and receive eleven shillings and

sixpence a week, and a perquisite of one basket of fish each out of

every haul.

As soon as the "huer" discerns the first appearance of a shoal, he waves

his bush. The signal is conveyed to the beach immediately by men and

boys watching near him. The "seine" boat (accompanied by another small

boat, to assist in casting the net) is rowed out where he can see it.

Then there is a pause, a hush of great expectation on all sides.

Meanwhile, the devoted pilchards press on--a compact mass of thousands

on thousands of fish, swimming to meet their doom. All eyes are fixed on

the "huer;" he stands watchful and still, until the shoal is thoroughly

embayed, in water which he knows to be within the depth of the "seine"

net. Then, as the fish begin to pause in their progress, and gradually

crowd closer and closer together, he gives the signal; the boats come

up, and the "seine" net is cast, or, in the technical phrase, "shot"

overboard.

The grand object is now to inclose the entire shoal. The leads sink one

end of the net perpendicularly to the ground--the corks buoy up the

other to the surface of the water. When it has been taken all round the

fish, the two extremities are made fast, and the shoal is then

imprisoned within an oblong barrier of network surrounding it on all

sides. The great art is to let as few of the pilchards escape as

possible, while this process is being completed. Whenever the "huer"

observes from above that they are startled, and are separating at any

particular point, to that point he waves his bush, thither the boat is

steered, and there the net is "shot" at once. In whatever direction the

fish attempt to get out to sea again, they are thus immediately met and

thwarted with extraordinary readiness and skill. This labor completed,

the silence of intense expectation that has hitherto prevailed among the

spectators on the cliff, is broken. There is a great shout of joy on all

sides--the shoal is secured!

The "seine" is now regarded as a great reservoir of fish. It may remain

in the water a week or more. To secure it against being moved from its

position in case a gale should come on, it is warped by two or three

ropes to points of land in the cliff, and is, at the same time,

contracted in circuit, by its opposite ends being brought together, and

fastened tight over a length of several feet. While these operations are

in course of performance, another boat, another set of men, and another

net (different in form from the "seine") are approaching the scene of

action.

This new net is called the "tuck;" it is smaller than the "seine,"

inside which it is now to be let down for the purpose of bringing the

fish closely collected to the surface. The men who manage this net are

termed "regular seiners." They receive ten shillings a week, and the

same perquisite as the "shooters." Their boat is first of all rowed

inside the seine-net, and laid close to the seine-boat, which remains

stationary outside, and to the bows of which one rope at one end of the

"tuck-net" is fastened. The "tuck" boat then slowly makes the inner

circuit of the "seine," the smaller net being dropped overboard as she

goes, and attached at intervals to the larger. To prevent the fish from

getting between the two nets during this operation, they are frightened

into the middle of the inclosure by beating the water, at proper places,

with oars, and heavy stones fastened to ropes. When the "tuck" net has

at length traveled round the whole circle of the "seine," and is

securely fastened to the "seine" boat, at the end as it was at the

beginning, every thing is ready for the great event of the day--the

hauling of the fish to the surface.

Now, the scene on shore and sea rises to a prodigious pitch of

excitement. The merchants, to whom the boats and nets belong, and by

whom the men are employed, join the "huer" on the cliff; all their

friends follow them; boys shout, dogs bark madly; every little boat in

the place puts off crammed with idle spectators; old men and women

hobble down to the beach to wait for the news. The noise, the bustle,

the agitation, increases every moment. Soon the shrill cheering of the

boys is joined by the deep voices of the "seiners." There they stand,

six or eight stalwart, sunburnt fellows, ranged in a row in the "seine"

boat, hauling with all their might at the "tuck" net, and roaring the

regular nautical "Yo-heave-ho!" in chorus! Higher and higher rises the

net, louder and louder shout the boys and the idlers. The merchant

forgets his dignity, and joins them; the "huer," so calm and collected

hitherto, loses his self-possession and waves his cap triumphantly--even

you and I, reader, uninitiated spectators though we are, catch the

infection, and cheer away with the rest, as if our bread depended on the

event of the next few minutes. "Hooray! hooray! Yo-hoy, hoy, hoy! Pull

away, boys! Up she comes! Here they are! Here they are!" The water boils

and eddies; the "tuck" net rises to the surface, and one teeming,

convulsed mass of shining, glancing, silvery scales; one compact crowd

of thousands of fish, each one of which is madly endeavoring to escape,

appears in an instant!

The noise before, was as nothing compared with the noise now. Boats as

large as barges are pulled up in hot haste all round the net; baskets

are produced by dozens: the fish are dipped up in them, and shot out,

like coals out of a sack, into the boats. Ere long, the men are up to

their ankles in pilchards; they jump upon the rowing benches and work

on, until the boats are filled with fish as full as they can hold, and

the gunwales are within two or three inches of the water. Even yet, the

shoal is not exhausted; the "tuck" net must be let down again and left

ready for a fresh haul, while the boats are slowly propelled to the

shore, where we must join them without delay.

As soon as the fish are brought to land, one set of men, bearing

capacious wooden shovels, jump in among them; and another set bring

large handbarrows close to the side of the boat, into which the

pilchards are thrown with amazing rapidity. This operation proceeds

without ceasing for a moment. As soon as one barrow is ready to be

carried to the salting-house, another is waiting to be filled. When this

labor is performed by night--which is often the case--the scene becomes

doubly picturesque. The men with the shovels, standing up to their knees

in pilchards, working energetically; the crowd stretching down from the

salting-house, across the beach, and hemming in the boat all around; the

uninterrupted succession of men hurrying backward and forward with their

barrows, through a narrow way, kept clear for them in the throng: the

glare of the lanterns giving light to the workmen, and throwing red

flashes on the fish as they fly incessantly from the shovels over the

side of the boat, all combine together to produce such a series of

striking contrasts, such a moving picture of bustle and animation, as no

attentive spectator can ever forget.

Having watched the progress of affairs on the shore, we next proceed to

the salting-house, a quadrangular structure of granite, well roofed-in

all round the sides, but open to the sky in the middle. Here, we must

prepare ourselves to be bewildered by incessant confusion and noise; for

here are assembled all the women and girls in the district, piling up

the pilchards on layers of salt, at three-pence an hour; to which

remuneration, a glass of brandy and a piece of bread and cheese are

hospitably added at every sixth hour, by way of refreshment. It is a

service of some little hazard to enter this place at all. There are men

rushing out with empty barrows, and men rushing in with full barrows, in

almost perpetual succession. However, while we are waiting for an

opportunity to slip through the doorway, we may amuse ourselves by

watching a very curious ceremony which is constantly in course of

performance outside it.

As the filled harrows are going into the salting-house, we observe a

little urchin running by the side of them, and hitting their edges with

a long cane, in a constant succession of smart strokes, until they are

fairly carried through the gate, when he quickly returns to perform the

same office for the next series that arrive. The object of this

apparently unaccountable proceeding is soon practically illustrated by a

group of children, hovering about the entrance of the salting-house, who

every now and then dash resolutely up to the barrows, and endeavor to

seize on as many fish as they can take away at one snatch. It is

understood to be their privilege to keep as many pilchards as they can

get in this way by their dexterity, in spite of a liberal allowance of

strokes aimed at their hands; and their adroitness richly deserves its

reward. Vainly does the boy officially intrusted with the administration

of the cane, strike the sides of the barrow with malignant smartness and

perseverance--fish are snatched away with lightning rapidity and

pickpocket neatness of hand. The hardest rap over the knuckles fails to

daunt the sturdy little assailants. Howling with pain, they dash up to

the next barrow that passes them, with unimpaired resolution; and often

collect their ten or a dozen fish apiece, in an hour or two. No

description can do justice to the "Jack-in-office" importance of the boy

with the cane, as he flourishes it about ferociously in the full

enjoyment of his vested right to castigate his companions as often as he

can. As an instance of the early development of the tyrannic tendencies

of human nature, it is, in a philosophical point of view, quite

_unique_.

But now, while we have a chance, while the doorway is accidentally clear

for a few moments, let us enter the salting-house, and approach the

noisiest and most amusing of all the scenes which the pilchard fishery

presents. First of all, we pass a great heap of fish lying in one recess

inside the door, and an equally great heap of coarse, brownish salt

lying in another. Then, we advance further, get out of the way of every

body, behind a pillar; and see a whole congregation of the fair sex

screaming, talking, and--to their honor be it spoken--working at the

same time, round a compact mass of pilchards which their nimble hands

have already built up to a height of three feet, a breadth of more than

four, and a length of twenty. Here we have every variety of the "female

type" displayed before us, ranged round an odoriferous heap of salted

fish. Here, we see crones of sixty and girls of sixteen; the ugly and

the lean, the comely and the plump; the sour-tempered and the sweet--all

squabbling, singing, jesting, lamenting, and shrieking at the very top

of their very shrill voices for "more fish," and "more salt;" both of

which are brought from the stores, in small buckets, by a long train of

children running backward and forward with unceasing activity and in

inextricable confusion. But, universal as the uproar is, the work never

flags; the hands move as fast as the tongues; there may be no silence

and no discipline, but there is also no idleness and no delay. Never was

three-pence an hour more joyously or more fairly earned than it is here!

The labor is thus performed. After the stone floor has been swept clean,

a thin layer of salt is spread on it, and covered with pilchards laid

partly edgewise, and close together. Then another layer of salt,

smoothed fine with the palm of the hand, is laid over the pilchards; and

then more pilchards are placed upon that; and so on until the heap rises

to four feet, or more. Nothing can exceed the ease, quickness, and

regularity with which this is done. Each woman works on her own small

area, without reference to her neighbor; a bucketful of salt and a

bucketful of fish being shot out in two little piles under her hands,

for her own especial use. All proceed in their labor, however, with such

equal diligence and equal skill, that no irregularities appear in the

various layers when they are finished--they run as straight and smooth

from one end to the other, as if they were constructed by machinery. The

heap, when completed, looks like a long, solid, neatly-made mass of

dirty salt; nothing being now seen of the pilchards but the extreme tips

of their noses or tails, just peeping out in rows, up the sides of the

pile.

The fish will remain thus in salt, or, as the technical expression is,

"in bulk," for five or six weeks. During this period, a quantity of oil,

salt, and water drips from them into wells cut in the centre of the

stone floor on which they are placed. After the oil has been collected

and clarified, it will sell for enough to pay off the whole expense of

the wages, food, and drink given to the "seiners"--perhaps, for some

other incidental charges besides. The salt and water left behind, and

offal of all sorts found with it, furnish a valuable manure. Nothing in

the pilchard itself, or in connection with the pilchard, runs to

waste--the precious little fish is a treasure in every part of him.

After the pilchards have been taken out of "bulk," they are washed clean

in salt water, and packed in hogsheads, which are then sent for

exportation to some large sea-port--Penzance, for instance--in coast

traders. The fish reserved for use in Cornwall, are generally cured by

those who purchase them. The export trade is confined to the shores of

the Mediterranean--Italy and Spain providing the two great foreign

markets for pilchards. The home consumption, as regards Great Britain,

is nothing, or next to nothing. Some variation takes place in the prices

realized by the foreign trade--their average, wholesale, is stated to

about fifty shillings per hogshead.

Some idea of the almost incalculable multitude of pilchards caught on

the shores of Cornwall, may be formed from the following _data_. At

the small fishing cove of Trereen, 600 hogsheads were taken in little

more than one week, during August 1850. Allowing 2400 fish only to each

hogshead--3000 would be the highest calculation--we have a result of

1,440,000 pilchards, caught by the inhabitants of one little village

alone, on the Cornish coast, at the commencement of the season's

fishing!

At considerable sea-port towns, where there is an unusually large supply

of men, boats, and nets, such figures as those quoted above, are far

below the mark. At St. Ives, for example, 1000 hogsheads were taken in

the first three seine nets cast into the water. The number of hogsheads

exported annually, averages 22,000. This year, 27,000 have been secured

for the foreign markets. Incredible as these numbers may appear to some

readers, they may nevertheless be relied on; for they are derived from

trustworthy sources--partly from local returns furnished to me--partly

from the very men who filled the baskets from the boat-side, and who

afterward verified their calculations by frequent visits to the

salting-houses.

Such is the pilchard fishery of Cornwall--a small unit, indeed, in the

vast aggregate of England's internal sources of wealth: but yet, neither

unimportant nor uninteresting, if it be regarded as giving active

employment to a hardy and honest race who would starve without it, as

impartially extending the advantages of commerce to one of the remotest

corners of our island, and--more than all--as displaying a wise and

beautiful provision of Nature, by which the rich tribute of the great

deep is most generously lavished on the land which most needs a

compensation for its own sterility.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

LUCY CAWTHORNE.--A TALE BY A BACHELOR CLERK.

The office of clerk of the Carvers' Company has been filled by members

of my family for one hundred years past. My great-grandfather was

elected in the year 1749. After him, came his younger brother; and, when

he died, my grandfather was chosen by nine votes out of twelve; after

that, all opposition vanished: our dynasty was established. When my

grandfather died, my father went through the ceremony of calling upon

the members of the Court of Assistants, and soliciting their votes; and,

afterward, the formality of a show of hands being passed, he was

declared, as every one knew he would be who was aware of the existence

of the Carvers' Company, the successor of his father. The transition

from him to myself was so easy as to be hardly felt. When I threw aside

my yellow breeches, and came out of the "Blue-Coat School," with some

knowledge of Greek, and very small skill in penmanship, I was at once

transplanted to a stool at my father's desk; which stood railed off, in

a corner of the great hall, under the stained-glass window. The master

and twelve senior liverymen, who formed what is called the Court of

Assistants, saw me there when they met together; and one patted me on

the head, and prophesied great things of me, while I sat, very red in

the face, wondering who had been talking to him about me. Another, who

had himself worn the girdle and blue-petticoats, some half a century

previously, examined my classical knowledge; and, finding himself

somewhat at fault, remarked that he was not fresh from school, like me.

At length, my father and I attended their meetings alternately; and, as

he became old and infirm, the duties devolved entirely upon me. When he

died, therefore, there was no change. The twelve liverymen held up

twelve of their four-and-twenty hands, and my election was recorded on

the minutes.

Carvers' Hall was a place not very easy to find out, for any but the

warder and twelve liverymen: but, as few people else ever had occasion

to find it out, that was not of much consequence. The portion of the

city in which it stood had escaped the fire of London, which took a turn

at a short distance, owing, perhaps, to a change in the wind, and left

the hall and some adjacent courts untouched. In order to arrive there,

it was necessary, first, to pass through a narrow passage running up

from Thames-street; then, along a paved yard, by the railing of a

church; and, lastly, down an impassable court, at the bottom of which

stood the antique gateway of Carvers' Hall. Over the door-way was a

curious carving of the Resurrection, in oak, which must have cost some

ancient member of the Worshipful Guild considerable time and trouble.

There were represented graves opening, and bald-headed old men forcing

up the lids of their family-vaults--some looking happy, and some with

their features distorted by despair. Out of others, whole families,

mother, father, and several children, had just issued, and were standing

hand-in-hand. Some, again, were struggling, half-buried in the ground;

while others, already extricated, were assisting their kinsmen in their

efforts to disinter themselves. The scene was made a section, in order

to give the spectator a view of an immense host of cherubim above,

sitting upon a massy pile of cloud; through, which--the middle point of

the picture--the summoning angel was throwing himself down, with a

trumpet in his hand; which, according to the relative scale of the work,

must have been several leagues, at least, in length. Having passed under

this gate-way, you entered a small square yard, paved with black and

white stones, placed diamond-wise; and facing you was the hall itself,

up three stone-steps, and with a wooden portico.

This solitary building, silent and retired, though in the heart of a

crowded city, has been my home for nearly sixty years. I have become

assimilated to the place by long usage. I am myself silent, retired, and

tenacious of old habits; though I do not think this is my natural

disposition. But why do I talk of natural disposition? Are we not all

moulded and made what we are by time and outward influences? However,

when I was at school I was a cheerful boy, though the monastic life of

Christ's Hospital is not calculated to improve the spirits. It was only

on entering my father's office that I began to be subdued to the formal

being which I have since become. The portraits of my predecessors hang

in the hall; they are exactly alike, both in features and in dress,

except that the first two wore hair-powder. It was my father's pride

that he clung to the style of dress which was prevalent when he was a

young man, which he considered to be, in every way, superior to all

modern inventions. I was only released from the absurd dress of the

blue-coat boy to be put into garments equally provocative of remarks

from impertinent boys. The family costume is, _imprimis_, a pair of

knee-breeches with buckles; then a blue coat with metal buttons; and a

large white cravat, spread out over the whole chest, and ornamented in

the middle with a cornelian brooch. The same brooch appears in every one

of the portraits. I have worn this dress all my life, with the exception

of a short period, when I changed it to return to it shortly again.

If happiness consists in having many friends, I ought to have been a

happy man. Old carvers, neighbors, pensioners of the company, every one

down to the housekeeper, and Tom Lawton, my only clerk, spoke kindly of

me. Theirs was no lip-service. I knew they liked me in their hearts. The

world, too, had gone smoothly with me. I knew nothing of the struggles

for bread, the hardships and wrongs which other men endure. They

appeared to me even fabulous when I read them. The means of getting my

living were put into my hands. The company seemed almost grateful to my

father for bringing me up to the office. My income was two hundred

pounds per annum, as well as the house to live in, and coals and

candles, which was more than I needed for my support, though I always

found means of disposing of the surplus, and never saved any thing. I

was not, however, a happy man. I had always the feeling of a spirit

subdued to a life to which it was not suited. I do not say that in

another sphere I should have led a boisterous life. My mind was,

perhaps, more prone to reflection than to action, although I felt that

if I had been more in the world, if I had known more of life and change,

I should have been a happier man. But from my earliest days the vanity

of life, and the virtue of keeping aloof from temptation, were instilled

into me. "A rolling stone gathers no moss," was the first proverb which

I heard from my father's mouth. These principles, implanted early, took

deep root, though, perhaps, in an unfavorable soil. Living also under

the same roof with my father, I felt alarmed at every whispering of my

own inclinations which was opposed to his wishes, and strove to subdue

them, as if I were struggling with the evil portion of my nature. Thus,

in course of time, I became what I am; not a misanthrope, thank God, but

a timid and somewhat melancholy man. We had no mirth-making in our

household, except at Christmas-time, when we feasted, in good earnest.

My father loved at that time to display a rough hospitality. We had

generally two or three nights of merry-making, at which were both young

and old people--all carvers, or the children of carvers--and after his

death I continued the custom. Often, as I sat with my happy friends

about me, some sweet young woman would give me a sly hit upon my

obdurate determination to die an old bachelor; little thinking that her

heedless words could give me pain, though they cut me deeply, and set me

looking at the fire with a thoughtful face. I might have married,

perhaps, if I had found a partner; my income was not large, but many men

run the risk of a family with less means to support one than I had; but,

somehow, I found myself at forty-five years of age unmarried, slim, and

prim--the very type of an old bachelor. It was not from indifference,

for I was by nature sensitive and affectionate. For women I had a kind

of reverence. I pictured them to myself all that is noble and good: yet,

in their presence, I only looked upon them timidly, speaking little, but

thinking of them, perhaps, long afterward when they were gone.

One result of my reputation for gravity was a number of executorships

which had been imposed upon me by deceased friends. Any one would have

thought that there was a conspiracy abroad to overwhelm me with proofs

of confidence. My stock of mourning rings is considerable. The

expression, "Nineteen guineas for his trouble," had to me an old

familiar sound with it. At length I was obliged to hint to any old

carver who waxed sickly, that my duties in that way were already as much

as I could fulfill. There was, however, an old grocer of my

acquaintance, named Cawthorne, who would make me executor of his will,

in spite of my remonstrances, relieving my scruples by assuring me that

he had named another friend for my colleague, who, it was understood,

was to undertake, if we survived him, the greater part of his duties,

including the guardianship of his daughter Lucy. We did survive him; and

the other executor entered upon his office, seldom troubling me except

when absolutely necessary. Thus he went on for some years. The daughter

had become a fine young woman of nineteen, with blue eyes and fair hair,

rippled like the sunlight upon waters touched by a light wind. I saw her

often in the house when he was taken ill, and thought her very

beautiful. I fancied, sometimes, how she would look robed in pure white,

and holding in her hand an olive branch, as I had seen some angels

carved in stone. I have met her ascending the stairs with a candle in

her hand, the light striking upward, like a glory on her face, and she

seemed to me not to mount from step to step, but slowly to ascend

without a movement of the feet. My feeling with regard to her almost

amounted to a superstitious awe; for I seldom spoke many words to her,

and I think, at first, she thought me harsh and cold. At length her

guardian died, and although I had known from the first that in that

event his duty would devolve upon me, the fact seemed to take me by

surprise. I could hardly believe that henceforth, for some time, she

would look to me as her sole protector. However, in a short time, the

affairs of my deceased colleague were set in order, and she came to

reside with me in the old Hall.

She soon forgot her first antipathy, and we became good friends

together. I took her over the old place, and showed her the library and

the paintings, and every thing there that was quaint and curious. We had

a garden at the back of the Hall, in which she sat at work on fine days.

It was not large, but it was nevertheless a garden, and in the midst of

London. It was planted with shrubs, and contained two or three large

trees, as well as a rustic seat upon a grass-plot; though the grass was

not very thriving, on account of the trees shutting out the sun and air.

However, sitting here, the back of the Hall had a picturesque look, half

covered with the great leaves of a fig-tree nailed against the wall, and

with its worn stone steps guarded on each side by an aloe in a green

tub. This was her favorite place. She worked or read there in the

morning, and in the afternoon she taught two little nieces of the

housekeeper to read and write. Sometimes, in the evening, I got an old

book from the library, and read to her, and made her laugh at its

quaintness. I remember one translation of a Spanish novel in folio,

printed in the seventeenth century, which amused her very much. The

translation occupied one half of the book, and the prefaces the other.

There was the Translator's "Apology for his labor;" "A declaration for

the better understanding of the book;" an address "To the learned

Reader;" another "To the discreet and courteous Reader;" and another "To

the vulgar Reader," with some others; and, finally, the Spanish novel

itself was ushered in by a number of verses in English and Latin,

laudatory of the book and the translator, by celebrated men of the

period.

On Sunday we sat at church, in the same pew, and often I forgot my own

devotions in listening to the earnest tones with which she said the

prayers. I thought that she, of all that congregation, was best fitted

to speak those words of Christian love. I was vexed to hear an old

overseer of the parish, whom I knew to be a bad and worldly man, in the

next pew, repeating the same words in a drawling tone; and I could

almost have requested him to say them to himself.

Thus, ours was not a very cheerful way of life for a young maiden; but

she seemed always happy and contented. For myself, although I was sorry

for the death of my co-executor, I blessed the day when she came into

the house; and I grieved that I had objected to become her guardian from

the first, that she might have grown up from childhood with me, and

learnt to look up to me as a father. Living with her daily, and noting

all her thoughts and actions, sometimes even when she did not suspect

that I observed her, I saw her purer than the purest of my own ideals.

My feeling was almost an idolatry. If I had, at forty-five years of age,

still any thoughts of marrying, I renounced them for her sake, and

resolved to devote all my care to her, until such time as she should

find a husband worthy of her.

By an ancient bequest to the Company, we distributed, on the day before

Christmas-day, to twenty-four poor people, a loaf of bread, a small log

of wood, or bavin, as we call it, and the sum of two shillings and

ten-pence to each person. The recipients were all old, decrepit men and

women. There was an ancient regulation, still unrepealed, that they

should all attend on the following court-day, at noon precisely, to

"return thanks for the same;" though that performance of mechanical

gratitude had been allowed to fall into disuse by a more philosophical

generation. The first Christmas after Lucy came there, she begged me to

let her distribute these gifts, and I consented. I stood at my little

desk at the end of the hall, with my face resting upon my hands,

watching her, and listening to her talking to the old people. Next to

the pleasure of hearing her speak to little children, I delighted to

hear her talk with the very aged folks. There was something in the

contrast of the two extremes of life--the young and beautiful maiden,

and the bent and wrinkled old people--that pleased me. She heard all

their oft-repeated complaints, their dreary accounts of their agues and

rheumatics, and consoled them as well as she could; and, with some of

the very old, she took their brown and sinewy hands in hers, and led

them down the steps. I did not know what ailed me that day. I stood

dreaming and musing, till I seemed to have lost that instinctive

dexterity with which we perform the simple operations of our daily

life. Some accounts lay before me which I was anxious to cast, but

several times I essayed, and seemed incapable of doing so. As the simple

words of our daily language, which issue from our lips simultaneously

with the thought, become vague and indistinct if we muse upon their

origin, and repeat them several times to ourselves; so by dwelling long

upon the idea of the work before me, it seemed to have become confused,

and difficult to realize. I handed them over to my clerk, Tom Lawton,

who sat opposite to me.

Poor Tom Lawton! I thought I saw him looking anxiously at me, several

times, when I raised my eyes. No being upon earth ever loved me more

than he. It is true, I had done him some acts of kindness, but I had

often done as much for others, who had forgotten it since; whereas his

gratitude became a real affection for me, which never failed to show

itself each day that he was with me. He was a fine young man, and a

great favorite with the housekeeper, who said "she liked him because he

was so good to his mother, just as she thought her poor son would have

been if he had lived." Tom was fond of reading, and sometimes wrote

verses, of which he made copies for his friends in a neat hand. He was a

shrewd fellow in some things, but in others he was as simple as a child.

His temper was the sweetest in the world--the children knew that. No

diving into his coat-pocket ever ruffled him; no amount of pulling his

hair could ever induce him to cry out.

Tom was to spend his Christmas Eve with us, and to make "toast and ale,"

as was our custom; so, when the gifts were all distributed, he left me,

and ran home to dress himself smartly for the occasion. I stood at my

desk, still musing, till the evening closed upon the short and wintry

afternoon. Lucy came and called me, saying the tea was on the table.

"We thought you were fallen asleep," said she. "Mr. Lawton is come."

We sat round a large fire in the old wainscoted sitting-room, while Lucy

made the tea--and would have made the toast, too; but Tom said he would

sooner burn his eyes out than suffer her to do so. The housekeeper came

up, and afterward came an old carver and his daughter. We sat till after

midnight. The old carver told some anecdotes of people whom my father

knew; and Tom told a ghost story, which kept them all in breathless

terror, till it turned out, at last, to be a dream. But I was restless,

and spoke little. Once, indeed, I answered the old carver sharply. He

had patted Lucy on the head, and said he supposed she would be soon

getting married, and leaving us old people. I could not endure the

thought of her leaving us; though I knew that she would do so, probably,

one day. She had never looked to me more interesting than she did that

evening. A little child, worn out with playing, had fallen asleep, with

its head upon her lap; and, as she was speaking to us, her hand was

entangled in its hair. I gazed at her, and caught up every word she

spoke; and when she stopped, my restlessness returned. I strove in vain

to take part in their mirth. I wanted to be alone.

When I sat that night in my little bedroom, I was thinking still of

Lucy. I heard her voice still sounding in my ear; and, when I shut my

eyes, I pictured her still before me, with her dear kind face, and her

little golden locket hung upon her neck. I fell asleep and dreamed of

her. I woke, and waited for the daylight, thinking of her still. So we

passed all the Christmas holidays. Sometimes it was a happy feeling

which possessed me; and sometimes I almost wished that I had never seen

her. I was always restless and anxious; I knew not for what. I became a

different man to that which I had been before I knew her.

When, at last, I concealed from myself no longer that I loved her

fondly, deeply--deeper, I believe, than ever man has loved--I became

alarmed. I knew what people would say, if it came to be known. She had

some property, and I had nothing; but what was worse, I was forty-five

years of age, and she was only twenty. I was, moreover, her guardian;

and she had been consigned to my care by her dying father, in

confidence, that if she came under my protection, I would act toward her

as he himself would have acted, if he had lived, not dreaming that I

should encourage other thoughts than those of a protector and a friend.

I knew that I should have been jealous, angry, with any one who evinced

a liking for her; and yet I asked myself whether it was right that I

should discourage any man who might make her happy; who, perhaps, would

love her nearly as much as I did, and be more suited for her, by reason

of his youth and habits; not like mine, sedate and monkish. Even if I

eventually gained her affections, would not the world say that I had

exerted the undue influence of my authority over her; or that I had kept

her shut up from society; so that, in her ignorance of life, she mistook

a feeling of respect for a stronger sentiment? And, again, if all these

things were set aside, was it not wrong that I should take a young and

beautiful girl and shut her up in that old place forever--checking the

natural gayety of youth, and bringing her by slow degrees to my old

ways? I saw the selfishness of all my thoughts, and resolved to strive

to banish them forever.

But they would not leave me. Each day I saw something in her that

increased my passion. I watched her as she went from room to room. I

walked stealthily about the place, in the hope of seeing her somewhere

unobserved, and hearing her speak, and stealing away again before she

saw me. I walked on tiptoe once, and saw her through the open door,

thoughtful--looking at the candle--with her work untouched beside her. I

fancied to myself what thoughts possessed her: perhaps the memory of a

friend, no longer of this world, had touched her suddenly,

and made her mute and still; or, perhaps, the thought of some one

dearer. The idea ran through me like a subtle poison, and I shuddered. I

thought she started. I believe it was a fancy; but I stole away

hurriedly, on tiptoe, and never looked behind me till I reached my

corner in the Hall.

Every one remarked a change in me. Lucy looked at me anxiously

sometimes, and asked me if I was not ill. Tom Lawton grieved to see me

so dejected, till he became himself as grave as an old man. I sat

opposite to Lucy sometimes, with a book in my hand. I had ceased to read

aloud; and she seeing that I took no pleasure in it, did not press me to

do so. I looked at the pages, without a thought of their contents,

simply to avoid her looks. I thought, at last, that she grew vexed with

my neglect. One night I suddenly threw down my book, and looking at her

boldly and intently, to observe the expression of her features, I said,

"I have been thinking, Lucy, that you grow weary of my dull ways. You do

not love me now, as you did some months ago."

"Oh, yes!" she replied, "indeed I do. I do not know what makes you talk

like this, unless I have offended you in something. But I see it now,"

she said. "I must have said something that has given you pain; though it

was never in my thought to do so. And this is why you treat me coldly,

day by day, and never let me know what I have done."

She came over to me, and took my hand in hers; and, with tears in her

eyes, begged me to tell her what it was.

"I know," she said, "I have no friend more kind and good than you. My

father died before I knew how great a friend I had in him; but, had he

lived, I never could have loved him more than I love you."

"Well, well, Lucy," said I, "I did not mean to hurt you. I know not why

I reproached you. I am not well; and when I feel thus, I know not what I

say."

"Kiss me, then," said she, "and tell me you are not angry with me; and

do not think now, that I am tired of living here with you. I will do

every thing to make you happy. I will not ask you to read. I will put

away my work and read to you in future. I have seen you silent, looking

unhappy, and have said nothing--thinking that was best, as I did not

know what it was that made you so; and you have thought, perhaps, that I

was vexed with you, and wished to show it by a sullen air. But now I

will strive to make you cheerful. I will read and sing to you, and we

will play at draughts, sometimes, as we used to do. Indeed, I like this

old place, and all that live in it, and never was so happy in my life as

I have been since I came here."

I placed my hand upon her head, and kissed her on the forehead, saying

nothing.

"You are trembling," she exclaimed; "this is not merely illness. You

have some sorrow on your mind that haunts you. Tell me what it is that

ails you; perhaps I may be able to console you. I have not so much

experience as you; but sometimes a young mind can advise the oldest and

the most experienced. Perhaps, too, you magnify your trouble by brooding

over it; you think upon it, till your mind is clouded, and you can not

see the remedy, which I, looking at it for the first time, might see

directly. Besides," she said, seeing me hesitate, "if you do not tell

me, I shall always be unhappy--imagining a hundred evils, each, perhaps,

more serious than the truth."

"No, Lucy," said I, "I am unwell; I have felt thus for some time, and

to-night I feel worse. I must go to bed; I shall be better after a

night's rest."

I lighted a candle, and, bidding her good night, left her and stole up

to bed--afraid to stay longer, lest I should be tempted to reveal my

secret. Oh, how could I endure the thought of her kind words, more

painful to me than the coldest scorn! She had said she loved me as a

father. In the midst of all her kindness, she had spoken of my age and

my experience. Did I, then, look so old as that? Yes, I knew that it was

not my years which made me old; it was my staid manners, my grave and

thoughtful face, which made me look an old man, even in my prime.

Bitterly I complained of my father, who had shut me out from the

knowledge of all that makes life beautiful; who had biased me to a

belief that such a life as his was best, by hiding from me all

comparison; till now, when I perceived my error, it was too late to

repair it. I surveyed my antiquated garments with disgust; my huge

cravat; the very hair of my head, by long training, become old-fashioned

beyond all reclaiming. My whole appearance was that of a man who had

slept for half a century, except that I was without a speck or soil. I

believe they would have admitted me to a masquerade in such a dress,

without a single alteration, and think that I had hired it for the

occasion. But a new hope sprang up within me. I would change my way of

life--I would try to be more cheerful; I would wear more modern clothes,

and endeavor, at least, not to make myself look older than I was.

I have known nothing like the peace of mind which these thoughts brought

me, for many days. I wondered that what was so obvious had not occurred

to me before. I had gone about dreaming in my absent way, brooding

unprofitably over my troubles, instead of devising something practical

and useful. But I would act differently--I would not despair.

Five-and-forty years was, after all, no great age. I recalled to my mind

many instances of men marrying long after that time with women younger

than themselves, and living afterward very happily. I remembered one of

our wardens who married at sixty a young and very beautiful women, and

every one saw how happy they were, and how she loved her husband for

years, till a rascal, by slow and artful steps, won over her

affections, and she ran away with him. But Lucy would not do that; I

knew too well the goodness of her nature to have any fear of such a

result. Then I thought how kind I would be to her--studying every way

that could amuse and please a youthful mind; till she, seeing how all my

life was devoted to her, would come to love me in the end. I planned out

minutely our way of life. I would invite more friends to visit us, and

we would go out and visit others. We would play at our old game of

draughts together in the winter evenings, and sometimes I would take her

to the theatre. In the summer we would go into the country--lingering

all day long in quiet, shady places, and returning about dusk. Sweet

thoughts, that held my mind until I slept, and lingered, breeding

pleasant dreams.

The next day I visited my tailor, who took my orders with evident

astonishment. My clothes were brought home in a few days, and I threw

off my knee-breeches, as I thought, forever. I felt a little uneasy in

my new attire--my legs had been so long used to feel cool and

unrestrained, that the trowsers were irksome. However, I supposed I

should soon become accustomed to them; and they really made me look some

years younger. What would my father have said if he had visited the

earth that day and seen me? My hair, however, was less manageable--in

vain I parted it on the right side, and brushed it sideways, instead of

backward, as I had hitherto done. For five-and-forty years it had been

brushed in one direction, and it seemed as if nothing but five-and-forty

years' daily brushing in the other, could ever reverse it. I descended

from my room, trying to look unconscious of any thing unusual in my

appearance. It was court-day: the Warden and Assistants stared at me,

and would have laughed, no doubt, if most of them had not left off

laughing for many years. Some of them, however, coughed; and one

addressed to me some simple questions, evidently intended to test my

sanity. I felt a little vexed; for I thought it was no concern of

theirs, if I chose to adopt some alterations in my dress. However, I

said nothing, but went quietly through my duties. Tom Lawton was there.

It should have been a joyful day for him; for they increased his salary

at that court. But he looked at me compassionately, and evidently

thought, like the rest, that I was going mad. I was, however, amply

consoled--for Lucy was pleased to see the change in my dress and

manners. I laughed and chatted with her, and she read to me, and sang,

as she had promised. Thus I went on for some time; when something of my

old restlessness came back. I saw how little she suspected that I loved

her more than as a friend; and fearing still to let her know the truth,

I felt that I might go on thus for years to little purpose. So, by

degrees, I returned to my former sadness, and became again reserved and

thoughtful.

One night, I descended from my little room into the garden, and walked

about with my hat in my hand, for I felt feverish and excited.

Night after night, my sleep had been broken and disturbed by

dreams, that glided from my memory when I woke, but left a feeling of

despondency that followed me throughout the day. Sometimes, I thought,

myself, that my reason was deserting me. We were very busy at that time,

and Tom Lawton and I were to have worked together all the evening, but I

had left him; utterly unable to fix my attention upon what I set before

me. I paced to and fro several times, when passing by the window where I

had left him at work, I heard him speaking with some one. A word, which

I fancied having caught, made me curious, and I mounted upon a stone

ledge and listened; for the sliding pane of glass which served to

ventilate the Hall had been pushed back, and I could hear distinctly

when I applied my ear to the aperture. The light being inside, I could

not be seen, although I could see his desk. The lamp was shaded, and the

window was of stained glass, so that I did not see very clearly. But I

had a quick vision for such a scene as that before me.

That form standing beside Tom Lawton, with its hand in his, was Lucy's!

The blood rushed to my head. A thousand little lights were dancing

before my eyes. I felt myself falling, but I made an effort, and

clutched the window-sill and listened. It was Lucy's voice that I heard

first.

"Hush!" she said, "I heard a noise; there is some one coming.

Good-night! Good-night!"

"No, no," said Tom, "it is the wind beating the dead leaves against the

window."

They seemed to listen for a moment, and then he spoke again,

"Oh, Miss Lucy, do not run away before we have talked together a little.

I see you now so seldom, and when I do there are others present, and I

can not speak to you of what is always uppermost in my thoughts. I think

of you all day, and at night I long for the next morning, to be in the

same house with you, in the hope of seeing you before I go; though I am

continually disappointed. I think I am unfortunate in all but one thing,

though that consoles me for the rest--I think you love me a little,

Lucy."

"Yes, Tom, I do; a great deal. I have told you so many times, and I am

not ashamed to repeat it. I would not hide it from any one, if you did

not tell me to do so. But why do you tease yourself with fancies, and

think yourself unfortunate? I do not know why we should not tell him all

about it. He is the kindest being in the world, and I know he would not

thwart me in any thing that could procure my happiness; and then, again,

you are a favorite of his, and I am sure he would be delighted to think

that we loved each other."

"No, no, Lucy; you must not say a word about it. What would he think of

me, with nothing in the world but my small salary, encouraging

such thoughts toward you, who are rich; and going on like this--laying

snares, as he would say, for months, to gain your affections, and never

saying a word about it; bringing, too, disgrace upon him, as your

guardian, that he had suffered a poor clerk in his office to find

opportunities of speaking to you alone, and at last persuading you to

promise to become his wife one day?"

"All this you have told me many a time; but indeed this need not be an

obstacle. I wish that I had not sixpence in the world. My money is

become a misfortune to us, instead of a blessing, as it should be. I

wish I might give it away, or renounce it altogether. I am sure we

should be as well without it, one day; and if we had to wait a long

time, we should still be able to see one another openly, and not have to

watch for secret opportunities, as if we were doing wrong. You do not

know, Tom, how unhappy the thought of all this makes me. I never had a

secret before, that I feared to tell before the whole world; and now I

sit, night after night, with him from whom I should conceal nothing, and

feel that I am deceiving him. Every time he looks at me, I fancy that he

knows all about it, and thinks me an artful girl, and waits to see how

long I shall play my part before him. Many times I have been tempted to

tell him all, in spite of your injunction, and beg him not to be angry

with me because I had not dared to tell him before. I would have taken

all blame upon myself, and said that I had loved you secretly before you

had ever spoken to me about it--any thing I would have said rather than

feel myself deceitful, as I do!"

"Lucy!" exclaimed Tom, in a broken voice, "you must not--you must not,

indeed, ever give way to such an impulse. I know not what might come of

it, if he knew. It would ruin us--perhaps, be the cause of our being

separated forever--make him hate us both, and never pardon me, at least,

while he lives. Oh, Lucy! I have not told you all. Something yet more

serious remains behind."

"Tell me--what is this, Tom?--you alarm me!"

"Come here then, and bring your ear closer. No; I will not tell you. Do

not ask me again. It is, perhaps, only a fancy, which has come into my

head because I am anxious about you, and imagine all kinds of

misfortunes that might arise to make us wretched. But, oh! if I am

right, we are, indeed, unfortunate. No misfortune that could befall us

could be equal to this."

Lucy's eyes were filled with tears. "I do not like to go back into the

parlor," she said, "lest he should be there, and ask me why I have been

crying. He was in his room, upstairs, I think, just now, and he may have

come down, and I am sure I could not stand before him as I am. You have,

indeed, made me miserable. Oh! Tom, Tom, do tell me what this is?"

"I _can not_ tell you," he replied, "it would not be right to

breathe a word about it till I have surer ground for my suspicion. Let

me dry your eyes, and now go back into the parlor, or your absence will

be observed."

Twice he bade her "good-night" before she left him, and each time I saw

him put his arms about her, and kiss her; then he called after her,

"Lucy!"

She turned back, and ran up to him.

"I hardly know why I called you back. Only, I may not see you again for

some time, and it may be many, many days, before I can speak to you

alone."

"Well?"

I trembled for what he was about to say, and in my anxiety to catch his

words, I put my ear closer, and, in so doing, struck the door of the

ventilator.

"Hark! I thought I heard something moving. Go, go!" said Tom.

"Good-night! Good-night!" And she glided across the hall, and was gone

in a moment.

In the eagerness with which I had listened to their conversation, I had

not had time to feel the terrible blow which I had received. It was only

when the voices ceased, that I felt how all my hopes had been shattered

in a moment. I relaxed my hold; and, alighting on the ground, walked

again to and fro--but more hurriedly than before. I had never dreamed of

this: Tom Lawton!

I sat down upon the garden-seat, and wept and sobbed like a child--the

first time for many years. I could not help feeling angry with them

both. "Oh!" thought I, "Tom Lawton, you were right in thinking that I

should never pardon you for this. You have taken away the one hope of my

life. I shall hate you while I live. Lucy, also, I blame; but my anger

is chiefly with you. In order to shield you, she would have told me,

poor child, that she only was to blame; but I know better. You have laid

snares for her, and inveigled her; your heart told you that you had,

when you put the words into my mouth."

I walked about and sat down again several times. I groaned aloud, for my

heart was swelled almost to bursting. So I continued for some time

fiercely denouncing my rival to myself; but that night, upon my bed,

when I was worn out with my passion, a better feeling came upon me. I

grew more calm and resigned to my misfortune. I saw how useless--nay,

how wrong, would be all persecution; and I felt that it was natural that

the young should love the young before the old. So, with a sorrowful and

humbled spirit, I resolved to encourage them and bring about their

union. God knows how much the resolution cost me; but it brought with it

a certain peace of mind--a consciousness of doing rightly--which

sustained me in my purpose. I would not delay a day, lest my resolution

should waver. In the morning I walked into the parlor, and bidding Tom

Lawton follow me, stood there before him and Lucy. Tom looked pale as

if he dreaded my anger.

"I expect," said I, "a direct answer to what I am going to ask you. Have

you not given your faith to one another?"

Tom turned paler still; but Lucy answered before he could say a word,

and confessing all, said she took the blame upon herself; but Tom

interrupted her, exclaiming that he only was to blame.

"There is no blame attached to either," said I, "except for a little

concealment, for which I pardon you."

Thus far I had done the duty which I had set before me; but I did not

feel it to be completed till they were married.

About three months after I gave my permission, and the day was fixed. I

saw them the happiest creatures upon earth. They never knew my secret.

That Tom had suspected it, and that it was to that he referred when he

was speaking to Lucy in the hall, I had never doubted; though the

readiness with which I had befriended them had deceived him. He had

taken a small house, and every thing was ready. But, on the day before

their wedding, my heart failed me. I knew then that I had never ceased

to love her, and I could not endure the thought of her marriage. I felt

that I must go away until the day was past; so I gave out that I had

suddenly received a summons to go into the country, and that it was my

wish that the marriage should not be delayed on that account. That night

I went away, not caring whither.

I know what were my thoughts in those two days that I was absent. When I

returned, the Hall was silent--Lucy was gone; and I was again alone in

the old place.

I remain there.

HOW TO BE IDOLIZED.

The hyperbole of being "idolized" was never, perhaps, made a literal

truth in so striking a manner as is shown in the following story; for

which we are indebted to a French author.

In 1818, the good ship "Dido" left the Mauritius, on her voyage to

Sumatra. She had a cargo of French manufactures on board, which her

captain was to barter for coffee and spice with the nabobs of the Sunda

Isles. After a few days' sail, the vessel was becalmed; and both

passengers and crew were put on short allowance of provisions and water.

Preserved meats, fruits, chocolate, fine flour, and live-stock, were all

exhausted, with the exception of one solitary patriarchal cock, who,

perched on the main-yard, was mourning his devastated harem, like Mourad

Bey after the battle of the Pyramids.

The ship's cook, Neptune, a Madagascar negro, received orders, one

morning, to prepare this bird for dinner; and, once more, the hungry

denizens of the state-cabin snuffed up the delicious odor of roast fowl.

The captain took a nap, in order to cheat his appetite until

dinner-time; and the chief mate hovered like a guardian-angel round the

caboose, watching lest any audacious spoiler should lay violent hands on

the precious dainty.

Suddenly, a cry of terror and despair issued from the cook's cabin, and

Neptune himself rushed out, the picture of affright, with both his hands

twisted, convulsively, in the sooty wool that covered his head. What was

the matter? Alas! in an ill-starred hour the cook had slumbered at his

post, and the fowl was burnt to a cinder.

A fit of rage, exasperated by hunger and a tropical sun, is a fearful

thing. The mate, uttering a dreadful imprecation, seized a large knife,

and rushed at Neptune. At that moment, one of the passengers, named

Louis Bergaz, interposed to ward off the blow. The negro was saved, but

his preserver received the point of the steel in his wrist, and his

blood flowed freely. With much difficulty the other passengers succeeded

in preventing him, in his turn, from attacking the mate; but, at length,

peace was restored, the aggressor having apologized for his violence. As

to poor Neptune, he fell on his knees, and kissed and embraced the feet

of his protector.

In a day or two the breeze sprang up, and the "Dido" speedily reached

Sumatra. Four years afterward, it happened, one day, that Louis Bergaz

was dining at the public table of an English boarding-house at Batavia.

Among the guests were two learned men who had been sent out by the

British Government to inspect the countries lying near the equator.

During dinner, the name of Bergaz happening to be pronounced distinctly

by one of his acquaintances at the opposite side of the table, the

oldest of the _savans_ looked up from his plate, and asked,

quickly,

"Who owns the name of Bergaz?"

"I do."

"Curious enough," said the _savant_, "you bear the same name as a god of

Madagascar."

"Have they a god called Bergaz?" asked Louis, smilingly.

"Yes. And if you like, after dinner, I will show you an article on the

subject, which I published in an English scientific journal."

Louis thanked him; and afterward read as follows:

"The population of Madagascar consists of a mixture of Africans, Arabs,

and the aboriginal inhabitants. These latter occupy the kingdom of the

Anas, and are governed by a queen. The Malagasys differ widely from the

Ethiopian race, both in their physical and moral characteristics. They

are hospitable and humane, but extremely warlike, because a successful

foray furnishes them with slaves. It is a mistake to believe that the

Malagasys worship the devil, and that they have at Teintingua a tree

consecrated to the Evil One. They have but one temple, dedicated to the

god Bergaz (_beer_, source, or well, in the Chaldean, and _gaz_, light,

in the Malagasy tongue.) To this divinity they are ardently devoted,

and at stated periods offer him the sacrifice of a cock, as the ancient

Greeks did to Æsculapius. So true it is that the languages and

superstitions of all lands and ages are linked together by mysterious

bonds, which neither time nor distance can destroy."

Louis Bergaz thought the latter philosophical reflection very striking.

"You can scarcely imagine," said his companion, "how important these

remote analogies, traced out by us with so much labor and fatigue, are

to the advancement of science!"

Bergaz bowed, and was silent.

The cares of a busy commercial life soon caused him to forget both the

philosopher and his own idol namesake.

After the lapse of about two years, Bergaz set out to purchase ebony at

Cape St. Maria, in Madagascar; but a violent tempest forced the vessel

to stop at Simpaï on the Avas coast. While the crew were busy refitting

the ship, Bergaz started off to explore the interior of the country.

There are no carnivorous wild beasts in Madagascar; but, there is

abundance of game to tempt the sportsman: and Louis, with his gun on his

shoulder, followed the chase of partridges, quails, and pheasants, for

several miles, until he reached the border of a thick bamboo jungle.

There, he saw a number of the natives prostrate before the entrance of a

large hut. They were singing, with one accord, a monotonous sort of

hymn, whose burden was the word "Bergaz!" so distinctly pronounced, that

Louis immediately recollected the account given him by the philosopher

in Batavia.

Impelled by very natural curiosity, he stepped forward, and peeped into

the temple. No attempt had been made to ornament its four walls, built

of bamboo, cemented with clay; but, in the centre of the floor stood, on

a pedestal, the statue of the god Bergaz, and Louis was greatly struck

with his appearance.

The idol, although far from being a finished work of art, was yet far

superior in form and workmanship to the ordinary divinities of savage

nations. The figure represented a man, dressed in European costume, with

a wide straw hat on his head, and a striped muslin cravat round his

neck. He was standing in the attitude of one who is intercepting a blow,

and his right hand was stained with blood. There was even an attempt,

Louis Bergaz thought, to imitate his own features; and the god had thick

black whiskers meeting under his chin, precisely such as Louis had worn

in 1818. The dress, too, resembled his own; and the cravat, marked in

the corner, L. B., was one which he had given Neptune the cook. In a few

minutes, a procession of natives entered the temple; they kindled a fire

in a sort of chafing-dish; and, placing on it a dead cock, burnt the

sacrifice before their god, amid loud acclamation. Bergaz, unluckily,

was not able to preserve his gravity during this pious ceremonial. He

burst into a fit of laughter, and was instantly seized by the offended

worshipers. With shouts of rage they were about to sacrifice him to

their outraged deity, when a noise of cymbals announced the approach of

the chief of the tribe. The high priest met him at the door, and

announced the sacrilegious conduct of the stranger. The incensed

chieftain seized a Malayan _crease_, and ran to take vengeance on

the offender. Bergaz turned and looked at him; each uttered a cry of

surprise; the next moment, the chief was embracing the feet of Louis.

"Neptune, old fellow! what is all this?" asked Bergaz pointing to the

figure, "Bergaz is my god!" cried the negro, striking his breast. Then,

to the unbounded astonishment of all present, the European and the chief

walked off lovingly together toward the palace of the latter.

On their way thither, Neptune related his history to his friend. The

powerful Radamas, sovereign of Madagascar, had concluded a treaty of

peace with his enemy Réné. The wife of the latter, being a woman of

genius, was named queen of the Anas, by an edict of Radama; and this

lady was the sister of Neptune, ex-cook of the Dido.

No sooner was she seated on the throne than she released her brother

from his menial situation, and gave him absolute authority over the

small province of Simpaï.

Neptune's first act was an endeavor to manifest his gratitude, after the

strange fashion of his people, to his protector Bergaz; and we may fancy

how cordial was the reception, how warm and affectionate the welcome,

bestowed on the living benefactor, whose wooden semblance he and his

people worshiped as a god. The grateful negro loaded him with presents,

and sent his most skillful workmen to assist in repairing the ship.

Probably, to this day, the god Bergaz may still be worshiped in Simpaï;

and the Æsculapian cock may still excite the wonder, and fill the

note-books of traveling philosophers.

THE CHILD COMMODORE.

After a long continental ramble, I was glad to have the prospect of

getting home again; but an embargo was laid upon me at Boulogne. It blew

great guns from the opposite side of the Channel. The genius of Albion

was not just then in the mood for receiving visits, or welcoming the

return of absentees; and so the steam-packet lay fretting in the harbor,

and rubbing her sides peevishly against the pier; while her intending

passengers were distributed among the hotels and boarding-houses,

venting their discontent on the good things of the table d'hôte, and

mounting every now and then to the garret to throw a scowling look to

windward.

For my part I had been tossed about the world too long, and bumped too

hard against its rocks and snags, to think much of a little compulsory

tranquillity. On the second day I rather liked it. It was amusing to

watch the characters of my companions stealing out from beneath the vail

of conventionalism; and it was better than amusing to become actually

acquainted with one or two of them, as if we were indeed

men and women, and not the mere automata of society. Taking them in the

mass, however, a good deal of the distinction observable among them

depended on the mere circumstance of age. We old gentlemen sat coolly

sipping our wine after dinner, rarely alluding in conversation to our

present dilemma; while the green hands, after a whirl round the

billiard-table, drank their glass of brandy-and-water with vehemence,

and passed a unanimous vote of censure on the captain for his breach of

faith and unsailor-like timidity.

"This is pleasant!" said I, smiling at one

of these outbreaks, which occurred late at night--"one

always meets something out of the way

in traveling."

"_I_ never do," replied the gentleman I had addressed; "I find the

human character every where the same. You may witness the same kind of

absurdity among raw lads like these every day at home; and it is only

your own imagination that flings upon it here a different color. I wish

I _could_ see something strange!"

"Perhaps, my dear sir," said I blandly, "you never look? For my part I

never fail to meet with something strange, if I have only the

opportunity of examining. Come, let us go out into the street, and I

shall undertake to prove it. Let us peep under the first vail or the

first slouched hat we meet, and I pledge myself that, on due inquiry, we

shall light upon a tale as odd or as wild as fancy ever framed. A bottle

of wine upon it?"

"Done!"

"Done, then: but hold, what's that?"

"Le paquebot va partir à minuit!"

"Hurra!" cried the young men. "The storm is not down a single breath,

and it is pitch dark! The captain's a trump after all!"

Then there were hurrying steps and slamming doors, and flitting lights

through the whole house; then hasty reckonings, and jingling coins, and

bows, and shrugs, and fights with the sleeves of greatcoats; and

finally, stiff moving figures mummied in broadcloth; and grim faces,

half-visible between the cravat and cap; and slender forms, bonneted,

yet shapeless, clinging to stout arms, as we all floated out into the

night.

"The Diet is deserted," said my friend, "pro loco et tempore."

"Only the venue changed to shipboard," gasped I against the wind.

"Remember the first man, woman, or child that attracts our attention on

deck!" And so we parted, losing one another, and ourselves lost in the

unsteady crowd.

The vessel had cleared the harbor before I met with my friend in the

darkness and confusion of the midnight deck: and when we were thrown

together, it was with such emphasis that we both came down. We fell,

however, upon a bundle of something comparatively soft--something that

stirred and winced at the contact--something that gave a low cry in

three several cadences, as if it had three voices. It gave us, in fact,

some confused idea of a mass of heads, legs, arms, and other

appurtenances of the human body; but the whole was shrouded in a sort of

woolly covering, the nature of which the darkness of the night and the

rolling of the ship rendered it impossible to ascertain. I thought to

myself for a moment that this was just the thing for my boasted

demonstration; but no philosophy could keep the deck under such

circumstances; and when my friend and I had gathered ourselves up, we

made the best of our way--and it was no easy task--to the cabin, and

crept into our berths. As I lay there in comparative coziness, my

thoughts reverted to that bundle of life, composed in all probability of

deck passengers, exposed to the cold night-wind and the drenching

spray; but I soon fell asleep, my sympathy merging as my faculties

became more dim in a grateful sense of personal comfort.

As the morning advanced, the wind moderated, testifying to the

weather-wisdom of our captain; and my friend and I getting up betimes,

met once more upon the deck. The bundle of life was still there, just

without the sacred line which deck and steerage passengers must not

cross; and we saw that it was composed of human figures, huddled

together without distinction, under coarse and tattered cloaks.

"These persons," said I dictatorially, pointing to them with my cane,

"have a story, and a strange one; and by-and-by we shall get at it."

"The common story of the poor," replied my friend: "a story of hardship,

perhaps of hunger: but why don't they wake up?"

This question seemed to have occurred to some of the other passengers,

and all looked with a sort of languid curiosity, as they passed, at the

breathing bundle of rags. After a time, some motion was observed beneath

the tattered cloaks, and at length a head emerged from their folds; a

head that might have been either a woman's or a little girl's, so old it

was in expression, and so young in size and softness. It _was_ a little

girl's, as was proved by the shoulders that followed--thin, slight,

childish; but so intelligent was the look she cast around, so full of

care and anxiety, that she seemed to have the burden of a whole family

on her back. After ascertaining by that look, as it seemed, what her

present position was, and bestowing a slight, sweeping glance upon the

bystanders, the ship, and the gloomy sky, she withdrew her thoughts from

these extraneous matters, and with a gentle hand, and some whispered

words, extracted from his bed of rags a small, pale, little boy. The boy

woke up in a sort of fright, but the moment his eyes rested on his

sister's face--for she _was_ his sister, that was clear--he was calm and

satisfied. No smiles were exchanged, such as might have befitted their

age; no remark on the novel circumstances of their situation. The boy

looked at nothing but the girl; and the girl smoothed his hair with her

fingers, arranged his threadbare dress, and breathing on his hands,

polished them with her sleeve. This girl, though bearing the marks of

premature age, could not in reality have been more than eleven, and the

boy was probably four years younger.

A larger figure was still invisible, except in the indefinite outline of

the cloak, and my friend and I indulged in some whispered speculations

as to what it might turn out.

"The elder sister doubtless," said he, with one of his cold smiles; "a

pretty and disconsolate young woman, the heroine of your intended

romance, and the winner of my bottle of wine!"

"Have patience," said I, "have patience;" but I had not much myself. I

wished the young woman would awake, and I earnestly hoped--I confess the

fact--that she might prove to be as pretty as I was sure she was

disconsolate. You may suppose, therefore, that it was with some anxiety

I at length saw the cloak stir, and with some surprise I beheld emerge

from it one of the most ordinary and commonplace of all the daughters of

Eve. She was obviously the mother of the two children, but although

endowed with all her natural faculties, quite as helpless and dependent

as the little boy. She held out her hand to the little girl, who kissed

it affectionately in the dutiful morning fashion of Fatherland; and then

dropping with that action the manner of the child, resumed, as if from

habit, the authority and duties of the parent. She arranged her mother's

hair and dress as she had done those of her brother, dictated to her the

place and posture in which she was to sit, and passed a full half

hour--I can not now tell how--in quiet but incessant activity.

Time passed on; the other passengers had all breakfasted; but no one had

seen the solitary family eat. Two or three of us remarked the

circumstance to each other, and suggested the propriety of our doing

something. But what to do was the question, for although poor, they were

obviously not beggars. I at length ventured to offer a biscuit to the

little boy. He looked at it, and then at his sister, but did not stir.

The proceeding, apparently, was contrary to their notions of etiquette;

and I presented the biscuit to the mother "for her little son." She took

it mechanically--indifferently--as if it was a thing she had no concern

in, and handed it to the girl. The little girl bowed gravely, muttered

some words in German, apparently of thanks, and dividing the biscuit

among them, in three unequal portions, of which she kept the smallest to

herself, they all began to eat with some eagerness.

"Hunger!" said my friend--"I told you: nothing else."

"We shall see;" but I could not think of my theory just then. The

family, it appeared, were starving; they had undertaken the little

voyage without preparation of any kind in food, extra clothing, or

money; and under such circumstances, they sat calmly, quietly, without

uttering a single complaint. In a few minutes a more substantial

breakfast was before them; and it was amusing to see the coolness with

which the little girl-commodore accepted the providential windfall, as

if it had been something she expected, although ignorant of the quarter

whence it should come, and the business-like gravity with which she

proceeded to arrange it on their joint laps, and distribute the shares.

Nothing escaped her; her sharp look was on every detail; if a fold of

her mother's cloak was out of order, she stopped her till she had set it

right; and when her brother coughed as he swallowed some tea, she raised

his face, and patted him on the back. I admired that little creature

with her wan face, and quick eyes, and thin fragile shoulders; but she

had no attention to bestow on any one but the family committed to her

charge.

"This is comical," said my friend: "I wonder what they are. But they

have done breakfast: see how carefully the little girl puts away the

fragments! Let us now ask them for what you call their "story," and get

them to relate the romantic circumstances which have induced them to

emigrate to London, to join some of their relatives in the business of

selling matches or grinding organs!"

We first tried the mother, but she, in addition to being of a singularly

taciturn, indifferent disposition, spoke nothing but German. The little

boy answered only with a negative or affirmative. The commodore of the

party, however, knew some words of French, and some of English, and we

were able to understand what she told us with no more difficulty than

arose from the oddity of the circumstances. The following is the

dialogue that took place between us, with her polyglott part translated

into common English.

"Where are you from, my little lass?"

"Is it me, sir? Oh, I am from New York."

"From New York! What were you doing there!"

"Keeping my father's room, sir: he is a journeyman."

"And what brings you to Europe?"

"My father sent me to bring over mother."

"Sent _you_."

"Yes, sir; and because my brother could not be left in the room all day

when my father was out at work, I took him with me."

"What! and you two little children crossed the ocean to fetch your

mother?"

"Oh, that is nothing: the ship brought us--we did not come. It was worse

when we landed in London; for there were so many people there, and so

many houses, it was just as if we had to find our way, without a ship,

through the waves of the sea."

"And what were you to do in London."

"I was to go to a countryman of ours, who would find me a passage to

France. But nobody we met in the street knew him, and nobody could

understand what place it was I asked for; and if we had not met a little

German boy with an organ, I do not know what we should have done. But

somebody always comes in time--God sends him. Father told us that."

"And the little German boy took you to your countryman?"

"Yes, and more than that! He bought some bread with a penny as we went

along, and we all sat down on a step and ate it." Here my friend

suddenly used his handkerchief, and coughed vigorously; but the young

girl went on without minding the interruption.

"Our countryman gave us a whole handful of copper money, and a paper to

the captain of the ship. It was late before we got there, and we were so

tired that I could hardly get my brother along. But the captain was so

good as to let us sleep on the deck."

"Your mother was in Germany. How did you get to her?"

"Oh, we walked--but not always. Sometimes we got a cast in a wagon; and

when we were very hungry, and would not lay out our money, we were

always sure to get something given us to eat."

"Then you _had_ money."

"Oh yes, to be sure!" and the little girl gave a cunning twinkle of her

eye. "We could not get mother away, you know, without money--could we,

mother?" patting her on the back like one fondling a child.

Such was the story of the little commodore--a story which was listened

to not only by my friend and myself, but by at least a score of other

persons, some of whom will no doubt be pleased to see it here

reproduced.[4] A collection was made for the travelers, whose boasted

funds had been exhausted at Boulogne; but what became of them afterward

I never knew. When we reached London, I saw them walk up the

landing-place--wholly unencumbered with baggage, poor things!--the

mother and the little boy clinging on either side to the commodore; and

so, like the shadowy figures in the "Pilgrim's Progress," "they passed

on their way, and I saw them no more."

[Footnote 4: The writer is in earnest; this is a true

story.--ED.]

For my own part, my theory had gone much further than I had thought of

carrying it. My friend himself was not more surprised than I by the

story of the little girl; and, like the Witch of Endor, when her

pretended incantations were answered by the actual apparition of the

prophet, I was stupefied by my own success.

HABITS AND AMUSEMENTS OF THE LONDON COSTERMONGERS.[5]

[Footnote 5: From MAYHEW'S "London Labor and the London

Poor," now publishing by Harper and Brothers.]

I find it impossible to separate these two headings; for the habits of

the costermonger are not domestic. His busy life is passed in the

markets or the streets, and as his leisure is devoted to the beer-shop,

the dancing-room, or the theatre, we must look for his habits to his

demeanor at those places. Home has few attractions to a man whose life

is a street-life. Even those who are influenced by family ties and

affections, prefer to "home"--indeed that word is rarely mentioned among

them--the conversation, warmth, and merriment of the beer-shop, where

they can take their ease among their "mates." Excitement or amusement

are indispensable to uneducated men. Of beer-shops resorted to by

costermongers, and principally supported by them, it is computed that

there are 400 in London.

Those who meet first in the beer-shop talk over the state of trade and

of the markets, while the later comers enter at once into what may be

styled the serious business of the evening--amusement.

Business topics are discussed in a most peculiar style. One man takes

the pipe from his mouth and says, "Bill made a doogheno[6] hit this

morning." "Jem," says another, to a man just entering, "you'll stand a

top o' reeb?"[7] "On,"[8] answers Jem, "I've had a trosseno tol,[9] and

have been doing dab."[10] If any strangers are present, the conversation

is still further clothed in slang, so as to be unintelligible even to

the partially initiated. The evident puzzlement of any listener is of

course gratifying to the costermonger's vanity for he feels that he

possesses a knowledge peculiarly his own.

[Footnote 6: First rate.]

[Footnote 7: Pot of beer.]

[Footnote 8: No.]

[Footnote 9: Bad luck.]

[Footnote 10: Badly.]

Among the in-door amusements of the costermonger is card-playing, at

which many of them are adepts. The usual games are all-fours, all-fives,

cribbage, and put. Whist is known to a few, but is never played, being

considered dull and slow. Of short whist they have not heard: "But,"

said one, whom I questioned on the subject, "if it's come into fashion,

it'll soon be among us." The play is usually for beer, but the game is

rendered exciting by bets both among the players and the lookers-on.

"I'll back Jem for a yanepatine," says one. "Jack for a gen," cries

another. A penny is the lowest sum laid, and five shillings generally

the highest, but a shilling is not often exceeded. "We play fair

among ourselves," said a costermonger to me--"ay, fairer than the

aristocrats--but we'll take in any body else." Where it is known that

the landlord will not supply cards, "a sporting coster" carries a pack

or two with him. The cards played with have rarely been stamped; they

are generally dirty, and sometimes almost illegible, from long handling

and spilled beer. Some men will sit patiently for hours at these games,

and they watch the dealing round of the dingy cards intently, and

without the attempt--common among politer gamesters--to appear

indifferent, though they bear their losses well. In a full room of

card-players, the groups are all shrouded in tobacco-smoke, and from

them are heard constant sounds--according to the games they are engaged

in--of "I'm low, and Ped's high." "Tip and me's game." "Fifteen four and

a flush of five." I may remark it is curious that costermongers, who can

neither read nor write, and who have no knowledge of the multiplication

table, are skillful in all the intricacies and calculations of cribbage.

There is not much quarreling over the cards, unless strangers play with

them, and then the costermongers all take part one with another, fairly

or unfairly.

It has been said that there is a close resemblance between many of the

characteristics of a very high class, socially, and a very low class.

Those who remember the disclosures on a trial a few years back, as to

how men of rank and wealth passed their leisure in card-playing--many of

their lives being one continued leisure--can judge how far the analogy

holds when the card-passion of the costermongers is described.

"Shove-halfpenny" is another game played by them; so is "Three-up."

Three halfpennies are thrown up, and when they fall all "heads" or all

"tails," it is a mark; and the man who gets the greatest number of marks

out of a given amount--three, or five, or more--wins. "Three-up" is

played fairly among the costermongers; but is most frequently resorted

to when strangers are present to "make a pitch,"--which is, in plain

words, to cheat any stranger who is rash enough to bet upon them. "This

is the way, sir," said an adept to me; "bless you, I can make them fall

as I please. If I'm playing with Jo, and a stranger bets with Jo, why,

of course I make Jo win." This adept illustrated his skill to me by

throwing up three halfpennies, and, five times out of six they fell upon

the floor, whether he threw them nearly to the ceiling or merely to his

shoulder, all heads or all tails. The halfpence were the proper current

coins--indeed, they were my own; and the result is gained by a peculiar

position of the coins on the fingers, and a peculiar jerk in the

throwing. There was an amusing manifestation of the pride of art in the

way in which my obliging informant displayed his skill.

"Skittles" is another favorite amusement, and the costermongers class

themselves among the best players in London. The game is always for

beer, but betting goes on.

A fondness for "sparring" and "boxing" lingers among the rude members of

some classes of the working-men, such as the tanners. With the great

majority of the costermongers this fondness is still as dominant as it

was among the "higher classes," when boxers were the pets of princes and

nobles. The sparring among the costers is not for money, but for beer

and "a lark"--a convenient word covering much mischief. Two out of every

ten landlords, whose houses are patronized by these lovers of "the art

of self-defense," supply gloves. Some charge 2_d._ a night for

their use; others only 1_d._ The sparring seldom continues long,

sometimes not above a quarter of an hour; for the costermongers, though

excited for a while, weary of sports in which they can not personally

participate, and in the beer-shops only two spar at a time, though fifty

or sixty may be present. The shortness of the duration of this pastime

may be one reason why it seldom leads to quarreling. The stake is

usually a "top of reeb," and the winner is the man who gives the first

"noser;" a _bloody_ nose however is required to show that the blow

was veritably a noser. The costermongers boast of their skill in

pugilism as well as at skittles. "We are all handy with our fists," said

one man, "and are matches, ay, and more than matches, for any body but

regular boxers. We've stuck to the ring, too, and gone reg'lar to the

fights, more than any other men."

"Twopenny-hops" are much resorted to by the costermongers, men and

women, boys and girls. At these dances decorum is sometimes, but not

often, violated. "The women," I was told by one man, "doesn't show their

necks as I've seen the ladies do in them there pictures of high life in

the shop-winders, or on the stage. Their Sunday gowns, which is their

dancing gowns, ain't made that way." At these "hops" the clog-hornpipe

is often danced, and sometimes a collection is made to insure the

performance of a first-rate professor of that dance; sometimes, and more

frequently, it is volunteered gratuitously. The other dances are jigs,

"flash jigs"--hornpipes in fetters--a dance rendered popular by the

success of the acted "Jack Sheppard"--polkas, and country-dances, the

last-mentioned being generally demanded by the women. Waltzes are as yet

unknown to them. Sometimes they do the "pipe-dance." For this a number

of tobacco-pipes, about a dozen, are laid close together on the floor,

and the dancer places the toe of his boot between the different pipes,

keeping time with the music. Two of the pipes are arranged as a cross,

and the toe has to be inserted between each of the angles, without

breaking them. The numbers present at these "hops" vary from 30 to 100

of both sexes, their ages being from 14 to 45, and the female sex being

slightly predominant as to the proportion of those in attendance. At

these "hops" there is nothing of the leisurely style of dancing--half a

glide and half a skip--but vigorous, laborious capering. The hours are

from half-past eight to twelve, sometimes to one or two in the morning,

and never later than two, as the costermongers are early risers. There

is sometimes a good deal of drinking; some of the young girls being

often pressed to drink, and frequently yielding to the temptation.

From £1 to £7 is spent in drink at a hop; the youngest men or lads

present spend the most, especially in that act of costermonger

politeness--"treating the gals." The music is always a fiddle, sometimes

with the addition of a harp and a cornopean. The band is provided by the

costermongers, to whom the assembly is confined; but during the present

and the last year, when the costers' earnings have been less than the

average, the landlord has provided the harp, whenever that instrument

has added to the charms of the fiddle.

The other amusements of this class of the

community are the theatre and the penny concert, and their visits are

almost entirely confined to the galleries of the theatres on the

Surrey-side--the Surrey, the Victoria, the Bower Saloon, and (but less

frequently) Astley's. Three times a week is an average attendance at

theatres and dances by the more prosperous costermongers. The most

intelligent man I met with among them gave me the following account. He

classes himself with the many, but his tastes are really those of an

educated man: "Love and murder suits us best, sir; but within these few

years I think there's a great deal more liking for deep tragedies among

us. They set men a-thinking; but then we all consider them too long. Of

_Hamlet_ we can make neither end nor side; and nine out of ten of

us--ay, far more than that--would like it to be confined to the ghost

scenes, and the funeral, and the killing off at the last. _Macbeth_

would be better liked, if it was only the witches and the fighting. The

high words in a tragedy we call jaw-breakers, and say we can't tumble to

that barrikin. We always stay to the last, because we've paid for it

all, or very few costers would see a tragedy out if any money was

returned to those leaving after two or three acts. We are fond of music.

Nigger music was very much liked among us, but it's stale now. Flash

songs are liked, and sailors' songs, and patriotic songs. Most

costers--indeed, I can't call to mind an exception--listen very quietly

to songs that they don't in the least understand. We have among us

translations of the patriotic French songs. 'Mourir pour la patrie' is

very popular, and so is the 'Marseillaise.' A song to take hold of us

must have a good chorus." "They like something, sir, that is worth

hearing," said one of my informants, "such as the 'Soldier's Dream,'

'The Dream of Napoleon,' or 'I 'ad a dream--an 'appy dream.'"

The songs in ridicule of Marshal Haynau, and in laudation of Barclay and

Perkins's draymen, were and are very popular among the costers; but none

are more popular than Paul Jones--"A noble commander, Paul Jones was his

name." Among them the chorus of "Britons never shall be slaves," is

often rendered "Britons always shall be slaves." The most popular of all

songs with the class, however, is "Duck-legged Dick," of which I give

the first verse.

"Duck-legged Dick had a donkey,

And his lush loved much for to swill,

One day he got rather lumpy,

And got sent seven days to the mill.

His donkey was taken to the green-yard,

A fate which he never deserved.

Oh! it was such a regular mean yard,

That alas! the poor moke got starved.

Oh! bad luck can't be prevented,

Fortune she smiles or she frowns,

He's best off that's contented,

To mix, sirs, the ups and the downs."

Their sports are enjoyed the more, if they are dangerous and require

both courage and dexterity to succeed in them. They prefer, if crossing

a bridge, to climb over the parapet, and walk along on the stone coping.

When a house is building, rows of coster lads will climb up the long

ladders, leaning against the unslated roof, and then slide down again,

each one resting on the other's shoulders. A peep-show with a battle

scene is sure of its coster audience, and a favorite pastime is fighting

with cheap theatrical swords. They are, however, true to each other, and

should a coster, who is the hero of his court, fall ill and go to a

hospital, the whole of the inhabitants of his quarter will visit him on

the Sunday, and take him presents of various articles so that "he may

live well."

Among the men, rat-killing is a favorite sport. They will enter an old

stable, fasten the door and then turn out the rats. Or they will find

out some unfrequented yard, and at night-time build up a pit with

apple-case boards, and lighting up their lamps, enjoy the sport. Nearly

every coster is fond of dogs. Some fancy them greatly, and are proud of

making them fight. If when out working, they see a handsome stray,

whether he is a "toy" or "sporting" dog, they whip him up--many of the

class not being _very_ particular whether the animals are stray or

not.

Their dog-fights are both cruel and frequent. It is not uncommon to see

a lad walking with the trembling legs of a dog shivering under a bloody

handkerchief, that covers the bitten and wounded body of an animal that

has been figuring at some "match." These fights take place on the

sly--the tap-room or back-yard of a beer-shop being generally chosen for

the purpose. A few men are let into the secret, and they attend to bet

upon the battle, the police being carefully kept from the spot.

Pigeons are "fancied" to a large extent, and are kept in lath cages on

the roofs of the houses. The lads look upon a visit to the Red-house,

Battersea, where the pigeon-shooting takes place, as a great treat. They

stand without the boarding that incloses the ground, and watch for the

wounded pigeons to fall, when a violent scramble takes place among them,

each bird being valued at 3_d._ or 4_d._ So popular has this

sport become, that some boys take dogs with them trained to retrieve the

birds, and two Lambeth costers attend regularly after their morning's

work with their guns, to shoot those that escape the "shots" within.

A good pugilist is looked up to with great admiration by the costers,

and fighting is considered to be a necessary part of a boy's education.

Among them cowardice in any shape is despised as being degrading and

loathsome; indeed the man who would avoid a fight, is scouted by the

whole of the court he lives in. Hence it is important for a lad and even

a girl to know how to "work their fists well"--as expert boxing is

called among them. If a coster man or woman is struck they are obliged

to fight. When a quarrel takes place between two boys, a ring is formed,

and the men urge them on to have it out, for they hold that it is a

wrong thing to stop a battle, as it causes bad blood for life; whereas,

if the lads fight it out they shake hands and forget all about it.

Every body practices fighting, and the man who has the largest and

hardest muscle is spoken of in terms of the highest commendation. It is

often said in admiration of such a man that "he could muzzle half a

dozen bobbies before breakfast."

To serve out a policeman is the bravest act by which a costermonger can

distinguish himself. Some lads have been imprisoned upward of a dozen

times for this offense; and are consequently looked upon by their

companions as martyrs. When they leave prison for such an act, a

subscription is often got up for their benefit. In their continual

warfare with the force, they resemble many savage nations, from the

cunning and treachery they use. The lads endeavor to take the

unsuspecting "crusher" by surprise, and often crouch at the entrance of

a court till a policeman passes, when a stone or a brick is hurled at

him, and the youngster immediately disappears. Their love of revenge too

is extreme--their hatred being in no way mitigated by time; they will

wait for months, following a policeman who has offended or wronged them,

anxiously looking out for an opportunity of paying back the injury. One

boy, I was told, vowed vengeance against a member of the force, and for

six months never allowed the man to escape his notice. At length, one

night, he saw the policeman in a row outside a public-house, and running

into the crowd kicked him savagely, shouting at the same time: "Now, you

b---- I've got you at last." When the boy heard that his persecutor was

injured for life, his joy was very great, and he declared the

twelvemonth's imprisonment he was sentenced to for the offense to be

"dirt cheap." The whole of the court where the lad resided sympathized

with the boy, and vowed to a man, that had he escaped, they would have

subscribed a pad or two of dry herrings, to send him into the country

until the affair had blown over, for he had shown himself a "plucky

one."

It is called "plucky" to bear pain without complaining. To flinch from

expected suffering is scorned, and he who does so is sneered at and told

to wear a gown, as being more fit to be a woman. To show a disregard for

pain, a lad, when without money, will say to his pal, "Give us a penny,

and you may have a punch at my nose." They also delight in tattooing

their chests and arms with anchors, and figures of different kinds.

During the whole of this painful operation, the boy will not flinch, but

laugh and joke with his admiring companions, as if perfectly at ease.

FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE.

"Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take

That subtle power--the never-halting time--

Lest a mere moment's putting off should make

Mischance almost as heavy as a crime!"

We have just closed a volume of "Wordsworth's Poems," and the motto we

have quoted, and the sonnet following it, recalled certain memories

which have proved suggestive of our present subject. Five minutes too

late! What an awful meaning is conveyed by the last two words of that

brief sentence to the children of time, over whom circumstances and

death have such fearful power! They conjure before our mental vision a

spectral array of consequences from which we shrink: ghosts

of vain hopes, of disappointed expectations, of love closed in death,

move in ghastly procession, and but for certain recollections of a more

enlivening nature--(for sometimes comedy blends even with the deepest

tragedy in this kaleidoscope world of ours!)--we should erase our title,

and choose another theme. Let it not alarm the reader, however, by the

apparent threat it holds out of a homily upon the evils of

procrastination. We mean to bestow no such tediousness upon his worship,

deeming that the "golden-lipped" saint himself would prove powerless to

exorcise that most pertinacious of demons when he has once taken

possession of any human soul. No; we intend simply to give a few

instances of the singular, fatal, or ludicrous effects which the loss or

delay of five minutes has caused, leaving Wordsworth's motto to point

the moral of our gossiping.

The first, and one of the most painful of these our "modern instances,"

was very recently related to us by the son of him whose fortunes were

changed, and finally his fate sealed, by the unheeded flitting of those

few sands of time, and whose family are still sufferers from this

apparent trifle. The momentous five minutes to which we allude were a

portion of one of the most glorious periods that ever dial or

hourglass marked--that in which the Trafalgar victory was won, and

Nelson lost. Among the gallant fleet which on that day roused the echoes

of the hills of Spain, was a certain cutter commanded by a young

lieutenant, who, possessing no naval interest, hoped for advancement

only from his own gallantry and good conduct; and little doubt was there

that either would prove lacking in his case. Memories of the fair wife

and dear babe whose fortunes were, in the expressive language of the

East, "bound up in the bundle of his life," awoke every energy of his

nature, and gave (for him) a double and inspiring meaning to that

celebrated signal, the simple majesty of which still thrills the heart

of all who owe homage to the name of our country--"England expects every

man to do his duty." When the fight began, our young lieutenant did his

duty gallantly; the "angel opportunity" was lacking for any very

memorable achievement, but in that scene of unrivaled valor and

exertion, the eye of the great commander marked the conduct of the

gallant little cutter, and he noticed it to "Hardy." Had he lived, the

fortune of the young officer would have been assured; but the life which

then "set in bloody glory" bore with it the hopes of many a brave

mariner "into the dim oblivion!"

It is well known that the fleet which achieved this victory had, during

the succeeding night and day, to contend with the fury of the elements;

many ships dismasted in the battle, all shattered, and in numerous cases

without an anchor to let go. It was while the storm was still raging

that Lord Collingwood made a signal to the ---- cutter to send a boat

for the dispatches which were to be conveyed to England. The office

intended for her commander was a favor, as the harbinger of such

intelligence was certain of promotion; but, alas! our young lieutenant,

engrossed by the present scene, and excited by the recent march of

events, was not heeding the signal of the _Euryalus_, and it had

been flying five minutes before it was reported to him. _Then_ he

hurried to obey the mandate--too late! Another had seen the summons, and

preceded him, deeming that the state of the cutter must be the cause of

her commander's delay. As her boat came alongside the _Euryalus_,

that of his successful rival--if I may so style him--pushed off, and the

officers exchanged greetings. Poor Y---- at that moment bade farewell to

the flood-tide of his fortunes! The admiral accepted his excuses, and

regretted that he had not arrived in time, giving him the only charge

remaining in his power to bestow--duplicates of the dispatches--and with

these he took his homeward course: but the lost five minutes had wrecked

his hopes. His predecessor arrived safely, received promotion, and is

now, or was very recently, an admiral, while the hero of our story

obtained only a sword in commemoration of his bravery; and at the close

of the war, was thrown aside, with many a gallant comrade, to waste the

remainder of his life in oblivion and neglect. The disappointment of his

hopes affected him deeply; the more so as his family increased, and his

means of supporting and providing for them were small. What profound

regret darkened the vision of Trafalgar when it recurred to the old

officer's memory! He was sometimes heard to say, with a playful mockery

of his own ill-fortune, "that he had grown prematurely bald from the

number of young men who had _walked over his head_;" but there was

a pathos in the very jest. By a marvelous coincidence, his life was

closed, as its prospects had been blighted, by the fatal five minutes

too late. He was engaged to dine with an old brother-officer--one who

hated to be kept waiting for his dinner--and by some accident, it was

five minutes after the appointed time when he left his house to proceed

to his Amphitryon's. In his anxiety to redeem the lost time, he hurried

up the hill he was compelled to ascend at a pace little befitting his

age and infirmities--for he suffered from a complaint of the

heart--reached the dining-room "again five minutes too late," as he

remarked himself, in allusion to the unseen signal, was taken ill from

the exertion, carried home, and died. "The tide" of life as well as of

fortune had for him "passed the flood!"

The colors of this kaleidoscope vision are of the darkest and saddest;

let us shake the instrument and vary the combinations, and lo an Indian

bungalow rises before us seated on a mountain height; and many busy

forms are moving near and about it, for the lady who dwells there is

about to join a party of friends traveling to the island presidency

below. Her husband's regiment has been recently hurried to the seat of

war, and she can no longer dwell upon the wide and pleasant plains of

the Deccan; moreover, the monsoon is ended, and the hot winds of the

season are beginning to penetrate the screens. And now the ayah hastens

her lady's preparations, by the information that the party of travelers

are waiting in their palanquins without; but the "Ma'am Sahib" is a

confirmed procrastinator, and so much has been left till this last

moment unprepared and undone, that she can not obey the summons. The

climate is not favorable to patience; besides, there is a "tide" to be

caught at the next _bunder_, and _it_, proverbially, will wait

for no one; therefore, with some few apologies, the party moved on,

expressing their assurance that Mrs. T---- would soon overtake them. She

was of the same opinion, and bore their desertion very philosophically,

insisting even on not detaining a gentleman of the group, who would fain

have waited her leisure. As she entered her palanquin, she observed to

her ayah--the only servant who accompanied her--that she had been,

"after all, only five minutes too late." The "God's image carved in

ebony," as Fuller calls the dark sisterhood of our race, showed her

ivory teeth good-humoredly in assent, and retired to take possession of

her own conveyance, in which she was ordered to follow closely that of

her mistress, deeming the loss of time of as little moment as the lady

did. The hamals then began their labors, and the first portion of the

descent was achieved pleasantly and safely. Seated in her coffin-like

carriage, Mrs. T---- looked forth on a scene of almost unrivaled beauty,

every turn of the mountain pathway varying its character and increasing

its loveliness. Revived by the recent heavy rains, the trees and herbage

wore a green as vivid as if they were never scorched by the burning

kisses of an Eastern sun; gay wild-flowers peeped out from the long

grass of the jungle; and tiny waterfalls danced and sported down the

mountains' sides to their own liquid music: the tramp of the bearers,

the monotonous chant into which they occasionally broke, even the shrill

cry of the green parrot, had all a charm for the fair lady traveler; and

she forgot the "five minutes too late" which had separated her from her

companions, and the fact that there was still no appearance of rejoining

them. The latter recollection had, however, occurred to her bearers, and

gradually, though their burden marked it not, they slackened their pace,

and held low conference among themselves. The ayah's palanquin was far

behind, the travelers who preceded them far before; the road was

solitary, the jungle deep and secret as the grave; the lady known to be

rich in jewels, if not in gold and rupees.

Evening was closing in: day fades rapidly in the East, and the brief

twilight is as solemn as it is soft and short. The hamals' steps fell

slower and slower; and at last a vague fear awoke in the lady's mind, to

which the gradually deepening gloom added force. She was imaginative,

and she fancied the pretty water-jets grew larger, and foamed, and took

a spectral form, like the mischievous uncle of "Undine," and that the

dark figures of the relay of hamals, running by the side of the

palanquin, grew taller, and more fiendish-looking: she began to "see

their visage" less "in their mind" than in its natural color and swart

ugliness, and bitterly repented having been five minutes too late. A

regret, alas! _too late_ also; for suddenly her palanquin was set

upon the ground, and eight shadowy forms gathered round the door, with

glittering eyes and looks from which she shrank, while one in brief

phrase desired her to give him her jewel-case and her money. The request

was not instantly granted. The Scotswoman was courageous, and

represented to her false guides that they could neither rob nor injure a

woman of her race with impunity. In answer, one fellow pointed to the

deep jungle, and made an expressive sign at the back of his own throat.

She saw that it would be vain to refuse, and delivered the small box she

had with her, and her money. They received it silently; and sitting down

in her sight, coolly examined and divided their spoil. Then came a

fearful pause. They looked toward the palanquin; they were evidently

consulting as to what they should do with her. Never could she afterward

forget the feeling with which her gaze encountered those terrible black

eyes! the agony of suspense was more than she could bear; and as they

rose simultaneously, she buried her face in her hands, and in a short,

almost wordless prayer, commended her soul to her Creator. At the same

instant a frightful roar, echoed by a thrilling scream, or rather yell,

burst on her ear. She looked up, and beheld her foes scattered on all

sides, pursued by a tiger, to whose remorseless thirst one had evidently

fallen a prey, for faint from the distance came a cry of mortal agony.

She was saved! The five minutes they had loitered over their spoil had,

through the mercy of a good Providence, made crime too late to be

consummated. She sat there alone, wonderfully preserved, but still in an

awful situation for a female, since night was gathering round her, and

the lair of the wild beast so near! Her heart beat audibly, when

suddenly the stillness was broken by a familiar and blessed sound: "Auld

Lang-syne," played on her native bagpipes, stole on the silence of the

evening, and, relieved from a weight of terror--from the fear of death

itself--she shed large heavy tears as the clear music approached her. A

Highland regiment was on its night march back to the Presidency, and

either its approach had been perceived by the robbers who had escaped

the tiger, and thus prevented their return to their victim, or their

superstitious terror at the jungle tyrant had kept them from the spot.

In a few minutes some of the Highland officers were beside the

palanquin, listening indignantly to the lady's story, and offering her

every assistance in their power. She was a good horsewoman, and the

adjutant resigned his steed to her. Her jewels and money, found

scattered on the road, were collected and given in charge to a

Highlander, and she was escorted in safety by the gallant 7-th to the

bunder, from whence she could embark for Bombay. If any thing could cure

procrastination, the effects of such a "five minutes too late" might be

expected to perform it; but, as we have said, we have no faith in even

so severe a remedy, and we doubt if pretty Mrs. T---- has ever put her

bonnet on the quicker since her adventure on the Kandallah Ghauts.

And now, looking back into our very early childhood, we can see a neat,

quiet-looking old lady, on whose fate our ominous title had as important

a result. She was the widow of a merchant-ship captain, who had left her

a comfortable independence, and the care of a boy nephew--his only

sister's son--a fine lad destined for the sea. The pair lived in an

old-fashioned house in one of the old, narrow, dull, but respectable

streets of Portsea, and were introduced to our notice by the necessity

of applying to Mrs. Martin, or, as she called herself, Mrs.

Mar_ting_, for the character of a servant. Inquiries touching the

damsel's capabilities had been made by letter, but the reply was by no

means as clear as could be desired; for the old lady was a very "queen

of the dictionary," and played so despotically with words, and the

letters which form them, that the only part of her reply at all

intelligible to my mother was a kindly-expressed hope that "Susan Olding

would _shoot_ her!" We supposed she meant _suit_; but to make

assurance doubly sure, mamma called on her, and took us children with

her. It was about Christmas-time, and we remember distinctly how nice

and _cosy_ we thought the quaint-looking old parlor into which we

were ushered. The fireplace was formed of Dutch tiles, commemorative of

a whole Bible biography: a large closet, with glass doors, exhibited to

our childish peeping a quantity of valuable old china. There was a

harpsichord--the only one we ever saw--open in the room. Round the walls

hung pieces of embroidery framed, the subjects being taken from the

"Faerie Queen;" and above each shone the glittering leaves and scarlet

berries of a holly sprig. A bright fire blazed on the hearth; and by the

side of it, in an imposing-looking arm-chair, sat the mistress of the

dwelling knitting--a pretty woman even in advancing years, with a kind,

happy expression of countenance, that one would have felt grieved to see

overshadowed by a care.

From that time we became acquaintances of good Mrs. Martin. She met us

in our walks; sometimes took us into her house to give us a piece of

seed-cake and a glass of home-made wine; and finally, invited us

occasionally to drink tea with her. We enjoyed those evenings

exceedingly; she was so kind, and good-natured, and so ready to enter

into all our games, in which we had also a blithe comrade in the young

man her nephew, who had just returned from sea. He would play with us

till we were tired, and then seating us round the blazing fire, would

entertain us, Othello-like, with his adventures, and those of his

messmates, till we held our breath to listen. A very fine seaman-like

youth was Harry Darling the midshipman, and very proud his aunt was of

him. In truth she had good cause to rejoice in her affection for him, as

the incident we have to relate will prove. When Harry first went to sea,

his adopted mother felt, as she expressed it, "very _dissolute_"

(desolate?) in her deserted house, and sought refuge from her anxious

thoughts by frequenting oftener the tea-tables of her neighbors, among

whom her cheerful temper, to say nothing of her comfortable income and

hospitality, made her very popular. At the house of one of the most

intimate of her gossips, the worthy widow was in the habit of meeting,

and of being partner at whist, with a tall gentleman wearing a mustache,

and distinguished by the title of "Count." Now, if Mrs. Martin had a

weakness, it was her love for "great people," as she phrased it; many of

whose privileges were the especial objects of her envy, especially the

mournful one of a funeral exhibition of heraldic honors. She always

regretted that she had not been able to hang out "a hatchet" for her

poor dear departed Mar_ting_. Now, as she never dreamed, dear guileless

old body, of any one assuming a dignity not justly appertaining to them,

and had no conception of the exact standard of national rank, a foreign

count with a mustache like a Life Guardsman was as imposing a personage

in her estimation as an ancient English "Thane," and she treated his

countship with all possible respect and attention, considering it a high

honor when he favored her neat dwelling with a visit, and drank tea out

of her best china. She always called him "my lord," and "your lordship,"

and sympathized deeply in the cruel reverses to which the Revolution had

subjected him, never wearying of hearing descriptions of his "cha_too_,"

and of his hotel in Paris, though it long continued a mystery to her how

a nobleman with such a fortune could have liked to keep a _hotel_, a

difficulty she had at last solved by ascribing it to foreign manners.

But the count became daily more intimate at her house, telling her long

stories over the winter fire, or while partaking of the meal she called,

in compliment to him, her "petty soupey," and gradually the usual

consequences of such story-telling ensued. The unfortunate noble

proposed to Mrs. Martin, and, quite flattered and dazzled by the honor,

the widow consented to become Madame la Comtesse. His lady-love's assent

once obtained, the Frenchman was eager for the immediate celebration of

their nuptials; but Mrs. Martin insisted on waiting till her dear Harry

came home from sea, his ship being daily expected. The bridegroom

shrugged an unwilling assent, and consoled himself by dining

occasionally, as well as drinking tea, with his lady-love.

At length the battery and guard-ship guns of Portsmouth greeted the

expected frigate, and the next day Harry Darling embraced his aunt, and

learned from her with much surprise, and a little vexation, that she was

about to marry "a member of the French House of Lords!" The boy had

already seen enough of the world to take a very different view of the

proposed exaltation, and to have serious fears for his kinswoman's

happiness in a union with one whom he, at first sight, pronounced an

adventurer; but on hinting his suspicions to her, the good lady for the

first time grew angry with him, ascribing his observations to a selfish

regard for his own interest, and Harry finding remonstrance vain, was

fain to yield a sad consent to be present at the ceremony in a week's

time.

The wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to be performed at a little

village church at some distance, and the carriages destined to convey

the bridal party were ordered at an early hour. The bride, handsomely

attired, and the bridegroom in the dignity of an entire new suit, were

waiting, attended by their friends, in the parlor we have described, for

the appearance of Harry, who had been unable to get leave till the

eventful morning, but had promised to be there in time. There is nothing

more calculated to throw a gloom over persons assembled for some festive

or momentous occasion, than the having to wait for an expected guest.

The gossips assembled in Mrs. Martin's room had met with gay smiles and

pleasant congratulations, but as minute after minute stole away, and no

Harry Darling appeared, the conversation sank into silence, and the

company looked grave and tired. The count became impatient, and urged

his betrothed not to delay longer, as circumstances might have occurred

to prevent "Monsieur Darling" from leaving his ship; but the widow was

not to be persuaded. She loved Harry with all the warmth of her

affectionate nature. She had never known him break his promise; if he

did not come, he must, "she was sure, be ill, or he might even have

fallen overboard, and could the count think her such an inhuman monster

as to go to be married while the dear child's fate was doubtful?" The

gentleman internally wished "the dear child" at the bottom of Spithead,

but he dared not dispute the will of his despotic widow, and they waited

another quarter of an hour, when, to the joy of all, the missing Harry

sprang across the threshold, releasing the "wedding guests" from their

thralldom to a nameless kind of discomfort, and his aunt from her

nervous fears.

With all speed the party then drove off, and proceeded at a brisk pace

to the village church; but even as the tall spire rose in sight above

the leafy elms, the clock struck the hour of noon. The bridal party

exchanged looks: after twelve, it is not possible to be married in

England without a special license. But the bride's attendant suggested

that as it could not be more than five minutes after the time, the

rector might be induced to overlook the rule, and they alighted and

entered the church. Only the sexton was visible, in the act of closing

the doors. He told them that the Rev. Mr. Bunbury, after waiting for

them till noon, had just ridden off to attend a clerical meeting at some

distance; but that even had he been at home, it would have been quite

impossible for him to have performed the ceremony after the appointed

hour. They were therefore compelled to return unmarried, and Harry

received a gentle chiding from his aunt for the confusion he had

occasioned, which, however, he asserted was not his fault, but that of

the first lieutenant, who had detained him. To atone in some measure for

the disappointment to her friends, Mrs. Martin invited them all to dine

with her at six, and to accompany her on a similar expedition on the

morrow. The invitation was accepted, and the count forgot his

disappointment over a plate of turtle-soup, and indulged in delightful

anticipations of the next morning which was to render him

"Monarch of all he surveyed."

Alas, there is many a slip between the cup and the lip! A five minutes

too late is no such trifling matter. It was even while wit and champagne

were at their height, that a knock at the street door disturbed the

jovial company, and was followed by the announcement of "a lady who

wished to speak to Monsieur de Fierville." Mrs. Martin, eager to please

the man she delighted to honor, bade the servant usher the lady in, and

a scene of confusion followed which may rather be imagined than

described. It was no less a personage than the Madame de Fierville

herself--the true and living wife of the deceitful lover--who had at

length, as she informed them, been able to dispose advantageously of her

business as a _modiste_, and had followed her husband to England,

trusting she should find him established, according to his intention, as

a hairdresser in the good town of Portsea. On reaching his lodgings,

however--for she had, after some difficulty, succeeded in tracing

him--she learned from the mistress of the house that he had taken to

himself the title of his former master--he had been valet to Count

F----, and an English wife, and she had come to the home of the latter

to exact justice or revenge. "The count" was no match for his vehement

and enraged wife, and could not deny the authenticity of the

testimonials of the truth of her statement, which she produced. He was

hurried, at rather uncivil speed, from the house by the enraged Harry

Darling, and was followed thence by the angry and garrulous Frenchwoman;

while Mrs. Martin had a gentle hysteric--nothing could greatly disturb

the equanimity of her temper--and sinking on her nephew's shoulder,

murmured in broken sobs her thanks to Providence, and, under Providence,

to him, "that from being five minutes too late she had escaped being

made an accomplice in the crime of _burglary_!"

We must turn from Mrs. Mar_ting_--her love passages and her

blunders--to an incident in which the words of our motto were most

pathetically and fatally exemplified--

"A moment's putting off has made

Mischance as heavy as a crime."

The actors, or rather sufferers, of the story were a twin brother and

sister, orphans, and dependent on the bounty of a near kinswoman, who,

being of the Romish persuasion, had educated the girl in the doctrines

of her own faith, although, in compliance with the dying wish of her

widowed sister, the boy was suffered to retain that of his country and

his father. But this difference of creeds proved the cause of no

diminution of affection between the children, whose love for each other

equaled or surpassed those loves which Scripture and poetry have made

immortal. They were ever to be seen hand-in-hand; the one had no

pleasure the other did not partake; their playthings, books, thoughts,

joys, and infantine sorrows were shared invariably; and as the boy was

educated at home, they were never separated till John had attained his

seventeenth year, when his aunt's interest procured him a cadetship, and

he was obliged to leave Mary in order to join his regiment in India. It

was a terrible separation in those days, when the subjected elements

"yoked to man's iron car" had not, as in the present day, nearly

fulfilled the modest wish of Dryden's lovers, and

"Annihilated time and space!"

The twins were heartbroken at the idea of parting; but John consoled his

sister by the promise of sending for her as soon as he had an Indian

home to offer her; and Mary pleaded "that it might be soon, no matter

how humble that home might be!" And he assented to all her wishes, and

pledged his word never to miss an opportunity of writing to her.

Letters from the East were then few and far between; and when received,

brought in their very date a painful reminder of the time that had

elapsed since the beloved hand had traced them, and a fear of all that

might have chanced since their old news was written. But they were the

chief comfort of Mary Murray--

"When seas between them broad had rolled,"

and for days after the arrival of one, her step would fall more lightly,

and her voice take a happier tone. After the departure of her nephew,

Mrs. Jermyn removed with her niece to France. Her means were straitened,

and she could live more economically on the Continent; and there, after

the lapse of some few years, she died, leaving Mary Murray all her

little property, and advising her to join her brother in India as soon

as she conveniently could, but to remain as boarder in a convent till

arrangements to that effect could be made. The poor girl obeyed the

wishes of her last and only friend, and became for a time the inmate of

a cloister; but her thoughts and wishes all tended to the East, and she

longed for the arrival of her brother's next letter--the answer to that

in which she had made him aware of her loss, and of her wish to go to

him. The mail arrived; there was no letter for _her_, but it brought

news of an engagement in which John Murray's regiment had fought bravely

and suffered much. His name was not in the list of killed or wounded,

but he was reported "missing," probably a prisoner to the enemy, or

drowned in the river, on the banks of which the contest had taken place.

The grief of her, who had no other tie of love in the world may be

imagined; it could scarcely be described. Nevertheless she was young,

and the young are generally sanguine. Almost without her being conscious

of it, she still cherished a hope that he might be restored to her; but

months rolled on, and brought no tidings. Then it was that, sick at

heart, and weary even of the hope that was so constantly disappointed,

her thoughts turned to the cloister as a refuge from her lonely sorrow.

She had no object of interest beyond the walls; the nuns were kind and

good; the duties of the convent such as she loved to fulfill. She took

the white vail, and at the end of the year's novitiate, the black. The

service of final dedication had begun, when a stranger arrived at the

convent gate, and requested to see Miss Murray on business of

importance. He was desired by the porteress to wait till the ceremony,

which had commenced about five minutes previously, was ended; and

ignorant of the name of the nun who was making her profession, he of

course consented to the request. In about an hour's time, a young

figure, robed in black, and vailed, stood at the grate to ask his

business with her. He uttered an exclamation of alarm and consternation

when he perceived Miss Murray in the dress of a nun. Then recovering

himself he informed her, as cautiously as his surprise permitted, that

he had come from her brother, who had been made prisoner, and was now

restored to his regiment, after having endured much, and met with a

number of adventures, of which a letter he then offered her would give

her a full account. It ought, he acknowledged, to have been delivered a

day or two earlier, but he had been much engaged since his arrival in

Paris, and had forgotten it till that morning, when, ashamed and sorry

for his neglect, he had proceeded at an early hour to the convent. Mary

Murray heard him with a pale cheek and quivering lip, and as she took

the letter from his hand, murmured, "You came five minutes too late,

sir! and to that lost time my brother's happiness and mine have been

sacrificed. I am a nun now--as dead to him as if the grave had closed

above me!" The young messenger was overwhelmed with regret as vain as it

was agonizing. Miss Murray kindly endeavored to console him, but on

herself the blow fell heavily. She was never seen to smile from that

day; and in less than a year after, the nuns of St. Agnes followed their

young sister to the grave. Most fitly might the beautiful epitaph in the

church of Santa Croce have been graven beneath the holy sign her

tombstone bore:

"Ne la plaignez pas! Si vous saviez

Combien de peines ce tombeau l'a épargné!"

The brother grieved deeply for a while, but the stream of the world bore

him onward, and its waters are the true Lethe for ordinary and even

extraordinary sorrow. He married, and years afterward returned to

England with his wife and family; and then the memory of his sister Mary

returned vividly and painfully to his mind, and, as a warning to his

children, he told them the story of her enduring affection, and of

_the fatal five minutes too late_!

VISIT TO A COPPER-MINE.[11]

[Footnote 11: From "Rambles beyond Railways," by W. WILKIE COLLINS.]

We left the Land's End, feeling that our homeward journey had now begun

from that point; and, walking northward, about five miles along the

coast, arrived at Botallack, which contains the most extraordinary

copper-mine in Cornwall. Having heard that there was some disinclination

in Cornwall to allow strangers to go down the mines, we had provided

ourselves, through the kindness of a friend, with a proper letter of

introduction, in case of emergency. We were told to go to the

counting-house to present our credentials; and on our road thither,

beheld the buildings and machinery of the mine, literally stretching

down the precipitous face of the cliff, from the land at the top, to the

sea at the bottom.

This sight was striking and extraordinary. Here, we beheld a scaffolding

perched on a rock that rose out of the waves--there, a steam-pump was at

work raising gallons of water from the mine every minute, on a mere

ledge of land, half-way down the steep-cliff side. Chains, pipes,

conduits, protruded in all directions from the precipice; rotten-looking

wooden platforms, running over deep chasms, supported great beams of

timber and heavy coils of cable; crazy little boarded-houses were built,

where gulls' nests might have been found in other places. There did not

appear to be a foot of level space anywhere, for any part of the works

of the mine to stand upon; and yet, there they were, fulfilling all the

purposes for which they had been constructed, as safely and completely

on rocks in the sea, and down precipices on the land, as if they had

been cautiously founded on the tracts of smooth, solid ground above!

The counting-house was built on a projection of earth about midway

between the top of the cliff and the sea. When we got there, the agent,

to whom our letter was addressed, was absent; but his place was supplied

by two miners, who came out to receive us; and to one of them we

mentioned our recommendation, and modestly hinted a wish to go down the

mine forthwith.

But our new friend was not a person who did any thing in a hurry. He was

a grave, courteous, and rather melancholy man, of great stature

and strength. He looked on us with a benevolent, paternal expression,

and appeared to think that we were nothing like strong enough, or

cautious enough, to be trusted down the mine. "Did we know," he urged,

"that it was dangerous work?" "Yes; but we didn't mind danger!" "Perhaps

we were not aware that we should perspire profusely, and be dead-tired

getting up and down the ladders?" "Very likely; but we didn't mind that,

either!" "Surely we shouldn't like to strip, and put on miners'

clothes?" "Yes, we should, of all things!" and, pulling off coat,

waistcoat, and trowsers, on the spot, we stood half-undressed already,

just as the big miner was proposing another objection, which, under

existing circumstances, he good-naturedly changed into a speech of

acquiescence. "Very well, gentlemen," said he, taking up two suits of

miners' clothes; "I see you are determined to go down; and so you shall!

You'll be wet through with the heat and the work before you come up

again; so just put on these things, and keep your own clothes dry."

The clothing consisted of a flannel shirt, flannel drawers, canvas

trowsers, and a canvas jacket--all stained of a tawny copper color; but

all quite clean. A white night-cap and a round hat, composed of some

iron-hard substance, well calculated to protect the head from any loose

stones that might fall on it, completed the equipment; to which, three

tallow-candles were afterward added--two to hang at the button-hole,

one to carry in the hand.

My friend was dressed first. He had got a suit which fitted him

tolerably, and which, as far as appearances went, made a regular miner

of him at once. Far different was my case.

The same mysterious dispensation of fate, which always awards tall wives

to short men, decreed that a suit of the big miner's should be reserved

for me. He stood six feet two inches--I stand five feet six inches. I

put on his flannel shirt--it fell down to my toes, like a bed-gown; his

drawers--and they flowed in Turkish luxuriance over my feet. At his

trowsers I helplessly stopped short, lost in the voluminous recesses of

each leg. The big miner, like a good Samaritan as he was, came to my

assistance. He put the pocket-button through the waist button-hole, to

keep the trowsers up, in the first instance; then, he "hauled taut" the

braces (as sailors say), until my waistband was under my armpits; and

then he pronounced that I and my trowsers fitted each other in great

perfection. The cuffs of the jacket were next turned up to my

elbows--the white nightcap was dragged over my ears--the round hat was

jammed down over my eyes. When I add to all this, that I am so

near-sighted as to be obliged to wear spectacles, and that I finished my

toilet by putting my spectacles on (knowing that I should see little or

nothing without them), nobody, I think, will be astonished to hear that

my companion seized his sketch-book, and caricatured me on the spot; and

that the grave miner, polite as he was, shook with internal laughter, as

I took up my tallow-candles and reported myself ready for a descent into

the mine.

We left the counting-house, and ascended the face of the cliff. Then,

walked a short distance along the edge, descended a little again, and

stopped at a wooden platform built across a deep gully. Here, the miner

pulled up a trap-door, and disclosed a perpendicular ladder leading down

to a black hole, like the opening of a chimney. "This is the shaft; I

will go down first, to catch you, in case you tumble; follow me, and

hold tight!" Saying this, our friend squeezed himself through the

trap-door, and we went after him as we had been bidden.

The black hole, when we entered it, proved to be not quite so dark as it

had appeared from above. Rays of light occasionally penetrated it

through chinks in the outer rock. But, by the time we had got some

little way further down, these rays began to fade. Then, just as we

seemed to be lowering ourselves into total darkness, we were desired to

stand on a narrow landing-place opposite the ladder, and wait there

while the miner went below for a light. He soon reascended to us,

bringing not only the light he had promised, but a large lump of damp

clay with it. Having lighted our candles, he stuck them against the

front of our hats with the clay, in order, as he said, to leave both our

hands free to us to use as we liked. Thus strangely accoutred, like

Solomon Eagles in the Great Plague, with flame on our heads, we resumed

the descent of the shaft; and now, at last, began to penetrate beneath

the surface of the earth in good earnest.

The process of getting down the ladders was not very pleasant. They were

all quite perpendicular, the rounds were placed at irregular distances,

were many of them much worn away, and were slippery with water and

copper-ooze. Add to this, the narrowness of the shaft, the dripping-wet

rock shutting you in, as it were, all round your back and sides against

the ladder--the fathomless-looking darkness beneath--the light flaring

immediately above you, as if your head was on fire--the voice of the

miner below, rumbling away in dull echoes lower and lower into the

bowels of the earth--the consciousness that if the rounds of the ladder

broke, you might fall down a thousand feet or so of narrow tunnel in a

moment--imagine all this, and you may easily realize what are the first

impressions produced by a descent into a Cornish mine.

By the time we had got down seventy fathoms, or four hundred and twenty

feet of ladders, we stopped at another landing-place, just broad enough

to afford standing-room for us three. Here, the miner, pointing to an

opening yawning horizontally in the rock at one side of us, said that

this was the first gallery from the surface; that we had done with the

ladders for the present; and that a little climbing and crawling were

now to begin.

Our path was a strange one, as we advanced

through the rift. Rough stones of all sizes, holes here, and eminences

there, impeded us at every yard. Sometimes, we could walk on in a

stooping position--sometimes, we were obliged to crawl on our hands and

knees. Occasionally, greater difficulties than these presented

themselves. Certain parts of the gallery dipped into black, ugly-looking

pits, crossed by thin planks, over which we walked dizzily, a little

bewildered by the violent contrast between the flaring light that we

carried above us, and the pitch-darkness beneath and before us. One of

these places terminated in a sudden rising in the rock, hollowed away

below, but surmounted by a narrow, projecting wooden platform, to which

it was necessary to climb by cross-beams arranged at wide distances. My

companion ascended to this awkward elevation without hesitating; but I

came to an "awful pause" before it. Fettered as I was by my Brobdignag

jacket and trowsers, I felt a humiliating consciousness that any

extraordinary gymnastic exertion was altogether out of my power.

Our friend, the miner, saw my difficulty, and extricated me from it at

once, with a promptitude and skill which deserves record. Descending

half way by the beams, he clutched with one hand that hinder part of my

too voluminous nether garments, which presented the broadest superficies

of canvas to his grasp (I hope the delicate reader appreciates the

ingenious cleanliness of my periphrasis, when I mention in detail so

coarse a subject as trowsers!). Having grappled me thus, he lifted me up

in an instant, as easily as a small parcel; then carried me horizontally

along the loose boards, like a refractory little boy borne off by the

usher to the master's birch; or, considering the candle burning on my

hat, and the necessity of elevating my position by as lofty a comparison

as I can make--like a flying Mercury with a star on his head; and

finally deposited me safely upon my legs again, on the firm rock pathway

beyond. "You are but a light and a little man, my son!" says this

excellent fellow, snuffing my candle for me before we go on; "only let

me lift you about as I like, and you shan't come to any harm while I am

with you!"

Speaking thus, the miner leads us forward again. After we have walked a

little further in a crouching position, he calls a halt, makes a seat

for us by sticking a piece of old board between the rocky walls of the

gallery, and then proceeds to explain the exact subterranean position

which we actually occupy.

We are now four hundred yards out, _under the bottom of the sea_;

and twenty fathoms, or a hundred and twenty feet, below the sea level.

Coast-trade vessels are sailing over our heads. Two hundred and forty

feet beneath us men are at work, and there are galleries deeper yet,

even below that! The extraordinary position down the face of the cliff,

of the engines and other works on the surface, at Botallack, is now

explained. The mine is not excavated like other mines under the land,

but under the sea!

Having communicated these particulars, the miner next tells us to keep

strict silence and listen. We obey him, sitting speechless and

motionless. If the reader could only have beheld us now, dressed in our

copper-colored garments, huddled close together in a mere cleft of

subterranean rock, with flame burning on our heads, and darkness

enveloping our limbs--he must certainly have imagined, without any

violent stretch of fancy, that he was looking down upon a conclave of

gnomes!

After listening for a few moments, a distant, unearthly noise becomes

faintly audible--a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never changes,

that is _felt_ on the ear as well as _heard_ by it--a sound

that might proceed from some incalculable distance--from some far

invisible height--a sound unlike any thing that is heard on the upper

ground, in the free air of heaven--a sound so sublimely mournful and

still, so ghostly and impressive when listened to in the subterranean

recesses of the earth, that we continue instinctively to hold our peace,

as if enchanted by it, and think not of communicating to each other the

strange awe and astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the

very first.

At last, the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the

sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us,

and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is now

at the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation: so

the sound is low and distant just at this period. But, when storms are

at their height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water

on the cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down here

in the mine is so inexpressibly fierce and awful, that the boldest men

at work are afraid to continue their labor--all ascend to the surface to

breathe the upper air and stand on the firm earth; dreading, though no

such catastrophe has ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on

them if they remain in the caverns below.

Hearing this, we get up to look at the rock above us. We are able to

stand upright in the position we now occupy; and flaring our candles

hither and thither in the darkness, can see the bright pure copper

streaking the dark ceiling of the gallery in every direction. Lumps of

ooze, of the most lustrous green color, traversed by a natural network

of thin red veins of iron, appear here and there in large irregular

patches, over which water is dripping slowly and incessantly in certain

places. This is the salt water percolating through invisible crannies in

the rock. On stormy days it spirts out furiously in thin, continuous

streams. Just over our heads we observe a wooden plug of the thickness

of a man's leg; there is a hole here, and the plug is all that we have

to keep out the sea.

Immense wealth of metal is contained in the roof of this gallery,

throughout its whole length; but it remains, and will always remain,

untouched; the miners dare not take it, for it is part, and a great

part, of the rock which forms their only protection against the sea; and

which has been so far worked away here, that its thickness is limited to

an average of three feet only between the water and the gallery in which

we now stand. No one knows what might be the consequence of another

day's labor with the pickax on any part of it.

This information is rather startling when communicated at a depth of

four hundred and twenty feet under ground. We should decidedly have

preferred to receive it in the counting-house! It makes us pause for an

instant, to the miner's infinite amusement, in the very act of knocking

away about an inch of ore from the rock, as a memento of Botallack.

Having, however, ventured, on reflection, to assume the responsibility

of weakening our defense against the sea by the length and breadth of an

inch, we secure our piece of copper, and next proceed to discuss the

propriety of descending two hundred and forty feet more of ladders, for

the sake of visiting that part of the mine where the men are at work.

Two or three causes concur to make us doubt the wisdom of going lower.

There is a hot, moist, sickly vapor floating about us, which becomes

more oppressive every moment; we are already perspiring at every pore,

as we were told we should, and our hands, faces, jackets, and trowsers,

are all more or less covered with a mixture of mud, tallow, and

iron-drippings, which we can feel and smell much more accurately than is

exactly desirable. We ask the miner what there is to see lower down. He

replies, nothing but men breaking ore with pickaxes; the galleries of

the mine are alike, however deep they may go: when you have seen one,

you have seen all.

The answer decides us--we determine to get back to the surface.

We returned along the gallery, just as we had advanced, with the same

large allowance of scrambling, creeping, and stumbling on our way. I was

charitably carried along and down the platform over the pit by my

trowsers, as before: our order of procession only changed when we gained

the ladders again. Then, our friend the miner went last instead of

first, upon the same principle of being ready to catch us if we fell,

which led him to precede us on our descent. Except that one of the

rounds cracked under his weight as we went up, we ascended without

casualties of any kind. As we neared the mouth of the shaft, the

daylight atmosphere looked dazzlingly white, after the darkness in which

we had been groping so long; and when we once more stood out on the

cliff, we felt a cold, health-giving purity in the sea-breeze, and, at

the same time, a sense of recovered freedom in the power that we now

enjoyed of running, jumping, and stretching our limbs in perfect

security and with full space for action, which it was almost a new

sensation to experience. Habit teaches us to think little of the light

and air that we live and breathe in, or, at most, to view them only as

the ordinary conditions of our being. To find out that they are more

than this, that they are a luxury as well as a necessity of life, go

down into a mine, and compare what you _can_ exist in there, with

what you _do_ exist in, on upper earth!

On re-entering the counting-house, we were greeted by the welcome

appearance of two large tubs of water, with soap and flannel placed

invitingly by their sides. Copious ablutions and clean clothes, are

potent restorers of muscular energy. These, and a half hour of repose,

enabled us to resume our knapsacks as briskly as ever, and walk on

fifteen miles to the town of St. Ives--our resting-place for the night.

Serious accidents are rare in the mines of Cornwall. From the horrors of

such explosions as take place in coal-mines, they are by their nature

entirely free. The casualties that oftenest occur are serious falls,

generally produced by the carelessness of inexperienced, or foolhardy

people. Of these, and of extraordinary escapes from death with which

they are associated, many anecdotes are told in mining districts, which

would appear to the reader exaggerated, or positively untrue, if I

related them on mere hearsay evidence. There was, however, one instance

of a fall down the shaft of a mine, unattended with fatal consequences,

which occurred while I was in Cornwall; and which I may safely adduce,

for I can state some of the facts connected with the affair, as an

eye-witness. I attended an examination of the sufferer by a medical man,

and heard the story of the accident from the parents of the patient.

On the 7th of August last, a boy fourteen years of age, the son of a

miner, slipped into the shaft of Boscaswell Down Mine, in the

neighborhood of Penzance. He fell to the depth of thirteen fathoms, or

seventy-eight feet. Fifty-eight feet down, he struck his left side

against a board placed across the shaft, snapped it in two, and then

falling twenty feet more, pitched on his head. He was of course taken up

insensible; the doctor was sent for; and, on examining him, found, to

his amazement, that there was actually a chance of the boy's recovery

after his tremendous fall!

Not a bone in his body was broken. He was bruised and scratched all

over, and there were three cuts--none of them serious--on his head. The

board stretched across the shaft, twenty feet from the bottom, had saved

him from being dashed to pieces; but had inflicted, at the same time,

where his left side had struck it, the only injury that appeared

dangerous to the medical man--a large, hard lump that could be felt

under the bruised skin. The boy showed no symptoms of fever; his pulse,

day after day, was found never varying from eighty-two to the minute;

his appetite was voracious; and the internal functions of his body only

required a little ordinary medicine to keep them properly at work. In

short, nothing was to be dreaded but the chance of the formation of an

abscess in his left side, between the hip and ribs. He had been under

medical care exactly one week, when I accompanied the doctor on a visit

to him.

The cottage where he lived with his parents, though small, was neat and

comfortable. We found him lying in bed, awake. He looked sleepy and

lethargic; but his skin was moist and cool; his face displayed neither

paleness, nor injury of any kind. He had just eaten a good dinner of

rabbit-pie; and was anxious to be allowed to sit up in a chair, and

amuse himself by looking out of the window. His left side was first

examined. A great circular bruise discolored the skin, over the whole

space between the hip and ribs; but on touching it, the doctor

discovered that the lump beneath had considerably decreased in size, and

was much less hard than it had felt during previous visits. Next, we

looked at his back and arms--they were scratched and bruised all over;

but nowhere seriously. Lastly, the dressings were taken off his head,

and three cuts were disclosed, which even a non-medical eye could easily

perceive to be of no great importance. Such were all the results of a

fall of seventy-eight feet!

The boy's father reiterated to me the account of the accident, just as I

had already heard it from the doctor. How it happened, he said, could

only be guessed, for his son had completely forgotten all the

circumstances immediately preceding the fall; neither could he

communicate any of the sensations which must have attended it. Most

probably, he had been sitting dangling his legs idly over the mouth of

the shaft, and had so slipped in. But, however the accident really

happened, there the sufferer was before us--less seriously hurt than

many a lad who has trodden on a piece of orange peel as he was walking

along the street.

We left him (humanly speaking) certain of recovery, now that the

dangerous lump in his side had begun to decrease. I have since heard

from his medical attendant, that in two months from the date of the

accident, he was at work again as usual in the mine; at that very part

of it too, where his fall had taken place!

It was not the least interesting part of my visit to the cottage where

he lay ill, to observe the anxious affection displayed toward him by

both his parents. His mother left her work in the kitchen to hold him in

her arms, while the old dressings were being taken off and the new ones

applied--sighing bitterly, poor creature, every time he winced or cried

out under the pain of the operation. The father put several questions to

the doctor; which were always perfectly to the point; and did the honors

of his little abode to his stranger visitor, with a natural politeness

and a simple cordiality of manner which showed that he really meant the

welcome that he spoke. Nor was he any exception to the rest of his

brother-workmen with whom I met. As a body of men, they are industrious

and intelligent; sober and orderly; neither soured by hard work, nor

easily depressed by harder privations. No description of personal

experiences in the Cornish mines can be fairly concluded, without a

collateral testimony to the merits of the Cornish miners--a testimony

which I am happy to accord here; and to which my readers would

cheerfully add their voices, if they ever felt inclined to test its

impartiality by their own experience.

SATURDAY IN A LONDON MARKET.[12]

[Footnote 12: From MAYHEW'S "London Labor and the London Poor," in the

press of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.]

On a Saturday--the coster's business day--it is computed that as many as

2000 donkey-barrows, and upward of 3000 women with shallows and

head-baskets visit this market during the forenoon. About six o'clock in

the morning is the best time for viewing the wonderful restlessness of

the place, for then not only is the "Garden" itself all bustle and

activity, but the buyers and sellers stream to and from it in all

directions, filling every street in the vicinity. From Long Acre to the

Strand on the one side, and from Bow-street to Bedford-street on the

other, the ground has been seized upon by the market-goers. As you

glance down any one of the neighboring streets, the long rows of carts

and donkey-barrows seem interminable in the distance. They are of all

kinds, from the greengrocer's taxed cart to the coster's barrow--from

the showy excursion-van to the rude square donkey-cart and bricklayer's

truck. In every street they are ranged down the middle and by the

curb-stones. Along each approach to the market, too, nothing is to be

seen, on all sides, but vegetables; the pavement is covered with heaps

of them waiting to be carted; the flagstones are stained green with the

leaves trodden under foot; sieves and sacks full of apples and potatoes,

and bundles of broccoli and rhubarb, are left unwatched upon almost

every door-step; the steps of Covent Garden Theatre are covered with

fruit and vegetables; the road is blocked up with mountains of cabbages

and turnips; and men and women push past with their arms bowed out by

the cauliflowers under them, or the red tips of carrots pointing from

their crammed aprons, or else their faces are red with the weight of the

loaded head-basket.

The donkey-barrows, from their number and singularity, force you to stop

and notice them. Every kind of ingenuity has been exercised to construct

harness for the costers' steeds; where a buckle is wanting, tape or

string make the fastening secure; traces are made of rope and old chain,

and an old sack or cotton handkerchief is folded up as a saddle-pad.

Some few of the barrows make a magnificent exception, and are gay with

bright brass; while one of the donkeys may be seen dressed in a suit of

old plated carriage-harness, decorated with coronets in all directions.

At some one of the coster conveyances stands the proprietor, arranging

his goods, the dozing animal starting up from its sleep each time a

heavy basket is hoisted on the tray. Others, with their green and white

and red load neatly arranged, are ready for starting, but the coster is

finishing his breakfast at the coffee-stall. On one barrow there may

occasionally be seen a solitary sieve of apples, with the horse of some

neighboring cart helping himself to the pippins while the owner is away.

The men that take charge of the trucks, while the costers visit the

market, walk about, with their arms full of whips and sticks. At one

corner a donkey has slipped down, and lies on the stones covered with

the cabbages and apples that have fallen from the cart.

The market itself presents a beautiful scene. In the clear morning air

of an autumn day the whole of the vast square is distinctly seen from

one end to the other. The sky is red and golden with the newly-risen

sun, and the rays falling on the fresh and vivid colors of the fruit and

vegetables, brighten up the picture as with a coat of varnish. There is

no shouting, as at other markets, but a low murmuring hum is heard, like

the sound of the sea at a distance, and through each entrance to the

market the crowd sweeps by. Under the dark Piazza little bright dots of

gas-lights are seen burning in the shops; and in the paved square the

people pass and cross each other in all directions, hampers clash

together, and excepting the carters from the country, every one is on

the move. Sometimes a huge column of baskets is seen in the air, and

walks away in a marvelously steady manner, or a monster railway van,

laden with sieves of fruit, and with the driver perched up on his high

seat, jolts heavily over the stones. Cabbages are piled up into stacks,

as it were. Carts are heaped high with turnips, and bunches of carrots,

like huge red fingers, are seen in all directions. Flower-girls, with

large bundles of violets under their arms, run past, leaving a trail of

perfume behind them. Wagons, with their shafts sticking up in the air,

are ranged before the salesmen's shops, the high green load railed in

with hurdles, and every here and there bunches of turnips are seen

flying in the air over the heads of the people. Groups of apple-women,

with straw pads on their crushed bonnets, and coarse shawls crossing

their bosoms, sit on their porter's knots, chatting in Irish, and

smoking short pipes; every passer-by is hailed with the cry of "Want a

baskit, yer honor?" The porter, trembling under the piled-up hamper,

trots along the street, with his teeth clenched, and shirt wet with the

weight, and staggering at every step he takes.

Inside, the market is all bustle and confusion. The people walk along

with their eyes fixed on the goods, and frowning with thought. Men in

all costumes, from the coster in his corduroy suit to the greengrocer in

his blue apron, sweep past. A countryman, in an old straw hat and dusty

boots, occasionally draws down the anger of a woman for walking about

with his hands in the pockets of his smock-frock, and is asked, "if that

is the way to behave on a market-day?" Even the granite pillars can not

stop the crowd, for it separates and rushes past them, like the tide by

a bridge pier. At every turn there is a fresh odor to sniff at; either

the bitter aromatic perfume of the herbalists' shops breaks upon you, or

the scent of oranges, then of apples, and then of onions, is caught for

an instant as you move along. The broccoli tied up in square packets,

the white heads tinged slightly red, as it were, with the sunshine--the

sieves of crimson love-apples, polished like china--the bundles of white

glossy leeks, their roots dangling like fringe; the celery, with its

pinky stalks and bright green tops, the dark purple pickling-cabbages,

the scarlet carrots, the white knobs of turnips, the bright yellow balls

of oranges, and the rich brown coats of the chestnuts--attract the eye

on every side. Then there are the apple-merchants, with their fruit of

all colors, from the pale yellow green to the bright crimson, and the

baskets ranged in rows on the pavement before the little shops. Round

these the customers stand examining the stock, then whispering together

over their bargain, and counting their money. "Give you four shillings

for this here lot, master," says a coster, speaking for his three

companions. "Four-and-six is my price," answers the salesman. "Say four,

and it's a bargain," continues the man. "I said my price," returns the

dealer; "go and look round, and see if you can get 'em cheaper; if not,

come back. I only wants what's fair." The men, taking the salesman's

advice, move on. The walnut-merchant, with a group of women before his

shop, peeling the fruit, their fingers stained deep brown, is busy with

the Irish purchasers. The onion stores, too, are surrounded by

Hibernians, feeling and pressing the gold-colored roots, whose dry skins

crackle as they are handled. Cases of lemons in their white paper

jackets, and blue grapes, just seen above the sawdust, are ranged about,

and in some places the ground is slippery as ice from the refuse leaves

and walnut-husks scattered over the pavement.

Against the railings of St. Paul's Church are hung baskets and slippers

for sale, and near the public-house is a party of countrymen preparing

their bunches of pretty colored grass--brown and glittering, as if it

had been bronzed. Between the spikes of the railing are piled up square

cakes of green turf for larks; and at the pump, boys, who probably have

passed the previous night in the baskets about the market, are washing,

and the water dripping from their hair that hangs in points over the

face. The curb-stone is blocked up by a crowd of admiring lads, gathered

round the bird-catcher's green stand, and gazing at the larks beating

their breasts against their cages. The owner, whose boots are red with

the soil of the brick-field, shouts, as he looks carelessly around, "A

cock linnet for tuppence," and then hits at the youths who are poking

through the bars at the fluttering birds.

Under the Piazza the costers purchase their flowers (in pots), which

they exchange in the streets for old clothes. Here is ranged a small

garden of flower-pots, the musk and mignonnette smelling sweetly, and

the scarlet geraniums, with a perfect glow of colored air about the

flowers, standing out in rich contrast with the dark green leaves of the

evergreens behind them. "There's myrtles, and laurels, and boxes," says

one of the men selling them, "and there's a harbora witus, and

lauristiners, and that bushy shrub with pink spots is heath." Men and

women, selling different articles, walk about under the cover of the

colonnade. One has seed-cake, another small-tooth and other combs,

others old caps or pig's feet, and one hawker of knives, razors, and

short hatchets, may occasionally be seen driving a bargain with a

countryman, who stands passing his thumb over the blade to test its

keenness. Between the pillars are the coffee-stalls, with their large

tin cans and piles of bread and butter, and protected from the wind by

paper screens and sheets thrown over clothes-horses; inside these little

parlors, as it were, sit the coffee-drinkers on chairs and benches, some

with a bunch of cabbages on their laps, blowing the steam from their

saucers, others, with their mouths full, munching away at their slices,

as if not a moment could be lost. One or two porters are there besides,

seated on their baskets, breakfasting with their knots on their heads.

As you walk away from this busy scene, you meet in every street barrows

and costers hurrying home. The pump in the market is now surrounded by a

cluster of chattering wenches quarreling over whose turn it is to water

their drooping violets, and on the steps of Covent Garden Theatre are

seated the shoeless girls, tying up the halfpenny and penny bundles.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

In a work recently published in London, entitled "Lights and Shades of

Military Life," M. de VIGNY, the author, gives incidents from

his own experience which place in a striking light some of the

unutterable horrors of war.

In his first march, with his ambition glowing as brightly as his maiden

sword, and his hopes yet fresh as his untarnished epaulets, he falls in

with an old _chef de bataillon_. He was a man of about fifty, with

mustaches, tall and stout, his back curved, after the manner of old

military officers who have carried the knapsack. His features were hard

but benevolent, such as you often meet with in the army, indicating, at

the same time, the natural goodness of the heart of the man, and the

callousness induced by long use to scenes of blood and carnage. This old

soldier of the Empire is marching along beside a little cart, drawn by a

sorry mule, in which sits a woman--a maniac--whose story he tells with a

soldier's frankness, as a part of his own history. The old man had been

a sailor in his youth, and at the time of the Directory was captain of a

merchantman. From that situation he was promoted, aristocracy being at a

discount, to command the Marat, a brig of war, and one of his first

duties was to sail with two political prisoners, a young Frenchman and

his wife. He supposed that he was to land them at Cayenne, to which

place other exiles had previously been dispatched in other vessels; but

he carried sealed orders from the Directory, which were not to be opened

till the vessel reached the Equator. On the passage, the captain and his

young passengers became greatly attached to each other, so much so that

he wished to leave the service, and, with what fortune he had, share and

alleviate their fate. In their youth and innocence, and earnest love for

each other, the young unfortunates had twined themselves about the rough

heart of the sailor, and he regarded them as his children. But there was

the ominous letter, bearing the red seals of the Directory, which was to

decide their fate--and the time arrived for it to be opened. The seals

were broken, and what was the captain's horror to find that it contained

an order for him to have the young husband shot, and then to return with

the wife to France. After he had read the paper, he rubbed his eyes,

thinking that they must have deceived him. He could not trust his

senses. His limbs trembled beneath him. He could not trust himself to go

near the fair young Laura, who looked so happy, with tidings that would

blight her existence. What was he to do? He never seems to have thought

of leaving the order unexecuted; the iron of unreasoning obedience had

seared his soul too deeply for that. The horrid task, revolt at it as he

might, was a _duty_, because he had been _ordered_ to do it.

He communicated the order to his victim, who heard his fate with a

stoicism worthy of an old Roman. His only thought was for his poor young

wife, so fair, and fond, and gentle. He said, with a voice as mild as

usual, "I ask no favor, captain. I should never forgive myself if I were

to cause you to violate your duty. I should merely like to say a few

words to Laura, and I beg you to protect her, in case she should survive

me, which I do not think she will." It is arranged between the victim of

slavish obedience, and the victim of the cruelty of the Reign of Terror,

that poor Laura should know nothing of what was to be her husband's

fate. She is put into a boat at night and rowed from the ship, while the

tragedy is being acted out; but she sees the flash of the muskets, her

heart tells her too plainly what has happened, and her reason fails

under the shock. "At the moment of firing, she clasped her hand to her

head, as if a ball had struck her brow, and sat down in the boat without

fainting, without shrieking, without speaking, and returned to the brig

with the crew when they pleased and how they pleased." The old captain

spoke to her but she did not understand him. She was mute, rubbing her

pale forehead, and trembling as though she were afraid of every body,

and thus she remained an idiot for life. The captain returned to France

with his charge, got himself removed into the land forces, for the

sea--into which he had cast innocent blood--was unbearable to him; and

had continued to watch over the poor imbecile as a father over his

child.

M. de Vigny saw the poor woman; he says, "I saw two blue eyes of

extraordinary size, admirable in point of form, starting from a long,

pale, emaciated face, inundated by perfectly straight fair hair. I saw,

in truth, nothing but those two eyes, which were all that was left of

that poor woman, for the rest of her was dead. Her forehead was red, her

cheeks hollow and white, and bluish on the cheek bones. She was crouched

among the straw, so that one could just see her two knees rising above

it, and on them she was playing all alone at dominoes. She looked at us

for a moment, trembled a long time, smiled at me a little, and began to

play again. It seemed to me that she was trying to make out how her

right hand beat her left." It was the wreck of love and beauty, torn by

the blind slave obedience, at the bidding of vengeance and hate. M. de

Vigny was a young and thoughtless soldier; but young and thoughtless as

he was, the phantom glory must have beamed brightly indeed, to prevent

him from seeing the gloomy darkness of such a shade of military life as

this, and keep him from shaking the fetters of blind obedience from

intellect and mercy. He never saw the old _chef_ and his charge

again; but he heard of them. In speaking to a brother officer one day of

the sad story, his companion in arms replied, "Ah, my dear fellow, I

knew that poor devil well. A brave man he was too; he was taken off by a

cannon-ball at Waterloo. He had, in fact, left along with the baggage a

sort of crazy girl, whom we took to the hospitable of Amiens on our way

to the army of the Loire, and who died there and raving at the end of

three days."

If in this story we recognize the goodness, the true nobility of heart

of this old soldier, we can not fail to see in all its hideousness, the

horrors and evils of a system which deadens intellect, paralyzes virtue,

and dims the light of mercy--the system of slavish obedience, crushing

out all individuality, and making the good and the bad alike its

subservient instruments.

As a pendant to the above we take a few extracts from the story of

Captain Renaud, once a page to Napoleon, of whom Byron truly says:

"With might unquestioned--power to save--

Thine only gift hath been the grave,

To those that worship'd thee."

And so poor Renaud found. He had the misfortune to fall under the

displeasure of the Emperor, and was sent from the army to serve on board

that abortive flat-bottomed-boat armada, which threatened a descent upon

the shores of England. Here he was taken prisoner, and, after a long

captivity, being exchanged, hastened to Paris to throw himself at the

feet of the conqueror. The reception was a strange one. It took place at

the Opera, and we quote a description of it. "He (Napoleon) placed his

left hand upon his left eye to see better, according to his custom; I

perceived that he had recognized me. He turned about sharply, took no

notice of any thing but the stage, and presently retired. I was already

in waiting for him. He walked fast along the corridor, and, from his

thick legs, squeezed into white silk stockings, and his bloated figure

in his green dress, I should scarcely have known him again. He stopped

short before me, and speaking to the colonel, who presented me, instead

of addressing himself direct to me, 'Why,' said he, 'have I never seen

any thing of him? Still a lieutenant?'

"'He has been a prisoner ever since 1804.'

"'Why did he not make his escape?'

"'I was on parole!' said I, in an undertone.

"'I don't like prisoners!--the fellows ought to get killed,' said he,

turning his back upon me.

"We remained motionless in file, and when the whole of his suite had

passed: 'My dear fellow,' said the colonel, 'don't you see plainly that

you are a fool? You have lost your promotion, and nobody thinks the

better of you for it.'"

Poor obedience, blind, slavish, unreasoning; its reward was often to be

spurned. "Fool" indeed; a great many people will be inclined to re-echo

the colonel's epithet, not because Renaud had been a prisoner--not

because he was not killed, or did not escape, but because this same

habit of obedience had so thoroughly taken the true man out of him, that

he did not cut the epaulets from his shoulders, and leave glory to find

some other fool. But he was a soldier, and a soldier's first duty was

obedience. He went to his regiment, and from his after-life we extract

another "shade" of the horrors of war. Captain Renaud narrates how he

surprised a detachment of Russians at their post. It was a glorious

achievement of course--a parallel to any of the atrocities of the North

American Indians. "I came up slowly, and I could not, I must confess,

get the better of a certain emotion which I had never felt at the moment

of other encounters. It was shame for attacking men who were asleep; I

saw them wrapped in their cloaks, lighted by a close lantern, and my

heart throbbed violently. But all at once, at the moment of acting, I

feared that it was a weakness very like that of cowards; I was afraid

that I had for once felt fear, and taking my sword, which had been

concealed under my arm, I briskly entered first, setting the example to

my grenadiers. I made a motion to them which they comprehended; they

fell first upon the guns, then upon the men, like wolves upon a flock of

sheep. Oh, it was a dismal, a horrible butchery. The bayonet pierced,

the butt-end smashed, the knee stifled, the hand strangled. All cries

were extinguished, almost before they were uttered, beneath the feet of

our soldiers; and not a head was raised without receiving the mortal

blow. On entering, I had struck at random a terrible stroke at something

black, which I had run through and through. An old officer, a tall stout

man, whose head was covered with white hair, sprung upon his feet like a

phantom, made a violent lunge at my face with a sword, and instantly

dropped dead pierced by the bayonets! On my part, I fell beside him,

stunned by the blow, which had struck me between the eyes, and I heard

beneath me the tender and dying voice of a boy, saying, 'papa!' I then

comprehended what I had done, and I looked at my work with frantic

eagerness. I saw one of those officers of fourteen, so numerous in the

Russian armies, which invaded us at that period, and who were dragged

away to this awful school. His long curling hair fell upon his bosom, as

fair, as silken as that of a woman, and his head was bowed, as though he

had but fallen asleep a second time. His rosy lips, expanded like those

of a new-born infant, seemed to be yet moist with the nurse's milk; and

his large blue eyes, half open, had a beauty of form that was fond and

feminine. I lifted him upon one arm, and his cheek fell against mine,

dripping with blood, as though he were burying his face in his mother's

bosom to warm it again. He seemed to shrink from me, and crouch close to

the ground, in order to get away from his murderer. Filial affection,

and the confidence and repose of a delicious sleep pervaded his lifeless

face, and he seemed to say to me, 'Let us sleep in peace!'

"At this moment, the colonel entered, followed close by his column,

whose step and arms I heard.

"'Bravo, my dear fellow,' said he, 'you've done that job cleverly; but

you are wounded!'

"'Look there,' said I; 'what difference is there between me and a

murderer?'

"'Eh! _Sacre dieu!_ comrade, what would you have? 'Tis our trade!'"

Great God! what a trade for men to give themselves up to, for

considerations of all kinds, from peerages and pensions down to a

shilling a day. Legalized murder as a profession for the poor

foster-children of passive obedience, who, when they trust themselves to

think, sometimes find themselves--and upon their own showing,

too--little better than murderers. Poor Captain Renaud, however,

continued in the service still. So thoroughly was the man smothered in

the soldier, that neglect, contempt, contumely, and the sensations of a

homicide were not sufficient to induce him to break his fetters. After

Napoleon's fall, he remained a soldier of the Bourbons, and there was a

sort of poetical justice in his death; for in the sanguinary revolution

of 1830 a _gamin de Paris_, a boy scarcely able to hold a

horse-pistol, shot the veteran of the Empire.

M. de Vigny closes his portion of the "Lights and Shades" by setting up

an idol for soldiers to worship, and which is to sustain them under all

their sufferings. The profession of arms has lost the attribute of

apparent usefulness which once belonged to it. The star of glory is

setting below the horizon of peace; and warriors, knowing themselves at

once hated and feared--feeling themselves out of place in the era which

is beginning--degraded from heroes into policemen--are to lean upon

HONOR for support; but we think, that in the midst of obloquy,

privation, and neglect, that sentiment will prove but a broken staff,

incapable of bearing such a load of misery and wrong.

THE FACTORY BOY.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

In the middle of a dark night, Joel, a boy of nine years old, heard his

name called by a voice which, through his sleep, seemed miles away. Joel

had been tired enough when he went to bed, and yet he had not gone to

sleep for some time; his heart beat so at the idea of his mother being

very ill. He well remembered his father's death, and his mother's

illness now revived some feelings which he had almost forgotten. His bed

was merely some clothes spread on the floor, and covered with a rug; but

he did not mind that; and he could have gone to sleep at once but for

the fear that had come over him. When he did sleep, his sleep was sound;

so that his mother's feeble voice calling him seemed like a call from

miles away.

In a minute Joel was up and wide awake.

"Light the candle," he could just hear the voice say.

He lighted the candle, and his beating heart seemed to stop when he saw

his mother's face. He seemed hardly to know whether it was his mother or

no.

"Shall I call--?"

"Call nobody, my dear. Come here."

He laid his cheek to hers.

"Mother, you are dying," he murmured.

"Yes, love, I am dying. It is no use calling any one. These little ones,

Joel."

"I will take care of them, mother."

"You, my child! How should that be?"

"Why not?" said the boy, raising himself, and standing at his best

height. "Look at me, mother. I can work. I promise you--"

His mother could not lift her hand, but she moved a finger in a way

which checked him.

"Promise nothing that may be too hard afterward," she said.

"I promise to try then," he said; "that little sister shall live at

home, and never go to the workhouse." He spoke cheerfully, though the

candle-light glittered in the two streams of tears on his cheeks. "We

can go on living here; and we shall be so--"

It would not do. The sense of their coming desolation rushed over him in

a way too terrible to be borne. He hid his face beside her, murmuring,

"O mother! mother!"

His mother found strength to move her hand now. She stroked his head

with a trembling touch, which he seemed to feel as long as he lived. She

could not say much more. She told him she had no fear for any of them.

They would be taken care of. She advised him not to waken the little

ones, who were sound asleep on the other side of her, and begged him to

lie down himself till daylight, and try to sleep, when she should be

gone.

This was the last thing she said. The candle was very low; but before

it went out, she was gone. Joel had always done what his mother wished;

but he could not obey her in the last thing she had said. He lighted

another candle when the first went out; and sat thinking, till the gray

dawn began to show through the window.

When he called the neighbors, they were astonished at his quietness. He

had taken up the children, and dressed them, and made the room tidy, and

lighted the fire, before he told any body what had happened. And when he

opened the door, his little sister was in his arms. She was two years

old, and could walk, of course; but she liked being in Joel's arms. Poor

Willy was the most confounded. He stood with his pinafore at his mouth,

staring at the bed, and wondering that his mother lay so still.

If the neighbors were astonished at Joel that morning, they might be

more so at some things they saw afterward; but they were not. Every

thing seemed done so naturally; and the boy evidently considered what he

had to do so much a matter of course, that less sensation was excited

than about many smaller things.

After the funeral was over, Joel tied up all his mother's clothes. He

carried the bundle on one arm, and his sister on the other. He would not

have liked to take money for what he had seen his mother wear; but he

changed them away for new and strong clothes for the child. He did not

seem to want any help. He went to the factory the next morning, as

usual, after washing and dressing the children, and getting a breakfast

of bread and milk with them. There was no fire; and he put every knife,

and other dangerous thing on a high shelf, and gave them some trifles to

play with, and promised to come and play with them at dinner-time. And

he did play. He played heartily with the little one, and as if he

enjoyed it, every day at the noon hour. Many a merry laugh the neighbors

heard from that room when the three children were together; and the

laugh was often Joel's.

How he learned to manage, and especially to cook, nobody knew; and he

could himself have told little more than that he wanted to see how

people did it, and looked accordingly, at every opportunity. He

certainly fed the children well; and himself too. He knew that every

thing depended on his strength being kept up. His sister sat on his knee

to be fed till she could feed herself. He was sorry to give it up; but

he said she must learn to behave. So he smoothed her hair, and washed

her face before dinner, and showed her how to fold her hands while he

said grace. He took as much pains to train her to good manners at table

as if he had been a governess, teaching a little lady. While she

remained a "baby," he slept in the middle of the bed, between the two,

that she might have room, and not be disturbed; and when she ceased to

be a baby, he silently made new arrangements. He denied himself a hat,

which he much wanted, in order to buy a considerable quantity of coarse

dark calico, which, with his own hands, he made into a curtain, and

slung up across a part of the room; thus shutting off about a third of

it. Here he contrived to make up a little bed for his sister; and he was

not satisfied till she had a basin and jug, and piece of soap of her

own. Here nobody but himself was to intrude upon her without leave; and,

indeed, he always made her understand that he came only to take care of

her. It was not only that Willy was not to see her undressed. A neighbor

or two, now and then lifted the latch without knocking. One of these one

day, heard something from behind the curtain, which made her call her

husband silently to listen; and they always afterward treated Joel as if

he were a man, and one whom they looked up to. He was teaching the child

her little prayer. The earnest, sweet, devout tones by the boy, and the

innocent, cheerful imitation of the little one, were beautiful to hear,

the listeners said.

Though so well taken care of, she was not to be pampered; there would

have been no kindness in that. Very early, indeed, she was taught, in a

merry sort of way, to put things in their places, and to sweep the

floor, and to wash up the crockery. She was a handy little thing, well

trained and docile. One reward that Joel had for his management was,

that she was early fit to go to chapel. This was a great point; as he,

choosing to send Willy regularly, could not go till he could take the

little girl with him. She was never known to be restless; and Joel was

quite proud of her.

Willy was not neglected for the little girl's sake. In those days,

children went earlier to the factory, and worked longer than they do

now, and, by the time the sister was five years old, Willy became a

factory boy; and his pay put the little girl to school. When she, at

seven, went to the factory, too, Joel's life was altogether an easier

one. He always had maintained them all, from the day of his mother's

death. The times must have been good--work constant, and wages

steady--or he could not have done it. Now, when all three were earning,

he put his sister to a sewing-school for two evenings in the week, and

the Saturday afternoons; and he and Willy attended an evening-school, as

they found they could afford it. He always escorted the little girl

wherever she had to go: into the factory, and home again--to the school

door, and home again--and to the Sunday-school; yet he was himself

remarkably punctual at work and at worship. He was a humble, earnest,

docile pupil himself, at the Sunday-school--quite unconscious that he

was more advanced than other boys in the sublime science and practice of

duty. He felt that every body was very kind to him; but he was unaware

that others felt it an honor to be kind to him.

I linger on these years, when he was a fine growing lad, in a state of

high content. I linger, unwilling to proceed. But the end must come; and

it is soon told. He was sixteen, I think, when he was asked to become a

teacher in the Sunday-school, while not wholly ceasing to be a scholar.

He tried, and made a capital teacher, and he won the hearts of the

children while trying to open their minds. By this he became more widely

known than before.

One day in the next year a tremendous clatter and crash was heard in the

factory where Joel worked. A dead silence succeeded, and then several

called out that it was only an iron bar that had fallen down. This was

true: but the iron bar had fallen on Joel's head, and he was taken up

dead!

Such a funeral as his is rarely seen. There is something that strikes on

all hearts in the spectacle of a soldier's funeral--the drum, the march

of comrades, and the belt and cap laid on the coffin. But there was

something more solemn and more moving than all such observances in the

funeral of this young soldier, who had so bravely filled his place in

the conflict of life. There was the tread of comrades here, for the

longest street was filled from end to end. For relics, there were his

brother and sister; and for a solemn dirge, the uncontrollable groans of

a heart-stricken multitude.

FIDGETY PEOPLE.

There are people whom one occasionally meets with in the world, who are

in a state of perpetual fidget and pucker. Every thing goes wrong with

them. They are always in trouble. Now, it is the weather, which is too

hot; or at another time, too cold. The dust blows into their eyes, or

there is "that horrid rain," or "that broiling sun," or "that Scotch

mist." They are as ill to please about the weather as a farmer; it is

never to their liking, and never will be. They "never saw such a

summer," "not a day's fine weather," and they go back to antiquity for

comfort--"it was not so in our younger days."

Fidgety people are rarely well. They have generally "a headache," or

"spasms," or "nerves," or something of that sort; they can not be

comfortable in their way, without trouble. Most of their friends are

ill; this one has the gout "_so_ bad;" another has the rheumatics;

a third is threatened with consumption; and there is scarcely a family

of their acquaintance whose children have not got measles,

whooping-cough, scarlet fever, or some other of the thousand

ills which infantine flesh is heir to. They are curiously solicitous

about the health of every body; this one is exhorted "not to drink too

much cold water," another "not to sit in the draught," a third is

advised to "wear flannels;" and they have great doctors at their

fingers' ends whom they can quote in their support. They have read

Buchan and Culpepper, and fed their fidgets upon their descriptions of

diseases of all sorts. They offer to furnish recipes for pills,

draughts, and liniments; and if you would believe them, your life

depends on taking their advice gratis forthwith.

To sit at meals with such people is enough to give one the dyspepsia.

The chimney has been smoking, and the soot has got into the soup; the

fish is over-done, and the mutton is underdone; the potatoes have had

the disease, the sauce is not of the right sort, the jelly is candied,

the pastry is fusty, the grapes are sour. Every thing is wrong. The cook

must be disposed of; Betty stands talking too long at the back-gate. The

poultry-woman must be changed, the potato-man discarded. There will be a

clean sweep. But things are never otherwise. The fidgety person remains

unchanged, and goes fidgeting along to the end of the chapter; changing

servants, and spoiling them by unnecessary complainings and

contradictions, until they become quite reckless of ever giving

satisfaction.

The fidgety person has been reading the newspaper, and is in a ferment

about "that murder!" Every body is treated to its details. Or somebody's

house has been broken into, and a constant fidget is kept up for a time

about "thieves!" If a cat's whisper is heard in the night, "there is a

thief in the house;" if an umbrella is missing, "a thief has been in the

lobby;" if a towel can not be found, "a thief must have stolen it off

the hedge." You are counseled to be careful of your pockets when you

stir abroad. The outer doors are furnished with latches, new bolts and

bars are provided for outhouses, bells are hung behind the shutters, and

all other possible expedients are devised to keep out the imaginary

"thief."

"Oh! there is a smell of fire!" Forthwith the house is traversed,

down-stairs and up-stairs, and a voice at length comes from the kitchen,

"It's only Bobby been burning a stick." You are told forthwith of a

thousand accidents, deaths, and burnings, that have come from burning

sticks! Bobby is petrified and horror-stricken, and is haunted by the

terror of conflagrations. If Bobby gets a penny from a visitor, he is

counseled "not to buy gunpowder" with it, though he has a secret longing

for crackers. Maids are cautioned to "be careful about the

clothes-horse," and their ears are often startled with a cry from

above-stairs of "Betty, there is surely something singeing!"

The fidgety person "can not bear" the wind whistling through the

key-hole, nor the smell of washing, nor the sweep's cry of "svee-eep,

svee-eep," nor the beating of carpets, nor thick ink, nor a mewing cat,

nor new boots, nor a cold in the head, nor callers for rates and

subscriptions. All these little things are magnified into miseries, and

if you like to listen, you may sit for hours and hear the fidgety person

wax eloquent about them, drawing a melancholy pleasure from the recital.

The fidgety person sits upon thorns, and loves to perch his or her

auditor on the same raw material. Not only so, but you are dragged over

thorns, until you feel thoroughly unskinned. Your ears are bored, and

your teeth are set on edge. Your head aches, and your withers are wrung.

You are made to shake hands with

misery, and almost long for some real sorrow as a relief.

The fidgety person makes a point of getting out of humor upon any

occasion, whether about private or public affairs. If subjects for

misery do not offer within doors, they abound without. Something that

has been done in the next street excites their ire, or something done a

thousand miles off, or even something that was done a thousand years

ago. Time and place matter nothing to the fidgety. They overleap all

obstacles in getting at their subject. They _must_ be in hot water.

If one question is set at rest, they start another; and they wear

themselves to the bone in settling the affairs of every body, which are

never settled; they

"Are made desperate by a too quick sense

Of constant infelicity."

Their feverish existence refuses rest, and they fret themselves to death

about matters with which they have often no earthly concern. They are

spendthrifts in sympathy, which in them has degenerated into an

exquisite tendency to pain. They are launched on a sea of trouble, the

shores of which are perpetually extending. They are self-stretched on a

rack, the wheels of which are ever going round.

The fundamental maxim of the fidgety is--whatever is, is wrong. They

will not allow themselves to be happy, nor any body else. They always

assume themselves to be the _most_ aggrieved persons extant. Their

grumbling is incessant, and they operate as a social poison wherever

they go. Their vanity and self-conceit are usually accompanied by

selfishness in a very aggravated form, which only seems to make their

fidgets the more intolerable. You will generally observe that they are

idle persons; indeed, as a general rule, it may be said, that the

fidgety class want healthy occupations. In nine cases out of ten,

employment in some active pursuit, in which they could not have time to

think about themselves, would operate as a cure.

But, we must make an allowance. Fidgets are often caused by the state of

the stomach, and a fit of bad temper may not unfrequently be traced to

an attack of indigestion. One of the most fidgety members of the House

of Commons is a martyr to dyspepsia, and it is understood that some of

his most petulant and bitter diatribes have been uttered while laboring

under more than usually severe attacks of this disease. He has "pitched

into" some "honorable gentleman" when he should have taken blue pill.

And so it is with many a man, in domestic and social life, whom we blame

for his snappish and disagreeable temper, but whose stomach is the real

organ at fault. Indeed, the stomach is the moral no less than the

physical barometer of most men; and we can very often judge of tempers,

conditions, and sympathies, pretty accurately, according to its state.

Let us, therefore, be charitable to the fidgety, whose stomachs, rather

than their hearts, may be at fault; and let us counsel them to mend

them, by healthy and temperate modes of living, and by plenty of

wholesome occupation and exercise.

ANECDOTES OF SERPENTS.

We need not go to the Valley of Diamonds with Sinbad to find enormous

serpents. The companions of other sailors have been swallowed up by

those monstrous reptiles, as was too-clearly proved to the crew of the

Malay proa, who anchored for the night close to the island of Celebes.

One of the party went on shore to look for betel-nut, and, on returning

from his search, stretched his wearied limbs to rest on the beach, where

he fell asleep, as his companions believed. They were roused in the

middle of the night by his screams, and hurried on shore to his

assistance; but they came too late. A monstrous snake had crushed him to

death. All they could do was to wreak their vengeance on his destroyer,

whose head they cut off, and bore it with the body of their ship-mate to

their vessel. The marks of the teeth of the serpent, which was about

thirty feet in length, were impressed on the dead man's right wrist, and

the disfigured corpse showed that it had been crushed by constriction

round the head, neck, breast, and thigh. When the snake's jaws were

extended, they admitted a body the size of a man's head.

But to see the true boas in their native forests we must cross the

Atlantic; and those who are not familiar with the story may have no

objection to learn how Captain Stedman fared in an encounter with one

twenty-two feet and some inches in length, during his residence in

Surinam.

Captain Stedman was lying in his hammock, as his vessel floated down the

river, when the sentinel told him that he had seen and challenged

something black, moving in the brushwood on the beach, which gave no

answer. Up rose the captain, manned the canoe that accompanied his

vessel, and rowed to the shore to ascertain what it was. One of his

slaves cried out that it was no negro, but a great snake that the

captain might shoot if he pleased. The captain, having no such

inclination, ordered all hands to return on board. The slave, David, who

had first challenged the snake, then begged leave to step forward and

shoot it. This seems to have roused the captain, for he determined to

kill it himself, and loaded with ball cartridge.

The master and slave then proceeded. David cut a path with a bill-hook,

and behind him came a marine with three more loaded guns. They had not

gone above twenty yards through mud and water, the negro looking every

way with uncommon vivacity, when he suddenly called out, "Me see

snakee!" and, sure enough there the reptile lay, coiled up under the

fallen leaves and rubbish of the trees. So well covered was it, that

some time elapsed before the captain could perceive its head, not

above sixteen feet from him, moving its forked tongue, while its

vividly-bright eyes appeared to emit sparks of fire. The captain now

rested his piece upon a branch to secure a surer aim, and fired. The

ball missed the head, but went through the body, when the snake struck

round with such astonishing force as to cut away all the underwood

around it with the facility of a scythe mowing grass, and, flouncing

with its tail, made the mud and dirt fly over their heads to a

considerable distance. This commotion seems to have sent the party to

the right about; for they took to their heels, and crawled into the

canoe. David, however, entreated the captain to renew the charge,

assuring him that the snake would be quiet in a few minutes, and that it

was neither able nor inclined to pursue them, supporting his opinion by

walking before the captain till the latter should be ready to fire.

They now found the snake a little removed from its former station, very

quiet, with its head as before, lying out among the fallen leaves,

rotten bark, and old moss. Stedman fired at it immediately, but with no

better success than at first; and the enraged animal, being but slightly

wounded by the second shot, sent up such a cloud of dust and dirt as the

captain had never seen, except in a whirlwind; and away they all again

retreated to their canoe. Tired of the exploit, Stedman gave orders to

row toward the barge; but the persevering David still entreating that

_he_ might be permitted to kill the reptile, the captain determined

to make a third and last attempt in his company; and they this time

directed their fire with such effect that the snake was shot by one of

them through the head.

The vanquished monster was then secured by a running-noose passed over

its head, not without some difficulty, however; for, though it was

mortally wounded, it continued to writhe and twist about so as to render

a near approach dangerous. The serpent was dragged to the shore, and

made fast to the canoe, in order that it might be towed to the vessel,

and continued swimming like an eel till the party arrived on board,

where it was finally determined that the snake should be again taken on

shore, and there skinned for the sake of its oil. This was accordingly

done; and David having climbed a tree with the end of a rope in his

hand, let it down over a strong-forked bough, the other negroes hoisted

away, and the serpent was suspended from the tree. Then, David quitting

the tree, with a sharp knife between his teeth, clung fast upon the

suspended snake, still twisting and twining, and proceeded to perform

the same operation that Marsyas underwent, only that David commenced his

work by ripping the subject up: he then stripped down the skin as he

descended. Stedman acknowledges, that though he perceived that the snake

was no longer able to do the operator any harm, he could not, without

emotion, see a naked man, black and bloody, clinging with arms and legs

round the slimy and yet living monster. The skin and above four gallons

of clarified fat, or rather oil, were the spoils secured on this

occasion; full as many gallons more seem to have been wasted. The

negroes cut the flesh into pieces, intending to feast on it; but the

captain would not permit them to eat what he regarded as disgusting

food, though they declared that it was exceedingly good and wholesome.

The negroes were right, and the captain was wrong: the flesh of most

serpents is very good and nourishing, to say nothing of the restorative

qualities attributed to it.

One of the most curious accounts of the benefit derived by man from the

serpent race, is related by Kircher (see _Mus. Worm._), where it is

stated that near the village of Sassa, about eight miles from the city

of Bracciano, in Italy, there is a hole, or cavern, called _la Grotto,

delli Serpi_, which is large enough to contain two men, and is all

perforated with small holes like a sieve. From these holes, in the

beginning of spring, issue a prodigious number of small,

different-colored serpents, of which every year produces a new brood,

but which seem to have no poisonous quality. Such persons as are

afflicted with scurvy, leprosy, palsy, gout, and other ills to which

flesh is heir, were laid down naked in the cavern, and their bodies

being subjected to a copious sweat from the heat of the subterraneous

vapors, the young serpents were said to fasten themselves on every part,

and extract by sucking every diseased or vitiated humor; so that after

some repetitions of this treatment, the patients were restored to

perfect health. Kircher, who visited this cave, found it warm, and

answering, in every way, the description he had of it. He saw the holes,

heard a murmuring, hissing noise in them, and, though he owns that he

missed seeing the serpents, it not being the season of their creeping

out, yet he saw great numbers of their exuviæ, or sloughs, and an elm

growing hard by laden with them. The discovery of this air Schlangenbad,

was said to have been made by a leper going from Rome to some baths near

this place, who, fortunately, losing his way, and being benighted,

turned into this cave. Finding it very warm, and being very weary, he

pulled off his clothes, and fell into such a deep sleep that he did not

feel the serpents about him till they had wrought his cure.

Such instances of good-will toward man, combined with the periodical

renovation of youthful appearance, by a change of the whole external

skin, and the character of the serpent for wisdom, contributed,

doubtless, to raise the form to a place among the deities.

Their aptitude for tameness was another quality which aided their

elevation. The little girl mentioned by Maria Edgeworth, of blessed

memory, took out her little porringer daily to share her breakfast with

a friendly snake that came from its hiding-place to her call; and when

the guest intruded beyond the due limits, she would give it a tap on the

head with her spoon, and the admonition, "Eat on your own side, I say."

A lad whom I knew kept a common snake in London, which he had rendered

so tame that it was quite at ease with him, and very fond of its

master. When taken out of its box, it would creep up his sleeve, come

out at the top, wind itself caressingly about his neck and face, and

when tired retire to sleep in his bosom.

Carver, in his travels, relates an instance of docility, which, if true,

surpasses any story of the kind I ever heard.

"An Indian belonging to the Menomonie, having taken a rattlesnake, found

means to tame it; and when he had done this treated it as a deity,

calling it his great father, and carrying it with him in a box wherever

he went. This he had done for several summers, when Mons. Pinnisance

accidentally met with him at this carrying place, just as he was setting

off for a winter's hunt. The French gentleman was surprised one day to

see the Indian place the box which contained his god on the ground, and

opening the door, give him his liberty; telling him, while he did it, to

be sure and return by the time he himself should come back, which was to

be in the month of May following. As this was but October, Monsieur told

the Indian, whose simplicity astonished him, that he fancied he might

wait long enough, when May arrived, for the arrival of his great father.

The Indian was so confident of his creature's obedience, that he offered

to lay the Frenchman a wager of two gallons of rum, that at the time

appointed he would come and crawl into his box. This was agreed on, and

the second week in May following fixed for the determination of the

wager. At that period they both met there again, when the Indian set

down his box, and called for his great father. The snake heard him not;

and the time being now expired, he acknowledged that he had lost.

However, without seeming to be discouraged, he offered to double the bet

if his father came not within two days more. This was further agreed on;

when, behold, on the second day, about one o'clock the snake arrived,

and of his own accord crawled into the box, which was placed ready for

him. The French gentleman vouched for the truth of this story, and from

the accounts I have often received of the docility of those creatures, I

see no reason to doubt its veracity."

THE WATCHER.--A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

In a dark room, in a ruined and wretched house, in one of the most

filthy districts of a great city, a mother sat watching her sleeping

babe. The infant was lying on a hard pallet on the floor, and the mother

was sitting beside it on a broken chair, plying her needle with eager

haste, and occasionally pausing to look down at her babe or to kiss it

as it lay asleep. The child was pale and sickly, and in the close

offensive air of the room it seemed to breathe painfully and to inhale,

with every pulse of its tender heart, the insidious principles of death

and dissolution. But not less pale and wan was the mother, who sat there

watching; her features wore that blanched, unearthly hue, and that

strange upward light was playing in her eyes, which spoke but too

plainly that death was breathing on her. The room was lonely--very

lonely--for there were no pictures to adorn its walls, scarcely any

articles of common domestic use within it; it was bare, almost

unfurnished, dismal, and cold. The mother was engaged in making shirts,

and the price which she received for them averaged two-pence-halfpenny

each; and it is said that by extraordinary exertions, for twenty hours

out of twenty-four, the sum of three shillings may be earned weekly at

such labor. Well, the pale, care-worn, suffering mother continued to

stitch, stitch, anxiously from hour to hour, leaving off now and then to

take her dying baby in her arms and to press it fondly to her breast,

until the tide of her heart's affection came stealing forth in tears;

and recollecting that the next meal for herself and child must be earned

by the continued labor of her jaded hands, she placed the infant on its

bed, and again resumed her work.

Thus many hours had passed in a silence broken only by the low moaning

of the child, as it turned to and fro in the feeble expression of

long-continued anguish, and the deep sighs of the mother as she gazed

anxiously upon its fevered face, and saw the stamp of want and misery

there in an expression akin to the imbecility of years. At length the

babe awoke, and the mother took it tenderly into her arms; she pressed

it to her breast and kissed the cold dew from its forehead. And now she

began to prepare her humble meal, she placed a few sticks of wood in the

stove and lighted them, and placed an old broken kettle half filled with

water upon them; and then arranged two cups and saucers on a small tray,

and took a portion of a loaf from a shelf above. While waiting for the

water to boil she gave her child some food; and she had scarcely begun

to do this when a heavy and unsteady step was heard upon the threshold;

her heart leaped with fear, and she trembled like a moonlight shadow. A

creature somewhat in the semblance of a man staggered into the room, and

threw himself down upon the pallet where the child had just been

sleeping.

"Charles, Charles, do not, for God's sake, treat me thus," said the

mother of the child, and she sobbed loudly, and was steeped in tears.

The man scowled upon her from beneath the broken brim of a slouched hat,

and in a low fiendish growl, cursed her. His clothes had been

respectable in their time, but now were tattered and slovenly, and his

face wore the savage wildness and vacancy of long-continued dissipation.

"I came home to ask you for money, so give me what you've got, and let

me go, for I haven't done drinking yet," said he, while the devil-like

glare of his eyes seemed to pierce the poor mother to the soul.

"I spent my last penny to buy my child some food, I know not where to

get another; you have never wanted a meal while I could work, and my

poor fingers are wasted to the bone by midnight labor and the want of

bread, and my poor child is wasting away before my face, while you,

forgetting all the ties that bind a father to his offspring, or a

husband to his wife, take the very bread from me and my babe, to waste

it in drunkenness; oh, Charles, you loved me once, but you are killing

me now, and my poor dear child."

"You howling, canting hypocrite, give me some money and let me go,"

bawled the intoxicated brute, and with a sweep of his hand, as he sat

upon the child's bed, he overturned the table and scattered the

miserable meal upon the floor. The heart-broken wife rushed with her

babe to the opposite end of the room, and cowered down in fear. "Do you

hear, or do you want me to murder you?" and he rose from where he sat

and reeled toward her; shrinking and shivering as she bent over her

babe, she pressed its almost lifeless body to her heart, and when he

stood above her, she looked up in his face in the agony of despair, and

implored, in the mute utterance of her tear-worn eyes, for mercy. But he

did not strike her, although she was indeed well used to that, but he

put out his hand and taking from her bosom a locket, which had been a

dear sister's gift, and the last thing left her but her babe and death,

staggered to the door, and, after looking back with a menacing and

brutal expression of his savage features, left her. Although he was gone

she moved not, but sat wailing like a dove whose nest has been bereft of

that which made life dear, and sobbing loudly in her grief she looked

upon her child, and saw the tokens of pain and want upon its meagre

face, and could feel the throbbing of its little heart becoming more and

more feeble, from hour to hour, as the shadow of its life was waning.

And night came, and she laid her child down to rest, and again sat

working and watching. She kissed it when its low cry startled her in the

midnight silence, and hushed it again to sleep, for it wanted food and

that she had not. The morning came, but it was still night to her, and

the darkness of her woe sat hovering over her frail soul like the shadow

of a great but silent misery. She hurried on in the delirium of extreme

weakness that she might complete the wretched work she had, and get food

for her famished child. Intense suffering, long watching, hunger, cold,

and cruelty had blanched a cheek which had been more fair than snow, and

had carved wrinkles, like those of age, upon a youthful brow; death

hovered over her like a ghastly shadow, not to her--as to those in

comfort--terrible, but welcome. And thus from hour to hour, and from day

to day, that mother labored for her lonely child, while he, whose heart

should have beat with the devotion of love for her whom he had sworn to

cherish, and whose hand should have been ever ready to defend her,

deeming nothing too severe, nothing too difficult, which could bring

food and comfort to a woman's constant heart, came only to rob her of

her last morsel, and to add fresh agonies to her almost withered soul by

imprecations and curses.

One morning, after she had been toiling long in cold and hunger, she

became too weak to labor more, and nature faltered. She stooped to kiss

her babe and to ask a blessing on its head from Him whose benedictions

come even to the sorrowful and needy, and as she bent down above its

little shadowy form, her sorrows overwhelmed her, and she fell down

beside her child and fainted. With none to aid and soothe her--with none

to nourish her in her distress of heart, and no kind hand to minister to

the poor watcher in that hour of affliction, she lay in that sweet peace

which comes to the aching heart when it can for a time forget its

sorrows; and better too, perhaps, for her, for her babe was dying, and

in the unconsciousness of temporary death, she knew it not.

She awoke at last, for even the forgetfulness so dear to the wounded

spirit will have an end, and the grim bitter realities become palpable

once more; and as consciousness returned she was startled from her

partial dream by the icy chill which fell upon her when she touched her

child. She shrieked wildly, and fell upon her face in the maddening

agony of despair, "my child, my child, oh, my child!" she cried, and

tore her hair in frenzy. Now she became more calm, and turned round to

look upon the babe, whose soul had passed into that better sleep from

which there is no waking. She kissed its cold wasted form, and bathed

its little marble face with her scalding tears.

"Oh, my child," she sobbed, "my poor child, murdered by its father's

hand, the victim of his cruelty; oh, Father of all, Father of the wicked

and good, take my poor babe to thy fostering bosom, and let me die too,

for my last hope is gone, the last link of my heart's affection is

broken; Father of mercies, listen to the supplications of a childless

mother!"

That step! and the blood goes back to her heart like an icy flood, and

every pulse is withered, as with a bleak and desolating frost; she holds

her breath, and with her dead child in her arms, crouches down in the

corner on the floor, and in the silence of despair and terror asks her

God to bless and protect her, and to soften his heart in such an awful

moment as this. He came to the threshold of the room, and fell prostrate

on the floor as he attempted to approach her; he was too much

intoxicated to rise, and there he lay muttering, in broken and

inarticulate words, the most horrible oaths and imprecations. The mother

spake not, for although, even then she could have prayed for him in her

heart, and bless him with her tongue; ay, and still labor for him with

her hands, if by such she could win back the old love which had made her

youthful hours glad, and which had spread the rosy atmosphere of hope

before her; but which was now a thing of silent memory, of sadness, and

of tears.

Thus passed away the morning, and at noon the drunkard arose from where

he lay, and again demanded what money she had; she gave him a few

halfpence from her pocket, and he snatched them from her and departed.

To know that he had gone to procure the poison on which he fed, with

this last remnant of the midnight toil, and when his child lay dead

within its mother's arms; to know that for the veriest morsel she must

toil again, sleepless and famished, and with the withered blossom of her

heart's broken hope beside her; to know that the last office of

affection, the burial of the child, must be performed by those who cared

for neither her nor it, and who would desecrate, by the vile touch of

parochial charity, that which had been more dear to her than her own

life; to know that all her joys were wasted now, and that she still

lived to hear him curse her in the very place where death had so lately

been; and that although she sat before him with the sleeping infant in

her arms, while he was too brutalized by drink to know that that sleep

was one from which it would never more awake, and that her own terror

made her speechless when she would have told him; all this was a torrent

of sorrow, before whose overbearing force her wintered heart gave way,

and she sank down upon the floor, with her dead babe in her arms,

senseless.

Sleep came upon her like a poppy spell, and wafted her silent, soul to

sweeter worlds. Far away from her cold and solitary room, far away from

hunger, wretchedness, and tears; far away from the keen tortures of

maternal sorrow and the despair of withered love, her spirit wandered in

that peaceful dream. From earth, as from a wilderness of ashes, her

willing spirit went upon its upward flight, ascending and ascending. It

neared the blue and shining arch above, and clapped its wings for joy,

and felt within it the renovated bliss of innocent and unchanging

beauty. It felt the calming influence of soft music swelling around it

like sunbright waves upon a summer sea; it saw sweet spots and green

peaceful valleys lying in the rosy light of heaven, as clouds at evening

lie folded up in sleep. On and on her spirit went in calm and holy

majesty, amid the shadowy beauty of that pleasant land. It seemed to

bathe in bliss amid bright galaxies of living and rejoicing worlds, and

to embrace happiness as its long-sought boon. Through flowery pastures,

and falling waters, perfumed gardens, and star-lighted solitudes where

the soul of music dwelt and lived amid the sweet echoes of her seraph

songs, that mother's new-born soul wandered in its freedom, forgetting

all the pangs and tears it had so lately known. Now it passed floating

islands of glittering beauty where troops of cherubim were worshiping

their God; and from the midst of a soft bed of twilight flowers arose an

angel host of babes, soaring in their wantonness of joy to higher

regions of the azure air, and singing their simple songs in harmony

together. From all the gleaming lights afar came dulcet harpings of

angelic wings, and all things in that sweet dream-land of beauty told of

the joy which falls upon the virtuous soul. The spirit of the mother,

dazzled and amazed till now, awoke from its trance of wonder, and cried

aloud "my child, my child, and my husband, where, where are they?" and

she sank upon a gleaming bed of purpled blooms, and from the odorous

sighing of the lute-toned air the voice of her child came gladly in

reply. And now a joyous troop of star-light seraphs sailed toward her,

like a snowy cloud, and in the midst she sees her darling babe, clapping

its little hands in laughing glee, and overjoyed once more to meet her.

Oh, what bliss is like the feeling of a mother, when her trusting heart

is gladdened by the return of a child whom she deemed was lost; and if

such joy awake within the soul amid all the harsh realities of earth,

how much more so in the spirit's home, where nothing but the peaceful

thought can live, and all earth's grief is banished? It was her own

babe, the bud of hope she nursed and tended in the dark winter of her

earthly sorrow, now wearing the same smile which gladdened her amid the

gloom, but holier, fairer, and freed from all the traces of want and

suffering. The spirits of the mother and the babe embraced each other in

the wild joy of this happy meeting, and the mother's spirit knelt before

the heaven-built temple of light which arched above, and offered the

incense of its prayers for him whose wickedness of heart had steeped her

earthly days in bitterness; but who was yet to her the token of a

youthful hope, and the living memory of a trusting love. Her earnest

spirit, in the gush of its awakened affection for the child of her

bosom, called upon its God to have mercy upon him, and to snatch his

soul from the blackness of its guilt and the impending terrors of

destruction. And the prayer went upward, and the angels sung.

* * * * *

The drunkard staggered to the wretched home, and reeling into the silent

room gazed upon the wife and child. They spoke not, moved not; he

stooped to touch, but recoiled in horror, for both of them were dead.

The mother, in her sweet dream, had glided into the blissful evening

land, and he, the destroyer of a wife and child, now felt in all the

piercing agony of sin and shame, the scorpion stings of conscience. He

fell upon his knees and prayed for mercy! His withering soul seemed

struggling within him, and he gasped for breath. He had wandered into

wicked paths, he had blighted a gentle heart by cruelty and neglect, he

had wasted his own child's meal in drunkenness and villainy, while it

lay on its mother's breast perishing for want of food. He felt all the

terrors of remorse, and hell seemed gaping beneath him! He arose and

wept, and the first tear he shed was carried by invisible hands upward

to that world of peace, as a sacrifice of penitence to the kneeling

spirit of a mother. He wandered away in silence, and where he went were

the falling tears which spoke, in accents eloquent and true, the silent

utterance of a repentant heart.

PLATE GLASS--WHAT IT IS, AND HOW IT IS MADE.

Two other gentlemen occupied the railway carriage, which, on a gusty day

in December, was conveying us toward Gravesend, _via_ Blackwall.

One wore spectacles, by the aid of which he was perusing a small pocket

edition of his favorite author. No sound escaped his lips; yet, his

under-jaw and his disengaged hand moved with the solemn regularity of an

orator emitting periods of tremendous euphony. Presently, his delight

exploded in a loud shutting up of the book and an enthusiastic appeal to

us in favor of the writings of Dr. Samuel Johnson.

"What, for example, can be finer, gentlemen, than his account of the

origin of glass-making; in which, being a drysalter, I take a particular

interest. Let me read the passage to you!"

"But the noise of the train--"

"Sir, I can drown that."

The tone in which the Johnsonian "Sir" was let off, left no doubt of it.

Though a small man, the reader was what his favorite writer would have

denominated a Stentor, and what the modern school would call a Stunner.

When he re-opened the book and began to read, the words smote the ear as

if they had been shot out of the mouth of a cannon. To give additional

effect to the rounded periods of his author, he waved his arm in the air

at each turn of a sentence, as if it had been a circular saw. "Who," he

recited, "when he saw the first sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness

of heat, melted into a metalline form, rugged with excrescences, and

clouded with impurities, would have imagined, that in this shapeless

lump lay concealed so many conveniences of life, as would in time

constitute a great part of the happiness of the world? Yet by some such

fortuitous liquefaction was mankind taught to procure a body at once in

a high degree solid and transparent, which might admit the light of the

sun, and exclude the violence of the wind: which might extend the light

of the philosopher to new ranges of existence, and charm him at one time

with the unbounded extent of the material creation, and at another with

the endless subordination of animal life; and, what is yet of more

importance, might supply the decays of nature, and succor old age with

subsidiary sight. Thus was the first artificer in glass employed, though

without his own knowledge or expectation. He was facilitating and

prolonging the enjoyment of light, enlarging the avenues of science, and

conferring the highest and most lasting pleasures; he was enabling the

student to contemplate nature, and the beauty to behold herself. This

passion for--"

"Blackwall, gents! Blackwall, ladies! Boat for Gravesend!" We should,

unquestionably, have been favored with the rest of the ninth number of

the "Rambler" (in which the fore-going passage occurs) but for these

announcements.

"There is one thing, however," said the little man with the loud voice,

as we walked from the platform to the pier, "which I can _not_

understand. What does the illustrious essayist mean by the 'fortuitous

liquefaction' of the sand and ashes. Was glass found out by accident?"

Luckily, a ray of school-day classics enlightened a corner of our

memory, and we mentioned the well-known story, in Pliny, that some

Phoenician merchants, carrying saltpetre to the mouth of the river

Belus, went ashore; and, placing some lumps of the cargo under their

kettles to cook food, the heat of the fire fused the nitre, which ran

among the sand of the shore. The cooks finding this union to produce a

translucent substance, discovered the art of making glass.

"That," said our other companion, holding his hat to prevent the wind

from blowing it aboard the Gravesend steamer (which was not to start for

ten minutes), "has been the stock tale of all writers on the subject,

from Pliny down to Ure; but, Sir Gardiner Wilkinson has put it out of

the power of future authors to repeat it. That indefatigable haunter of

Egyptian tombs discovered minute representations of glass-blowing,

painted on tombs of the time of Orsirtasin the First, some sixteen

hundred years before the date of Pliny's story. Indeed, a glass bead,

bearing the name of a king who lived fifteen hundred years before

Christ, was found in another tomb by Captain Henvey, the specific

gravity of which is precisely that of English crown-glass."

"You seem to know all about it!" exclaimed the loud-voiced man.

"Being a director of a plate-glass company I have made it my business to

learn all that books could teach me on the subject."

"I should like to see glass made," said the vociferous admirer of Dr.

Johnson, "especially plate-glass."

To this, the other replied, with ready politeness, "If your wish be very

strong, and you have an hour to spare, I shall be happy to show you the

works to which I am going--those of the Thames Plate Glass Company. They

are close by."

"The fact is," was the reply, "Mrs. Bossle (I'm sorry to say Mrs. Bossle

is an invalid) expects me down to Gravesend to tea; but an hour won't

matter much."

"And you, sir?" said the civil gentleman, addressing me.

My desire was equally strong, and the next hour equally my own; for, as

the friend, whom a negligent public had driven to emigration, was not to

sail until the next morning, it did not much matter whether I took my

last farewell of him at Gravesend early or late that evening.

Tracking our guide through dock gates, over narrow drawbridges, along

quays; now, dodging the rigging of ships; now, tripping over cables,

made "taut" to rings; now falling foul of warping-posts (for it was

getting dusk); one minute, leaping over deserted timber; the next,

doubling stray casks; the next, winding among the strangest ruins of

dismantled steamboats, for which a regular hospital seemed established

in that region of mud and water; then, emerging into dirty lanes, and

turning the corners of roofless houses; we finished an exciting game of

Follow-my-Leader, at a pair of tall gates. One of these admitted us into

the precincts of the southernmost of the six manufactories of plate

glass existing in this country.

The first ingredient in making glass, to which we were introduced, was

contained in a goodly row of barrels in full tap, marked with the

esteemed brand of "Truman, Hanbury, Buxton, and Co." It is the

well-known fermented extract of malt and hops, which is, it seems,

nearly as necessary to the production of good plate glass, as flint and

soda. To liquefy the latter materials by means of fire is, in truth, dry

work; and our _cicerone_ explained, that seven pints per day, per

man, of Messrs. Truman, Hanbury, Buxton, and Company's Entire, has been

found, after years of thirsty experience, to be absolutely necessary to

moisten human clay, hourly baked at the mouths of blazing furnaces.

These furnaces emit a heat more intense than the most perspiring

imagination can conceive, or the stanchest thermometer indicate. An

attempt to ascertain the degree of heat was once made: a pyrometer (a

thermometer of the superlative degree, or "fire-measurer"), was applied

to the throat of a furnace--for every furnace has its mouth, its throat,

and its flaming tongues; but the wretched instrument, after five

minutes' scorching, made an expiring effort to mark _thirteen hundred

degrees above boiling point_, cracked, was shivered into bits, and

was finally swallowed up by the insatiable element whose proceedings it

had presumptuously attempted to register.

Having, by this time, crossed a yard, we stood on the edge of a foul

creek of the Thames, so horribly slimy, that a crocodile or an

alligator, or any scaly monster of the Saurian period, seemed much more

likely to be encountered in such a neighborhood than the beautiful

substance that makes our modern rooms so glittering and bright; our

streets so dazzling, and our windows at once so radiant and so strong.

"In order to understand our process thoroughly," said the obliging

director of the seven acres of factory and the four hundred operatives

we had come to see, "we must begin with the beginning. This," picking up

from a heap a handful of the finest of fine sand--the glittering pounce,

in fact, with which our forefathers spangled their writing--"is the

basis of all glass. It is the whitest, most highly pulverized flint sand

that can be procured. This comes from Lynn, on the coast of Norfolk. Its

mixture with the other materials is a secret, even to us. We give the

man who possesses it a handsome salary for exercising his mystery."

"A secret!" cried Mr. Bossle. "Every body, I thought, knew--at least

every body in the drysaltery line understands--what glass is made of.

Why, I can repeat the recipe given by Dr. Ure, from memory: To every

hundred parts of materials, there are of pure sand forty-three parts;

soda twenty-five and a half (by-the-by, we have some capital carbonate

coming forward _ex_ Mary Anne, that we could let you have at a low

figure); quick-lime, four; nitre, one and a half; broken glass,

twenty-six. The doctor calculates, if I remember rightly, that of the

whole, thirty parts of this compound run to waste in fusing so that

seventy per cent. becomes, on an average, glass."

"That is all very true," was the answer; "but our glass is, we flatter

ourselves, of a much better color, and stands annealing better, than

that made from the ordinary admixture: from which, however, ours differs

but little--only, I think, in the relative quantities. In that lies the

secret."

Mr. Bossle expressed great anxiety to behold an individual who was

possessed of a secret worth several hundreds a year, paid weekly.

Romance invariably associates itself with mystery; and we are not quite

sure from the awful way in which Mr. Bossle dropped his voice to a soft

whisper, that he did not expect, on entering the chamber of

pre-vitrified chemicals, to find an individual clothed like the hermit

in "Rasselas," or mingling his "elements" with the wand of Hermes

Trismegistus. He looked as if he could hardly believe his spectacles,

when he saw a plain, respectable-looking, indifferent-tempered man, not

a whit more awe-inspiring--or more dusty--than a miller on a market-day.

We do not insinuate that Mr. Bossle endeavored to "pluck out the heart

of the mystery," though nothing seemed to escape the focus of his

spectacles. But, although here lay, in separate heaps, the sand and soda

and saltpetre and lime and _cullet_, or broken glass; while there,

in a huge trough, those ingredients were mixed up (like "broken" in a

confectioner's shop) ready to be pushed through a trap to fill the

crucible or stomach of the furnace; yet, despite Mr. Bossle's sly

investigations, and sonorous inquiries, he left the hall of "elements"

as wise as he had entered.

Passing through a variety of places in which the trituration,

purification, and cleaning of the materials were going on, we mounted to

an upper story that reminded us of the yard in which the cunning captain

of the Forty Thieves, when he was disguised as an Oil Merchant, stored

his pretended merchandise. It was filled with rows and rows of great

clay jars, something like barrels with their heads knocked out. Each

had, instead of a hoop, an indented band round the middle, for the

insertion of the iron gear by which they were, in due time, to be lifted

into and out of the raging furnaces. There were two sizes; one about

four feet deep, and three feet six inches in diameter, technically

called "pots," and destined to receive the materials for their first

sweltering. The smaller vessels (_cuvettes_) were of the same shape, but

only two feet six inches deep, and two feet in diameter. These were the

crucibles in which the vitreous compound was to be fired a second time,

ready for casting. These vessels are _built_--for that is really the

process; and it requires a twelvemonth to build one, so gradually must

it settle and harden, and so slowly must it be pieced together, or the

furnace would immediately destroy it--of Stourbridge clay, which is the

purest and least silicious yet discovered.

"We have now," said Mr. Bossle, wiping his spectacles, and gathering

himself up for a loud Johnsonian period, "seen the raw materials ready

to be submitted to the action of the fire, and we have also beheld the

vessels in which the vitrification is to take place. Let us therefore

witness the actual liquefaction."

In obedience to this grandiloquent wish, we were shown into the hall of

furnaces.

It was a sight indeed. A lofty and enormous hall, with windows in the

high walls open to the rainy night. Down the centre, a fearful row of

roaring furnaces, white-hot: to look at which, even through the chinks

in the iron screens before them, and masked, seemed to scorch and

splinter the very breath within one. At right angles with this hall,

another, an immense building in itself, with unearthly-looking

instruments hanging on the walls, and strewn about, as if for some

diabolical cookery. In dark corners, where the furnaces redly glimmered

on them, from time to time, knots of swarthy muscular men, with nets

drawn over their faces, or hanging from their hats: confusedly grouped,

wildly dressed, scarcely heard to mutter amid the roaring of the fires,

and mysteriously coming and going, like picturesque shadows, cast by the

terrific glare. Such figures there must have been, once upon a time, in

some such scene, ministering to the worship of fire, and feeding the

altars of the cruel god with victims. Figures not dissimilar, alas!

there have been, torturing and burning, even in our Saviour's name. But,

happily those bitter days are gone. The senseless world is tortured for

the good of man, and made to take new forms in his service. Upon the

rack, we stretch the ores and metals of the earth, and not the image of

the Creator of all. These fires and figures are the agents of

civilization, and not of deadly persecution and black murder. Burn fires

and welcome! making a light in England that shall not be quenched by all

the monkish dreamers in the world!

We were aroused by a sensation like the sudden application of a hot mask

to the countenance. As we instinctively placed a hand over our face to

ascertain how much of the skin was peeling off, our cool informant

announced that the furnace over against us had been opened to perform

the _tréjetage_, or ladling of the liquid _pot à feu_ from the

large pots into the smaller ones. "I must premise," he said, "that

one-third of the raw materials, as put together by our secret friend,

are first thrown in; and when that is melted, one-third more; on that

being fused, the last third is added. The mouth of the furnace is then

closed, and an enormous heat kept up by the _tiseur_ or stoker (all

our terms are taken from the French), during sixteen hours. That time

having now elapsed, in the case of the flaming pot before you, the

furnace is opened. The man with the long ladle thrusts it, you perceive,

into the pot, takes out a ladleful, and, by the assistance of two

companions, throws the vitrified dough upon an iron anvil. The other two

men turn it over and over, spread it upon the inverted flat-iron, and

twitch out, with pliers, any speck or impurity; it is tossed again into

the ladle, and thrown into a cuvette in another furnace. When the

cuvettes are full, that furnace is stopped up to maintain a roaring heat

for another eight hours; and, in the language of the men, 'the ceremony

is performed.'"

At this moment, the noise burst forth from the middle of the enormous

shed, of several beats of a gong: so loud, that they even drowned the

thundering inquiries with which Mr. Bossle was teasing one of the

"teasers." In an instant the men hastened to a focus, like giants in a

Christmas pantomime about to perform some wonderful conjuration; and not

a whisper was heard.

"Aha!" exclaimed the director, "they are going to cast. This way,

gentlemen!"

The kitchen in which the Ogre threatened to cook Jack and his seven

brothers could not have been half so formidable an apartment as the

enormous cuisine into which we were led. One end was occupied with a row

of awful ovens; in the midst, stood a stupendous iron table; and upon it

lay a rolling-pin, so big, that it could only be likened to half-a-dozen

garden-rollers joined together at their ends. Above, was an iron crane

or gallows to lift the enormous messes of red-hot gruel, thick and slab,

which were now to be brought from the furnaces.

"Stand clear!" A huge basin, white with heat, approaches, on a sort of

iron hurley; at one end of which sits, triumphant, a salamander, in

human form, to balance the Plutonian mass, as it approaches on its

wheeled car--playing with it--a game of see-saw. It stops at the foot of

the iron gallows. Mr. Bossle approaches to see what it is, and discovers

it to be a cuvette filled with molten glass, glowing from the fiery

furnace. What is that man doing with a glazed mask before his face?

"Why, if you will believe me," exclaims Mr. Bossle, in the tones of a

speaking-trumpet (we are at a prudent distance), "he is ladling off the

scum, as composedly as if it were turtle-soup!" Mr. Bossle grows bold,

and ventures a little nearer. Rash man! His nose is assuredly scorched;

he darts back, and takes off his spectacles, to ascertain how much of

the frames are melted. The dreadful pot is lifted by the crane. It is

poised immediately over the table; a workman tilts it; and out pours a

cataract of molten opal which spreads itself, deliberately, like

infernal sweet-stuff, over the iron table; which is spilled and slopped

about, in a crowd of men, and touches nobody. "And has touched nobody

since last year, when one poor fellow got the large shoes he wore,

filled with white-hot glass." Then the great rolling-pin begins to "roll

it out."

But, those two men, narrowly inspecting every inch of the red hot sheet

as the roller approaches it--is their skin salamandrine? are their eyes

fire-proof?

"They are looking," we are told, "for any accidental impurity that may

be still intruding in the vitrifaction, and, if they can tear it out

with their long pincers before the roller has passed over it, they are

rewarded. From the shape these specks assume in being torn away, they

are called 'tears.'"

When the roller has passed over the table, it leaves a sheet of red-hot

glass, measuring some twelve feet by seven.

This translucent confection is pushed upon a flat wooden platform on

wheels--sparkling, as it touches the wood, like innumerable

diamonds--and is then run rapidly to an oven, there to be baked or

annealed. The bed or "sole" of this _carquèse_ is heated to a

temperature exactly equal to that of the glass; which is now so much

cooled that you can stand within a yard or so of it without fear of

scorching off your eyelashes. The pot out of the furnace is cooled,

too, out in the rain, and lies there, burst into a hundred pieces. It

has been a good one: for it has withstood the fire seventy days.

So rapidly are all these casting operations performed, that, from the

moment when Mr. Bossle thought his spectacles were melting off his nose,

to the moment when the sheet of glass is shut up in the oven, about five

minutes have elapsed. The operations are repeated, until the oven is

full of glass-plates.

When eight plates are put into the _carquèse_, it is closed up

hermetically; for the tiniest current of cold air would crack the glass.

The fire is allowed to go out of its own accord, and the cooling takes

place so gradually, that it is not completed until eight days are over.

When drawn forth, the glass is that "rough plate" which we see let into

the doors of railway stations, and forming half-transparent floors in

manufactories. To make it completely transparent for windows and

looking-glasses, elaborate processes of grinding and polishing are

requisite. They are three in number: roughing down, smoothing, and

polishing.

"I perceive," said Mr. Bossle, when he got to the roughing-down room,

where steam machinery was violently agitating numerous plates of glass,

one upon the other, "that the diamond-cut-diamond principle is adopted."

"Exactly; the under-plate is fastened to a table by plaster-of-paris,

and the upper one--quite rough--is violently rubbed by machinery upon

it, with water, sand, and other grinding-powders between. The top-plate

is then fastened to a table, to rough down another first plate; for the

under one is always the smoother."